( the reality is apparent only to rhysand himself — he is not wonderful. there is blood splattered on clara's face like a sea spray from where rhys had killed a man in cold blood, with a snap of his fingers, without even thinking. is that bad? he's killed people far less guilty before. he's killed his own kind. prythian is a nature riddled country with flora and fauna of all sizes, emptied out right from a children's storybook — but it's built on blood. gallons of it. ocean fulls.

he can't help but feel guilty. you don't know the arms you're jumping into, he feels inclined to say, to confess to sweet clara the worst of his sins until she knows how not wonderful he is, until she knows him for what a liar he is. but you can always count on the fair folk to be greedy, in terms of sweets and trickery, but hugs as well. rhys wraps two arms around her waist and swivels them to the side, so she doesn't have to see the puddle of red seeping into the dust over his shoulder. poor bandit — but rhys was being honest when he said he wouldn't mourn a man who'd hurt her. he stares at the stain and only feels vindicated. )

You know what you are?

( he forces a bit of jolly good nature into his voice, burrowing his nose down in the curve of her shoulder before tugging lightly back, keeping clara's little form situated against him. )

Very pretty. But this gash? ( a hand skirts up her back, tenderly brushing the hair away from the site of gore. ) Not your best look. Let's go get it cleaned up, hm? And then we —

( his long ears flicker, not unlike a fox twitching in the direction of something instinctive, something initiating a primal urge. his expression goes just on the side of fierce, looking out into their near surroundings. battle beats in his blood, the illyrian inside of him starved for sweat and violence. )

More are coming. ( in explanation. he turns his eyes back to clara, lifting a brow. ) Fight or fly?

( he might mean that second option literally. but. who's to say. )