The high lord relaxed that evening in his newly arrived home. Everything was where he left it, save for the friends he had hoped might be within. It felt a little too empty without Cassien, Azriel, Morrigan, and Amren arguing by the fire. Too huge without Feyre fitting in to the Circle's ring. Yet it was home, his true home, with not a speck of dust out of place, and that did grant him some relief.
It was a beautiful house that looked like a country's cottage made of moonstone covered in growing flowers and vines. The yard all around was fenced in and equally overgrown with beautiful roses, marigolds, violets, silver bells, and all sorts of other flora and fauna. Rhysand admired a particularly bright array of yellow starflowers from the window of the sitting room where he reclined. Giant leathery wings at least twice his incredible fae height sprawled behind him over the backing of the chair made just for his kind of people, the winged fae known as Illyrians. Eyes then closed, slumped, if it weren't from his chest rising with each breath he might have been considered dead.