Chapter Text
“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
In secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
- Pablo Neruda
540 Years Before the Cursebreaker
"Rhys?"
Azriel didn't know why he had bothered to call out and announce his presence – he hadn't even needed the use of his shadows to try and find his brother.
He knew that he had found Rhysand immediately by the heady smell that was radiating out from the High Lord's study.
The shadowsinger stepped into the dimly lit room, the heavy scent of wine assaulting his senses, mingling with something else that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Although it wasn't completely unpleasant, it hung thick in the air and was certainly out of the ordinary.
But it was still overwhelmed by the pungent scent of the strong faerie wine.
Wine, it appeared, that his brother had already heavily indulged in.
"Is this why nobody has been able to find you today, brother?" Azriel quipped, trying to lighten the mood as he took in the scene before him. He knew Rhysand had a penchant for disappearing when he needed time to himself; in the years that Azriel had come to know Rhys, he'd always been the type of male to shoulder his worries alone. It had taken him time, even after their friendship had developed and morphed into something more familial, to even confide in Cassian or himself.
But this… it seemed different somehow.
"It is still the morning, for the Mother's sake."
The curtains were drawn, casting an unusual pallor over the study. It was mid-morning, the sun brightening in the sky. But no one would be able to tell from the darkness of the study.
From the doorway, Azriel could just make out the outline of his brother, sitting in the armchair at the corner of the room. He sent his shadows across the room and towards the curtains, the wisps pulling them tightly back to let the light in.
As the light filtered in, Azriel's gaze fell upon his brother.
Rhys flinched as the light hit his eyes, wincing at the sudden intrusion to the darkness. He held a half-empty bottle of wine in one hand, not even bothering to use a glass. His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle as Azriel moved closer to get a better look. His violet eyes, usually bright and alert, were dull and bloodshot from the wine.
Another bottle, full and untouched, sat within arm's reach at the table beside him.
"Rhys," Azriel called softly, his voice tinged with concern. He moved slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movements might cause his brother to bolt. "What's going on?"
Rhysand looked up; his gaze unfocused as he struggled to meet Azriel's eyes.
Azriel had never seen his friend this bad before – not during those nights in the seediest of taverns where they were all in their cups. Not even when the High Lord had been particularly cruel. For the briefest of moments, there was a haunted look in Rhys' eyes before it was replaced by a sudden surge of fiery anger. Without a word, he gestured wildly to the air surrounding them, the half-drunk bottle of wine still tight in his grasp.
"What?" Rhysand's voice was hollow, devoid of its usual warmth as he met Azriel's gaze. "You can't smell it?"
Azriel prided himself on his senses; he was observant to a fault. It was something that had paid off as he took on the role of spymaster. He knew how to read people, to pick up on someone's tells almost instantly, to know instinctively when they were lying or hiding something. So, he was embarrassed to say that he blinked at Rhys's words.
No, he hadn't smelled anything except the fumes of alcohol.
But Azriel took a deep breath in, opening his senses as he tried to pinpoint just what his brother was referring to. It took him a moment… but sure enough, hidden beneath the overwhelming smell of wine, Azriel could smell it.
It was a faint, soft scent, something different amidst the overpowering aroma of the now stale faerie wine. But as he focused on it, even though Azriel had never encountered it before, he knew instinctively what exactly it was. His brows furrowed, then rose, in realization.
Oh.
Oh.
"She's pregnant," Rhysand confirmed what Azriel now suspected, his words slurring as he gestured vaguely towards the bottle on the table. As if it had explained everything.
Azriel's eyes widened in surprise.
"Really? Rhys, that's wonderful news!" he exclaimed, moving forward to congratulate his brother – to slap him on the back - but Rhys waved him off dismissively. Azriel stopped right in his tracks and his brows furrowed again – why wasn't Rhys happy about this?
"I don't understand why my mother would want to bring another child into this family," Rhysand murmured bitterly, his words slurred from the alcohol as he reached for the bottle once more. His grip tightened around the neck as he drank, the deep red liquid spilling from the corner of his mouth and staining his cheek. "Why she would want to subject another child to him."
Rhys' movements had become even more sluggish if that were possible, letting the bottle balance precariously on his knee rather than setting it down.
