#rhysand being chief clown in the clown car

[beansidhebumbling]

His heart tripped, stumbling in his chest and he heaved a breath at the painful tug at his ribs. A burning tightness felt in the gaps between seconds and there! Deep in bone he felt the twining braid of fate tugging at him, linking him, in life and beyond to the female that stood before him.

Nesta Archeron.

Nesta.

Nesta.

His heart righted itself and began beating anew to the rhythm of her name. 

The two sisters arrived at the townhouse in a flurry of blood, broken wings, and tears. The rain pounding on the shingled roof was too similar to the hammering in his skull for Rhysand’s liking. Feyre was beside herself, collapsing in his arms, a bundle of salt water and regret bound in a slight frame. Nuala stood nearby, expertly bandaging Azriel who gave a nod at Rhys’ cocked brow. His focus so torn between consoling the Saviour and calculating exactly how fucked they were, meant he only registered Nesta and Elain as two shadows of his own follies in his periphery.

When Cerridwen arrived with steaming tea, he handed Feyre off to Mor and made his way to the Shadowsinger, who had stationed himself by the rich velvet curtains of the sitting room window.

Casting a bubble of privacy around them with the wave of his hand, he turned his ire on his brother and growled,

‘What in the Mother’s name happened, Azriel?’

The Spymaster huffed, one scarred hand raising to tug at the ebony curls of his fringe. His shadows agitatedly moved in whisps and turns around his body, the same coordinated dance as flocks of birds in flight.

‘We walked right into a trap is what. I had no clue…’

He paused for a moment to stare at the storm that raged and scattered oak leaves along the small front garden.

‘Nes…We need to discuss some things privately Rhys, the Cauldron-’

An unyielding grip on Rhysand’s silk clad bicep halted Azriel, whose mouth clamped in a tight line. Rhysand turned, scowl adorning his face to shoo away the intruder when, like walking into an April shower, he was caught in a cloud of jasmine, and freesia, and something intoxicating he could not name, as he came face-to-face with her.

Hair freshly washed and braided framed a heart shaped face. Whiffs of fresh florals and a sticky sugar sweetness trailed like vines in the air. She was glaring at him with a wrath that seemed depthless, churning in the misty eddys of her glorious eyes.

His heart tripped, stumbling in his chest and he heaved a breath at the painful tug at his ribs. A burning tightness felt in the gaps between seconds and there! Deep in bone he felt the twining braid of fate tugging at him, linking him, in life and beyond to the female that stood before him.

Nesta Archeron.

Nesta.

Nesta.

His heart righted itself and began beating anew to the rhythm of her name. 

*

    Feyre had once told him they looked alike.

She had been flattering herself Rhysand thought unkindly. No living being could compare to the harpy that stood, stony-eyed and iron-spined before him. For she was beautiful in the way only those made of blades could be.

‘You’re Nesta, Feyre’s sister.’

His unimpressive observation was uttered far too breathily. Azriel’s eyes burned hot on the side of his face. His lungs were too busily engaged with supplying air to his brain as it ran in circles because she was his-

‘You’re the bastard Feyre is engaged to.’

Drenched in acid and seeped from behind gritted teeth, the quiet words still caught the pointed ears of the Saviour.

‘Nesta! Don’t you-'

Feyre started from her seat beside Mor, lit with indignation on his behalf. Her strange loyalty to him received so quickly and nearly entirely undeserved… the human in her remained. How long before she lost that? Before her emotions cooled in the way of fae who had centuries to ponder and simmer on feelings? Was her forgiveness obtained as quickly as her loyalty? Rhysand knew with a sickening surety he was guaranteed to discover the answer to the last question.

He held up one hand never glancing at the Saviour, for he had no will nor ability to look elsewhere, not when the rest of his life stood before him seething so prettily.

‘Feyre darling. It seems your lovely sister wants a word with me.’

The words charmingly uttered did not temper Nesta’s ire in the slightest. Unable to resist the chance for time alone in her all-consuming presence even if it meant to face the full force of her rage, he offered hastily,

‘May I suggest we talk in my study Nesta? So you may express yourself unencumbered by an audience.’

