Work Text:
Mate. The word rang through his bones, echoing even as he stepped into the nothingness to winnow. He had entertained the thought — it might explain those dreams, and Calanmai — but now it was as unmistakable as it was impossible. His mate.
The expression on Rhys’ face must have spelled out his shock, because Feyre’s eyes widened in alarm. The crease between her brows and that little twist of a scowl had grown so familiar during these tortured months. She was still Feyre, human-hearted Feyre, although sharpened by her High Fae form and the fresh existential crisis that came along with that.
He had to go before he did something irrevocably stupid, like grab her hand and pull her to his chest, right into that spot that seemed to warm whenever he thought of her. She barely tolerated him. He had to go now, before his mind could fully register whose bed she’d be wandering back to.
He slipped away between spaces. During that heartbeat while he was nowhere and nothing, he let himself feel the bond, then just as quickly shoved the feeling away. Beautiful; impossible.
The palace’s moonstone pillars solidified around him. He was standing in his Court once again. And there, just a few steps away — Mor. Lovely Mor. Impossible. He had known he’d never see her again, yet there she stood.
The careful rules that he had made for himself against hope, against feeling, against thinking about the future or remembering the past, started to crumble.
“Rhys?” Mor breathed.
Standing here was absurd. Luckily, his knees had forgotten how to hold him upright, and he sank to the ground in a graceful huff of air. The floor was cool under his hands, which was reassuring since his vision had started to blur.
“She’s my mate,” His voice sounded calm, but distant. His heart was pounding, and suddenly he was panting as though he had just run all the way from the Middle. Mor scrambled to him so they were knee-to-knee on the floor, and he tried to speak again. He was so glad to she was here, he had so much to tell her, but words wouldn’t come. He coughed.
“She’s my mate,” he said, breathless and trembling with panic now. Was this real? It had to be real. He had never dared to imagine what it would be like to come back.
He focused on a dark vein running through the marble floor, then a mountain peak through the window. The curtains were the same as ever, but those sofas looked new. Or maybe he just didn’t remember. He could see himself reflected in Mor’s worried eyes, slowing shaking his head back and forth, murmuring. He laughed. After holding it together through everything, he was finally losing his mind. He had never felt better, and worse.
“Mor,” he croaked, smearing the tears out of his eyes with the back of his hand, “I missed you.”
“I missed you too, Rhysie,” she said, pulling him into a fierce hug. “Who…is your mate?” she added, tentatively.
He groaned and clung to her, his tears leaving splotches down the back of her silk shirt. “The human woman who broke the curse,” he started to explain. “Feyre.” He felt Mor’s sigh of relief.
“She’s fucking in love with Tamlin,” he added, laughing and sobbing before she could get too comfortable with the idea. “I can’t — it won’t—“
“Tell me about her,” Mor asked, rocking back onto her heels to wipe away his tears. “Tell me everything.”
“Where’s Cass and Az? Where’s Amren?” Rhys asked instead, conjuring a handkerchief and immediately dropping it through his shaking hands. Mor was answering him, but he couldn’t take it in.
With a slow, careful thought, he moved dark slabs of mental shield that he had reinforced through the years. Using those connections had once been as easy as breathing, but he had spent forty-nine years deliberately forgetting them.
“It’s over,” he sent to his brothers’ minds. “I’m back.”
- - -
His return was raucous, then still.
There was the jubilant reunion with his brothers, and a rare tremor of emotion from Amren, with the city’s bells tolling for hours that afternoon as he made his presence known among the merchants and residents and figures of the city.
Then, he needed to storm through the Court of Nightmares to mark his homecoming and reassert his glorious authority there.
In the deepest part of the night, he led his brothers to Illyria to start to clean out the traitorous trash that had accumulated in the mountains. The vastness of his power was overwhelming after long years without it, so he unleashed his wild, nightmare self to root out Amarantha’s sympathizers. When he was fighting, he wasn’t thinking about Feyre. Or the children of Winter. Or the dozens of others he had harmed or betrayed. They hunted for days, bouts of violence interrupted by him grinning at Cass and Az across a campfire.
He could hardly sleep. There was too much to do, and he would rather marvel at the stars than close his eyes and be reminded of cavernous chambers, stone hallways, and his subterranean prison. His emotions were all over the map; he went from gazing at the sky in wonder, to silent, leaking tears, to ripping out an Illyrian war-lord’s gut in a tide of blood lust, then laughing about how weak his sword-arm had become, all in the space of an hour.