Azriel knew what his brother was talking about; Silas was much more than just a strict father. Having worked as a spymaster since he had gained control of his shadows, Azriel knew just how demanding the High Lord could be. And, of course, Rhys's relationship with his father was certainly not the warmest.
Silas's had high expectations for his son and heir, often bordering on impossible.
But High Fae children were so rare – this was a blessing, wasn't it?
Azriel couldn't even remember if he had seen a High Fae infant in all his time at court. He'd certainly never saw an infant as a child, having been robbed of spending time with other children his own age. By now, he'd seen children in the streets of Velaris, toddlers bumbling about under the doting eyes of their parents. But never a newborn.
And Lyra – well, Lyra was a wonderful mother. She had raised Rhys with enough tenderness and warmth to more than make up for what had been sorely lacking in Silas's own parenting. She had welcomed Azriel and Cassian into her heart as if they were her own. It certainly wasn't as though the child would be unloved.
But Azriel remained silent, allowing his brother to voice his thoughts.
Rhys continued; his voice tinged with resignation. "At least if it's a son, my father has a second chance at a suitable heir."
Was this what this was all about? Rhys had certainly never cared about any of that before.
"You're already strong and powerful as it is, Rhys," Azriel interjected, unsure why his friend couldn't see that already. "And the powers of the High Lord will undoubtedly pass to you when the time comes… if you're worried about competition."
But Azriel highly doubted that was the case.
Rhys scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him as he shook his head. "I don't even want it," he muttered, his words slurring slightly as he took another swig from the bottle. "He can have it."
Azriel didn't doubt that – he knew his brother well enough. Rhysand was a dreamer – he wanted to leave the world a better place than the one that he was born in to. But he never wanted to seize power, and shoulder that kind of responsibility.
The two of them fell into a heavy silence.
Azriel searched for words of comfort, but none came to him. He'd never been particularly eloquent – rarely speaking during the formative years of childhood would do that to any male. He'd rarely knew what to say in situations to lighten the mood – that was Cassian's job.
But today, Rhys didn't seem interested in words or platitudes that would offer false comfort. He seemed content to wallow in his own misery.
And Azriel could do that – could wallow with him.
After a few moments passed, Rhys extended the half-empty bottle to Azriel with a mixture of resignation. As if he knew that Azriel wasn't going anywhere. Azriel eyed the bottle and hesitated. He hadn't been exaggerating earlier; it was still only mid-morning – far too early to begin indulging.
Rhys jiggled the outstretched bottle, the contents of it sloshing inside.
With a resigned sigh, Azriel reached out and accepted the offering, his fingers curling around the cool glass neck of the bottle. Without another word, he brought it to his lips and took a long swig, feeling the sweet sear of wine as it slid down his throat.
"You know," Azriel said as he passed the near empty bottle back to Rhys, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "The child – it could be a girl."
Rhysand, at least, had the good sense to look horrified at that particular prospect.
The chill of the Illyrian mountains hung heavy in the air as Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian sparred together, their breath forming little clouds in the frigid atmosphere.
They were alone, as they often were during their training sessions. The rest of the camp seemed to fade into the background, the other young Illyrians deliberately keeping their distance like they always did. None of them wanted to associate with the bastard outcasts and the half breed – even if one of them was the High Lord's son. In fact, it only made them even more of pariahs.
But they didn't mind the solitude – in fact, they preferred it.
The three males were much better on their own than they were with anyone else.
Cassian and Rhysand danced across the training grounds, their swords clashing as they charged at one another.
"Come on, Rhys, you're as graceful as a drunken Sylph today," Cassian ribbed, his grin widening as he dodged a retaliatory swipe.
"At least I'm not tripping over my own feet like you usually do, Cass." Rhysand laughed, his own blade deflecting Cassian's strike. It was almost too easy, Rhys thought, to rile up his brother. Cass never balked at the challenge. In fact, he often reveled in it – refusing to give up once the gauntlet was thrown.
Predictably, Cassian roared at the insult, charging at Rhys in retaliation.
But Rhys knew his brother – had known him for so long now, that he was able to identify his tells. Cassian relied on his brute strength to carry him through, and one look at the Illyrian's boots gave his direction away. Rhys sidestepped his brother, laughing as his brother charged into nothing but empty space.
"And you've just proved my point."
Rhys looked to his other brother – Az – for recognition of his besting Cassian.
