( he's seen shock before. illyrian warriors who spat on his shoes as he walked passed them in their training grounds, who were lucky enough to never cross his blade at the blood rite — he sees the extent of their war bred fears in clara now, the first strike of a bell that cannot be unrung. of course, the illyrian's had been trained for war since they were children, the etchings of fighting and violence practically woven into their blood — but even they feared, when the king of hybern attacked. even they died when amarantha killed them.

clara, he figures, has not been trained to be a warrior. it's a tell all tale between each of her blackened eyes, the image of a spooked animal, fear and pain like twins dancing in her gaze. rhys swallows dryly, thick eyebrows knotting. he fights every instinct in his body not to think i should've been quicker.

he is not quite successful. )

Clara. Darling. ( stealing away the gun, he tosses it somewhere in the distance behind him, keeping his gaze focused on her. lightly, a palm rests on her booted ankle, smearing the blood there. a bit of contact — he's not sure how she'd respond if he touched her skin. ) You didn't kill him. I did.

( he can't abide by that guilt resting on her shoulders — that bandit was hardly worth her heartbreak, let alone her tears. rhysand will lose no sleep over rendering him into oblivion. )

And I would do it again, without thought. I'd do it a thousand times. ( he isn't in the habit of making excuses for who he is as a fae male, monstrous and demonic as he might be. if someone puts hands on clara, they'll lose them. ) I do not regret, and neither should you.