#simplified summary: Rhysand said “if i can't have you nobody can” unironically

[northern-polaris]

I'm out of my head, of my heart and my mind

Description: I wrote some tamsand and SOMEONE(YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) bullied me into posting it so please accept this brainrot. Warnings for canon stuff that happened utm but it's not elaborated on.

Rhysand never liked Lucien.

The seventh son of the Lady of Autumn. Born during a time of delicate peace between courts. Overshadowed by the siblings that towered over him. Unremarkable and of no use save for the snort Rhysand smothered the day when the child was presented as Beron’s at the high lords’ meeting. 

One look at the boy could tell anyone otherwise. 

It was a much needed source of amusement amongst the boredom, the gathering was completely devoid of any of value. Nothing justified him being there whatsoever. 

Tamlin was absent from that day’s meeting.

Years would pass and Rhysand would forget about the runt, spending his time on more important matters. Sicing Cassian onto Illyrian rebellions, wielding Azrial to send a message. Things that needed to be attended to. 

Rhysand would be abruptly reminded of the brat when the princeling made himself the center Prythian’s attention. He caused quite the stir when he was caught in the arms of some faerie lover, exiled from Autumn, and chased down by the three that held him down. 

That little fox had scurried off to Spring court, and two out of those three siblings were reduced to nothing but to bloody piles of gore. 

The report from Azriel described it as if the two brothers were mauled and gnawed on by some sort of dangerous, wild fae. He suggested scouting out the Spring court to assure that there were no monsters from the Prison that escaped. Rhysand declined.

Rhysand knew better. 

Soon, news would reach him that Tamlin made Lucien emissary. 

Seemed that Spring’s high lord took a liking to the fox. A fondness. A favorite new pet, no doubt. 

Tamlin had always liked to take in and care for wounded animals. 

Shortly after the news reached Rhysand, Tamlin appeared at the next High Lord’s meeting with him in tow. Instead of taking his rightful and appropriate place sitting behind his Lord, standing politely and silently, the fox pulled up a chair next to him. Right at the table. Like him and the Lord were equals. Tamlin didn’t bat an eye. 

Every meeting for the next couple centuries to come would start with that, but progressively became more agonizing as time went by.

A shared look here and there. A knowing smirk tossed to one another. A quick roll of the eyes when another High Lord spat out utter nonsense and gibberish. Quick glances that held deep meanings. Kicking each other under the table to keep one from talking and inciting a political incident. 

Rhysand would glare and glare, but no looks from those viridescent eyes ever came his way. 

That brat would take and take his Lord’s attention and hoard it like the greedy little fox he was. 

Then came Hybern’s General.

Her.

Rhysand was there when Lucien would become the center of Prythian’s focus for a second time. He regarded as she carved his face, observed as she scooped out his eye with her long, sharp fingernails.  

He didn’t need to fake a smile. 

Only a few weeks would pass until every High Lord received an invitation. A ball. The Spring Court was encouraged to wear masks in solidarity with its disfigured emissary. 

Rhysand should have seen what was coming. He knew that she wanted Tamlin, he knew there was something wrong with the drinks, but it was too late to do anything about it.

A blight soon manifested herself across the land Prythian. A curse inflicted. Deals struck. 

For Tamlin, fifty years to bed a mortal woman and make her fall for him. For Rhysand, fifty years spent leashed to her, to be hers until her chosen obsession ultimately failed and took his mantle as her trophy. 

Rhysand agreed to his deal voluntarily. Tamlin finally looked him in the eye when he did so; piecing and damning. So much emotion.

…

Rhysand hated her. 

He abhorred her when he awoke to her face first thing in the morning and despised her when she was the last thing he saw before sleep took him. 

He hated sitting next to her while she was poised on her throne. He hated when she was on top of him. He hated when she was under him. He hated her marks that she carved into his back. Like lashings from a whip. 

He hated her sharp fingernails.

He hated himself for wishing that the claws of someone else were the one leaving the scars in the heat of passion. 

He hated that the only way he could get through the night as the years dragged on was to imagine that it was someone else when she defiled. Someone he loathed. 