Azriel and Cassian saw how raw he was. He saw their pent-up worry and pain, and the glances of concern they shared. Azriel quietly asked how he could help. Cassian took every opportunity to clap him across the back and ruffle his hair. He was grateful for their company, but somehow his brothers felt further away than they had Under the Mountain.
When they got back to Velaris, the chaos and noise and activity came to an abrupt halt at the front door of the Townhouse. Rhys’ ears rang with the silence, and he found himself creeping through the hallways as though he were a thief breaking in. His bed — his bed — awaited him and only him, for the first time in half a century. He collapsed into the layers that felt and smelled like home, only to wake up mere hours later, a panicking beast tearing the room apart as he sought the feeling of Amarantha’s throat under his talons.
He stewed in silent rage until dawn, bitter at all that had happened, and furious that she was still taking from him after her destruction.
Court business the next day was miserable. The people were hopeful and the tasks were easy, but he couldn’t concentrate, and was practically boiling over with misplaced anger and shame. Everyone noticed, and he didn’t know whether to snarl at them to mind their own business, or reassure them that all was well, he wasn’t losing his grip or drowning in despair.
It grew harder to pull himself out of bed each morning, even when the nightmares tore him from sleep hours before. For a stretch of days, he simply didn’t bother, asking his family to indulge him with a grinning mental voice that bore no resemblance to his actual state.
He knew better than to snoop on Feyre; it would only leave him feeling dirty and wicked, and not in a fun way. But in the middle of a grey day, in a grey mood, he felt her. He had feared that her unguarded mind might let some intimate moment with the Gods-damned Lord of Spring slip across the bond, or maybe his own name would burn his ears. The pang of grief and loneliness caught him by surprise, and was all the more painful for it.
He shouldn’t pry. For both their sakes, he wouldn’t go looking for anything on purpose. But he turned his attention in her direction, hovering at the threshold of their connection.
- - -
After decades of constant calculations and maneuvering, weaving scraps of his power into a straining net, anticipating new indignities and trying to spare others from disaster at every turn… there was peace. He had his family by his side, his full power. He had everything he had longed for these forty-nine years.
And yet, I feel like shit, he noted to himself upon waking each morning, and several times throughout the day.
The only way to get through each hour was to pretend as though he were the haughty, arrogant, wicked High Lord the other courts expected him to be. Slipping into that role was easy, it was as comfortable and bland as a uniform.
Every so often the thought My mate is in my enemy’s bed, skipped through his mind, and he tried not to shudder.
His mate. His mate who despised him.
Dinners and dancing and the company of those he loved the most required a new mask. He was still angry and hollow and grieving below the surface, but could keep it in check in front of them. He had to show them their sacrifices had been worthwhile — he had to show them he was grateful for them, and act like no new darkness dogged his heels.
He thought he had been released from a life of masks, only to find them back on, and heavier than ever.
- - -
The dreams kept coming. Amarantha’s bed. Feyre, alone and frightened but resigned, before her neck snapped.
It was a small but brutal repertoire. He prayed to every star that might listen for his sleep to be restful, for these memories to fade.
A month passed, and the tattoo on his arm burned all day. His mate and his bargain were tangled in his enemy’s life. Her words to him, standing on that mountain balcony, rang through his ears. “it would have been easier to live with it … Easier to live with what I did if my heart had changed, too.”
His heart had changed. He had always been an arrogant entitled prick. He had learned to be ruthless, calculating, only sharing his joy and curiosity and vulnerability and quiet with the very few people he loved beyond words. But now he was cold, even with them.
He couldn’t do it. Feyre deserved whatever happiness she had found, no matter where she had found it.
- - -
In the next dream, Amarantha was on Azriel, whose face turned to Rhys in pain and desperation, and all Rhys’ begging accomplished was making her laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
In the morning, he couldn’t bear the thought of putting on his mask, talking to people, and listening to things they needed. He closed his eyes again, and an hour or more passed. There would be so much to do once he rose from this bed. There was more to do every minute he delayed. But he couldn’t bring himself to slaughter more traitors, or talk to the merchants about the trade routes, or send a diplomatic missive to Helion.
He sat up and looked at his hands in his lap. He could feel Mor and Cass and Az around the edges of his attention. They were so careful not to overstep, but he couldn’t talk to them today. He refused to show them how deeply he had been wounded; it would only hurt them as well.
