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queercontrarian · 7 months

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Rhysand Week Day 4: Court of Dreams

To The Stars Who Listen

Rhysand is more than 500 years old. He has had many dreams throughout his long life. These are some of them.

@officialrhysandweek

Rhys is seven years old. He dreams of traveling the world. They don’t get visitors often in the Court under the mountain, but when they do they always have the most fascinating stories to tell. He wants to be a traveling merchant and a scholar and a pirate. He wants to see the Continent, and the islands, and all the other Courts. Being stuck in one season forever sounds strange to him, and he wonders why there is no Eternal Night in his father’s Court. He consults his cousin Mor and their tutors and the books and even the High Lord himself but no one can give him an answer. He supposes he’ll understand when he’s older. Cauldron, he wants to be older. Once he’s an adult he’ll finally get to travel and read all the books in the library he isn’t allowed to touch and talk to whoever he wants to and no one will be able to tell him no. He dreams of going everywhere, seeing and knowing everything there is to see and know.

Rhys is eight years old. He knows he can't stay in Velaris forever but Illyria scares him. It’s colder here, and he’s alone a lot with his mother and their guards. He doesn’t get to see Mor much anymore, and he misses her colorful imagination and funny comments, even being bored together during their joint lessons. He doesn't miss his father as much, who stays away from Illyria for reasons he doesn't yet understand, although he wishes he could show the High Lord his progress. Maybe he'd finally see him once he becomes a great warrior like the males at camp. But before that can happen Rhysand needs to become the best. The best at training, fighting, leading. Anything less would be unacceptable for the Heir to the Night Court. He’s not here to make friends. Still, Illyria is a lonely place for a child. He dreams of finding a companion.

Rhys is fourteen years old and he dreams of flying alongside his brothers in the sky they rule. They have so many ideas, so many dreams to share in the dead of night, huddled together in Cassian’s room. They’ll reshape his father’s Court, they’ll make every place in the Night Court as safe as Velaris is.

There’s a freedom found in their trio that Rhys never knew before; the freedom to speak his mind, to share his thoughts as they pop into his head, without stiff traditionalist judgment or anyone snitching to his father. Cassian and Azriel don’t belong to the Court - they’re Rhysand’s, and he will make sure nothing and no one can ever separate them again.

Rhys is sixteen years old and he wants to shatter the mountain his father’s throne rests in, wants to challenge his father's right to rule just for this. For allowing Mor, his Mor, to be taken. He dreams of sending him and Keir to the beasts under the mountain and making them fend for themselves the way they had surrendered his cousin to Autumn. He dreams of declaring war on the Court and taking Beron and Eris Vanserra's heads as trophy. He dreams of bringing Mor back to Velaris, where she would be safe, and free. He dreams of being free, too. He’s not so sure anymore that there is anything to save in this Court of Dreams and Nightmares. He only knows that if he were High Lord, he never would have let this happen.

Rhys is 29 years old. War has come to Prythian, and while Night has no stake in the cause of the humans or the petty disputes of the Seasonal Courts, the North is sharpening the sword. He knows that behind closed doors, his father is conferring with Ozias on whether Day and Night should involve themselves in the War. He also recognizes that his father has no noble reasons to join the fight, but that he will not pass up the opportunity to war with Spring and Summer.

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Frankly, Rhysand doesn’t much care what will convince his father. He wants to fight for what's right. He wants to show the rest of Prythian what he and his brothers are capable of. They will defend Night, they will put Hybern and Spring and Summer in their place. They dream of being heroes, of victory, honor and glory.

Rhysand is 31 years old and he dreams of going home. He dreams of his mother, who stayed behind, alone in their home in Velaris. He dreams of seeing Cassian and Azriel again. He doesn’t even know if his brothers are alive, and for the first time in his life he prays, to the Mother, to the Cauldron, to any god who will listen. He dreams of an end to the war. His father's letters are short, and he’s taking so long to respond to Rhysand’s requests for support. Rhysand doesn’t think that’s a good sign.

Rhysand is 33 years old and he can't sleep. The desert is cold at night and the commander's tent is lonely. He’s far from home, from friends or family. He hears his soldiers crying out in the night, and knows many of them won’t make it to morning. Most of them are his age, some even younger. He hears them die, knows every last thought as life bleeds out of them. Their fear is so loud that it’s impossible to ignore. They dream of their family, of loved ones left behind at home or on the battlefield. Every dream is an accusation. We had so much life left to live. We didn’t have to die.

Whose dream did we die for?

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Rhys is 35 years old. They have returned from the war to find his mother with a small bundle of black wings and dark curls in her arms. He has a baby sister. Her name is Cecilia Riona. She is so small and strange and wonderful and when Rhysand is woken up by nightmares he crosses the hallway and sits in the nursery for hours instead of sleeping. More often than not he finds Cassian or Azriel already there, watching over their sister. They marvel at how quickly the center of their world has shifted. They think they understand now. This strange little girl is the reason the brothers needed to keep going. She is everything they fought for, what they suffered, killed and nearly died for. She is their Stars Eternal and they vow that as long as they live, nothing will ever hurt her.

Rhysand is 75 years old and he hasn’t flown since the War. His wings won’t work as they used to. They feel like they are encased in stone. Even when he manages to make them appear they hang heavy from his back, dragging him down with them. He's in pain all the time, his body stiff and aching with the weight of his leaden wings. Some days he thinks they'll break his spine. Some days he thinks he might be better off if they did.

Riona is 40 years old now and has long since learned to fly without him. His sister explores the sky above the Night Court with Cassian and Azriel while he stays behind like some old invalid, too weak and damaged to even lift his useless wings higher than his own shoulders. His mother remains with him, and he knows she means well but it makes him feel worse. He’s holding her back. He’s holding all of them back. His brothers look at him with pity. He feels cheated out of his youth.

