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Nesta didn’t see the moment Rhys exhaled for the final time, but she certainly heard the moment her sister realized it, a howl ripping through her, so wrought with agony that Nesta double checked to be sure Feyre hadn’t suffered an injury herself.
Nesta looked from her sister, hunched over her mate’s corpse, to Mor, white as a sheet, to Cassian, trembling as Azriel bore most of his weight. Elain hung back, too shaken up after the events that had just happened - the death of their father, the moment the two of them had killed the King of Hybern, had watched his head roll across the field like a child’s ball.
Feyre shrieked and sobbed over Rhys’ body, pausing only to retch as the waves of grief crashed into her. Nesta waited for someone else - for anyone else - to step forward, to pry Feyre away. Each second felt like an eternity, though she knew they were mere drops into an ocean of their immortality. She gritted her teeth, willing the crack that echoed through her mind to stop, did her best to block out the image of her father dropping to the ground like one of the dolls she’d had as a child.
Another crack echoed through her head as she stepped forward, wrapped her arms around Feyre’s middle.
“Feyre, we have to move,” she said gently, trying to pull her away, “Let one of the healers take a look at him,” she didn’t add that she knew there was nothing a healer could do.
Feyre resisted, so Nesta pulled harder, gripped her tighter. She gritted her teeth, furious that nobody stepped forward to help her, she knew that everyone there was aware of the fact that she needed to step away. The flash of anger gave her the advantage she needed, allowed her to haul Feyre up on shaky legs, a few steps from where Rhys lay.
Feyre kicked and screamed, fighting against Nesta’s grip, “I hate you,” she shrieked, “I need to save him.”
At that, both Mor and Elain stepped forward, moving to help. An unfamiliar spark of rage spread through Nesta, burned in the pit of her stomach, “Get back,” she snapped, “Fix him.”
Mor swallowed heavily, but retreated with a curt nod. The High Lords were gathering now - save for Tamlin - around Rhys’ body. Each of them tried what they could. Thesan, High Lord of the Dawn Court exerted as much power as he could, trying to find any flicker of life to latch onto - to heal. He pressed his lips together in a thin line, shaking his head at the other High Lords and onlookers.
Feyre sagged against Nesta, sobs overtaking her. Nesta took to the ground with her, holding on just as tightly as she had been while they stood.
“He knew,” Feyre choked out between sobs, “He knew it would kill him.”
Nesta murmured soothing words, reaching up to pet Feyre’s hair, ignoring that her hands were crusted with dried blood, a mixture of Cassian’s, her own, the King of Hybern’s. Slowly, Feyre’s breathing evened out, though tears still streamed down her face.
“You Made me,” Feyre called out to the High Lords, “You can do it again. As the High Lady of the Night Court—“
“Without Tamlin,” Tarquin said, stepping forward tentatively, “It won’t work, even with your power.”
Before Feyre could reply, Nesta snarled, “Then I suggest someone go find him. Drag him back by his fucking ears, I don’t care.”
Tarquin raised his eyebrows, but nodded. After a brief conversation between just the High Lords, Thesan went first, just a drip of his power escaping, trickling onto Rhys’ face.
Helion went next, a grim look on his face as he approached Rhysand’s body. After the kernel of power escaped him, both he and Thesan winnowed away. The other High Lords approached and did the same until only the courts of Winter, Spring, and Night remained.
Mor drew her sword, pointing it at Beron’s throat, “I do not mind making one more kill today.”
He scoffed, shoving the sword out of the way as he approached the body. He might as well have spat on Rhysand’s corpse, with the irreverent way he flung his drop of power.
Feyre stood up, trembling on unstable legs like a newborn fawn, “How do I do it?”
At that moment, Thesan and Helion returned, a restrained Tamlin scowling between them.
“Please,” Feyre begged, watery eyes threatening to spill over, “I will give you anything.”
Tamlin looked away and squared his jaw.
“I’ll move back to Spring Court with you, I will return to you, I will do anything, Tamlin, please just bring him back.”
If Beron spat his power, Tamlin weaponized his. He threw his drop toward Rhysand’s throat like one of his daggers, spite clear in his eyes.
Once only Night remained, Thesan stepped forward to coach Feyre through the steps. After a few tense moments, a drip of her power leaked downward, caressing Rhysand’s face like a tear.
Feyre fell to her knees, clutching at Rhysand’s chest as she waited for him to take a breath, blink, give any indication of life. Nesta waited behind her carefully, shooting glares at anyone who would dare step closer.
He took a deep breath, coughing a bit on the exhale.
“If we’re all here, either things went very, very wrong or very right.”
With that, the tension was broken. Cassian let out a laugh, and the gathered crowd began to speak once more. Nesta took a step back, suddenly becoming very interested in the dirt and blood plastered beneath her fingernails.
—
Once Feyre could bear to part with Rhys for a few moments, she and her sisters found their way to the clearing where their father had died.
Nesta took a moment to walk up to the King’s body, taking care to spit on it, only just refraining from kicking his head further from his body.
Feyre tugged on her arm, pulling her to the spot they’d intended to go.
Nesta stiffened at the sight of his corpse, as limp and pale as it had been when she left it in those horrible moments after the King had died. She gritted her teeth, the crack of his neck playing on loop in her head.
Elain let out a wail, falling to her knees next to his body. She grabbed one of his hands, murmuring her love and apologies to him. After a moment, Feyre dropped to her knees too, quietly speaking a Faerie prayer to him, words of hope for his afterlife.
Nesta couldn’t bring herself to. Couldn’t bring herself to kneel, couldn’t bring herself to cry, couldn’t bring herself to look at her father. Feyre stood up as Elain wept, and made her way over to where Nesta stood, averting her eyes.
Feyre cleared her throat gently, “Thank you.”
Nesta looked over at her, trying to hide her surprise, “What are you talking about?”
“For helping me out when,” her voice caught, unable to say it, “Earlier today. I’m sorry that I said I hated you. I didn’t mean that. I just…” Feyre trailed off.
“I know,” Nesta replied, willing her face into a smile, “It’s okay.”
Words unsaid hung thick in the air between them, but Feyre couldn’t bring herself to say them, responding instead with a smile of her own. Though neither sister knew quite how to communicate with the other, they maintained silent understanding - that they would face coming threats as one, a united front of sisters against any adversary that dared show them down.
Once Elain had said her goodbyes to their father, the three of them made their way back to the Illyrian encampment, where a warm meal and the comfort of their friends - their remaining family - awaited them eagerly.