however, rhysand sees the motions like they're wading through water — slow and warbled, pages of a book turned curly by the saltwater damage of the ocean. his little clara, toe to toe with bandit, pulsefire weapon raised. rhys has seen war, imminent destruction, and buried the bodies of brothers in arms, and actual family — his mother and sister's heads sent to him in s woven basket.
he didn't sit idly by then, either. with a lifted bit of shadow, the second the pulsefire goes off rhys captures it, the effort knocking clara on to her backside as the weapon backfires, except —
rhys is not a kind person. and killing this bandit quickly with his own weapon seems too kind of a death.
instead, it's a slow destruction — the likes of which clara is privy to, watching as a trickle of blood falls from the barely exposed eyes of the bandit, a gorey stain seeping through the fabric at his mouth as blood gets pulled from his weather-worn body, painfully. the man falls to his knees, too in pain to even scream — and in the blink of an eye he is no longer there, the settling shape of a man made into bloody mist sinking down to the sand. some of it stains rhys' body, as the irreversible magic trick shows rhys off from where he was poised behind the man — hands in his pockets, eyebrows drawn together, giving this illusion of nonchalance, when it actuality —
it took a lot of out him. perhaps more than that, he expects clara now to see him for the monster he is — which is a falling out he hadn't expected, even if he should've. still, her protection is a priority, and rhys steps forward through the bloodied mess of what once was a person, crouching down to meet her. )
Hey. ( blood got on her, too. fuck — maybe he should've just killed that guy quickly. ) You okay?
☆ clara.