Rhysand is 85 years old and he dreams of a quiet century, of a continent no longer falling to petty conflicts and the whims of egomaniacs. He’s accepted that he can’t rely on his wings anymore but suppressing them has made the problem worse. They break through his skin uncontrolled, like they have a mind of their own. They’re no longer cold, instead they burn and burn and nothing will soothe or settle them. He’s come to a point where he would rather live without them than spend another sleepless night on the floor because his body won’t let him relax. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have his wings clipped. He wonders how anyone can stand it. He dreams of feeling nothing at all.

Rhysand is 87 years old and he dreams of peace between Night and Spring, of an end to the feud that has lasted for much longer than he or even his father have been alive. He's so tired of the fighting. He doesn’t have much hope that Aldwig and Gawain will ever get along, but he’s found a tentative ally in the third son, Tamlin. Rhys is confident that he can get the male to cooperate with him, and he’s been so desperate for a project, for a challenge, that he will cling to every shred of hope he can draw out of the Spring Court princeling. Maybe in his lifetime there will finally be peace. And wouldn't that be something worth fighting for.

Rhys is 90 years old and he's flying again. He's slowly been putting himself back together, piece after piece handed to him by a stranger. He dreams of cool Spring nights, of music, of dancing in the dark with flowers in his hair. He dreams of green grass glistening with dew in the morning, of freedom, of seeing his stars from another angle. He finally feels as young as he is.

Rhys is 100 years old and he’s split down the middle. There are few nights where he doesn't travel south to see Tamlin. Their fathers can't know, so they meet in the other Courts where there are fewer eyes on them, and they don’t interact in public beyond what little diplomacy is expected in their respective roles. Cassian and Azriel are the only ones who know that their secret alliance has bloomed into an even more secret friendship, and even though they don’t exactly approve they don’t say anything. They're his, after all, not his father's. And so is Tamlin.

Together, they break into Thesan’s herb garden and the forbidden lower levels of the library on Thíva, they brave the deep forests of the Middle and climb The Mountain to touch the sky. Rhys is barely sleeping but he's happy. He’s so ridiculously, obscenely happy that it feels like a dream.

Rhys is 112 years old and he dreams of killing the High Lord of the Spring Court, slowly, painfully. He wants to break every bone in his body like he has broken his son’s bones. He wants to make him bleed. He wants to shred his mind to pieces. But more than that he wants to grab Tamlin and take him somewhere far away from his horrible family. Maybe the Night Court. Maybe further. Maybe they'll travel the world together, like he once dreamed when he was a child. Their options are endless, he only needs to convince Tamlin to take the leap with him.

Rhys is 134 years old and he’s in love for the first time. He’s been in love for a while now, but he doesn’t quite understand it yet and to be perfectly honest he’s scared of understanding, of grasping fully what that means for him, and for his Court. All he knows is that for better or for worse, everything will change if he dares to act on these feelings. So he doesn’t dare. Not yet. I love you. It's on the tip of his tongue and he dreams of being brave enough to say it. He just needs a little more time.

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Rhysand is 135 years old and he is wide awake. Now that the shock is wearing off all that remains is the pain. There is so much of it, and he doesn’t know where to put it, so he locks it inside. Rhysand is caving in on himself. He dreams of turning back time just a few weeks. He dreams of being ignorant again.

Rhysand is 138 years old and he dreams of giving it all back. He doesn’t want to be High Lord anymore. He’s barely holding on; the only reason he’s still standing is because Cassian and Azriel hold him up. He feels so heavy. He dreams of flying with his mother and sister.

Rhysand is 185 years old. There is an uprising in Illyria. He wanted to be different from his father, do more, do better. It turns out he has neither the energy nor the support to change things. Later, he tells himself. He dreams of a time where he didn't have his own people's blood on his hands.

Rhysand is 216 years old. Mor is back from the Continent. She'll be taking over the Hewn City for a short time while he recuperates, and then they'll restructure the Court together just like they dreamed they would when they were younger. They'll fix it, he knows they can. But at night, when he's all alone again, he dreams of finding an equal, someone to share this burden with.

Rhysand is 335 years old. It's been 200 years since he last saw his mother. He hasn't slept in nearly a year. He dreams of her dark curly hair, and of Riona’s clever eyes. He sees them every time he looks in the mirror. He hopes he never forgets them, no matter how much it hurts to remember.

Rhys is 417 years old and he’s soaked from head to toe in ice cold water. The snow is wet and heavy this year and he’s lost their snowball fight for the first time in six years. The pure joy on Cassian’s face is worth the cold feet though, and knowing there’s a nice hot steam room waiting for them makes everything more bearable. Later, they will join Mor and Amren at the Townhouse to exchange gifts. He has a family again, one that is whole, one that sees his dreams as he sees theirs. His Court of Dreams.

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Rhysand is 486 years old and his dreams have turned into nightmares. Only this one he can’t wake from. He is trapped and there is nothing he can do.

Rhysand is 500 years old and he dreams of home. He dreams of Velaris, tucked safely in the shadow of the mountains out west. He dreams of his family. At least his family is safe.

Rhysand is 514 years old and he dreams of running away, far away, somewhere she can't touch him. He dreams of the greenest grass, of clear, cool nights and flowers, a life that feels so far removed from the one he's living now.

Rhysand is 520 years old and he dreams of the warmth of his mother’s arms. He dreams of the sun on his face, of the silver glow of the moon in the sky. He dreams of stars. He hasn’t seen his stars in so long.

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Rhys is 534 years old. He dreams of her and only her, every night. His mate. One day, she will share his dreams. One day, they will dream together.

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#someone get this man some therapy #rhysandweek2023 #rhysand #acotar #tamsand #night court

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