Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rhysand’s father sent a bouquet of tansies to Spring when the bodies were found.  Small, seemingly insignificant yellow flowers with skinny green stems, plucked from the hills south of the Illyrian Steppes. 

Tansies.  A declaration of war.  Euen, the High Lord of Spring, had sent the same bouquet to all of the High Lords who had declared they sided with the Rebellionists, marking them as his enemy.  War came swiftly after that, filling Prythian with death.  Filling the whole world with death.

The bodies lay in the grass a few feet away from Rhysand.  His mother still wore her sleeping gown, as if they had dragged her from bed.  The elegant silk was covered in dirt and blood.  Mhera, who was always up before dawn, had her training leathers on as if she had been getting ready for practice when they came.  Her little hand reached out to him, her fingers limp against the hard ground.  She had no head or eyes to gaze up at him, but Rhysand knew she was looking for him and him alone.  

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.  From that little hand.  How many times had he watched that hand grip a knife triumphantly, or weld a needle and thread?  She used to reach up to him with that sweet hand to hold his own and drag him everywhere: to their family’s private training ring in the House of Wind; to the Sidra in Velaris so they could watch the silver gills swim, their star flecked scales flashing in the murk.  He had held that hand when Mhera first learned how to use those tiny little wings of hers, to offer her a safe way back to ground, even though she demanded she didn’t need his help.  She was so sweet and stubborn and free…They would fly together: around Velaris, over the Illyrian Steppes, whooping and laughing and feeling the breeze under their wings—

Their wings.

A wind blew through the camp, spreading the stench of blood through the array of tents.  The massacre that lay before him A small group of people had gathered—some den mothers and healers, but mostly males with swords strapped to their sides.  He wanted to scream at all of them leave.  Leave.

Gods, the pain of it.  To die without wings.  The Illyrians didn’t think much about death, even as the warrior race they were: but the imprecise idea was the death as the final flight, where your feet would never touch the ground again, and the wind of the afterlife would carry you for eternity.

But here the Lady and the Princess of Night lay, in the dirt, with blood soaking their backs, mangled stumps protruding from their beaten shoulders.

And it was his fault.

Betrayal tainted Rhys’ lips like blood, hot and sticky and thick on his tongue.  No matter what he did, he could not wash away its iron taste.  He could do nothing but soak in his rage.  His mourning.  His utter disbelief.  He refused to accept it at first when they were both informed of the news.  It was easier to believe that it was a lie his father fabricated, to see if he could drag the truth of their secret trysts from him.  

But a sentry who had been patrolling the southern camp had confirmed it: High Lord Euen and his soldiers were spotted winnowing away from the northern camp when the blood was still staining the river.  

Tamlin had been with them.  Wearing the bandolier of knives he gave him.

Rhys closed his eyes again and took a breath before looking back at the bodies that lay before him.  Rage began to fill his head, obscuring all other thought.

High Lord Sinan of Night stood over the bodies.  The wind blew stronger, blowing his cloak and smooth black hair.  One of the camp mothers stepped forward bravely, holding a sheet of white cloth.  She bowed to Sinan, as if asking for permission.  

The High Lord said nothing.  Rage billowed from him like steams of shadow, and Rhysand couldn’t find the courage to approach him, to even look in his eyes. 

After another bow and a murmur that sounded like a prayer, the female knelt, covering their mutilated bodies with plain white cloth. Rhysand felt like he was drowning as he watched red soak the fabric. 

“High Lord.”

A messenger from the northern camp stepped forward to Sinan.  Two males stood behind him with wooden crates in their arms.  Blood dripped steadily from the bottom, dotting the forest loam with scarlet. “These were found at the curve of the river just outside camp.”

The males set the crates down before them as if they were offerings.  Rhysand made the mistake of looking.

Cold, dead eyes stared up at him.  Eyes of hazel, eyes of indigo.  Their pleading, angry words still hung on their frozen lips.  

His knees suddenly felt heavy, and he closed his eyes as a wave of numbness overcame him.  

His father gave a single glance at the contents, his face strangely emotionless.  “And the wings?”

Rhys was surprised at how cold his father’s voice was.  But he knew that only meant his anger was building up.  The messenger hesitated as if he understood that built-up fury and was afraid his news would be the final blow. “They weren’t found,” he answered, his voice shaking.

The camp was silent, waiting for their High Lrod’s answer.  Even the grey trees above them seemed to still.  But Sinan said nothing.  Instead, he waved a hand, dismissing the three males and the camp mother, who had risen from the bodies.  They stepped away with their heads inclined.  One of the males murmured a single prayer to the warrior god Enalius.  Not a prayer of healing, of course—but for strength.

For revenge.

A strange sort of buzzing began in Rhysand’s chest, like some stirring creature.  The camp was deadly silent.  Not even a sob echoed out from the gathered crowd. 

Then, Sinan spoke, his voice barely a hiss.  

“You were a fool for trusting that beast.  A fucking fool.”

Rhys stared at the ground.  The rocky duff under his feet blurred with his tears, becoming a smudge of brown and grey.   

They were dead because of him.  

The sound of twigs breaking until the High Lord’s feet made him flinch, but he didn’t look up, even as he stood next to him now.  His father’s words were muffled in his ear, like the ocean was truly washing over him, consuming him.  

“We’re going to avenge them.”

⌘

They winnowed to Spring’s border when dusk was striking the sky.  The clouds bled dark, ominous colors of violet and red and hung heavy over the expansive flower fields.  They didn’t bring any males with them, though many of the camp warriors were bloodthirsty themselves.  It had to be just the two of them, Sinan had demanded.

Rhys didn’t bother carrying any weapons.  He could feel his power vibrating between his fingers, expanding and contracting with the racing beat of his heart.  He swore the grass withered under his boots with each step he took, and shadows skittered between the tree stumps and through the collection of wildflowers.  Black-eyed Susans, daffodils, and clumps of lavender crumbled under his feet.

The terrain proved easy to trek through; Spring was mostly flat fields and small farms.  Rhysand’s eyes were glued on the back of his father’s head, watching the crimson dusk leak through his wind-swept hair.

“Do you think they’re expecting us?”

Rhysand’s own voice sounded strange and distant, but the sound of his father’s voice was almost unrecognizable.  “Doesn’t matter.  We’re killing all of them either way.”

Sinan turned to him, and a hint of apprehension shot through Rhysand. He shoved the feeling away, but it was too late: his father spotted it.  Rough fists suddenly gripped his collar, and he flinched as Sinan shook him and snarled, “Is that hesitation, boy?  Even after you saw your sister’s head in a crate, you dare fucking hesitate?  She is dead because of your foolishness.  My mate is dead.”

His mate.  His mother and father’s feelings towards each other had been lukewarm at the best of times.  But Rhysand knew that didn’t matter: the hole where the bond had been made the sanest males go into a rage, as evident in the male that gripped his collar.  “I don’t hesitate,” Rhysand snapped.  

But didn’t he?  Why was he here, what did he expect himself to do?  Rage was brewing inside him, deep and heavy, but the thought of seeing him…

No.  He was why they were dead.  

“Good.”  Sinan let go of him, and Rhysand took a step back.  “Because if you even think about hesitating, I will kill you too.  And I’ll leave your head staked into the ground next to your friend’s to remind this Court what betrayal looks like.”

His father’s rage was familiar, but it scared Rhys all the same.  Unhelpful thoughts ran through his head, but he ignored them.  Don’t make this harder on yourself, you fucking coward, he thought, cursing himself.  You lovesick fool.

They continued on their path to the manor.  Dusk gave way to night, giving them cover in the darkness they were made for.  They met no one until they reached the ivy and rose covered gates: a dozen guards ambushed them, their heavy armor as loud as a stampede.  But it was the easy butchering: they killed six guards each almost instantly, and were already passing through the gates when Rhysand spotted two blonde males across the garden.  

They looked so much like Tamlin: their eyes shone a brilliant emerald green, and their hair fell in long golden locks.  Rhysand could picture it: the older one dragging his mother from bed, digging his claws in her wrists.  The younger one knocking a knife from Mhera’s hand and yanking her by the hair—

Rage ripped through him like steel, and he felt his feet move faster towards the two brothers.  They both drew their swords, the metal glinting in the moonlight.  “Half-breed filth—” the eldest began to snarl.

Rhysand simply raised a hand.  Blood bubbled out of his nose and streamed down from his bulging eye sockets.  Rhys could practically feel his brain crush in his hand, the thoughts melting and draining out like the juice of pulverized fruit.  He made a gurgling sound as thick, foaming blood poured out of his mouth before he collapsed to the ground, crushing flowers and grass.

Panting, Rhys looked around, preparing for the second brother. But there was only a red mist in his wake and the sight of his father already storming up the steps to the manor’s entrance.

The foyer was in absolute chaos when Rhys burst through the door.  Furniture was smashed, plush couches were ripped to shreds, tables were overturned.  Rhysand stepped over a shattered vase, avoiding the broken pottery and crumpled flowers.  Red dust swirled through the air like a melted sunset, but blood soaked the tiled floor as well: his father had spared a victim from his misting powers and gave him a slice to the throat instead.  The guard stared up at Rhys in Sinan’s grip, his wound resembling a second smile.

“Sinan!”

A female’s scream made them both look up.  Tamlin’s mother was racing down the stairwell towards them.  She looked like she had just gotten out of bed; her nightgown, a delicate thing with lace embroidery, was a tangle in her fist as she raced down the stairs.

“Sinan, what are you doing?  Please—”

Her begging chilled Rhys down to the bone.  It could have been the same words his own mother uttered before her murder.  Before Tamlin’s father severed her head from her body  Before he sawed off her wings, before…before…

“No,” he heard himself gasp.  Not her.  He didn’t care if the female was cruel, complicit, or naive.  He could not bear to hear her screams.  A mother’s screams, a mother’s fear—

But his father already turned his attention to her.  A wolf ready to strike.

“No—” 

The death was swift.  A single slice to the throat.  Crimson poured down her neck and soaked her delicate lace collar.  Lady Fenella clutched the gaping wound, blood dripping between her fingers.  She stared up at Sinan with tears and shock in her eyes before she fell to the ground.

But Sinan simply stepped over her body and made his way to the spiral staircase. 

“Stop…” Rhysand gasped.  He didn’t know why he dared to even speak, but he had to.  This death, this loss… “Lady Fenella…she had nothing to do with this—”

 His father whipped around, his face distorted into a snarl.  “She got a quicker death than my mate did.  Than your sister did.” He turned away and approached the stairs, and Rhysand felt forced to follow him.  “And besides: Euen deserves to understand what it’s like to live without your mate before I snap his fucking neck.”

Sinan turned to the stairs just as a howl ripped through the manor, the sound filled with so much agony and rage.  Rhysand’s body felt like it was collapsing on itself as he stared at the blood dripping from Lady Fenella’s throat.  Keeping fucking moving, a voice inside his head snarled.  

He stumbled up the steps blindly.  When he reached the landing, a rumble of power shook the entire manor, making Rhys fall to his knees.  

High Lord Euen was dead.  A shift permeated the air, like petrichor in the morning.  It, strangely, filled Rhys with a sense of calm, maybe even longing and ardor, even when it was coupled with the familiar shame and rage—what a coward, he was…what a lovesick, selfish fool—

He realized his father was still moving.  At first, Rhysand felt himself pause until he realized. 

He was going to kill him too.  Tamlin.

