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rosanna-writer · 1 month

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a simple name and everything has changed (3/?)

Summary: we said hello and your eyes look like coming home, Rhys POV chapters Or: Rhys's slow realization that he's mated to Prythian's most chaotic human (and how much he loves her for it) Warnings: implied/referenced sexual assault, discussion of food insecurity and disordered eating Word Count: ~3.5k

This is Rhys's POV of ch. 19 - your mom's ring in your pocket, which is the initial discussion of the ring and the Weaver's cottage.

You can find it Here on AO3 or below the readmore.

It was a small miracle that I managed to read Azriel's entire report with Feyre standing so close to my wings. More than anything, I wanted her hands on them again. But for now, I was content with just the easy, comfortable way she rested her free hand on my shoulder. A small thing, perhaps, but Under the Mountain, it had been beyond my wildest dreams.

She was also peppering me with questions, and after she'd been deceived by Tamlin, it was clearly important to her that I answered all of them completely. So I did. The lack of information Azriel had been able to dig up worried me, and I didn't hide that from her, either.

Amren arrived shortly after that, and the size of her stack of books seemed…promising. Azriel might have run into dead ends, but I hoped he was only one at least.

"Research. As requested before you leave for Illyria, Rhysand," she said, dropping everything on the table.

Unsurprisingly, Feyre responded quicker than I did. "Research on what?"

"On you, girl. And whatever power has been thrumming in your veins since you were Made."

Feyre knocked back the last of her tea as if it were a shot of alcohol. If she were wishing she'd had something stronger before dealing with Amren first thing in the morning, I didn't blame her in the slightest.

"And I assume you found something, or we wouldn't be having this conversation," I said.

"I have theories, but books aren't enough to prove anything—we'll have to run tests."

I let my hand drift to Feyre's lower back. The thought of running tests on my mate rankled me, and I forced myself not to snarl, lest my Second bit my head off in retaliation.

"We don't have time for dramatics today. Please explain."

"Feyre has been claimed by the Night Court, and she's mated to its High Lord. It stands to reason that she's a creature of Night. But at the same time, her Making was a boon from Spring Court magic after taking Tamlin's place in the Great Rite. She may be…something else entirely."

The same thing had crossed my mind before, on nights I tried to focus on the sound of Feyre's slow, steady breathing across the hall instead of my own spiraling thoughts. I'd found my mate in the very court that had taken my family from me, and that didn't feel like a coincidence.

The violence should have ended the moment Tamlin and I became High Lords. But now, my newest recurring nightmare was of a third head in a box, sent down river by the Spring Court just like my mother's and sister's.

"If Tamlin thinks I stole power from him and swore fealty to Rhys on Calanmai…" Feyre said, and at the sound of her voicing my fears aloud, I couldn't hold back a growl.

Amren nodded, a quiet signal that she understood that the growl wasn't aimed at her. "Agreed, and because treasure troves with objects from both Spring and Night are few and far between, it's time to stop stalling. You have a promise to keep."

Perhaps I should have growled at her anyway—I needed at least another century before I could look Feyre in the eye and tell her about the ring waiting for her in the Weaver's cottage. She'd risked her life to free me, and I was certain that if I came anywhere close to insinuating she still had something to prove, she'd have my balls. And rightfully so.

Just the thought of telling her was enough to loosen my grip on my power, and pathetically, the darkness drifted towards Feyre, clinging to her arm as if it were afraid she'd leave.

"Find another method," I ground out from between clenched teeth.

"Feyre has to go claim it anyway."

"She's already proven more than enough."

"Spare me, Rhysand. We all know what you were thinking when you put that bargain tattoo on her finger."

Amren was right, though. The look she was giving me was familiar—I'd gotten used to it when I was a boy still mastering my powers and she was tired of me giving anything less than my best during a lesson.

"Tell me what you're talking about this before this comes to blows." Feyre shrugged my hand off her back, and I slid it into my pocket before I made a bigger fool of myself and reached for her again.

It truly wasn't fair that Feyre looked that beautiful when she was angry.

Amren, of course, wasn't going to deign to provide an explanation. It wasn't her business anyway. I took a breath and steeled myself, fully expecting the full truth would fan the flames of Feyre's temper.