"Shouldn't you both be taking this more seriously?" Azriel remarked dryly, "I've seen toddlers spar with more finesse."
"If you think you can do better, Az," Cassian chuckled, sweat glistening on his brow as he parried another of Rhysand's strikes. "Then come down here and prove it."
Rhys chuckled at the goading.
Az opened his mouth to answer – no doubt another dry retort at the ready. But before he could speak, dark shadows began to swirl around him, whispering to him in their silent language. The shadowsinger's brow furrowed in concentration, his usually impassive expression shifting into something more focused.
Something was happening.
Sometimes, Rhys couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy towards his friend. It was Az who had the most contact with Silas. When Lyra had brought Azriel to their home – the little cabin tucked away from Silas and the rest of his court, she had instructed both him and Cassian to keep the young boy's fledging powers a secret. Just a child himself, Rhys hadn't understood just what it meant to be a shadowsinger – how useful it was. But he had honored his mother's wishes, never speaking of the near silent child that his mother had taken in.
There was no describing Silas' fury when he found out what his mate and son were keeping from him – in his anger, he had shaken Ramiel, destroying entire war camps in the ensuing avalanches. But from that moment on, Azriel had become indispensable to the High Lord. And while Rhys' own powers were formidable, Silas treasured the versatility and subtlety of Azriel's shadows.
Sometimes, he wondered if Silas valued his shadowsinger more than his own son.
It wasn't Az's fault – Rhys knew that he hated working for Silas. Despite the value that his spying brought to the Night Court, Silas never fully accepted Az or Cassian. They were bastards, born too low for him to pay them any real mind. He barely tolerated them. He used Azriel for his abilities – and that was it.
Cassian’s usual grin faltered as he noticed Azriel’s sudden change in demeanor. He lowered his sword, stepping back from Rhysand. “What is it, Az?” he asked, his voice more serious now.
Rhys also lowered his sword, "Had my father decided to send you back out to the Continent yet again?"
Azriel ignored the both of them as he listened to the whispers of his shadows. Finally, he looked up at his friends, shaking his head at Rhys' question. “It’s-" he started, but then his expression softened with a hint of gravity. “It’s your mother’s time, Rhys.”
They needed no further explanation.
Rhysand groaned, throwing the steel in his hand towards the ground.
“Of course, my father can’t even be bothered to winnow here and tell me himself,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Probably too busy doing everything in his power to make sure that – even at that last moment - this child will be his heir.”
Cassian chuckled, the tension easing slightly as he clapped a hand on Rhysand’s shoulder. “Well, at least he’s consistent,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood. “Let’s get you cleaned up and ready, future big brother.”
Azriel nodded, his expression serious but supportive. “We should hurry,” he said, sheathing his dagger. “Your mother wants you there.”
The trio made their way off the training grounds, the cold air biting at their skin as they moved swiftly through the camp. As they walked, Rhysand couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions – anxiety for his mother, irritation at his father’s distant behavior, and… dread.
Dread that this child – yet to be born – would have to face the same scrutiny… the same vitriol as he had at Silas' hands.
He had never fully forgiven his parents – especially his mother – for wanting to bring another child into the world. The day that he had scented the pregnancy on his mother he had gotten rip roaring drunk in his father's study – digging into the vintages his father had been saving for special occasions. Az had found him that day and talked him off the ledge.
But even when the haze of the faerie wine had cleared… his mother was still pregnant, and Rhys would still have sibling to contend with.
That anxiety had never fully gone away.
He hadn't worried about whatever power his new sibling would possess – he'd meant it when he told Azriel that the child could be the heir. It wasn't thoughts about inheritance that kept him up at night. What if the babe grew up to be exactly like Silas? Could he handle a brother who had the same cold, calculating demeanor as his father?
Could Prythian handle another Silas?
Rhys took hold of Cassian and all three of them winnowed as far as they could before reaching the magical wards of the House of Wind. Upon sensing the magical barriers, the three males unfurled their wings, taking flight toward the upper levels of the House.
As they soared through the air, Cassian’s voice cut through the wind.
“Get ready, Rhys. Your father will have you relegated to nappy duty for the new favorite princeling,” he teased, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
Rhysand gave a halfhearted chuckle, the sound carried away by the wind. When he had first heard the news of his mother’s pregnancy, he wouldn't have been able to laugh at the joke. It might have even sent him spiraling further than he already had that day that he had drank through half of his father's wine reserves.