He felt his feet move, motivated but an entirely different sort of fear.  He didn’t care that Tamlin had been there, had been complicit in their deaths.  He didn’t care what his motivations were.  He couldn’t die too.  Because Rhysand knew the hole made from his death would consume him, just as it consumed his father.

Sinan’s silhouette down the hallway was outlined by the moon that peered through the far window.  “No.” Rhysand’s voice sounded foreign, like some other creature had taken over his skin.  “That’s enough—”

He put a hand on his father’s arm to pull him away from the bedroom door, but he shoved Rhysand hard against the opposite wall, shattering wood. A rage exploded inside Rhys, and he lunged forward against despite the pain in his back.  He was going to kill him too.  He was going to—

The door ripped open.  There was a snarl from Sinan, a gasp, the sound of metal slashing through the air.

Rhysand’s father collapsed to the ground, and then there was nothing standing between him and Tamlin.

They locked eyes.  Rhysand swore he felt something shatter in his chest, even as he felt the High Lord’s power shift to him.  

“Rhys,” Tamlin whispered.  A glow was beginning to emit from him, blending with Rhysand’s rippling black power. “I’m—”

Rhys winnowed.  The fragrant wind blurred his senses, melting into darkness.  When his knees met solid ground, the smell of stone and earth greeted him, he cradled his chest and began to weep.

Chapter Text

“You should have killed him.”

Cassian paced back and forth in front of the High Lord’s desk.  The scarlet siphons at his wrists and shoulders glowed with his anger, reflecting off the walls and floor.  

Rhysand couldn’t help but look away from that blazing color.  It, for some reason, inspired a strange combination of temptation and disgust.  Ignoring his brother and his scarlet anger, he looked out the window.  The mountain that stretched beyond the Hewn City’s penthouse was cold with spring’s wake.  Purple lupine and moss campion freckled the terrain below them, adding dabs of color to the gloomy grey.  A breeze drifted through the room, stirring the thin curtains and bringing in the scent of rain and stone.  

Keeping his eyes away from his Inner Circle, he snapped, “I couldn’t just kill him.  The way it ended could be considered a truce.” 

It was the best excuse he could come up with, but it was truth, after all.  A tenuous armistice was all that hung between him and Tamlin now, and nothing else.  Nothing else to connect them together again.  

His fault, that voice inside his head hissed.   He did this to you.   He betrayed you .

But still, that ache in his ribs was impossible to ignore.  The twitch between his ribs, like a second heart, a thing that was weak and lovesick and reminiscent.  Shameful.  So Cauldron-damned shameful , as he father would have said. 

Rhys winced, especially as Cassian stopped his pacing to snarl, “He still has their wings.  I don’t see that as a truce, I see it as an opportunity.  We need to go there and take them back .”

Their wings.  A heavy grief suddenly swept over Rhys as he thought about the funeral rite.  Cassian told Windhaven the burial would be held in the Hewn City, as was proper for any Lady and Princess.  Azriel told Hewn City it was held in Windhaven, to keep the warriors in their grasp.  But while the two males were spreading their contradictory lies, Rhys and Mor picked up the bodies in secret and brought them to Velaris.  

It had been private.  It had to be.  He didn’t want his court to see his shame, his fear, his agony.  Even Velaris had to be ignorant of his tears.  It was a weakness to show emotion like that to your Court: Sinan had drilled that into him since he was old enough to walk.  He never cried in the Court of Nightmares or while training in the camp.  Yes, Velaris was different, but he was High Lord now.  He wasn’t a boy.  

Their ashes had been spread across the Sidra along with the stars that reflected like diamonds on the black water.

He willed his expression into a cool carelessness.  He couldn’t go back there.  He couldn’t see him again.  He couldn’t see those green eyes again, the eyes that always looked at him with so much love…the eyes that watched, complicit, as Euen butchered his mother and sister…

Rhysand’s fists gripped the windowpane, but he remained silent.  What a lovesick coward you are.  

Amren, who sat on the office couch next to Mor, studied him, her thin fingers twisting at her diamond necklace with uncharacteristic restlessness.  “Could it be possible that they came looking for you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “ Because that would determine if this truce, as you claim, would remain a truce.”

The suggestion sent chills down his spine.  The thought of Tamlin not only betraying him but looking to send him to his death—it brought on a different sort of anger and betrayal.  Maybe it would have been better than simply wanting to murder his family, but by the fucking Cauldron…

“Why would they look for him?” Cassian asked.

Amren tilted her head up at him.  “Why would they bother breaking into an enemy court to simply kill two Illyrian females?”

The remark was logical, but still cold and unwarranted. Azriel, who stood in the corner, shifted on his feet.  “Their death was anything but simple,” he said quietly, his shadows suddenly darkening.

Amren ignored him.  “The deaths of two lesser fae females offered Euen nothing except making a statement.  I would bet anything that Rhysand was what he was truly after.  And when he wasn’t at camp, they took the next best thing.”  

Rhys clenched his jaw.  He felt like he should try to speak for once.  Assure them that he would have destroyed the trespassers in an instant if they had gotten their wish and found him instead.  But Mor’s quiet voice rang throughout the office.

“The motive behind what happened doesn’t matter now.”  

It was the first time she had spoken since the meeting started.  Her brown eyes were fixed on the floor, her blonde eyebrows narrow with thought.   

Amren rolled her eyes. “ Of course it matters.  One of the beasts is still alive, and he has their wings.  Maybe he’s keeping them hostage.”  

“That beast is now High Lord,” Azriel added.  

Cassian snapped, “So is Rhys.”

Rhys stared at the floor, his mind whirring.  Maybe Amren was right.  Maybe their whole relationship had been a ruse created by Euen, to break into his archenemy’s Court and take something from him.  You were a fool for trusting that beast, his father’s voice hissed in his mind, echoing over itself like he was stuck in a chasm.  And now your sister is dead.  My mate is dead.

Maybe it was meant to be him.  It should have been him.

The only sound that could be heard was the quiet hissing of the wind through the curtains.  He suddenly realized they were all looking at him: Cassian, with his expectant anger, Amren and Az with their cold contemplation—

And Mor.  There was something different shining in her eyes.  Not fury or loyalty, but a strange sort of sympathy, maybe even recognition.  As if she knew the truth that sat inside his bones.

Azriel spoke, his voice quiet.  “How did he even know, Rhys?  How did he know where they were?”

Rhysand didn’t respond.  He never told them of his secret, mostly because he couldn’t find the courage to.  So how could he tell them now?  He could see their reactions: Cassian’s entire face would drop, his hazel eyes would widen.  Azriel’s silent shock would be louder than Cassian’s cursing or Amren’s questions.  The very shame of it…

“I don’t know,” he said finally, even though he very much did.  His dark power rippled off of him as steam, and he hoped his Inner Circle saw his silence as an attempt to suppress his rage instead of being too ashamed to find words.  

Amren, stepping into her role as his Second, nodded to Az and Rhys in turn.  “Do interrogations.  Both of you.  We can’t afford to have the Illyrians compromised, especially with the state of the Hewn City.”

Rhys felt a twitch of irritation.  “No.  I’ve made it clear what the punishment for disloyalty is this last month.  Interrogations will do nothing.”  

None of them argued with that, even though a different sort of tension settled over them.  Rhysand crossed his arms and looked out the window again as a steely confidence replaced his shame.  

After the power transfer, many lords in the Court of Nightmares refused to follow him, even if they kept silent about it.  But in his rage and grief, he could read their thoughts, see their hatred for him in their snake-like eyes.  

So he killed them. All of them, in a multitude of different ways that he barely even remembered.  They had spit curses at him, they pleaded and begged…only to have their heads roll on the floor or their bodies melt into mist.  

The political violence tainted his hands red, but it was an easy stain to wash out.  He felt nothing for his father’s courtiers and their despicable rules. Wiping them out of existence was as easy as smashing a bug beneath his feet.  A half-breed bastard he was.  And he was proud of it.

But when the noises of pleading and cursing and death faded away, he was left with the feeling of his heart collapsing inside his chest.  And worse: that feeling of betrayal.  That stain on his lips like a former lover.

Death.  By the fucking Mother, he was sick of death.  Or did he crave it?  Did he love it and hate it, did it help him heal or did it only rip deeper into his wounds?  He wasn’t sure anymore. The begging for forgiveness, the cursing and pleading and screaming… Did he wish to hear it from him?   Gods, even the idea of seeing Tamlin again sent a flutter through his chest, a thrumming, familiar ache…

His thoughts gave way to the sudden realization that his inner circle were staring at him yet again in a horrible silence.  Amren, seemingly annoyed by the dramatics, rolled her eyes and opened her mouth, but Azriel interrupted her. “I think Rhys is right.  We should focus on a different route.”

Cassian crossed his arms.  “Yeah, we can all march into Spring and kill him.”

Azriel’s wings twitched.  There was a darkness in his eyes, but he said with careful restraint, “You can’t walk in there again and kill him.  The way you both left alive meant that there is a truce, even if that’s hard to stomach.  The other High Lords would see it as bad taste.”

“Bad fucking taste?” Cassian demanded.

Azriel ignored him.  “There are better ways of going about this.  Sinan fell into a rage, and that’s what ended him.”

“And Rhys isn’t his father,” Mor added quietly.

Rhysand’s stomach flipped at that.  Was that even true anymore?  He elected this group as his Inner Circle, he had plans that would erase his father’s brutality and suppression of those he deemed lesser.  But did any of that even matter, when he was just as violent and hateful as him?  

Cassian again argued, “So you’re saying we should do nothing?”

Azriel shifted his stance.  “No.  You could still go to ask for their wings.”

Cassian crossed his arms.  “It would be begging.  I highly doubt Rhys wants to beg to the male who murdered his family.”

He didn’t.  He wanted Tamlin to be the one begging.  And by the fucking Cauldron, their wings.  Their wings.  A sudden surge of grief mixed with rage struck Rhysand’s heart yet again, b ut his words failed him, and he found himself staring at the ground.

Azriel seemed eager to help him out.  “Maybe you could pretend to offer a lukewarm alliance if he gives them back to you.”

“He could refuse,” Rhys said quietly.  “He could refuse to give them back.” It didn’t seem like him, but did he actually know who his friend was anymore?  Their secret now felt like a lie.  A ruse.

“Then take it as an opportunity to scoop out the state of his court.” Azriel tilted his head.  “You could always send me.”

“You’re not a messenger boy,” Cassian snapped.

“No.  He’s the court torture master and spy,” Azmren mused.  She chuckled and crossed her legs in sudden interest.  “It would be quite a way to send a message, Rhys. As spymaster, Azriel would see not only the state of Tamlin’s court, but also his true colors.  He would see how he would react, what he would do.  And as the court torture master, he is your way of punishing Tamlin without you stooping to his level.  Az is a way of telling him that you still have your knife on his neck and eyes on his despicable court.”

Rhysand contemplated.  Az did not need Truth-teller, he just needed the elements of guilt and fear.  With them, he could make Tamlin helpless and begging for mercy.  His father probably would have done the same thing, if he hadn’t lost himself to rage.

But then he recalled Mor’s words.  

Rhys isn’t his father.

Wasn’t he?  This rage and shock he felt…it was consuming him so much that he could hardly stand it.  He wanted to know what revenge tasted like just as his father did, even if it was what ended him.  And he knew killing Tamlin would end him.

He turned to Mor, who remained seated on the office couch next to Amren.  She had settled into her ranking as his Third nicely.  Confidence made everything about her radiate with irreverent charm: her blonde hair, her warm brown eyes—even her very skin had a gentle glow to it like she spent every waking hour exploring the open, sunny air of Velaris.  