"There's a ring," I said. "An heirloom of my family, passed down from female to female. My sister wasn't born yet, so my mother gave it to me when I was a boy. A reminder that she was always with me, even during the worst of my training, and I safeguarded it with preserving spells, the way our kind do for anything valuable. When I reached my majority, she took the ring away and gave it to an ancient, wicked creature called the Weaver, who added it to the collection of treasures she amassed over millennia."

It wasn't everything, and Feyre was smart enough to figure that out on her own. "Why would your mother give it away?"

Gods, I could kill Amren for this. She pretended to be above it all, but I knew during her next meeting with Mor, she'd be sharing every last detail of me squirming.

"Another test. If I were to marry or mate, then the female would either have to be smart or strong enough to get the ring back. And if she wasn’t either of those things, then she wouldn’t survive the marriage. I promised my mother that any potential bride or mate would have to pass, but I think if she were still here…she'd agree that you've already done more than enough."

I waited for more of Feyre's anger, but she just blinked, clearly bewildered. "A wedding ring?" she said, as if it weren't patently obvious.

"Yes, but you're under no obligation to—"

When she spoke again, the uncertainty making her voice waver damn near broke my heart. "You— You haven't…sent someone after it before me, have you?"

As if anyone would have been stupid enough to want to marry me. I couldn't imagine what could have put the idea in her head.

But then again, I'd been the one who'd made her feel unwanted enough to run off to the House of Wind as soon as we'd returned to the Night Court.

"Cauldron, no," I said, scrambling for a way to remind her—in front of Amren, of all people—that there had never been anyone else for me and never would be.

"And this isn't— You're not…proposing?"

Cauldron boil and fucking fry me. Now was hardly the time to be having this discussion—I had no idea what Feyre's views on marriage were or if the mating bond changed them. She'd always be my mate first and foremost, but…I couldn't deny the appeal of calling her my wife too, and she might be more comfortable with a more human way to refer to me.

But it was just as likely she was feeling rushed and didn't want any of that at all.

A pounding at the door heralded the arrival of the rest of my Inner Circle, and I made a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother as we filed into the sitting room. I hadn't been able to think of anything to say, and they'd saved me from continuing to gape at Feyre like a fish.

Feyre went quiet as the conversation turned to dealing with the Illyrians who'd supported Amarantha. From Cassian's report, it seemed that there were more than I'd expected, but news of my return had sent them scurrying into the forest to hide. We'd have to flush them out.

I didn't relish the thought of several days in the Steppes, away from Feyre. But I knew the Illyrians, and I'd lose more respect by staying in Velaris and sending someone else to do my dirty work. Then again, it might be for the best—I wasn't sure I wanted Feyre to witness me kill again, no matter how much they deserved it.

Eventually, there was a lull in the conversation, and Feyre filled it. "If we need to make a statement to keep control of Illyria, then we could give them to the Weaver and kill two birds with stone."

If Feyre wasn't exactly the sort of person who might have once felled two birds with a single stone, I would have thought she was joking. But I knew better. Feyre didn't like waste, whether that was food scraps or ammunition or a taking a life; she was merely efficient and the farthest thing from squeamish.

Strong enough to survive the marriage indeed.

"Are you suggesting that we allow a death-god to eat a few rogue Illyrians in exchange for the return of your wedding ring?" I said, smiling.

Feyre didn't smile back—her face was set in that characteristic determined grimace of hers. "Amarantha refused to free her human slaves. I'm the Night Court's resident human. What better way to punish them for supporting her than turning them over to me?"

She had a point, and the rest of the Inner Circle seemed to think so, which was a relief. If Feyre were to accompany us to Illyria, I wanted to avoid objections from Cassian and Azriel.

"If we're cracking a few wing bones, Feyre might as well get a turn," Cassian said.

"It's Illyria, not Velaris, so word will get out, which we can spin in our favor. Distaste for slavery instead of petty revenge against those who supported the bitch who made Rhys her—" Mor said, then stopped.

Whore. That had been what she'd about to say. I should have been used to it after fifty years, and it wasn't as if Mor was flinging it at me as an insult. My cheeks burned with shame anyway.

"The bitch who hurt him," Mor amended, and somehow, it made me feel worse. I hated the thought of any member of my family feeling the need to tiptoe around me.

"I'll never be offended by you telling the truth. Even about that," I said. Mor took my hand and squeezed it.

"No one reasonable would fault you for slaughtering your rapist's supporters. But for the unreasonable ones…it's also true that involving Feyre could help dispel the rumors that Prythian's savior is a pawn you intend to discard."