‘Rhys, there’s no need for that..’

Again he cut Feyre off growing impatient with her continued interruption. Did she not see the chess pieces were toppled around them, the plans so carefully formed crumpled and tossed?

Three steps ahead was still two steps behind his father had advised.

What would he say to his son now when it all seemed irrelevant? Now that his heart was threatening to leap from his throat to land at the slippered feet of his-

‘Feyre my darling. Please.’

He allowed some authority to leak into his tone. Feyre stiffened slightly, eyes open and pleading but after a few strained seconds she nodded her head slightly, moving to Elain’s side even as silence reigned.

Nesta’s eyes had only narrowed further throughout his interaction with the Saviour and when he extended her his arm, she looked pointedly at it, draped in the finest black silk woven by the Mothfae of the Elfeisian Valley, before ignoring it in favour of gliding from the room. With her chin held high, gaze higher still, she threw a scathing look at the Morrigan who whispered something to Cassian as she left.

He followed hurriedly, eyes glued to her, the dastardly pull, making her rejection of his proffered arm sting. She was a mere human not a day ago, a scornful shrew by Feyre’s account, a thorn in his side demanding security and protection below the Wall, when, if not for his vested interest in appeasing the Saviour of Prythian, he would have happily eaten her heart, and that of her doe of a sister too. Now she was a goddess who gazed upon him with such loathing that it tickled some perverse part of him.

If attention borne from hatred lit his skin aflame he could only imagine what such intense focus borne from more amiable feeling elicit in him. 

*

    As the door swung closed, the quiet hush of voices within could be scarcely heard, and mattered little, for she stood, arms folded before him, rendering him dumb as power eeked from her like rays from the sun.

He needed to say something.

Make some move.

Fall to his knees in a plea for marriage or forgiveness. Too slow at contemplating his options he lost his chance for action when she snapped,

‘Lead the way villain.’

His tether.

His entrancement.

The bond was pulled taut between them. Rhysand wondered could he see it shimmering if he squinted. And that chant continued in his pulse, catching his breath and breaking the rotten meat that lay in place of a heart.

Nesta

Nesta

Nesta

His mate. 

*

    Upon entering the study, Nesta made a beeline for the cushy leather chair in the corner and while arranging her full skirts gestured for him to take a seat at his desk, in his study.

Outside lightning struck and the sharp outlines of their shadows rose to almost kiss along the wall. The impertinence of her action, the arrogance, bit like venom at the back of his mouth.

But with it came the recollection he had pulled the exact same move on the eldest Vanserra not two years ago, making him almost shivery in anticipation. He had always revelled in a battle and here before him stood his equal who seemed to possess his playbook also.

So, he sat.

‘To what do I owe the honour of your anger?’

The languid drape of his frame, the jeering tone of his voice belied that he meant it. It was an honour and the way her power suffused through the air, cloaking him in blessed heat was driving him slightly mad.

It licked at his blood. His power hungered for her, the fantasy of her coated in the obsidian hand of night taunted him. Would she fall drunk when encased in his blanket of stars and gloom? Would she beg for a taste of eternal darkness?

Nesta shifted in her seat unaware of his more desperate musings. She did not waste time and spit out,

‘What have you done to my sister?’

Rhysand felt his jaw clench slightly despite himself. A slight flaw in his poker face. His composure shaky in the face of jasmine and freesia and the thought of burying his head in the curve of her neck and inhaling.

The tell was enough.

She could smell the answer in the scent of his posture, had clearly played the liar's game before. Those sharp eyes catalogued the slight fluttering tension in a beat. In response her fists clenched and the black of her pupils slowly began oozing out to coat iris and sclera, until like the gods of old her eyes were two obsidian holes in her fine face.

She had taken from the Cauldron. Azriel’s most grave fear, conveyed mind to mind, confirmed.

Mother save them all. 

*

    Even as his self-preservation screamed at him, to fight, to flee, the ribbon between them sung because..

.....because she was looking at him.

He wanted to swim in pools of eternal death, to bask in the creeping rot until he was but molecules. Molecules of a male, floating, drowning, dreaming in her.