But there was something off about her now.  Because the way she looked up at him…it was an expression he had never seen on her face before.  Like she saw something in him that he did his best to hide.

“You have been awfully quiet, Mor,” he mused, hoping they mistook his shaky voice as rage.  “Do you have anything you want to say?”

She simply tilted her head.  Her gaze was expressionless, but he swore there was some hidden emotion behind her eyes.  “Rhys, we know what their deaths did to you.  You haven’t been the same since it happened.  And I know that it might hurt, but I think you should be careful about this.  It might hurt you more than you already are now.” She glanced at Az, who pursed his lips.  “It’s something me and Az agree on.”

“You’ve discussed this already?” Rhys demanded.

His fury was so palpable that the air seemed to turn black with it.  Neither Azriel nor Mor answered him: the former stared at the floor while the latter looked up at him with a horribly calm expression.  Cassian’s jaw tensed.  Amren turned away, and Azriel simply shifted on his feet again.  

Rhysand took a deep breath, willing his voice to sound calm.  “If there is anything else you wish to say, then say it.  You’re my Inner Circle, and I don’t wish to have secrets among us.”

Only silence answered him.  Did they fucking fear him?  His family, his trusted friends?  Or did they see him as a coward and were too afraid to say it?  Maybe they were talking about him behind his back, pondering the truth behind Spring’s attack.  

Mor spoke again, her voice calm.  “If you’re still struggling to sort out your own thoughts then I will not bother adding more of my own to the mix.”

Silence.  Then, with a wave of a hand, Rhys growled, “Then get out.  All of you.  I’ll think it over myself.”

The four of them left immediately, leaving him to his conflicting thoughts.  The breeze blowing through the curtains was freezing at his back: with an irritated flick of his power, the window slammed shut, leaving him to a growing warmth and an unbearable silence.  

He stared at the desk that sat before him.  Many of his notes and books already made home on the polished surface, but he still remembered what it had looked like under his father.  He remembered standing before that desk, feeling so small and insignificant as his father berated him.  

With his fists at his sides, he closed his eyes and dropped a bit of his glamour.  To feel the High Lord’s power— his power—surge through him.  Muscle and joints bloomed from his shoulder-blades, and the feeling of his wings draping behind his back filled him with an unbearable grief.

Their wings.

With his heart suddenly pounding, he stormed to the palace balcony.  He flew to Velaris, hoping the sight of his beautiful city would calm him.  But the cold wind between his wings felt like a reminder, and the sight of the shimmering Sidra brought tears to his eyes.  Angry tears, tears of mourning…

He went to the townhouse, his footfalls as loud and heavy as his heartbeat.  He slammed open the door to his bed-chambers and stood in the center of the floor, his mind whirring with thought.

Mor spoke truthly.  Their deaths had changed him.  This betrayal changed him.  And he knew that revenge would hurt him more than it did now.  But what kind of male would he become if he sank into his grief and let his rage fade away?  Rage was power, his father taught him that.  But you had to be cunning with it.  It was a motivation, but it wasn’t something you could let control you.

How utterly ironic now.  But his father was still right in that department, even though that advice failed him in the last hours of his life.  

He would be better than his father.  Smarter, cleverer—

Tamlin’s face suddenly grew in his mind.  Him in the doorway, with his eyes wide and filled so much pain and fear.  Him whispering his name, Rhys…Rhys…

And again, that damned tug at his ribs.  

Tears suddenly swelled, daring to break the surface and fall down his face.  He curled his fists at his sides.  Their deaths were because of him , he reminded himself.  He betrayed you.  He said he hated his father as much as you hated yours, but then he led him into your lands, to murder your family.  He betrayed you.  He betrayed you.

The words echoed like a heartbeat.  He betrayed you.  He pulled on a different, more elegant shirt and buttoned up the collar.  He betrayed you.  He tugged on his jacket, his fingers shaking at the cuffs.  He betrayed you.  He brushed the sweat off his brow, letting the angry tears stain his cheeks.

And then he winnowed.

⌘

His arrival in Spring felt like a bolt of lightning, and the sound of his feet storming through the manor garden was like thunder.  He swore the smell of blood still lingered amongst the dewy roses and grass.  Blood was hard to get rid of, Rhysand knew that very well.  No matter how well your magic was, it was impossible to wipe the grime and smell completely away.

Good.  That was good.  He hoped the smell of the two brothers blood would serve as a reminder to Tamlin.  He shoved open the front door, which was strangely unguarded.

The foyer was empty, its state vastly different from the last time Rhys saw it.  His father’s wrath had been replaced with new furniture and delicate flower vases, as well as holiday decorations he at first didn’t understand.  Garlands of orchids, lilies, and almond flowers; archways and doors painted with whorls of indigo paint.  Was it for mourning?  

Then, it suddenly hit him: it was Fire Night.  The Spring Equinox.  Calanmai.  

Rhysand felt a crazed sort of laughter bubble up in his throat.  He wasn’t sure if he should take it as a sign that the Mother was on his side or working against him, but either way, it made it feel like one cosmic joke.  

He burst through the throne room, not fully sure if anyone would be in there.  But fate was on his side today after all, because a chorus of gasps greeted him.

The Spring Court seemed to be suffering the power transfer as much as Night did.  The throne room seats were barely half-full, and most of them were old warband members, with their uniforms and swords at their sides as if they were in some meeting.  The few courtiers and warriors stared at him in terror and awe.  Several lords and ladies started for the door, though a few brave soldiers drew their swords in a shaky attempt at showing bravery.

But Rhys only had eyes for one male.

Tamlin stood from his father’s throne slowly.  No, not Euen’s throne, Rhys reminded himself now.  It was Tamlin’s throne now.  His old friend looked oddly out of place standing on that grand dais: he wore his warband uniform still, which Rhysand found incredibly amusing.  Not with his gifted Illyrian bandelier, though—if he had, Rhysand would have gladly ripped it off his body along with an inch of his skin.  He had no weapons on him at all.  He didn’t even wear a crown.

Rhys slipped on a mask of cold amusement.  He bowed mockingly.  “High Lord.”

“You are trespassing in my Court, Rhysand.”

Tamlin’s words were stoic.  His emerald eyes gave away nothing.  Rhys felt an unbearable hatred boil in his heart, especially at the irony of trespassing .  But he simply spread his feet and put his hands behind his back in mock respect.  “I came as a guest, High Lord,” he crooned.  “The Mother opens the door to your Court on the Equinox, so it’s not considered an intrusion, is it?” 

Tamlin said nothing.  With his entire body whirring with anger, Rhys waved a hand.  Two items appeared from his shadows and landed with a clunk on the marble floor: a pair of empty wooden crates, with their interiors stained with blood.  

There was no reaction from the remaining courtiers besides a few whispers; no one seemed to understand what the crates meant.  But Tamlin’s face turned ghost-white.  Claws slid out from his fingers, even as he remained standing on his dias.

Rhysand let his voice echo throughout the room.  “I come bearing a request, as well as a gift.” He paused, enjoying the suspenseful silence.  “I will offer an alliance between our two courts in exchange for my family’s wings.”

Only silence answered him.  He braced himself, ready to hear Tamlin’s denial, his roaring, angry, defensive words.  

But something in the Spring High Lord had him restrained.  Tamlin’s voice echoed throughout the throne room, calm but stern. “Please leave us.” 

The guards who stood with their hands on their swords looked hesitant.  Obedient dogs , Rhys scoffed to himself, feeling their minds with a nudge of his daemati powers.  Their walls were barely hedges, easy to burn away.

The throne room cleared out, the nervous whispers of courtiers fading away.

And then it was just the two of them.  Just as it had been before, when the killing ended and Tamlin’s whisper was the only thing that hung between them. Rhys…Rhys, I’m—

Rhysand felt his fists curl at his sides.  He should strike him down now.  Just as Cassian said he should.  But fucking Cauldron…he found himself without words as he stared at his old friend and again felt that horrible tug at his heart.

Neither of them spoke at first.  Then, Tamlin croaked, “I don’t have them anymore, Rhys.  I’m sorry.”

The sorrow and familiarity in his voice made Rhysand flinch.  “You don’t have them,” he repeated. He tried to sound cold, but a growl slipped out.  “What did your father do with them?  I assume he hung them above that throne like his usual trophies.” 

“Yes.  He did.”

There was no hesitation in the male’s voice.  Only a quiet regret.  

“And then what did you do with them?” Rhysand scoffed.  “Was the shame of looking at the ugly, leathery things too much for you to bear?” His rage was growing again, kindled by the sight of the male shrinking before him.

Those blonde waves fell over his shoulders as Tamlin lowered his head.  “I burned them.  I didn’t know what else to do, I didn’t know if you would come back—”

“You’re not the kind of male who keeps trophies?”

Tamlin was silent for a moment.  “I was going to send the ashes to you,” he said finally.  “But I didn’t want it to seem like a threat.”

“You have threatened my life enough, Tamlin, so receiving my family’s remains would seem like a blessing in comparison,” Rhys sneered.  But then, for some reason, he felt himself falter.  

The male who stood in front of that gilded throne did not look like a High Lord.  He didn’t even look like a warrior either, with his missing weapons and sunken eyes.  He looked like a boy, an orphan boy, with very little hope or strength left.

“Did our life before all this mean nothing to you?” The words slipped out before Rhys could stop himself.  

“It did.  And it still does.”

Then why?  Why did you do this to me? Rhysand opened his mouth, but Tamlin’s next words made him stop in his tracks.

“I am carrying a child , Rhys.”

Rhysand paused, staring at him.  “What?”

“I’m carrying a child.  I…I feel its wings stabbing into my ribs.”

Wings .  The very word sent chills over his own, like a vicious winter breeze.  “You’re lying,” Rhys sneered.  Please Cauldron, let him be a liar and a murderer so it’s easier to end him.

But he knew very well that Tamlin wasn’t lying.  Tamlin was a terrible liar: all of his emotions shone on the surface, forcing a crease between his eyebrows and filling his eyes with pain.

And besides, he remembered their last encounter very well.  

“I’m not.  I found out myself a week or so ago.”

Rhysand couldn’t find the courage to speak.  A baby.  A fucking baby .  What a cosmic joke.  Two star-crossed lovers, two sides of the same coin, who went from strangers to friends to lovers to enemies who could barely look each other in the eye.  And now, they were connected in one of the worst possible ways two males could be connected.

Tamlin closed his eyes.  “Rhys—” 

A surge of rage exploded from him and Rhysand couldn’t help but snap, “You burned my family’s wings out of some pathetic form of guilt you hold, but then you offer me this ?”  He clenched his fists at his sides and shook his head at the floor.  “Are you somehow hoping that it’ll make me forgive you for what you did?”

At first, Tamlin was silent.  When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a breath.  “No.  But I hope it will encourage you to be rational.”

“Rational?” He let out a cold laugh, unable to contain himself.  “I am amazed you don’t see the irony of that.  Because what’s irrational, Tam, is marching up with the father you claimed to hate to murder your best friend’s family—”

Tamlin’s voice suddenly rose with frustration.  “The irony of it all is you did the exact same thing, Rhysand, but you had a choice .”

A choice.  That word and the meaning behind it rippled in between them.  But Rhys scoffed.  “A choice?”

Tamlin said nothing, but the little light left in his emerald eyes seemed to fade.  