I understood—for the most part, the other courts were more concerned with rebuilding the damage that Amarantha had caused, and they likely would be for decades. But as Mor had worked to put treaties and agreements back in place, there had been more than a few polite—if very pointed—inquiries regarding the wellbeing of Feyre Cursebreaker. For now, Mor's letters back had contained equally pointed reminders that the Cursebreaker had been through an ordeal and didn't deserve to be bothered. We couldn't keep that up forever, though.

"Assuming the Weaver is willing to bargain, it's not a bad plan," Azriel said. From him, that was a ringing endorsement.

"Hell of an assumption, though," Cassian added.

Feyre was looking at me expectantly, clearly waiting for me to weigh in. I was suddenly uncomfortably aware that I had the authority to order her to either come to Illyria or stay back in Velaris, regardless of what her wishes were. I considered Feyre my equal in everything, but there were ancient laws and magic at play. Emissary or Lady of the Night Court…either way, her power was limited.

If nothing else, I wanted her to know that I wouldn't command her to face any danger. I had the bravest mate in Prythian, but Feyre deserved a chance to rest instead of shouldering the weight of the world. "All of it is your choice, Feyre. If you don't want to risk leaving Velaris, no one will force you," I said.

"I'm not shying away from any of it. I'll go," she said without hesitation.

Nothing stopped Feyre. I dropped my shields just enough to let her feel my swell of pride at her willingness to face this head on, even after everything she'd been through.

Cassian mussed her hair, and a memory came to me, unbidden—he used to do the same thing to Azriel, back before the War, when Az was still sporting those hideous bangs that swooped low across his forehead. And they way Feyre was trying and failing to scowl at Cassian…my heart squeezed. My own sister had always given me that look when I'd gotten on her nerves to break up the monotony of formal court events.

"Send your mate and your dogs out to the yard if they insist on playing, Rhysand. The adults still have matters to discuss," Amren said.

"Amren, if you wanted to play—" Cassian said, taunting her the way he always did when she called him my dog.

And as if on cue, Mor groaned. "Can we not? We're supposed to be working."

Under the Mountain, I'd resigned myself to never hearing them bicker like this again. After a decade, I'd forgotten their voices, their faces. That's when I'd stopped hoping.

Hearing it again while I shared the sofa with Feyre…it felt like a gift. She caught my eye as Cassian smoothed her hair back into place, and I smiled, just grateful for all of them.

But I could hardly afford to get maudlin with a court to run and Prythian in disarray, so I forced myself to focus on the task at hand.

The meeting was a long one; I trusted Mor and Amren to keep everything running smoothly in my absence, but there was so much more up in the air than usual. Unfortunately, they'd likely be at it for a while—according to Cassian's reporting, the rogue war-bands had scattered, and it would take time to track down each group that had splintered.

There was work to be done, so none of us lingered longer than necessary. We were up before the sun the next morning.

As I was washing my face, I felt a pang of anxiety from Feyre's side of the bond. A few disjointed images and feelings crossed the bond—a tree covered in snow, the twang of a bowstring, hunger pangs. It vanished as quickly as it came.

Something had stirred an old memory for her, I supposed. But it seemed she'd mastered it, so I refrained from giving her a fright by winnowing into her room while she was still dressing.

Instead, I met her downstairs and immediately lifted her into my arms to fly. Feyre felt like she'd gained a bit of weight, which was good. The tangible evidence she'd been eating right and gaining muscle from training soothed some of my worries.

I started to ask if she was alright, but the second her feet were off the floor, she relaxed and buried her face in my shoulder. I couldn't help but smile. Since returning home, I'd quickly learned that she wasn't a morning person, and there was something adorably Feyre about the way she'd clearly decided it was too early to talk—but not too early to cling to me.

"Good morning to you, too," I said.

"We have somewhere to be," she said, somehow managing to sound both half-asleep and accusatory.

I kissed her temple, then winnowed us into the sky above Windhaven. The immediate cold rush of air against my face felt like freedom. Feyre—now fully awake—cried out and held on tight as I spread my wings.

My shoulders immediately barked in protest, even though all I'd done was slow the descent. Feyre wasn't particularly heavy, but I still wasn't strong enough to fly upward while carrying her—the latest goal the healer had set for me was getting above the wards around the House of Wind to winnow down to the street with Feyre in my arms.