“I’m sure Father will find a way to make my life even more miserable,” Rhys replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “But at least I’ll have you two idiots to keep me company.”
Azriel, flying just ahead of them, glanced back, and added dryly, “Just don’t expect us to change any nappies.”
Their laughter faded as they landed on the wide terrace, the sound of their boots crunching on frosty stone now the only thing breaking the silence. Rhysand took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever awaited him inside.
With a nod to his friends, he pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the dimly lit corridor. Rhysand took a deep breath, steadying himself before looking at his friends. “Let’s do this.”
Cassian clapped him on the back, his grip firm and reassuring.
Azriel nodded, his expression calm and composed.
Rhysand led the way inside, steeling himself to face whatever mood his father was in. It was much warmer inside, and as they walked through the halls, the familiar sights and sounds of home enveloped them.
At the moment, Rhys would have preferred the frigid air atop Ramiel.
There was no fleeting sense of comfort of being home as they reached his father's study. Rhys knew his father – knew that he would not be caught anywhere near his mates' room that night. Propriety, and no doubt Silas' own personal preference, dictated that he remain at a distance until Lyra and the babe had been cleaned up and given the all clear by Madja.
And so Rhys wasn't surprised to see, after entering the dimly lit study, that Silas stood by the grand fireplace, a glass of brown liquor in his hand. He only turned as the door clicked shut behind Azriel.
Rhysand squared his shoulders, even though his heart sank at the sight of his father. He'd be expected to wait here with Silas for news of his mother – to endure his father's company for however long the birth took.
He'd rather endure the Blood Rite again.
"Father," Rhysand greeted.
"Rhysand," Silas acknowledged curtly. His gaze hardened as he took in his son's appearance, trailing up the Illyrian leathers that were covered in dirt and grime from their training session. The High Lord sniffed once, his lips curling into a sneer, "You couldn't be bothered to change into something more appropriate?"
Rhysand only shrugged, not wanting to fight with his father tonight of all nights, "We came as soon as we got word."
Silas's eyes flicked to Cassian and Azriel. "I see you brought your little band of bastards with you."
Cassian bristled, but a slight shake of Rhysand's head kept him silent. Rhysand met his father's gaze, trying to keep his voice calm. "They are my brothers, Father. They've been by my side through everything."
Silas's lip curled further. "Brothers? Do not insult our bloodline, Rhysand."
Azriel's shadows swirled around him. But they stayed behind the shadow singer's wings, reined in by Az's impeccable control. Rhys couldn't say the same for himself - he couldn't even help it as his own hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Silas's expression remained impassive as his grip tightened on the glass in his hand.
"This is a family matter," he replied icily. "I will not have outsiders lurking about."
Rhysand's frustration boiled beneath the surface – Cassian and Azriel weren't outsiders, by the Cauldron - but he knew better than to push his father further. With a resigned sigh, he nodded to Cassian and Azriel. If it were any other day, he might have had more words to say to his father – but this wasn't the time or place.
Cassian and Azriel exchanged a knowing look before nodding in understanding. With one last glance at Rhysand, they turned and left the study, leaving father and son alone.
Rhysand watched them go, feeling a pang of loss as the door closed behind them.
The atmosphere in the study grew heavier as Rhysand faced his father. Silas's steely gaze bore into Rhysand, the shadows from the fire dancing across his face. The flickering light highlighted the lines of disapproval etched deeply into the High Lord’s features.
"You know," Silas began, his voice low and authoritative. "You should spend less time with those Illyrian bastards and more time with the court you will one day inherit."
Rhysand clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his rising temper in check. The High Lord would be content if his son forgot all about his Illyrian heritage. How had his mother put up with it for all these years?
"They are not bastards, Father," Rhysand retorted, biting back all the things he really wanted to say to Silas. "They are my friends." His voice held a firmness that dared his father to challenge it.
Silas's lip curled in disdain. "Friends or not, they are not fit to be by your side," he declared, with a wave of his hand, as if the matter were as simple as that.
Rhysand bristled at the insult, but he held his tongue. He felt like a caged animal, prowling in the confines of his father’s expectations. This… this was what his father did to him.