Rhys understood what he might be implying.  He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, ignoring how hard they shook.  “So he tortured you then?” he sneered.  “What a poor boy you are, Tam, being beaten by your mean old father, being forced to give away your best friend’s family—”

“ I’m not lying to you !  I swear it.” He held out his hands as if his memories sat like gifts in his palms.  “Look, Rhys.  I know it won’t be enough, but please .  Please look.”

Rhys ignored him.   “I don’t need to.  The guilt in your eyes is enough.”

The silence that stretched between them pulled taut against Rhysand’s heart, the feeling so unbearable that he felt like the world was crumbling around him.  Maybe he should burn this fucking manor down, turn it into red dust.  It would make these feelings easier, wouldn’t it?  And he knew Tamlin wouldn’t even lift a finger.  He had always been stubborn and silent, who only fought back when he was forced to, when his emotions got the best of him…

Rhysand stared at the male before him.  “I suppose this baby is the best way for you to remember me, then, Tamlin.  Before you die.”

The word sounded like a curse.  Tamlin closed his eyes.  “You’ll kill me?” 

He didn’t ask it as if to plead.  He just sounded tired.  Rhysand ignored his aching heart, answering, “No, I won’t.  Because that baby will.” 

Tamlin didn’t answer.  Rhys to the opportunity: he stepped closer, willing his face to appear cold and careless.  “This is what the Mother calls fate, Tamlin.  Justice.  You take the wings of my family, you murder them, and in turn, the Mother enacts justice with the murder of your own family, your own mother and brothers and father.  And even better: She blesses you with our child .” He gave a bitter sneer, the feeling akin to a sharp, stabbing wound on his face.  “To remind you of your betrayal as that baby’s wings rip you apart.”

Tamlin was silent.  The anger in Rhys’ voice rose, making him shake.  “I hope you scream and howl like the fucking beast you are, pleading for help, but find that your courtiers find you too disgusting to even look at .” He spat the words, as if they were poison on his tongue.  He knew they burned Tamlin, but he could feel the pain of that poison himself.  It seeped into his gums, it ruined his tongue and it tore into his throat like a disease.  And it was an addiction.  A delightful pain.

And Tamlin just stood there.  His blonde hair hung limply over his face as he looked to the ground.  His hands hung at his sides, utterly defenseless.  

Fucking weak, Rhys thought.  Fucking pathetic.  

But for some reason, he felt guilt sweep over him.  How could he remain the same quiet, stubborn male with no interest in violence or revenge, but he was the one who changed?  He never had this need for blood, for pain, but now it felt like that was the only thing that could cure him from this feeling.  He wanted to cry, to scream, to rip his lover’s throat out like a final kiss goodbye, and to let go of this unbearable agony.  

And Tamlin just stood there and took it.  Like he knew what he wanted and was willing to accept his fate.

It felt almost unbearable to continue, but Rhysand did.  “You’ll die not by my hand, but by our baby’s.  And I think that will be more painful than anything I could conjure.”

A single tear dripped from Tamlin’s face and fell to the floor.  Fight me, Rhysand thought, feeling tears fall down his own cheeks.  Fight me, you fucking coward, so I can get something out of this.

He didn’t send that thought down to Tamlin’s mind.  He didn’t need to.  Because as Tamlin remained standing before him with his head hung low, he knew the male wanted him to kill him.  

A silence hung between them, and Rhysand felt the last piece of his heart shatter as he willed himself to turn and cross the throne room.  But as he reached the door, he paused and threw back two more words that he knew would add to Tamlin’s pain.

“Enjoy Calanmai.”

⌘

The sound of the roaring Sidra greeted him when he winnowed back to Night.  He collapsed to his knees and stared into its black depths.  Silver gills fought against the current, their galaxy-colored scales flashing in the sun.  He watched them, his eyes burning with tears.

“Rhys.”

Mor’s voice was quiet.  He didn’t bother turning to look at her.  He knew he would break as soon as he met her eyes, and he couldn’t break.

“You went to him.”

He simply nodded, staring into the river.  It was like he left his fury in Spring, as well as every drop of energy he had left.  He didn’t even have the will to speak, to explain, to even feel.

Footsteps approached him, the sound softened by the sand.  A flash of red at his side, and Mor knelt next to him, her dress draping on the ground.

She held two small porcelain boxes, plain in their appearance besides their delicate metal clasps in the shape of leaves.  

Rhys closed his eyes.

“These were sent to the Hewn City less than a few minutes ago.  There wasn’t a note, but…these were sent along with them.”

Purple flashed against the sunlight, and a cluster of fresh blossoms materialized into her free hand. The smell of spring brought tears to his eyes, but the sight of what she held made it worse. 

Purple hyacinths.  For forgiveness.

He broke then.  With tears streaming freely down his face, he barred his teeth and let out a growling sob as he stared at those two boxes, that bouquet of sorrow and regret.  

Mor set down the two boxes and flowers gingerly and slid her arms around him. He leaned into her, buried his face into her shoulder, and let the world give way to her cinnamon and citrus scent.  But all he could see and smell was that cluster of violet blooms, and Tamlin’s broken, pleading face.

Chapter Text

Rhysand had been six when he flew for the first time. His mother had taken him south of Illyria on the windiest day imaginable. The wildest days are the best days, she had said, brushing her hand through his hair in teasing consolation. The cliff they stood upon towered over a sea of grasslands, and he watched in awe as the colors below them rippled and swayed. The wind was a wild, vicious creature, tugging at his tunic and screaming in his ear, come with me, with me.

Then suddenly, it caught between his wings and yanked him off the cliff. The rustling pine and sweeping grasses fell ten, twenty, a hundred feet below him, making his stomach drop.

Then, he became one with the sky.

He had been terrifed at first. But the terror was overtaken by this life-changing feeling of…freedom. Belonging. Both things he hadn't truly felt as a boy who had one foot in Illyria and the other in the Hewn City. The exhilaration soared through his chest and filled his heart so much that it was close to bursting.

This is what it meant to be Illyrian, he had thought. Tears streamed down his face, both from the ripping wind and from the pure, unbridled emotion.

It was an innocent thought. A foolishly optimistic thought. And decades passed after Rhysand's first flight, and every time he looked back on that joy and innocence, that belonging and freedom… he knew he would never experience that feeling again. Not in the cold, stagnant air of the Hewn City, not in the High Family's penthouse in the Moonstone Palace.

His father's voice was always louder than the wind in his ear, or the sound of evergreens hissing in the chilly air. "Illyrian wings represent a warrior, a follower, an efficient but brutal male in need of taming. And such ideals do not have a place in court. I shouldn’t have to repeat this to you, boy." Sinan had explained it to Rhys many times, his tone ranging from careless dismissal to downright disgust.  He remembered how he had snarled at him as they got ready for a High Lords meeting. He had been maybe twelve or thirteen, and his father's anger had always been so cold and heavy then, especially since the Human War was just beginning to peek over the horizon.  “You will keep those wings hidden, or I’ll fucking bind them.” 

Rhysand had nodded, bowed, and obeyed his father with feigned indifference, even as hatred and rebellion bubbled up inside his chest.  He found himself defying Sinan’s beliefs as much as he could: he flew with his mother at his side, from the Moonstone Palace, in Illyria, or around Velaris.  He met Cassian and then Azriel, and respected their strength.  He trained as this brutal warrior Sinan utilized and hated in equal measure. He wore his wings and tried to revel in the feeling of the wind biting between his shoulders.

But his innocence and optimism were long gone. So in court, he played the High Lord’s son.  A High Fae male born in the Hewn City, with a dark smugness painted on his face instead of the bright, untamed starlight and wind he loved about his true Court.  His wings remained hidden behind a small vat of his power, and he would fold his hands behind his back and mourn their absence.

He could not hide his blood, though.  His half-breed heritage.  Lords and Ladies of the other Courts always sneered at him, as well as Keir and the Hewn City’s court.  He could hear them thinking, That’s Sinan’s half-breed.  

That’s the winged bastard.  

It’s a blessing that he can hide those ugly things.

It’s good that he got his looks from his father. 

It took all of Rhys’s training not to cleave their brains apart.  They were weak, spineless, horrible creatures, and he was above them.  He would rule them one day, and he would show them then.

But still, he felt himself giving in to his father’s words. The number of his court duties grew, forcing him to hide his wings for longer periods.  He hid them while he was in the Hewn City.  He hid them behind a mask of cool snobbery while sitting next to his father during meetings.  He even began to walk down the streets of Velaris without his wings.  

It was a double life, a ruse, an existence broken between two contradictory things.

Rhys assured himself that it was for political reasons.  Wings had no place in court, but when he was with his family and in Windhaven, he did not try to conceal his wings.  He showed them proudly.  And then he won the Blood Rite and earned the title of Carynthian.  He was assigned an army to command and had a growing number of males who respected him.  

He was still proud of who he was, even when Sinan darkened his life with his cold, judgmental presence. 

When his father was dead, it would be different, Rhys promised himself. He would wear that crown and his wings.  He would be able to walk into his court with his heritage showing proudly.  Things would change, he swore to himself.  Things had to change.

⌘

Seven years into The Human War

The battle had ended less than an hour ago, dragging the Hybern camp into an eerie silence.  The clashing metal and roaring death…Rhys heard it all from his hidden spot in the Hybern camp: a small grove with two great ash trees the guards had strung him between.  His wrists were red and numb from the bonds, and the rope they had tied like a leash around his neck was staked to the ground and pulled taut.  The leather collar dug into the back of his neck, rubbing his skin raw.

He didn’t have the voice to scream anymore, and the ash had weakened his powers too much for him to cast his desperate pleas to anyone who might hear.  And to pray either to the Mother of the warrior god…he lost that strength a long time ago.  So he simply hung between the trees and willed his thoughts to be as silent as the grove around him.

Maybe dying would be better. Easier.

“Rhys.  Rhys.”

Cold, scarred hands met his face, and Azriel’s face came into focus.  

A surge of feverish happiness filled Rhys, and a low, strangled whimper escaped his lips. His throat felt like it had been ripped apart from the screaming.

He didn’t think he would ever see his friend’s face again.  He felt himself slowly accepting that dreadful fact, especially as today’s battle began.  But the relief he felt at the sight of his friend, at the smell of his wind-kissed cedar…

He was vaguely aware of Az shouting to the soldiers behind them. “He’s over here.  Go find the High Lord.”

“Cassian…” he heard himself gasp.  “Is he…”

His voice fell apart, but Azriel grimly nodded. “He’s fine, I think. Devlon’s battalion was moving south a few days ago, and their numbers didn’t take any bad hits from the last battle.”

There was a flash of indigo in his weakened vision: Azriel's siphons flared as he unbuckled the collar around Rhys’ neck. “Is…is Jurian dead?” he managed.

“That’s the question you want to ask me?”  His friend sounded amused despite the lingering urgency.  

Rhys managed a nod, his neck now free from the collar’s hold.  The human’s screams were the only thing he could remember in the darkness: the cursing and shrieking, the pain in the man’s voice that echoed his own.

Silence at first.  “Yes, he’s dead.  But Rhys.” Az’s scarred hands gripped the sides of his face again. “The war is over.”

Rhysand closed his eyes.  He should feel relief.  Hope.  He should be grateful that this pain and death were finally over.  But he only felt a horrible numbness, like every bit of his immortality was ripped from his body.  

Truth Teller hissed through the air, and he collapsed into Az as the bonds holding him up fell apart.  His friend lowered him slowly to the ground, his arms gripping the bruises on Rhysand’s arms.  