Some days under the mountain, he had obsessively marked the passage of every hour. Other days he drank or sleepwalked through, telling himself what an unpleasant dream this is. But he wasn’t under the mountain anymore.
He shifted to the side of the bed, placing his feet on the ground. The dream wasn’t real. His feet, his house, his Court —they were. His mind. His power, not hers, never again. He was the High Lord, and he could do as he pleased.
Lying here wouldn’t scrub the dream from his mind. Reading — getting lost in an unknown land and someone else’s problems — had always been a respite for him.
Descending the stairs to the Library, he straightened his already-perfect cuffs and thought about how naive he had been when he kicked out the Scholars and established this place. He had thought he knew about suffering. What an arrogant little know-it-all. That version of himself seemed as innocent as a babe, now.
He greeted Clotho, and for a quarter of an hour, heard nothing but the scratching of her pen in response to his few, murmured questions about how things had been here, learning who was still here, who was new, and who had left for other pursuits.
He gained permission to enter, and strolled down the sloping path a few levels, relieved that he did not encounter anyone. He headed for the alcove with a set of adventure stories he had read as a child, summoning a tea service and blanket for his lap as he tucked his feet to sit cross-legged in the sagging armchair, hunched over his story.
He read the novel through, and then the next one in the series. Then he read the first one again, savoring the details he didn’t appreciate earlier, and then the third. The heroes were clever and brave, justice was served to the villains, love was true, and everything came out right in the end.
By the time Azriel approached him, Rhys hadn’t seen a soul in hours, nor thought about a thing beyond the words in front of him. It made wearing the mask of a whole, capable male easier.
The next day, he went to his meetings and pretended to listen, pretended to be in control of his emotions, pretended to care about anything.
No one remarked about his pretending.
- - -
One night, Cassian insisted Rhys join them at Rita’s. He had hardly ever left there alone, but put the thought of his mate firmly out of his mind. He wanted to want someone, but the practicalities of bringing some naive thing to bed — or someone whose tastes inadvertently overlapped with Amarantha’s — or worse, drifting off and shredding an innocent partner with his talons once a nightmare took hold of him — kept him firmly in his seat at the booth. He nudged one hopeful toward Cassian, whose appetite for busty blondes had always been insatiable.
He went to bed alone, but awoke with a jolt to a new nightmare. The retching, the icy sweat clinging to his chest, the crushing guilt, he could have mistaken for his own. But the marble bathing room, the particular view of the night sky — that was Spring.
On the other side of Prythian, his mate was in pain. He ventured down the mental path to her, just to observe, promising himself he would back off as soon as he came.
But Feyre was left alone with her fears and memories in the bathing room. Eventually she gathered herself up and went back to bed, still alone.
- - -
On the bad days, the Library helped him hold his pain steady. Losing himself to old stories or scholarly works puzzling out secrets of the stars didn’t improve things, exactly, but it kept him from spiraling down into memories. He could keep them at arm’s length in the Library’s quiet, solid presence, let the feelings spin out and settle at a measured pace while he read with half his attention.
It was a profoundly lonely ritual. Occasionally he would pass a priestess on the main ramp, and would nod a greeting, but once he found a place to sit he used his powers to stay unnoticed.
He had missed every part of them: Cassian’s optimism and Amren’s brutality and Mor’s brightness and Azriel’s ferocity. But… he couldn’t stand to think about their expressions while he was broken like this. He had only given them the bare outlines of all that had happened. He couldn’t explain. He had torn himself from his family to save them, Amarantha had shattered him, and he hadn’t figured out how to examine the pieces that remained without getting caught on the jagged edges.
Someone always came looking when he disappeared for more than an hour or two. Over time, he ventured deeper into the Library’s network of passageways to make himself harder to find. He went so far as to set up diversions to send Azriel’s shadows down wrong paths. He read books about extinct plants, histories of fallen empires, religious texts.
He didn’t know how to make it all fit together again, or if these fragments of himself would ever return to a recognizable shape. But he knew that bitch would win if he stopped trying, and that simply wasn’t acceptable.
Sometimes in the warm faelight he would feel an echo, a reverberation through the bond. There was someone else in the world who felt this way. It was a terrible, perversely comforting realization.