"If you're lucky, Father, your new son could inherit everything," Rhysand retorted, his tone laced with bitterness. He didn’t particularly care if his words stung; he wanted his father to feel at least a fraction of his frustration.
"Perhaps that would be for the best," Silas replied coolly, his lips quirking into a derisive smirk.
With a heavy sigh, Rhysand helped himself to a glass of brown liquor from the cart by the fireplace. The warmth of the alcohol spread through him, dulling the edges of his frustration. He took a long, slow sip, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat.
If he could get through the rest of the night in at least tolerable silence between him and his father, he would consider the night a success.
With the glass of whiskey in hand, Rhysand settled into one of the plush armchairs in the study, his eyes fixed on the crackling fire in the hearth. The flames danced and flickered, casting a warm glow over the room, but it did little to ease the cold knot of tension in his stomach.
How long would he have to endure this?
From across the vast expanse of the House of Wind, Rhysand could hear the unmistakable sounds of his mother's birthing pains. The cries and moans of agony echoed faintly through the halls, reaching his ears and tugging at his heart.
He couldn't help but wonder about his own future – about the female who would one day become his wife, his consort. Cauldron willing, a mate. How much pain would she have to endure for their children? How much sacrifice would be required of her?
He couldn’t stand it — he tried to block out the sound.
The hours stretched on, the silence between Rhysand and Silas unbroken except for the occasional crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of labor.
He prayed to the Cauldron that his mother would come through this unscathed. The cries from across the House became louder, more frequent and Rhys couldn't help but wince every time he heard his mother.
After what felt like an eternity, there was a small knock at the door to the study. Rhysand tensed, his heart pounding in his chest. Madja entered the room, her forehead glistening with sweat, and her hands up to her elbows stained with dried blood. Her normally composed demeanor was overshadowed by the exhaustion etched into every line of her face.
Rhysand watched as his father's eyes narrowed at the ancient healer. Silas's cold gaze swept over Madja, lingering on the blood. Rhysand half-expected his father to scold her for not bothering to clean up before presenting herself before the High Lord, just as he had with his son.
But Silas only looked down from the bridge of his nose to the small female, his expression stern and unyielding.
"Well?" he demanded, his voice icy.
Madja took a deep breath, exhaustion evident in every line of her face.
"There was a lot of bleeding," she began. "But your mate is stable. She will live."
Relief flooded through Rhysand as he heard the words, his shoulders sagging as if he had been unburdened of all this weight.
"And the child?" Silas’ eyes narrowed further.
"She is small," Madja's expression softened slightly as she met Silas's gaze. "Her weight is low for a newborn babe. But she will be fine."
She.
The single word echoed in Rhysand's mind.
His father wouldn't get the second chance at an heir that he wanted, and there was less of a risk of the child turning out like Silas.
But Rhys still felt a sense of dread – the same dread he had been feeling since first scenting the pregnancy on his mother. But this time, it was because it was a girl. He wasn't blind – he knew of the different, and sometimes infinitely harsher, expectations that traditions of their court placed on females.
How was he supposed to protect a defenseless girl from the cruelty of their own father?
Silas's reaction was unreadable. "Very well," he said curtly, dismissing Madja with a wave of his hand. "See to it that they are both taken care of."
Madja nodded, her tired eyes flickering to Rhysand for a brief moment before she turned and left the room. Rhysand watched her go, his mind racing with thoughts of the newborn girl across the House. How would his father treat his sister? Would she be subjected to the same relentless pressure and expectations that had been placed upon him?
Rhysand turned his gaze back to the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows across the study. Doubt gnawed at him as his father eventually left, grumbling something about his duty to be at his mate's side.
Would he be a good brother if he couldn't stand up to his father? Every time he had tried, he had failed, and each failure had only solidified Silas's power over him.
He'd never be able to protect her from the cold, relentless scrutiny of their father.
The night wore on, Rhysand remaining in the study long after the fire had died down.
The reality of his own powerlessness settled over him, and he couldn't shake the nagging doubt that, despite his best intentions, he might never be able to protect his sister. The dread that had been simmering since he first scented his mother's pregnancy solidified into a cold, hard certainty: he was not enough.
And that failure, more than anything, was what he feared most.