‘So it is you who taints her ribbon of gold with decay, who has forged a chain of darkness to tie you to each other. Did you think you could get away with that?I could smell it on you. On her. Polluting the atmosphere with its wrongness.’

A predator on the hunt she rose from her seat to circle the desk, leaning in until he felt the sharp press of her nails against his throat as she squeezed her hands around his neck.

He caught the moan of ecstasy that carried from deep within.

Beautiful.

Vicious.

Witch.

His.

She had to be. He was hers.

*

    Would she mark him with a cut if he begged?

Let red drip onto her fingers, stain them. Hope that some of it might seep into her skin, so he could be part of her, so that his darkness could rest easy amidst silver death.

His eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open and not submit to the scratching loveliness of her touch.

‘I will ask once more and then I will not again. What have you done to my sister?’

Her hands tightened for a second before loosening to let him reply,

‘What will you do if I do not answer Lady Archeron?’

He taunted.

He leaned into her, even as she recoiled, hands retreating to hidden pockets in her skirts.

In the icy absence of her touch, some form of sobriety presented itself.

From the simple cotton confines her right hand rose wordlessly and she held a clenched fist before him. He stretched his palm out to receive the silent offering.

A grey acorn dropped, scattering into ashes upon contact.

Her left hand braced on the arm of his chair so eye contact was unavoidable. She craved his fear, to see it surface in the violet gleam of his gaze, he reckoned.

He craved things far more precious than fear from her.

The dust marked his palm, etched itself between crevice and wrinkle, as she whispered calmly,

‘I did this on the way in. I felt the surge of life that it held. What would have been an ageless oak in the garden of the fae-scum that reside here. I felt life and I pulled. I pulled all that could be from it.'

She bared her teeth in a horrifying facsimile of a smile and hissed,

‘Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.’

An old ditty from some human plague.

He steadied himself, searched for the spine he was fairly certain she had not ripped from him yet.

‘I am no acorn, Nesta.’

‘No. But when I scatter your dust along the Sidra who will be able to tell the difference?’

There was a beat of silence.

She had a point.

Nesta tilted her head, tapping her foot in anticipation of an explanation.

‘Do your human tales mention the Weaver?’

She scrunched her fine arched brows before stating in a distant voice,

‘A Witch of Waste and Middle... who threads the tapestry of fate.’

‘Clever little thing aren’t you?’

Her eyes flashed.

‘Clever enough to know to mind my manners when someone could turn me to dust.’

His lovely mate, all bark and bite.

‘Touchy, touchy.’

He sniped but when she snarled and her hands started to glow silver, he held up his own in surrender.

It wouldn’t do for her to kill him before she had a chance to fall in love with him. With this in mind he spoke carefully,

‘I made a bargain. A fiddly thing they are, love. Like thread, so many loops to be found. Dangerous business to mess with loops and the Weaver. Only the brave or foolish do so.’

In a voice drier than the sands of Day she retorted,

‘A tragedy then that you are both.’

A small laugh burst from the rising corners of his mouth. It was his true laugh, high and cold and utterly inhuman, not the warm gravelly one he created to enchant the Saviour.

‘You flatter me.’

She did. She flattered him every second she spent in his company.

He wondered did she find him pretty? Did she admire the sharp angle of his jaw, the sheen of his hair, the lean muscle of his frame?

‘I’ll flatten you if you don’t get to the point.’

‘A bargain with the Weaver to alter the bonds. Break and remake.’

Feyre’s bond to Cassian now a fraying string, a red primrose strangled by bindweed. A new one built of night and darkness and Winter’s blood. Nesta released a strangled scream, storming to the other end of the room as hot blush painted her cheeks and the pieces clicked together.

‘Oh you heinous piece of shit. You didn’t just break whatever bond she had, you tied her to you.’

A simple plan. Bond with the most powerful fae in Prythian. On the infinitesimal chance his mate appeared he would kill them. So simple and yet…

He had miscalculated.

A rare occurrence.

A fatal mistake.