The next time a nightmare jolted him awake, he paced around his room for an hour, half expecting one of Feyre’s to pop up any moment. Hovering at the edge of the bond, though, she must have been having an easy night for once. He fell back asleep to the sound of her breathing.
Another month passed. He scratched idly at the tattoo while reading Raskian love poems.
- - -
There were moments when his mind drifted over to the bond without really intending to. It would happen during the flow of morning training, or flying, or when slightly bored during a long meeting in a warm room. He would catch a glimpse of an ornate flower arrangement or rustling chiffon in a rainbow of pastel shades, along with the feeling of being pressed between panes of glass. He wondered why Tamlin was never with her during these flashes, before studiously putting them out of his mind.
One night, his dreams were Feyre’s again; she was being pressed to death in the second trial. He woke with a start, remembering that wasn’t how it happened, and shouting “IT’S NOT REAL—“ The words were out of his lips before he recalled she wasn’t with him. He had reassured himself with the same words often enough. It was becoming a reflex.
He ground his palms against his eyes, trying to drive the image out while lingering on the connection. She would likely retch at the thought of him seeing this. But when would she feel relief, comfort, a moment of joy?
- - -
Another month, gone. She must barely sleep, the nightmares were coming constantly. At least Feyre’s were different from his, but Rhys always met the first moments in a panic before he was sure what was happening to her wasn’t real. His mate was falling apart, and no one around her seemed to notice.
News of the wedding had come weeks ago. He ignored Mor’s furrowed brow and brushed off Amren’s concern as the day approached. He told Azriel he didn’t need detailed reports.
He did make plans with Cassian. There was never a bad excuse for a new suit, and he’d gone to the wine cellar to see what vintages were left. Cassian wouldn’t care if they were drinking a century-old red or grape juice that had gone off, but Rhys intended to black out in style.
And then, just before sunset, her voice came down the bond, clear as a bell.
Help me, help me, help me
- - -
He nursed a bottle of wine with Mor while Feyre wept.
“It truly could have been much worse,” Mor mused. “I’m sure I’ve thrown a shoe at you for being your charming self. It’s not like she tried to leap from the balcony. So, you’ve definitely got an opening.”
Rhys snorted. “I’ve threaded needles with bigger openings, Mor.” As he said the words, a glimmer of hope surfaced. It actually had gone better than some of the early days with Azriel: Feyre was talking to him, and hadn’t tried to gouge out his eyes or stab him. Yet.
Mor clinked her glass against his before draining it with a grin. “You’ve never threaded a needle in your life. Find a way to connect. What isn’t she getting from Tamlin, or anyone else?”
It was a thought. He could at least offer her the things he wanted, and still needed in order to mourn: respite, time to think, space to grieve her old life. But what would help her build a new life?
With Mor’s advice ringing in his head, he awoke the next day feeling energized. Feyre had whipped her shoe at his head with that javelin-arm, all fury and raw strength. Strength he had seen at least once before, in a young fae male who wanted to play reels on his fiddle more than rule a Court stifled by its own traditions. Were her other new powers manifesting? Clever Feyre would want to know what she was capable of, but exploring one’s limits was not one of Tamlin’s strengths…
Lips twitching into a grin, he gave the bond a tug. Who would she be once she sat at his table? The grumpy, prickly captive? The fierce fae warrior who didn’t know her own strength? The curious, human-hearted painter? Surely the bland bride was gone. He could offer her respite, but soon she would want more than that. And he would help her find the knowledge and freedom she needed, when she was ready for it.
- - -
With the bargain in play, the days didn’t bleed together any more. Each one counted during the week she was here, and each one counted until her return. It was obnoxious of him, but he delighted in her improving penmanship while copying down ‘Rhysand is the most delightful High Lord’ a dozen times.
He felt more awake after her first visit. There was always more to do in a day than could be done, but he was wading into it all. Attacking it.
Flashes of Feyre’s thoughts and feelings coming down the bond had slowed, and he wondered if her shielding had improved so quickly. The edge of the bond didn’t feel like looking out onto a shield; it felt like the edge of an abyss.
The spike of fear one afternoon came out of nowhere to fill his senses, an explosion of violence that dissipated into nothing. There was no pain down the bond; there was nothing at the end of the bond at all for days after. Azriel’s spies had nothing unusual to report, but not knowing what happened set his teeth on edge.
- - -
He could hardly believe her state during the second week. What was happening in that rose-smothered dollhouse of horrors?