 “Fucking Enalius…” His friend’s usually calm, deep timber shook.

Rhys flinched as Azriel touched the claw of his wing. His wings…the stakes…he didn’t want to remember it.  He couldn’t even comprehend it.  This was not his body, this was a mass of incoherent red, a pile of crude bones and tendons.  It was not him.  He was long gone.

But as Azriel cautiously examined the stake in his tendon, Rhysand’s pain flared anew, as well as the memories his body so desperately wanted to forget.

She had been meticulous with his torture: he remembered her skinny finger prodding each spot she wanted to impale: the left tendon, the right humerus bone protruding from his back, the thin, sensitive skin under the elbow joint.  

Amarantha.  He could see her thin, cruel face now, as if she were the moon in his sky, or the all-knowing face of the Mother leering down at her handy work.

“I tested this on a bat one of my males had captured for me.” The memory of her voice rose from the darkness.“The little beast had gotten into my tent somehow, squeaking and flapping away…” She laughed, the sound like shards of glass breaking on the ground.  “It’s little screams sounded mostly the same when my sweet soldiers hammered it to the table, but it got me thinking…” Rhysand shook as her thin hand slid to grip the collar around his neck, “what sounds would youmake when I pierce you?”

There were seven spikes of ashwood in total, and they took hours between each one.  By the time they finished, a fever had Rhys sinking against his bonds.  The last thing he remembered seeing was Amarantha’s sharp, red smile and the feeling of her palm pressing the last ashwood stake deeper into his shoulder.

“I’m…I’m going to take these out, Rhys.”

A fresh wave of pain surged through Rhys as Azriel gripped the stake piercing through his left wing. He suddenly wished Az had kept him in the bonds.  It was easier to brace himself while tied up instead of lying so vulnerable on the ground. But he grit his teeth and willed himself to calm. He knew it would hurt, even more than it did now.  But the pain would subside, and his powers would return.  

And he could seek revenge.  He imagined seven piercing stakes sinking into Amarantha’s creamy skin, her red lips twisting into a scream—

“No, Azriel.”

A cold, almost leisurely voice ripped through the freezing air behind them.  The shadowsinger flinched and pulled away as Rhysand’s father came into focus.  

The Night Court’s High Lord wore no battle armor or helm.  He didn’t even have a weapon from what Rhysand could see, besides the power that oozed from him.  The only bit of metal he donned was his crown, placed perfectly on his black waves, the blackened gold shining darkly against the fog.   

Rhys hadn’t seen his father in months, maybe an entire year…and yet, those indigo eyes were filled with not joy or pain, but something that resembled disappointment.  Sinan tilted his head. “Leave them in.  Let the pain be a lesson for my son, since he was foolish enough to get into this predicament in the first place.”

Azriel, with his face now carefully guarded, nodded and stepped away.  

Tears streamed down Rhys’ fevered face as he looked up at his father.  He could beg.  He could explain to his High Lord that he needed the strength to destroy the female who did this to him.  Maybe he could simply spit and scream and tear the stakes out himself and be the animal Sinan saw the Illyrians as.  

But he knew his father would only laugh and walk away.  Maybe he would punish him further.  

Let the pain be a lesson.

Instead of Amarantha’s bone white skin, he suddenly pictured the body of his father, and the seven stakes piercing him.  Blood dripped down his golden skin, staining his indigo tunic…

Rhys looked up at his father and felt a new sense of hatred before the pain overwhelmed him again.  The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him whole was those familiar violet eyes bearing down on him.

⌘

Eight years after the Human War

The Illyrians believed in many different omens when it came to birth. If the mother hemorrhaged during delivery, then the child would have a bellicose life, with blood constantly staining his fists. If the birth took place during a storm, that meant the child would be a renowned flyer who thrived in a raging tempest.

Most superstitions predicted violence and power, and future might. And most of them came true because birth was always violent, the Illyrian Steppes were a brutal, unforgiving land, and the warrior race molded their children into warriors.

But there were a few that diverged from Illyria's obsession with ferocity. Because a still, windless day before the birthing hour was an omen that the child would be a girl. Illyrian females lived a quiet, domestic life instead of living amongst the wind, and the gods offered her a quiet air to help her land into life.

Rhysand didn't know if it was storming or still when his mother went into labor. The Hewn City, with its cold, stagnant halls, hid the outer world from its people. But as he sat outside his mother's bedroom and watched the handmaidens carry out bloodstained water and rags, he recalled at least one Illyrian omen.

A bellicose life, soaked in blood and savagery and hate.

Sinan had allowed three camp mothers to come to the Hewn City and assist the head healer Madja with the birth.  Mor, Cassian, and Az had offered him a night out at Rita’s to forget his anxieties, but he wanted to stay in the Court of Nightmares to support her.  Because he knew his father would not.

His mother's room was warded, so Rhysand couldn't hear what occurred on the other side of the walls. He spent so many hours waiting and worrying, standing up at the slightest sound.

After what felt like ages, the entourage of assistants piled out. Rhys watched them go, willing his face to appear cold and careless. They all bowed to him and offered congratulations, but their politeness was stiffened by unease, and they offered him no news or descriptions of what happened. Madja was the last to leave the room, and she looked down at him with her wrinkled face bright with pride.

"It went well. Lots of bleeding, but that's sometimes expected, especially for Illyrians." Her smile was kind as she added, "They're ready to see you."

Rhys rose from his chair and nodded in a silent thank you, and Madja followed her assistants down the hall.

She did not tell him if it was a girl or a boy.  He assumed she wanted him to find out the gender for himself, as if that was something exciting to discover. Shame roiled inside when he realized he was thinking about which he preferred.  A male would have a better time surviving, but he knew Sinan might try to pit them against each other as two potential heirs to the crown.  A female, especially an Illyrian half-breed, would suffer under his father’s scrutiny and their culture’s sexism, but she would at least be protected from the majority of courtly duties and political battles.

A sudden burst of frustration cracked at Rhys' spine, and he gripped his fists at his sides. After a deep breath, he uncoiled his fist, gripped the doorknob, and prepared himself for a moment before opening the door. 

The metallic, musky scent of lochia greeted him, as well as the sound of sheets rustling in a gentle quiet. His mother lay on the grand four-poster bed with traditional Illyrian quilts draped across her.

Even on her birthing bed, Lady Haniya dressed elegantly.  She wore one of her silk evening gowns: the loose bell sleeves draped across the bed sheets, and the pearly lace of her collar could be seen from under the small, naked body of Rhys’ new sibling.  The baby was curled up against his mother’s shoulder, the tiny wings folded inward.  They were just hours old, all wrinkled and soft and small as a bird’s wings.  

Rhysand’s throat suddenly welled up, as if every word he wanted to say had gotten lodged together as one thick ball. 

He walked without his wings after the war. He had to. He couldn't bear their weight anymore. And not because it was painful but because it hurt. The shame of it hurt.

Wings had no place in court.

After Madja had finished healing the wounds from the ash spikes, she had given him a list of exercises to work on so he could regain his strength.  He didn’t follow them.  Instead, he tucked them under his vat of power and did his best to forget. 

But as he stood over his mother’s bed and examined the baby in her arms, he was reminded of their absence.

His mother’s eyes were faded from exhaustion, but she smiled when he entered.  With a free hand, she put a finger to her smiling lips.  “She just fell asleep,” she whispered.

She.  Rhysand sat on the armchair next to the bed, suddenly realizing he had his cold mask on.  It was as natural as a second skin now, same as the glamour on his wings.  He exhaled slightly, willing himself to relax.  “I am amazed you’re not sleeping,” he remarked, careful to keep his voice low.  

Haniya smiled as she stroked her baby’s soft black hair.  “I was waiting for you, of course.  I wanted to be there when you meet your new sister.” The bedsheets shifted slightly as she adjusted the baby in her grip.  “Here.” His mother held his sibling out to him.  “You'll have the honor of being one of the first to hold her besides Madja and me.”

A subtle way of saying Sinan hadn’t seen them yet.  He was probably with his cursed courtiers, discussing things that were exceedingly less important than a newborn child.  Pushing away the thought of his father, Rhys took his sister in his arms, being careful to avoid her wings.  Her brown skin was soft as satin, and she smelled of yew berries and something sweet, like saffron. She seemed to be aware of the new visitor: as Rhhys tucked her carefully in his arms, her sleepy indigo eyes blinked up at him for a moment. She yawned, tucked her little hands close to her chest, and slept on.

Rhysand stroked the soft black hair of his sister’s head as he stared at her wings. She looked so peaceful, so blissfully unaware of the sexism that would rule her future. 

Her ears were rounded like Haniya’s.  That would be just another thing Sinan and his court would chastise.  

“You’re angry with me.”

His mother’s voice was quiet.  He refused to look up at her, keeping his focus on his little sister.  “You’re mistaken, mum,” he said as mildly as he could, even with the shame and rage roiling inside.  “I’m angry with him.”

“If it's because he’s not here, then I feel obligated to tell you he wasn’t there for your birth either."

He glanced up at her, expecting to see her stern face: cocked eyebrows, her lips pulled tight, frustration in her wild hazel eyes.  But instead, he was met with a look of sorrow.  

He shifted in his seat, and his sister stretched in her sleep, her tiny fists gripping his tunic.  He waited, watching her stretch in his arms. “No," he said finally. "That’s not what angers me. I expected that of him.” 

How could you still be with him after everything?  After what he did to me?

Cauldron fucking boil him, how dare he blame his mother of all people.  His stern, kind, stubborn mother, who would lay down the world at her children’s feet if she could.  But the question still sparked in his mind and began to burn uncontrollably, conjuring an array of assumptions and fears.  His hands tensed around the baby in his arms, and he felt the urge to hand her back over to his mother, leave, and find his father to force answers out of him.  Do you even care? he would ask, Do you even love her?  Or is my mother just a thing you can rape and use to your advantage?

His thoughts seemed to be written across his face, because Hanyia pursed her lips. “Please don’t think that he forced me.”

“He didn’t?”

He sounded sharper than he meant to, but his mother only sighed. “No.  He never did.” She slid a thin brown hand on the sheets between them.  “A mating bond like your father and I's is…complicated, Rhys.  I understand your frustrations, and I’m sorry.  But mated females have suffered worse fates.  When the humans were enslaved, High fae males would imprison the women they suspected of having a bond with.  They did it out of pride and shame, and a way to control.”

“That sounds an awful lot like what he did,” he snapped despite himself. He didn’t care for his mother’s explanations and excuses. And he certainly didn’t want to talk about this with so much innocence in his arms. 

“He gives me freedoms I would never have had without him,” Haniya said sharply.  “And as much as I resent him, I am still grateful.  He gave me you. He gave me her." She nodded to the baby in his arms.  "And I already know he will protect her from mutilation, just as he did for me.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.  He begrudgingly agreed that Sinan would protect his daughter from some things.  But it would be the bare minimum, and he would still use her for political gain in the Steppes on top of the bare fucking minimum.  Maybe he would even sell her when she got her bleeding, just as Kier had sold Mor.

No.  He stared down at those little wings and suddenly felt something rise deep inside his chest.  Something growing and spinning and stretching so fast that it was already close to breaking the surface.

Her little wings…they resembled none of this so-called brutality and barbarism Sinan always explained to him so oppugnantly.  These tiny black wings were innocent, proud, and free.

“Rhys.”

He blinked, and found his mother’s eyes burning into his with grim satisfaction.  “Thank you.  For showing them.”

He shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of the weight on his shoulders. He tightened his wing joints, feeling the muscles flex and shiver from the lack of use.

They no longer hurt. They haven't hurt for a while, thanks to Madja's expert healing. But the trauma was still there, and he forgot how heavy it felt.

He looked back down at his sister. Her eyes blinked up at the curve of his wing's shoulder joint, and he knew she was fully aware of what they meant. What they truly meant. You are like me and I am like you, her indigo eyes said.

“What are you going to name her?” he suddenly asked.

A little light flickered in his mother's hazel eyes. “I was thinking Mhera.”

Knowing his sister's name evoked a newer feeling, something that was warm and soft and determined. He nodded.  “That’s perfect.”  After a small silence, he took a breath.  “I won’t hide them from her, Mum.” He nodded to his sister, who continued to sleep peacefully in his arms.  “I promise.”

⌘

Three months before the Blood Feud:

 Rhysand leaned back and watched the view beyond their spot on the top of the hill.  The sun-bleached grasslands of the Steppes rippled in the wind, and an array of fluffy white clouds rolled over the mountainous skyline.

A sky unbroken by clouds was a blessing in Night, because it meant witnessing the Court’s blessing from the Cauldron: the swirl of dark, inky colors and stars that made up the midnight heavens.

But it was different in Spring.  A blue sky draped in misty white meant rain was coming, and rain was life to the Court’s cherished gardens and fields.  While Night Court natives smelled of metallic stars, Spring natives gave off the intoxicating scent of dewy flora.

Two Courts with very different beauties, and very different ways of hoping.

Rhys began to love the sight of clouds.  He loved the smell of petrichor, and the feeling of grass between his fingers and dirt pressing into his palm.  Especially after a day of training with Tamlin.  

“My sister had her first proper flight a few weeks ago,” Rhys said, interrupting the silence.  “No more simple flapping in the house or jumping from trees.”

Tamlin sat next to him, twirling a tiny blue flower between his fingers absentmindedly as he gazed up at the clouds.  The Spring male always looked flawless after sparring: his blonde hair, despite the wind, was unruffled in its low bun, and his bronzed skin seemed to glow with healthy dew instead of unruly sweat. 

The sight still felt unreal to Rhys sometimes. This perfect, happy moment with this male lying in the grass next to them. This was how all of their sessions ended: with them lying in the grass, their bodies a few feet apart, their eyes carefully focused on anything else besides the male next to them.  In the beginning, their conversations were simple and casual.  Sometimes they didn’t talk at all, and instead stared out into the mountainous terrain around them and mourned the words that hung useless on their lips.  But over the months, the distance between them narrowed, their conversations grew more and more personal, and the feeling of longing only grew.  

With a faint smile, Tamlin replied, “I would tell you to give the little lady my congratulations, but I don’t think that might give away our little secret.”

Rhys’ mouth twitched into a smile. “I could come up with another way to tell her.  You could simply be an unnamed foreign friend. It would match up with the story I tell them, of me going to the Day Court to train.”

“There’s no need.  I’m sure she gets plenty of love already.”

Rhys leaned against his hands and gazed up at the sky.  “From my mother and me, she does.  And from our friends.  But the males of the camps are less kind, though that is to be expected.”

A small silence fell.  It was not awkward or judgmental, but careful and respectful, as Tamlin always was.  He was well aware of how the Illyrian camps treated their females; Rhys had explained it to him a handful of times.

Tamlin spoke, “Your parents have been mated for how many decades, and Sinan has done nothing to change the camps?”

“High Lords are not a fan of change, Tam,” he said carelessly.  “I think you know that very well.”

Tamlin was silent for a moment.  “What is your parents’ mating bond like?”

The sudden question would have made Rhys shrink back into his cold mask. They usually steered their conversations away from their parents and courtly matters.  But, he reminded himself, they didn’t always sit this close to each other either.  He looked back at Tamlin, who was examining his flower again. “My father killed for her," Rhysand said simply.  "But it’s obvious he doesn’t love her.  And she definitely doesn’t love him,” he added, turning away to stare at the sky.  “She makes that very clear to him and to everyone else.”

Tamlin said quietly, “I think my mother loves Euen too much.”

“The mating bond does that.  It makes us blind.  But I think the mistreatment of my mother’s people makes it more difficult for her to love him.” Rhys sighed, leaning further back with his palms pressing into the ground. A mating bond like ours is…complicated, Rhys, his mother had said.

These tiny moments of vulnerability…Rhysand always felt exposed when he explained his life to anyone.  He refused to even think of his mother or sister around anyone outside of Night. But with Tamlin, it began to feel different.  The distance between them lessened with every month, and now every inch felt like miles between each other. “I think," Rhys added, his jaw suddenly feeling tight, "they’re just two different types of females.  They’re from different Courts with different backgrounds, and different ways of viewing things.”

“We’re from different Courts.”

“And yet here we are.”

Silence fell between them again.  Tamlin continued to spin the flower between his fingers.  It was a small, delicate thing, with a thin green stem and a golden eye between its periwinkle petals.  The wind gently breathed on it, making the thin stem sway.

Rhysand watched it. But he quickly realized that Tamlin was watching him. He looked up and met Tamlin's emerald eyes, and felt a sudden shiver, like there was a breath on his ear.

The green of Tamlin's irises was startling. It was even brighter than the sun-bleached meadow around them. And the lust and ardor in his gaze made him seem brighter.

You are like me and I am like you, those eyes said. We suffer and we love, and we deserve more than what our fathers give us.

They were different in many ways. Spring and Night, rain and clear twilight. And Tamlin, as a High Fae, would never know what it would be like to come from a suppressed, complicated people like the Illyrians. He would never fear for his mother and siblings on the way Rhys did. But they both hid their powers. They hid parts of themselves from others. They were smothered and isolated by their hateful fathers. You are like me and I am like you, something in Rhysand sang, plucking at his heartstring.

The green in Tamlin's gaze shone brighter as he looked at that little blue flower. Like he could feel what Rhys felt. Then, almost hesitantly, Tamlin reached over, breaking the small distance between them. He tucked the flower behind Rhysand’s ear, the movement soft and careful.

Goosebumps climbed up Rhys’ spine. Tamlin's hand lingered against his cheek, as if he couldn't pull away. The green in his eyes flashed with a sudden spark, like bokeh shining like gold on a forest floor.

Suddenly, Tamlin gripped his shoulder, shoving Rhys onto his back. Their breathing became hot and heavy, just like it did when sparring.  His eyes burned into Rhys’, that gold-flecked emerald brimmed with so much lust Rhysand felt a surge in his chest, a sudden quickening of his pulse.  

Their lips met as a violent, crashing embrace. They roamed each other with familiarity and hunger, their teeth clashing and tongues brushing against each other. Rhysand's hand slid to grip the back of Tamlin's neck, and he moaned as the male's hand urgently went to his waistband.

Tamlin was ferocious and teasing when he fucked him, like how a wild wind ripped at your shirt.  It would slip its cool fingers down the collar and raise the hem to crease your hips, making you feel vulnerable and safe all at once.  Tamlin was that wild, impatient wind, breathing kisses on his neck and wings and stroking him into oblivion.  

Rhysand chuckled breathlessly as Tamlin gripped his cock, rubbing his thumb adoringly over the head. "How do you want it, Tam?" Rhys murmured, his voice so soft and crooning compared to the impatient hand that stroked him. "Do you want it like this?"

Tamlin hummed but didn't reply. His hand continued to work him, but his pace grew softer and more tender, almost like an answer.

Tender…that's how Tamlin liked it when Rhys fucked him. He could picture it: the Spring male lying in the grass with his tanned chest glowing in the hazy sun above them, breathless and whimpering and taking Rhysand's cock so perfectly…it was a different way of letting go compared to the almost violent fucking when Tamlin was the one who pressed into him.  It was heavy and deep and teasing, but more intimate than anything Rhys had ever experienced.  

He wanted to fuck him like that.  He wanted to shove him into the grass, to feel his cock twitching against his hip. And with Tamlin's fist already stroking him close to orgasm, he felt that lustful urge rising like a beast inside his chest.

With a sudden growl, Rhys turned and grasped the male’s wrist.  Tamlin laughed softly, and laughed harder when he grappled him and forced him to flip over.  Tamlin fell onto his back, his blonde hair tangling with the weeds.

Panting, Rhys yanked Tamlin’s pants down, freeing the cock that strained against the fabric.  Tamlin lay completely naked and vulnerable in the grass, his skin gleaming in the sun.  His eyes were dark with pleasure as he gazed up at Rhys, and his abs and pectoral muscles rippled with each of his heavy breaths.

"Please, Rhys," he whispered. That impatient lust darkened his emerald eyes, but his muscular thighs flexed as they spread apart in offering.

Rhys hooked his knee between his thighs and crawled on top of him. His cock pressed against Tamlin's, and he couldn't help but grind against him slightly as he dipped his head low and pressed a kiss on the apex of Tamlin's stomach, right between his pectoral muscles.  He placed another kiss on his rib, then his nipple.  He felt his mouth and tongue moving with growing impatience as he left a trail of kisses and marks across the male's warm body.  

 Tamlin raised his hips, his cock brushing at Rhys' hip. Rhys grit his teeth, reveling in the feeling. "So impatient," he murmured, sliding his fingers closer to Tamlin's hole. The action earned him a whimper, so he pressed in further. The male's body went taut like a wire, his eyes squeezed tight and his chin tilting up to the clouds as Rhys worked into him.

"Please, Rhys—-" Tamlin's hand clawed at his wrist, his eyebrows cinched and his swollen mouth panting.

Rhys obeyed. He pulled out his fingers, which were wet with Tamlin's arousal. After stroking himself once, twice, and then pressed into him, his cock nudging just into his entrance. Tamlin's body constricted, his muscles tightening as he cried out and squeezed his eyes shut. Rhys managed to stifle his own groan of pleasure.

He thrust into him slowly at first. They stared into each other's eyes, and Rhys swore a little star exploding in Tamlin's darkening emerald as a whimper slipped out. He met Tamlin's whimper with a kiss, shoving his tongue and exhaling his warmth. He tasted like lust and dew, and Rhysand couldn't help but moan as Tamlin's hand dug into the nape of his neck to pull him closer.

They joined together, not just bodies, with Rhysand's cock buried inside him, their mouths pressing together…but minds and souls joined and melded into one. A string wrapped around both their hearts, stitching and mending all of the broken pieces together.

The thrill of it…the feeling the wind at his wings and Tamlin's body hot against his chest…Rhysand felt his pace quicken instinctively. The sound of slapping skin was loud in the expansive meadow, even with the roaring wind above them. Tears filled Rhys' eyes as he fucked Tamlin faster and deeper, his hands gripping the male's waist. Tamlin arched against him, his fists tearing at the grass in pure desperation. They smelled of sweat and Tamlin's orgasm, and his swollen lips parted as he let out a heaving gasp. "Rhys—-"

Rhys was suddenly blinded by the climax that shot through him. He pulled out with a gasp. White liquid leaked from Tamlin's hole with every pulse of his body, soaking the grass.

Through his lingering orgasm, he managed to meet Tamlin's eyes again. A gorgeous flush brightened the Spring male's face, matching the red of his swollen lips. Sweat from his brow dripped down his face and hair.

He was beautiful. So beautiful that he felt like the only thing in the world.

A warm wing blew around them, making the grass and weeds and little blue flowers around them sway. With a ragged breath, Tamlin swallowed before uttering the words Rhysand knew would damn the both of them.