He could not kill this creature of mercury and boiling burning anger, whose blood was dripping from clenched fists onto the well tufted carpet.

She had no such qualms however.

‘I’m going to murder you.’

Vow uttered she prowled towards him, stopped in her tracks as his low warning reached her.

‘I really wouldn’t recommend that if you value your sister.’

‘Is that a threat, you fucking monster?’

She thought him a monster. Strange for it to hurt so, an apt descriptor, one he had revelled in now sat heavy in his chest coming from her.

‘I’d prefer you think of it as sound advice. How about a deal?’

She scoffed, her disgust apparent.

‘Now why would I make a deal when I could just kill you before you hurt my sister or anyone else?’

True fear laced his voice as he responded,

‘Because your sister’s life is tied to mine.’

And only the Mother knew what possessed him to attempt to lighten the mood after such a confession.

‘I do so like a bargain.’

Nesta recoiled in horror.

‘Your lives are tied. What would possess Feyre…’

She trailed off. The answer hung in the air between them but he vocalised it all the same,

‘Love.’

There was no glee in Rhysand saying such a thing. Feyre’s love, adoring and fragile, still young and wild, a toy he’d played with for his own amusement, would eliminate whatever slim chance he had with Nesta.

His best laid plans would soon be his ruination. His heart could not be ignored, nor the screaming writhing bond that made his ribs ache. He had to salvage something from the wreckage of his greed and ambition.

‘Stay in the Night Court and I’ll break the false bond with your sister.’

‘I’d sooner drown myself in your river than vow to stay in this court under your rule, to be used for whatever evil you concoct next.’

‘A century. Stay here a century and Feyre can go where she pleases, free from the bond. I’ll fund her travels and comfort.’

Nesta let out a derisive snort.

‘Oh that is a given. She is the Saviour of you and your rotten kind. You fooled my sister and you brought myself and Elain into this mess with your carelessness and arrogance.’

She shook her head sadly.

'And a century? Not a chance.’

‘Need I remind you, you are one of my rotten kind now. Fifty years.’

The sharp intake of breath from her was all he got as she turned her back on him and did not deign to answer. No hostile party had ever turned left back open to him before. It pleased him that he did not frighten her.

Silver linings to cling to, as like ice melting, she sought to slip from grasping fingers.

‘Twenty and you live in the Townhouse and work under my employ.’

‘So you can exploit my powers? So I have to suffer your miserable presence?’

So he could see her face each day. So other Courts would cower before them. So he could offer her the world if she asked.

‘Consider Rhysand that if I figure out how to get to the Weaver myself I will fashion my own bargain with her.’

He was bombarded with different horrifying visions of Nesta. Hanging from one of the great oak trees that grew in the Middle, the Weaver hacking off limbs from her corpse to make wax and soup, her bronze hair matted with blood as her skull cracked like a runny egg, leaking all she was onto damp grass. Nesta with her newly burgeoning power was too weak yet for the Witch of the Middle. A dread settled in his bones and panic eroded his voice so it left his chapped lips in a rasp,

‘No.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Please... just five years. You will stay in the Townhouse and your time is your own.’

He held no cards, not at her own unwitting threat to her safety. She seemed to sense it, the gambler’s instinct gleaming in the twinkle of her eye.

‘Three years. I will live in Velaris independently on the condition you break the tainted mess that connects you and Feyre before the year end.’

He went to agree and was stopped by her voice continuing a pitch lower and finely sharpened like a dagger.

‘If not I will leave and make it my mission to take your court apart brick by fae-damned brick.’

*

    Three years.

He was glad the bond hadn’t snapped for her yet so she did not know a bargain was unnecessary. He would throw himself off Ramiel to make her smile.

Three years to convince her he was a male she could love. Three years to earn Feyre’s forgiveness and qualify for Nesta’s consideration.

Three years.

A blink of an eye, especially when he had no clue how to break a bargain with the Weaver.

But Rhysand had faced worse.

He extended his hand.

At the very least he could touch her, feel the soft skin of her pale hand meet his, at least once more, relish in the sparks that flew and the marks they’d share.

There were silver linings after all.