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Azriel sits on the floor of Rhys’ office in the River manor, his head lolling back onto the plush seat of the sofa at his back. Burying his scarred fingers into the warm rug beneath him, he watches the flames as the fire crackles in the hearth.
Cassian stretches forward from his perch atop the couch where he lounges, long fingers reaching for the ornate decanter of amber liquid they’ve been sipping on all evening. Refilling his crystal tumbler and Azriel’s, he then hands it off to Rhys who is sprawled on the velvet armchair opposite them. His long legs are stretched out before him, and wings spill out across the floor; a show of utter ease for the High Lord.
“I still don’t know why we couldn’t go,” Cassian grumbles for what feels like the hundredth time that evening.
“Let it go, Cass. It’s been hours. They just wanted a fun ladies’ night,” Azriel moans, truly exasperated, having repeated the mantra numerous times already.
“And what, I’m not fun?!”
Pure indignation laces Cassian’s voice as he squawks those words from behind him.
Azriel sighs heavily, angling his face towards the heavens, seeking the patience required to deal with his petulant brother from the Mother, or the Cauldron, or whoever is listening.
“No, you’re just not a lady.”
“Technicalities…” Cassian grumbles again, his toes digging into the arm of the couch where he kicks at it impatiently as he lays sprawled across the deep leather cushions.
Rhys chuckles before a wistful look crosses his features and utters, “They deserve it. A night out.”
Cassian and Azriel pause their bickering for a moment, both staring longingly toward the ceiling, lost in their own thoughts, before replying in unison, “Yeah.”
“They deserve it all.”
The three males all still, their minds filling with thoughts of the Archeron women, and what their lives would have consisted of if they had never crossed paths. If fate had never been so serendipitous to allow the three Illyrians the honour of knowing them, loving them.
Their little rabble-rousing trio had only had each other to depend on for so long; centuries, really. Even though they’d hated each other at first, they’d grown to be closer than brothers, truly proving its the family you choose rather than the one you are born into that defines you, lifts you up, and loves you. It was no wonder that these indomitable females had managed to ingrain themselves in their lives so thoroughly that they couldn’t imagine a life without them. They had always been destined to be here, with them.
Cassian clears his throat thickly before rasping, “Nesta, she does this thing in the bath—”
“Caaass,” Rhys groans, “We don’t want to hear about you and Nesta in the bath.”
“It’s not like that, you prick.” He throws a beaded cushion, Feyre’s pick no doubt, at the High Lord before continuing. “I have this damned spot, right between my wings that I can never properly reach. She always scratches it for me. Every day, whether its itchy or not. She saw me struggling one time… that’s all it took.”
Rhys smiles at his brother faintly, taking another sip from his glass and allowing the liquor to further warm his insides. The thought of Nesta being so soft was still a side of her he had yet to make acquaintance with, but he suspected she preferred it that way. All the same, he was glad his brother had found happiness with her.
“Feyre calls me best daddy—” Rhys murmurs before abruptly halting as Azriel splutters, choking on the sip of drink he had just taken, and Cassian sprays a mouthful of whiskey all over Azriel’s head through pursed lips at Rhys’ admission.
“Not like that, you assholes!” Rhys interjects, scowling at his brothers’ horror-struck faces, throwing the beaded pillow back at them.
“With Nyx. She knows the kind of father I had. None of us had good role models in that department. She knows, that it’s a point of…trepidation. That I’m terrified I’ll become like him, or my child will fear me, resent me. I always hear her talking to Nyx, calling me the best daddy. I love it. I— I hope she means it.”
“She does,” Azriel utters simply, having recovered from the asphyxiation he briefly suffered, his face conveying nothing but the truth of the words he had spoken. For out of all of them, it can be argued that Azriel’s father was the worst monster of them all.
Azriel tilts the glass between a thumb and finger, his eyes downcast as he murmurs, “Elain will always capture my attention from across the room and smile. Every time her eyes meet mine, she gifts me with that smile. No one has ever been as happy to see me as she is. Every damn time…” he trails off.
Rhys peers from Azriel’s love-struck face, to Cassian’s, who is sprawled behind the Shadowsinger in a tangle of long limbs and large wings. A look of quiet elation permeates across the General’s face, feelings of shared contentment for his own brother’s long-awaited bliss.
Silence fills the study for a beat of several moments before Rhys raises his glass in a toast. His voice is hoarse, thick with emotion, both for himself and the life his brothers have been granted through the twists of fate that some higher motion of power bestowed upon them. Their chosen females providing that last divine piece of the half-a-millennium old puzzle.
“Here’s to those strong, stubborn, stunning Archeron women. May they never figure out just how much better they could have done than our sorry asses.”
“Cheers to that,” Azriel quietly agrees, clinking his glass with Rhys and then Cass.
They all drink deeply, contemplating their incredibly good fortune, before a shadow passes Cassian’s face once more.
“I still think they could have invited us though…”