Loathed and loathed and loathed and loathed and loathed and loathed and loathed and loathed and loathed and loathed and loathed and love–

Forty-nine passed before something changed. A mortal woman. Rhysand saw her at Calanmai. He had been permitted to go under the guise of surveillance. He told himself that same reason every year that he found himself lining up next to the cave for the sacred rite. He was never chosen.

He scared off the mortal’s tormentors, and offered his hand. He saw her fear. Her thoughts raced almost as fast as her loud heartbeat. It felt good. 

He left her that night. 

He’d leave a few gifts here and there as the deadline drew near. A head. A faerie wingless. Something that would make Tamlin think about him.

He paid a visit. Her mind was like wet sand in his hands for him to play with, so brittle and fragile. He made Tamlin kneel for him. He made Lucien watch. It was supposed to feel good.

Tamlin brought himself to his knees for a mortal woman. To save his court. To save his Lucien. It wasn’t for Rhysand.

He didn’t tell Her the mortal woman’s true name. They took another and tortured her to death. Rhysand replaced her in his mind with a fox. 

The deadline came and passed. Tamlin joined him under the mountain. He didn’t look at Rhysand. It was just as infuriating as those meetings from the past. 

Then the mortal came.

She declared her love to Tamlin and She indulged the woman with three trials and a poem to answer. She was not creative, she probably gave her the poem to infuriate her obsession. He loved intricate poems and wordplay, always did, and that poem was mind-numbingly simple and easy. 

The mortal couldn’t figure it out for three months, but Rhysand figured it out the moment those words finished leaving Her mouth. He knew and understood its meaning with crystal clarity.  He wanted to laugh, cry, and rage at that. 

Lucien was lashed and mutilated for helping the mortal.

Lucien was endangered during one of the trials. 

Rhysand didn’t need to fake a smile. 

Tamlin wouldn’t respond to him. No reaction. Nothing. Just a face of stone with a far away look in his eyes. The green muted and dulled. It was enraging. 

Rhysand wanted something. Rage, sadness, repulsion, disgust. Anything.

So he latched onto that mortal. Dolled her up in paint and glorified ribbons, and paraded her around like a new toy. The faerie wine he forced her to consume took away any memory of it from her, but Rhysand never drank enough to forget. He didn’t want to forget how the rage burned in Tamlin’s eyes. 

The dangerous, wild beast who mauled and maimed chained down with a heart of stone. 

Rhysand caught him and the mortal together. He kissed her reverently. She reached his pants. He felt one of his teeth crack under the grit of his jaw. 

He interrupted. Replaced Tamlin's spot. 

Her lips tasted like his. 

The final trial came and passed. Tamlin was stabbed in the heart by an act of love. An act of freeing him. Poetic. 

They were all free. The mortal was dead. 

Rhysand didn’t want to keep looking at Tamlin’s face. The agony was so potent that it seeped into all of the cracks in his walls. 

He made them all bring her back. For him.

He saw her the following day.

Mate. 

The following few years were crowded, but Rhysand didn’t commit them to memory. Everything turned out in his favor. The 'Band of Exiles' made Rhysand snort just like he did long ago, not bothering to cover it up. Little fox scurried off again somewhere else. Rhysand had gotten his mate. He had gotten his power. His dominance stayed intact. He had it all.

Everything. 

Except he was haunted. 

Green eyes. Everywhere. Out the corner of his eye.  Rhysand could read minds but nothing compared to how they read his soul; Condemning and all-knowing. They controlled him. 

The Solstice was a breaking point. He had to get rid of them, those eyes. He had to tear out the problem by the roots. Be rid of the beast that held that much power over him. That monster.

He couldn’t do it himself. He told Tamlin to rid the world of his existence. To Die. It was the only way to be free. It had to. Please.

I loathe you I loathe you I loathe you I loathe you I loathe you

I have to kill you. It’s the only way to get you out of my mind and heart.

I loathe you I loathe you I loathe you I loathe you I loathe you

Please just die already let me be free

I loathe you I loathe you I loathe you I loathe you I loathe you

Please.

Please.

Please.

Please.

I love you.