"I love you, Rhys."

⌘

Six months after the Spring / Night blood feud

The torrent of memories flooded Rhysand's mind every waking hour after he left Tamlin. Memories of his first flight. Memories of Haniya teaching him, Cassian, and Az how to sew.  Mhera holding his hand and beaming up at him.

And Tamlin…he found himself overwhelmed by the smallest memory of him: their first encounter, with dozens of Prythian lords sitting between them.  The feeling of his hands holding his own for the first time.  The first time they were vulnerable, the first time they were naked together.

And that day.  He remembered that day so well, down to the last minute detail.  The feeling of his seed dripping down his cock and sticking between their bodies, the sight of his lover's claws digging into the grass, the sound of his name on Tamlin’s lips, breathless and with so much familiarity…

I love you…I love you, Rhys.

He wanted to forget.  He wanted to forget all of it. But he was terrified that he would never be able to. So he held on to that feeling of rage and betrayal. Rage was power, hate was fuel, and this sort of betrayal was a reason to remember and to spite.

The penthouse of the Moonstone Palace was quiet: everyone, including his Inner Circle, were barred from entering. Rhysand walked down the hallway, his eyes unfocused and his footsteps as heavy as they would be in a nightmare. When he entered his office, his eyes filled with tears of frustration.

The purple hyacinths sat on his desk still, along with the two boxes.

Mor had asked him what he wanted to do with them, but he simply took them from her hands and locked himself in the penthouse. He couldn't find the courage to toss the ashes in the river, and he couldn't find the will to toss out the flowers either. The latter filled him with so much hateful pain he could barely stand it. But his horrible prurience got the best of him, so he kept them on his desk in a crystal vase.

He wanted to see them die. That was his excuse. The hyacinth's rich purple and green drying into brown would represent how little Tamlin's apology meant. Love died when flowers died, and pleading and begging did nothing for him.

But five months passed, and the bouquet remained bright and evocative in his dimness of his office.

Five months. Five months, and the flowers remained their colorful, mournful purple and green. Five months since he last saw him. He couldn't remember the last time they went so long between seeing each other: when they trained together, they had met at least once every other month—-

Lovesick fucking fool. Rhysand grit his teeth as he prowled to his desk. He felt like a caged beast, pacing back and forth in front of the bars and unable to do anything but hiss and snarl and mourn his past.

Cassian was right.  He should have killed him.  As soon as he felt his father’s powers pass to him, as soon as his father’s body collapsed to the floor—

But even the thought of the act was too painful, too impossible.  He couldn’t even touch his sword without flinching.  

It’s the fate of the Mother.  He cannot die by your hand.  That baby will kill him.  It’s a much better revenge anyway…

The sudden vision of Tamlin's swollen stomach made Rhysand squeeze his eyes shut and growl. A tear streamed down his face, and he covered his mouth to suppress a sudden sob.

He would be showing by now. What would his court think? His fellow warband members, the remains of the lords and ladies who were fine with obeying the Beast of Spring. I hope you scream and howl like the fucking beast you are, pleading for help, but find that your courtiers find you too disgusting to even look at.

They would look at the High Lord and feel disgusted. Wasn't that what he wanted? A horrible mix of shame and satisfaction filled Rhys' heart.

Blindly, he stumbled to his desk, the violet and green colors of the hyacinths blurring in his vision. He gripped the bouquet and threw it to the floor. Glass shattered at his feet, the murky water and shards sparkling.

He wanted the memories to die with him too. He knew it would destroy him, but he didn't care…he didn't care.

The purple flowers were scattered across the hardwood. Still bright and perfect, but crumpled now. Rhys felt a strange sort of satisfaction. But just as he stepped on the mess of glass and petals, a memory struck him in the heart, blinding him instantly.

A whip cracked through the air like willow branches.  A scream, piercing and stubborn.  Was it his own scream? Rhys could feel the pain in his very bones, as if that pale, bloodied back was an image in a mirror—

“I will ask one more time.” The cruel, cold voice had a hint of what sounded like patience.  It was a father’s voice, filled with disappointment.  Rhys’ father always sounded the same, so chilling and teeming with displeasure…  “Where is he located?”

He said nothing, though he couldn’t help but shiver at the feeling of blood running down his back.  At the feeling of his father’s and brother’s eyes on him.

Another violent crack of the whip, and he screamed so hard it felt as if his throat was tearing.  He slumped in his ties again, his vision close to fading. Then, a slap across the face made him gasp.

“Stay awake, boy,” an amused voice said.  “I thought I taught you how to deal with such pain.”

He had.  He was too familiar with this pain.  But he had to stick through it not because Euen told him to…but…

For him.

The scent of hyacinths stung in Rhys' nose, and he felt a low whine escape his throat.

Gods, he was so wrong. Rhys always knew it, deep inside his bones, but seeing it was so different from feeling—-

The cruel voice echoed in the silence. “I have offered you so much freedom, boy.  I let you rise up in ranking in my warband.  I even let you fuck around once in a while and enjoy your pitiful hobbies.  I accepted your patheticness and weakness because I believed you were loyal to me.” There was a heavy pause. “But then I find that you have been going off with him.”

The sound of bootsteps came closer to him.  His father laughed a cold, heartless laugh. “At first, I suspected you were training with the male because you wanted to take me down.  But you never seemed like that kind of male who secretly pines for my throne.  So why?”

“Maybe he was in love,” another voice crooned.

Silence.  Then---

“In love.”

He tensed in his bonds, expecting the whip to come down at him again.  But the sound of his father’s amusement was so much worse.

“Did he fuck you, boy?  Is that why you were so keen to go to him?”

Chains rattled above him as he shook.  But he couldn’t find the words to deny it. The tug between Rhysand’s ribs became a horrible ache, as if the Mother was gripping his heart and shaking him, screaming, You see?  Don't you see how wrong you were?

This time, the pain came as a slash of claws across his cheek.  “Answer me.”

His brothers were laughing.  Blood and tears were dripping down his face in a single stream.  But he remained silent.  

“If you say that he raped you, I might be more inclined to forgive, boy.  He is a known daemati, and you, being the weak bitch you are…It would still be shameful, but it’s better than you being in love.  Us Loyalists were very familiar with typical Illyrian brutality, after all—”

Anger roiled inside his chest despite the pain.  “He didn’t.”

He knew he should give in. His father would drag this out as long as possible, as he always did when he wanted to show his displeasure. But he couldn’t.  

His father said nothing, waiting for him to answer. His brothers were no longer laughing their cold, cruel laughs.  But still, he said nothing. He forced himself to keep his mouth closed, to think of Rhys, and what he would have done if it were Sinan who discovered their secret. Their fathers were always so alike in that regard.

“So it was love, then.”

A rough hand gripped his chin suddenly, forcing his head up. “You were a fool for trusting a bastard half-breed like him, boy.  And now…now I’m going to kill him.  And I’m going to make you watch."

The booming of Euen's voice ripped Rhysand out of the memory, like the sound of his own scream pulled him from his nightmares. When the room surged into focus, Rhys found himself kneeling in the glass shards and broken stems of Tamlin's hyacinths. His palms and forehead were pressed into the ground, and a few broken pieces of glass dug into his skin.

Tamlin hadn’t been lying.  He knew…he suspected…but he didn’t want to believe it.  He thought it would be easier to believe that it had been his fault, but this…this was worse.

Rhysand clawed at the floor, the glass cutting into his palms. No, it didn’t matter.  The truth didn’t matter.  Even if Euen did torture him, Tamlin should have died before giving them up.  It was what he would have done for him.

You are like me and I am like you.

Maybe dying would be better than this. Easier than this. 

But he saw how his father had been when his mate died, and he knew it wouldn’t be easier

Drops of blood from his hand trailed behind him as he stumbled down the hallway. It smeared on the walls as he grappled for purchase. He passed out feet away from the bedroom just as Mor opened the door.

Chapter Text

They were mates. They were fucking mates. The Mother had a wicked sense of humor after all. The bond bunched as a knot between Rhys' ribcage, vibrating and aching and screaming at him to go, go to him.

But when he woke up in his chambers, Rhys swore he would never rise from his bed again.

The room was destroyed. His rage had either exploded when he dreamed, or a fight had broken out when he was half-conscious. Everything around him was shattered: his wardrobe across the room, the collection of couches and armchairs that lay broken in front of his shattered window.

He had begged someone to get out, to leave…and they had obeyed.

Panting and crying, Rhys used the last dregs of his power to ward his room and again succumbed to the heavy warmth of his bed. He tossed and turned, messing the sheets. The cuts on his palms refused to heal, for some reason. They opened again and again with his every movement, staining the bed with scarlet.

But he refused to call Madja. He refused to allow anyone in. His friends called to him through the door, pleading with him. The distant sound of glass rustled against the wood floor, and indecipherable voices rose with a quickening urgency.

He ignored them. He refused to hear or feel anything.

But the string around his heart, refusing to loosen—

Time shifted slowly around him like a fog. In his darkened room, the days and nights were indistinguishable from each other. He felt no moonlight or wind on his skin, only cold sheets and sweat.

The bond only grew worse as the months passed. His inner voice became maddening.

Tamlin was pregnant when he was tortured. Did it hurt the baby? How much farther along was he? It had to be close to seven now, right? Seven months, eight months, nine months, the bond throbbed, and time swelled as an indomitable beast.

He ended up screaming in hopes of silencing his thoughts. He clawed at his blood-stained bed; he ripped apart the remains of his already-destroyed room. He forced himself to lie in bed, hoping the bond would settle in repose.

But when he finally managed to sleep, he dreamed. He dreamt of flying with his sister and mother; he dreamt of finding their bodies. He dreamt of Haniya placing a kiss on his brow. He dreamt of Tamlin, of their first kiss, of them sparring against Illyria's wind and rain and sleet. He dreamt of Sinan holding a bloodstained crate containing his head. Lady Fenella haunted his dreams too, even though he barely met her before that awful night…he dreamt of her tucking him into bed, of her holding his hand as they walked through the Spring manor's gardens. He dreamt that her head was found in a crate too, and he cried just how he imagined Tamlin cried when he held her body.

His memories mixed with his dreams and fears and the tugging of his bond. It blended with Tamlin's memories to the point where he couldn't tell them apart anymore. It overwhelmed him to the point of insanity.

Was this The Mother's version of a blessing? A warning? Were these "visions" truly gifts of fruiton, or were they simply conjured from his anxious mind?

He should reject the bond. He should sever this Cauldron-Damned connection between them, and maybe all of this would stop. Maybe it would be a mercy for both of them. Or would it only hurt more? Would he feel the sort of agony his father had experienced when his mother was murdered, or would the bond become more of a loose, fraying thread than a hollow pit? He could forget a feeble little thread. Time would burn it down into nothing, like how his mother always took matches to the fraying bits of her sewing. And he would eventually forget about it.

But a pit doesn't disappear. It only grows bigger, consuming everything.

Rhysand let the world melt around him, forcing himself to ignore the steady swell of the bond tugging him to Spring.

⌘

Someone was screaming. Someone far away.

Rhysand stared blankly at the ceiling. He had no idea how much time had passed. He didn't care.

Let it be over. Let it be gone.

But then, he felt a sudden pressure, and a strange popping sensation. It was like a dam burst inside him, casting a convulsion of frost throughout his insides.

Then a pain rushed through him, and Rhysand felt himself screaming. The walls swayed and shook, and the floor seemed to rise like a monster's black, wicked lungs. His wards collapsed, and he screamed louder just as he slipped off his bed and fell to the floor.