Madja's gentle voice broke the heavy silence of the study, drawing Rhysand's attention. In the time that his father had left, Rhys had helped himself to another glass of Silas' finest whiskey… and then another.
He looked up, meeting Madja's steady gaze as she stood in the doorway, her expression soft yet somber. He knew what Madja's presence here meant.
"She would like to see you," Madja said quietly.
Rhysand nodded, keeping his expression cool despite the fluttering in his gut. Silas would have scolded him for showing any kind of weakness in front of his subjects – Madja included. So, he kept his expression neutral as he rose from his seat and downed the remaining contents of glass.
His movements were slow, as if he were stepping into uncharted territory.
And, in a way, he was.
Leaving the study behind, Rhysand followed Madja through the winding corridors of the House of Wind, as if it hadn't been one of his official residences for the twenty years that he had been alive. But with the way that his mind was racing, he was content to let Madja lead the way through his own home.
They finally reached his mother's chambers, the door standing slightly ajar. Madja stepped aside, allowing Rhysand to enter alone. The room was bathed in a warm, flickering light from the roaring fireplace.
Lyra lay on the bed, her eyes tired yet bright as she looked up at him. His shoulders sagged in relief as he took in the sight of his mother, wings resting on the low, dipped headboard, looking exhausted but alright.
Beside her, nestled in her arms, was a tiny bundle wrapped in blankets.
As if it had sensed his presence, the bundle of blankets emitted a soft, small cooing noise, sending a rush of panic coursing through Rhysand. He looked up at his mother, eyes widened.
"Rhys," his mother greeted him, her voice soft and weary yet filled with love. "Come, meet your sister."
He would have been rather content to stay exactly where he was, watching the bundle of blankets from afar.
But when Lyra looked like that – tired and content – well, he would deny his mother nothing. Rhysand approached the bed, his footsteps soft so as not to disturb the small bundle. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the tiny form cradled in his mother's arms.
His sister.
His thoughts swirled as he took another step closer, finally able to see her delicate features, the way her tiny fingers curled against her mother's chest. Carefully, almost hesitantly, Rhysand reached out to touch her, his calloused fingertips brushing against her soft skin.
He swallowed hard, unsure of what to do.
"You can hold her, you know."
Carefully, almost reluctantly, he extended his hands towards the tiny bundle in his mother's arms. With a hesitant breath, Rhysand accepted the weight of his sister in his arms as Lyra gently passed her over. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of aversion at how small and delicate she appeared. She was so… tiny.
How did his mother know that he wouldn't break her?
As he held her, he felt something unexpected – the faintest fluttering against his forearms. He looked down and saw them, delicate bat-like wings - just like his own and his mother's. He had never seen a set of wings so small before. His breath caught in his throat as he marveled at the sight, the corners of his lips pulling up into a small smile.
"She's beautiful," Rhysand whispered, his voice barely more than a breath as he gazed down at the newest addition to their family. "What's her name?"
His mother smiled tiredly, her eyes shining with pride.
"Elara," she said softly. "Her name is Elara."
538 Years Before the Cursebreaker
Rhysand stepped through the familiar halls of the House of Wind. It had been months since he last set foot in these halls - months since he had seen his family.
It took only about six weeks after Elara's birth for the incessant crying to be enough to drive him mad, and he had absconded to the Illyrian mountains to ensure that the scattered and remote settlements were still abiding by their High Lord.
He'd secured Silas's permission easily enough, after Rhys had laid heavy on the fact that he would be representing the High Lord's interests in some of the most remote reaches of Night Court territory and reminding them of his power.
It hadn't taken any convincing to get Cassian and Azriel to agree to go with him, either. Azriel had been called away here and there on business with his father. But for the most part, time away from Velaris – and his family - with his brothers had been exactly what Rhysand had needed.
Until, that is, his mother had sent word requesting that he come back.
He approached the door to his mother's chambers, having made sure that this had been the first stop he'd made upon landing. Lyra would have been livid if Rhys had stopped anywhere else before coming to see his mother.
Taking a deep breath, Rhysand pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was bathed in warm, golden light, the soft glow of the setting sun casting long shadows across the floor. His mother sat at a table near the window, a pile of fabric in her lap as she worked on stitching up dresses – having never fully let go of her seamstress roots.
And there, in the corner of the room, was Elara.