He spoke carefully in a meeting with Amren, trying to find an option, a loophole, a back door to interfering in another Court. Amren shot down every avenue, her steely gaze trying to pick apart his questions while he sidestepped the central problem. Mate.
She drummed her fingers on the table. “No, Rhysand. The separation of courts is fundamental to Prythian.”
He gave her a curt nod, and shuffled his papers to move on to the next thing.
“Unless she’s your mate.” Amren stilled her fingers. “Is she, boy?”
He grimaced, and the stupid, impossible truth of it spilled out of him.
- - -
The attacks on Itica and Cesere had been brutal. And then came Sangravah.
Rhys had been to this temple on feast days. The thrum of its power in the air had been constant for millennia, but tonight it was empty and quiet. The trove had been sacked.
By the time Rhys arrived, Azriel and Mor had stopped Hybern’s soldiers, but whoever took Sangravah’s ancient treasures completely disappeared with them. Those who had remained were obviously causing chaos while the main team removed all traces of their mission. Nothing to be done about that now. The survivors needed his immediate attention.
It never got easier, being with them in the first bloom of their shock. He knew how to listen, could even do so without words thanks to his gifts. He knew how to be gentle, but there was no way to help without causing more pain.
Azriel was leaving bloody footprints all over the temple as he swept over every inch in an icy rage, so Rhys cleaned up after him with half a thought. Precious few survivors at Sangravah actually knew what had happened. All those children had been roused from their beds and secreted away by a brave priestess. He needed to speak with her, see what could be done.
He found the priestess and Mor seated on a bench in an antechamber. Mor was murmuring to her as she healed a bleeding cheekbone, a probably-fractured wrist. The priestess clutched Azriel’s cloak over her body.
Rhys took a deep breath as he approached, trying to steel himself for the conversation that had to happen. The male scent was unmistakable.
He relaxed his jaw and rolled his shoulders back — the last thing she needed to encounter was another terrifying male — but his hands found his pockets, where he clenched them into furious, shaking fists.
Mor reached out to his mind. She doesn’t have anywhere to go, she’s never lived anywhere but here.
His chin nodded a fraction as Mor looked up to him. The priestess’ eyes weren’t focused on anything.
Rhys went to one knee on the ground in front of them.
“A terrible thing happened here tonight, but it is over now. I’m Rhysand. What’s your name?”
She lifted her face to look at his. Bruises had bloomed and the swelling around her teal eyes obscured her expression, but fresh pain rolled off of her in waves. A spray of freckles graced the bridge of her nose. Tears has cut track through an uneven smattering of fine drops of drying blood on her cheeks. It wasn’t like Azriel to strike down everyone; he usually kept one for questioning. But he had been a storm tonight.
“Gwyn,” she breathed.
“Can you show me what happened, Gwyn?”
It was clear she didn’t want to. Rhys had a grim understanding of that, but if there was a chance she had seen something that could provide answers, weaken their enemy…
“Anything you can share…it might help us find them. Stop them.”
She hesitated, but when he held out his hand, she took it.
A brave, brave priestess.
- - -
Six months later
Every day that Feyre was in Spring wore on Rhys’ soul.
Their fragmented conversations over the bond were a relief and a taunt. She was well, she was doing well — Summer Solstice had been a masterpiece — but it was so much more difficult to stomach this absence. As a spy among enemies, the dangers were greater than before. And as a freshly mated pair, the distance was agonizing. Separating after Under the Mountain had been difficult enough, but he hadn’t known what he was missing. That Feyre had never tackled him in the woods or pulled arrows from his wings, or told him he was worth fighting for. He had never seen her smile back then, much less taken her to bed, and woven their innermost selves together.
He missed his mate. And if one more person asked him to handle one more thing while Hybern plotted in the distance, he was either going to lose his head, or snap off someone else’s.
Rather than threaten the council of merchants before him, he waited for the foreperson to conclude the day’s proceedings, told the group he would need some time to consider their proposals, and disappeared to the Library.
A few hours in the cool, quiet refuge would do him a world of good, he reasoned. Checking in with Clotho for a few minutes started to soothe his unreasonable temper. He strolled through the upper levels, aimlessly picking a direction and wandering deep into rarely-used stacks.
When he found an unoccupied table that felt right, he picked a volume from the shelves at random; accounts of long-ago battles. Perfect. He skimmed the pages while his mind wandered, and the sharp edge of his temper dulled.