He was blind to everything but the string pulling at his heart…His body felt like it was getting cleaved in two…

“Rhys.”

Rhys felt a familiar voice pull him out of his pain. He blinked, his vision filled with red.

"Rhysand."

Was that the Mother speaking to him? She and her fated strings had been so loud and persistent these last few months…but her voice was tangible now, as if she were in the room with him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and the sudden scent of cinnamon and citrus struck him. When he managed to blink away his tears, Mor and her concerned face came into focus.

He could weep at the sight of her, but he felt the urge to push her away, to scream at her to leave. His Court was supposed to be ignorant of his tears, even his Inner Circle. So shameful. So Cauldron-damned shameful…

"You destroyed half the mountain. You wouldn't let any of us in."

"I don't care," he heard himself say through the pain. "Get out."

"Rhysand—"

"GET OUT."

The world thundered around him, and the heart of his Court howled like a beast awaking. But something fought against his powers. He felt himself stumble into the door of his chambers as copper stars flashed in his vision. Something ran its hands down his wounds and mind. It was comforting, it was searching—

He reached out and grasped Mor's neck just as her powers nudged into his heart. "I'll kill you like how I'll kill him," he whispered.

Mor's through vibrated in his hand. "You…you don't want him dead, Rhys."

The truth of her words made him flinch, but he managed a snarl. “You don't know what I want. I…I…” 

But his voice trembled too hard for him to finish.

Mor shook her head and gripped his wrist.  “No, you don’t.” Her voice shook, but her words were heavy with truth.

He felt his body shrink into himself. He let go of her, and the blood from his unhealed palm dripped down her neck and fell past her collar.

She looked at him with so much understanding that he felt his heart break. He clutched his palms to his chest and pressed hard. He wish he could rip the fucking bond away from his heart to ease the strain. Go to him. Go, go, a voice whispered.

Why was it so hard for him to heal? Why was it so hard for him to forget?

"It's been ten months, Rhys. I think he's close to it." Mor sounded urgent now.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

But it hit him then.

Oh, Cauldron…his death.  The baby— That’s what this was.

He didn't want to ask how she knew. Her brown eyes gazed at him, and he recognized the power of truth that shone bright as a copper star.

⌘

He had no idea how he managed to winnow, but when he blinked, the Spring manor and its gardens came into focus.

It had rained in the night: the vast fields in front of the manor were speckled with dew. Rhysand's bare feet brushed through the soaked grass. In the hazy morning light, the dew looked like stars of blue and white shining against the vast green. 

Spring's own galaxy: a flower field dotted with shimmering dew.

Pain ripped through Rhys so much that he was nearly blinded, But he managed to cross the front garden and reach the manor front door. The enchantments were completely gone, which should have been the first sign that something was wrong. 

Dead. He was dead already. Or close to it. 

The manor was in a panic without Tamlin's wards: sentries were stationed in every corner. They leaned against their spears as if their grief already weighed heavily on their shoulders. Commanders barked orders that would do nothing, and a wind of whispers blew through the air.

With the ward's absence, Rhysand was able to winnow. He decided to fly instead. Ignoring the guards' shouts, he flew up the grand staircase like a shadow of death—down the wide hallway, with his wings brushing both walls. He curled them inward and landed, breathless and crying, in front of the High Lord's chamber.

He paused at the door, bracing himself. He expected to hear howls of pain, the susurrus of panic…but there was only a slight whimpering, the rustle of skirts and bedsheets, and the sound of female voices instructing.

The string that stretched between them tugged heavily at his heart, leading him into that room…and Rhys pulled at it.

Then, a cold blade suddenly touched his throat.

“I don’t care if you’re a High Lord,” a male snarled softly, digging the blade against his skin.  “And I don’t care what you were to him.  I will kill you if you step into that room.”

“I’m his mate.” His voice sounded foreign, but the words screamed with so much veracity that he swore a bit of his pain subsided. Mate, mate, mate, their bond screamed—

The male still had the knife pressed to his throat. “And yet you promised his death.”

“Yes.  I did.  And that is why I’m here, my dear warrior.  Because I realized that it will destroy me."

A moment passed. The urge to use his powers and force the male away from him was strong, but Rhys simply waited, hoping his confession was enough.

The sentry removed the knife from his neck. Rhys turned slowly, his eyes fixed on the blade that was now between their chests.

Lupine eyes as dark as a cypress tree stared back at him.  The male had blonde hair like the typical Spring male, but his skin was tanner and covered in sweat. His hunter green eyes burned into his, and if the male had been a daemati, Rhysand could imagine him digging into his mind, searching for the truth.

Almost hesitantly, the sentry lowered the blade. The sharp anger emmitting from him faded into a horrible sadness, as strong as a storm. "Go, then," he finally whispered. "Go to him."

Rhysand's feet moved on their own. He threw the door open and tucked his wings in tight as he stepped into the High Lord's chamber.

Handmaidens and healers surrounded the bed. Some held trays of clean water and cloth, while others.

Rhysand felt new tears fall down his face. The insult he threw at Tamlin, the threat of his court finding him disgusting—it was not true. They were helping him. The sentry in the hallway would have killed for him, and the handmaidens held his life in their bloodstained hands. One lesser fae with skin identical to oak bark sat on the chair next to the bed, holding Tamlin’s whitened hand in her own gnarled one.

A lesser fae holding the hand of her High Fae Lord…

The females looked up at him in alarm as he rushed to the bed. But the head maiden continued her work, barely glancing at him as he crouched next to her, staring at the horrible sight that lay before him.

Tamlin’s bronze skin was reduced to a cold, almost greyish pallor.  His legs were spread out in odd angles, and the muscles of his calves and thighs had atrophied.  Muscle loss that took months, not the few hours he had been in birth…

A horrible sense of fate swept over Rhys. Fate…how could this be their fate? He refused to accept it. But a small voice murmured in his head, filling him with shame. This is what you wanted, didn't you? The Beast of Spring, bleeding out from the baby's cursed wings…You promised that he would die like this, and you were right. Let the pain be a lesson.

The sage green sheets were gathered in Tamlin’s fist.  Rhys placed a hand on him hesitantly, tears filling his eyes.  “Tamlin,” he whispered.

Tamlin's eyes flickered, and a drop of sweat fell down his brow. The world collapsed under Rhysand's feet as the murky green of his mate's eyes met his.

His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, Rhys.  I’m…I’m sorry.”

Rhys squeezed Tamlin's hand tighter. “I don’t want to hear your apologies.  Not now.”

Another contraction ripped through Tamlin's body, and tears spilled down his ashen face. His pain vibrated through their bond so violently that Rhysand felt like he couldn't breathe.

But Tamlin didn't scream. Maybe it was because he didn't have the strength to, but…it seemed like he wanted to succumb to his pain.

Maybe dying would be better than this. Easier than this… 

"Tam," he repeated, willing his voice to remain calm and steady. "You have to shift."

"It might hurt the baby, High Lord—-" the midwife began, lifting her head brom between Tamlin's knees.

"And the baby will die if it doesn't leave him."

Their feeble bond flickered as Tamlin's tear-stained eyes fixed on him. At first, Rhysand thought he would refuse.

Rhys swallowed. "I'm sorry that I didn't believe you," he whispered. "I'm sorry I…I left. But please, Tam…please…"

He didn't know what he was asking for. He didn't even know how he wanted this to end. Fate was always a cruel mistress to them. She contradicted the world and all its sanguinary rules. She teased and hacked at their hearts and challenged them to be something more…what would they even be if they managed to get through this? A broken thread was better than a hollow pit. Revenge and hate were easier to succumb to than reprieve. Death was better than this…

Tamlin squeezed his hand as Rhysand wept. There was a rustling of wings spreading, the sound of bones popping and stretching. Tamlin let out a growl as Illyrian wings spread out from under him.

They held onto the bond blindly. It was the only thing that pulled them through this, even though Rhys could feel it fraying with every push. Rhysand wasn't sure how much time had passed, but then he heard it.

He heard the sound of a baby crying.

“High Lord.”

One of the midwives handed the baby to him.  Its blood-stained skin was the color of cream, like one of the many roses that filled the manor gardens.  But its hair was onyx as midnight, and wings as soft as velvet bloomed from its tiny back.

It was a girl.  She looked like Mhera when she was born, she even sounded like her…but as the baby let out another sharp bleat, her eyes opened, and emerald green eyes flecked with gold met his and locked.

It was over. She was alive and healthy…

But the midwives didn't stop their work. They rushed around him, pulling him away. The smell of blood overpowered the air. Through the bodies of the midwives, Rhysand saw flashes of Tamlin’s legs and scarlet-stained sheets.

He felt the urge to scream at them, to beg them to save his mate. But he suddenly felt so weak…so so weak…

With their daughter in his arms, Rhysand slid to the floor next to the bed, his head leaning against the side of the mattress. Tamlin's forearm was inches from him, but he didn't dare look. He felt his heart collapsing in his chest, like a burning, dying star finally giving in to fate.  That tug at his ribs….it was there still, but it was fading ever so slowly…

Tears fell down his cheeks as Rhysand pressed the baby close against his chest. Her wailing began to settle, as if his rushing heart, despite its speed, was soothing and familiar.  

Time passed by slowly. It was over. It was over. His daughter's strong wails were the only thing he could hear besides a faint whirring in his ears.

"High Lord."

The lesser fae that had held Tamlin's hand crouched down next to him. She looked unhurried but woeful, as if she knew what was going to happen.

The olive-colored fabric of her skirt was soaked in blood. Rhys found himself staring at the blood, at her calm, wooden hands folded carefully in her lap.

"May I show you something?" the female whispered.

"I won't leave him."

"No, you don't have to leave him." She held out her hand. An offer to show him a memory.

He was sick of memories. They blackened his tongue with too much mourning. They turned his stomach to rot. But, after a moment of hesitation, he reached out and took her hand.

Sunshine speared through the emerald canopy, dotting the ground with dancing lights.  The pool rippled in the wind, causing stars to drift across the inky blue surface. The whorls of color, the strange, mesmerizing silver that rippled like molten metal…Rhys had only seen this sort of beauty in a night like Starfall, where stars flew across the sky…

Tamlin knelt next to the starlight pond, clutching the box in his shaking hands. Slowly, he spread a handful of their ashes across the surface, the white swirling s and blending with the galaxy of color.

It was his way of remembering, his way of holding on, his way of punishing himself. And maybe he knew that in the future, Rhys would see it. Their baby would see it and have something to remember him.

The female's voice pulled him out of the memory. "I don't know what you wish to happen after this. Especially after…everything that happened." She paused. Rhysand knew the female didn't even know the beginning of their relationship. Their love, their hate, their struggle and mourning…

"But she'll be safe here," she whispered. "I promise."

Rhysand stared at the baby in his arms. Safety was not enough. Even peace was not enough. He wanted the world to burn and explode.

But he remembered how that sort of revenge destroyed.

The female stood and left. A few handmaidens still remained, but the smell of blood was now stale in the air. The heady and powdery smell of lilies filled the air now: a handmaiden had opened the window shakily, allowing a breeze to drift through the air. Shafts of light peeked through clouds beyond the manor, accompanied by the smell of the storm long gone.

And as Rhys looked across the land outside the Spring manor, with its green galaxy of flowers and rain and petrichor filling his lungs…and he felt the sort of peace and safety he only knew when he was in Tamlin's arms.