He barely recognized her. Elara had grown so much in the time he'd been away, her features more defined, her wings stretching out behind her now. She looked less like a scrunched-up doll and more like an actual fae now. She played quietly in the corner of the room, wooden blocks strewn about in front of her.
He had missed so much.
For a moment, Rhysand hesitated, unsure of how to approach. He had avoided being home as much as possible over the past year, unable to bear the constant sound of Elara's crying and the overwhelming sense of responsibility that had plagued him since she had been born. He'd never really learned how to interact with her.
"Rhys," his mother greeted him, her voice warm and welcoming as she looked up from her work. "It's good to see you home."
Rhysand managed a weak smile, his eyes lingering on Elara as she played with a small toy in her hands.
"She's grown so much," Rhysand murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper as he took a hesitant step forward. Elara looked up at him, her eyes bright with curiosity as she reached out a tiny hand towards him. Gingerly, she got up from her position on the floor, swaying on unsteady legs as she pulled herself to a standing position.
She could walk now?
Rhysand watched his sister waddle around on shaky legs, a smile tugging at his lips as her little wings splayed out to help her find balance. There was something undeniably endearing about her determination as she tried to make her way to him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the sight.
His mother looked up from her stitching, her gaze softening as it fell upon her children.
"I wish you were around more, Rhys," she said, her voice tinged with a mixture of sadness and longing. "Elara misses you, and so do I."
Rhysand's smile faded slightly, replaced by a pang of guilt. "I know, Mother," he replied, his tone heavy with regret. "I've just...had a lot to handle."
It wasn't a complete lie –Silas had been the first in a long line of Night Court rulers to try and reign in the more traditional war bands. There were still plenty in the remote reaches of Illyria that chafed under his rule. Rhys had been doing a lot of good in the remote parts of their territory, even if his reasoning for doing so had been nothing but selfish.
"I know," Lyra put down her stitching, her expression turning serious as she regarded her son. "And I know that you like to take a break from it every once in a while – to be with your brothers. But Elara needs her brother."
Rhysand sighed, running a hand through his hair. He'd perfected the mask of indifference in front of everyone else – even Az and Cass – but never Lyra. There was no use trying to act tough in front of his mother, she would see right through him – even without Daemati gifts.
Lyra reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. " Elara adores you. She lights up whenever she hears your name."
Rhysand looked over at his sister, who was now examining a piece of scrap fabric with intense curiosity.
"She does?" he asked, his voice softening.
Lyra smiled. "Yes, she does. And she needs you in her life, Rhys. You may not realize it, but you mean the world to her."
Rhysand considered his mother's words for a moment. He couldn't imagine anyone – especially an impressionable infant – looking up to him. He was about to say that very thing to his mother, but before he could reply, one of the servants appeared at the door, a look of urgency on her face. "Lady Lyra, we need you to finalize some decisions regarding the upcoming delegation from the Autumn Court."
Lyra sighed, giving Rhysand an apologetic look as she rose to her feet. If Rhysand knew his mother at all – she would have rather done anything else in the world than make decisions that would make their upcoming Autumn Court visitors more comfortable.
"Duty calls," she said, squeezing his arm gently. "Will you watch Elara for a moment?"
Rhysand nodded, watching as his mother followed Moira out of the room. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving him alone with his sister. Elara, sensing the change, toddled over to him with her arms outstretched, making little grabby hands in a silent plea to be picked up.
"Up, up," she babbled, her wings fluttering with excitement. Rhys couldn't help but raise his brows – it would appear that she even knew some of her words now, too.
Rhysand hesitated for a moment, the familiar sense of unease creeping back in – he wouldn't even begin to know what to do with a child.
But as he looked into Elara's bright, trusting eyes, he felt something in his heart thaw.
With a deep breath, he reached down and scooped her up into his arms. Her wings stretched out and splayed, brushing against his face as she giggled with delight.
She kept up the movement and his lips curled upward.
"You want to fly, don't you?" Rhysand murmured, more to himself than to her.
Elara's eyes sparkled with anticipation, her little hands gripping his shirt as she looked up at him with pure, unbridled excitement. He wasn't sure if his mother would be okay with this – he had never been alone with Elara before, let alone in the air.
But the look on Elara's face…
Rhysand chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, what the hell," he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Let's go flying."