More than an hour had passed before he heard an intake of breath just behind his elbow.
“High Lord,” the young priestess said, bobbing into a curtsy and taking half a step back. “Sorry— I’ve only ever seen priestesses down here.”
“No, my apologies for startling you,” he said with regret, looking up. He searched his memory for her name, but came up short. “I was just…reading.”
“We prohibit a lot of things in the stacks, but…reading’s approved.” She took half a step forward. “I would have to send you off to Clotho if you were eating or carrying an open flame or summoning ethereal beings.”
“That does sound enticing,” Rhys’ smile became genuine at her joke, but he struggled to place her face. How long had she been here? “I’ll do my best to resist.”
She fell silent, twisting her hands together.
He remembered those teal eyes, half obscured by swelling and tears in the temple. The flashes of memories she had shared of the attack, in the hopes of helping them fight their enemies. The pain she had experienced to body and spirit had been abhorrent, and had brought up too many feelings of his own to forget.
“It’s Gwyn, isn’t it?” Rhys asked, gently, keeping his recollections out of his tone. “I’m pleased the offer to stay suited you. How are you finding everything?”
Her face betrayed nothing, but she had no mental shields at all. Deep sorrow, searing guilt, and a whip of anger flooded from her. “Yes, High Lord. It’s been…I’ve just starting working with a scholar, and the research is very interesting. And everyone else is…so kind.”
He understood that bitter cocktail of emotions. He gave her a small smile, impressed at her evasions, and picked up the book again. He should let her get on with it. “Please don’t let me keep you from your work…”
She nodded, curtsied again, and turned to scan the shelf. “It’s just — you seem to be holding the volume I need.”
He glanced down at his hands. “I see.” He carefully closed the book, and handed it to her.
“I could have a scribe copy out the passage —“ she started, voice shaking slightly, but he brushed her off.
“No, thank you, it was just a diverting topic. I have some open flames and ethereal beings to see to.” He stood from his seat. It was nearly the truth, after all. “Elsewhere, of course.”
She nodded again.
“I’m glad to see you, Gwyn.” Rhys said as they parted ways. “Take very good care.”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “You, too.”
- - -
More than a year later
The camp lords had interfered with the Illyrian girls’ training so many times. For Cassian to be cautiously optimistic about Nesta’s training, let alone expanding it to bring in an Illyrian female…Rhys was all too happy to winnow Emerie over. Even happier that Nesta had not yet arrived on the House’s roof that morning, although her scent was thick around Cassian.
His luck ran out when he returned to the ring to bring Emerie back to Windhaven. Nesta’s gaze was ice-cold even as her cheeks were flushed with sun and exercise. He stifled a growl as her glare reached him from just past Cassian’s shoulder.
Nesta. A creature who allowed her youngest sister to risk her life in the forest, year after year after year. By all accounts, she had been ungrateful for every crumb of food Feyre put on the table, unwilling to help improve their family’s circumstances in any way.
She was unfathomable to him. Not only had this viper inflicted wounds he was still watching Feyre heal from, but as an older sibling…He would have done anything to protect his younger sister. Failing her was one of his life’s great regrets. Feyre had survived years of this neglect and mistreatment. Not only survived — she had somehow come out of it more compassionate and even-keeled.
Amren didn’t seem to know what manner of monster Nesta had become after the cauldron. Rhys didn’t understand, either, but he was sure it had been lurking inside her long before that day.
All of those thoughts raced through him before he registered the third female figure on the roof. Emerie had lived her whole life in Illyria, and was made of stern stuff. But Gwyn — She had made such an impression on him, both times they had met. Gwyn would not be exposed to more cruelty if he could help it. He weighed his options as Nesta offered her resentful version of a greeting.
Cassian’s embrace was as much about affection toward Nesta as it was restraint.
He approached Nesta's admittedly formidable mental shields to deliver his message. She ought to offer kindness and respect to all of them. He ought to demand it of her, for everyone’s sake. But with Feyre’s warnings and Cassian’s shit-eating grin on his mind, he would only make the request for Gwyn.
Cassian told him off as he flew away with Emerie, but Rhys couldn’t see what he saw. He wrote Cassian’s opinion off, attributed it to blind, wishful optimism and lust.
It would take a Gods-damned miracle for him to see past the monstrous things Nesta had done.