But now we were gliding to the ground smoothly, and that was progress. Incremental, but still progress, even if my back strained with each occasional flap of my wings.

Fearless as ever, Feyre lifted her head from my shoulder to look straight down at the camp below us, despite the altitude still being enough to turn the stomach of anyone wingless. I expected more questions, but she was silent as she took in the view.

From the air at least, it didn't appear that Windhaven had changed much. Amarantha had mostly considered Illyria beneath her notice, and while her beasts had been free to roam into Steppes, they'd avoided it. Too few resources, too many warriors with killing magic.

Thanks to Cassian's reports, I knew Illyria was more or less intact, but it was still a relief to see it for myself. In those last seconds before Amarantha had taken my power, I'd chosen to protect Velaris, throwing the rest of my court to the wolves in the process. It was sound strategy—if anyone could defend themselves, it was the Illyrians, and there wasn't much worth saving in the Hewn City—but not being able to protect everything had left me with a heavy sense of guilt that had weighed on me for fifty years.

During the war, my father had treated my mother's people as cannon fodder. Perhaps I wasn't any better, despite striving to be.

It took all of my concentration to keep from stumbling as we landed. Centuries of muscle memory were the only reason I didn't break an ankle and drop Feyre in the process. But it looked effortless, and that was most important.

I set Feyre down, and—as usual—she slipped into a role naturally, standing up straight and maintaining eye contact, a clear signal she wasn't afraid. That she wasn't lesser.

Devlon approached, flanked by the same warriors as always, and for a moment, I could almost believe no time had passed since I'd last been here. "Your dog," he barked with a nod at Cassian, "already completed camp inspections yesterday. Don't tell me you've brought a human to check for dust in the barracks, too."

I bit back a growl at the way he'd spoken about Feyre. Starting a fight within seconds of my return hardly sent a message that everything was under control. If it weren't for centuries of practice holding my temper back around Devlon, his brain would have been leaking out of his nose.

"After fifty years away, it's good to see your sparkle hasn't dimmed, Devlon. Feyre Cursebreaker is a member of my Inner Circle, and she wouldn't be here to clean up a mess if you'd kept a tighter leash on your men," I said.

And perhaps crushing minds would be unnecessary—Feyre was already reaching for an ash arrow. I'd never seen her shoot, but it didn't surprise me that she pulled it out of the quiver with expert, lethal grace. She knew exactly what she was doing as she smiled and tapped it against her thigh.

Devlon scowled. "These last fifty years have been difficult for us all."

It was all I needed to hear to be sure that he'd keep Windhaven in check while we were in the forest. Devlon might have hated me, but he was reliable and followed orders despite looking for loopholes and grumbling about it. If he wasn't insulting me to my face, the situation was still salvagable.

"I'm not interested in hearing your excuses. The current state of your camp is pathetic, and if I see one more misstep, you can consider yourself court-martialed," I said, then started off for the trees.

I was desperately curious to know what Feyre thought of Illyria. Growing up in this place had shaped me—in many ways, even more than Velaris had—and the part of me that craved my mate's approval needed to hear that she didn't hate it here.

I reached down the bond, intending to ask her, but as I opened my shields slightly, a silver of a thought slipped through from her end. …Rhys's stupidly long legs…

It was a miracle I didn't laugh aloud, just kept my face blank as I reached through the opening she'd left for me. Stupidly long legs? But you look so delicious framed between them.

"Save it for when we're back home, Rhys," Feyre muttered.

Behind me, Azriel snickered, but I didn't have it in me to care, not when Feyre had just called Velaris home.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her nock the arrow in her hand. Even to acute faerie hearing, her footsteps were silent. Her eyes were wary as she scanned the trees ahead of us, and her nostrils flared as she took in the pine-scented air.

A couple weeks of comfortable domesticity with her in the townhouse had nearly made me forget that Feyre was, at her core, a predator. Not quite a warrior, but someone shaped by years of stalking, trapping, skinning, and gutting, all to keep her family fed. Someone who slipped through the forest with all the lethality befitting the Queen of Nightmares.

I'd watched Feyre trap the Middengard Wyrm like a rabbit, but perhaps that had barely scratched the surface.

#feysand #we said hello and your eyes look like coming home #a simple name and everything has changed #he really went through the FULL SPECTRUM OF EMOTIONS here

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