Work Text:
Time stood still as Nesta’s words - however much she may have regretted saying them now - sank in, her sister barely able to hold herself together.
“Rhys knew?” Tears spilled down Feyre’s cheeks, smearing the paint splattered there. “About the threat to our lives?” She peered down at herself, at the tattooed hand cradling her abdomen.
If she died, then Rhys would die too. And their child… their son would grow up an orphan, never knowing how much his mother and father loved him.
In that moment, she could hardly focus on anything around her, tears falling freely now, her body shaking. She did not know whether it was the fear of death - of never seeing her beautiful boy be born, of losing her mate when they were on the verge of such joy - or if it was the fact that very same mate had kept this from her.
Is it respect that your mate offers you?
That was what Nesta had asked her. Was it respect that Rhys had offered? Feyre wasn’t sure if she could answer. Not truthfully. Respect should mean honesty, trust, partnership.
Rhysand was her equal in every way—the one person who had seen her as more than a broken mortal girl, who had pushed her to be strong, to be whole. And yet… hadn’t he also decided she couldn’t handle this?
That she wasn’t strong enough to know the truth?
She had believed, with every fibre of her being, that she and Rhysand would face the world together, no matter the cost. That they would stand side by side, even when it hurt. But he had chosen to stand alone in this.
To carry the weight of the secret, to hide it from her—not to shield her, but to decide for her. Was that respect? Or was it the very control he had promised she would never endure again?
The bond between them thrummed faintly, raw and fragile, a thread threatening to fray. Feyre knew, without a doubt, that Rhys loved her. He loved her with everything he had, everything he was.
But respect? The word hung there, heavy, a bitter question that dug into her like thorns. And she hated that she didn’t know how to answer it.
It will kill you both.
Her child—their child—would kill her. And Rhys would die too. Both of them, gone.
Her stomach churned, her heart breaking into shards as she imagined it. The nursery she had painted, the times she spoke to her swelling abdomen in quiet moments, the future she had longed for—all of it, gone in an instant.
Was this why Rhys hadn’t told her? Had he spent these past weeks carrying that same horrifying image in his mind? Had he envisioned those wings—the ones she already adored, the ones she had imagined would one day carry their son through the skies—as the thing that would end both of their lives?
The cruel irony of it clawed at her chest, leaving her breathless. What kind of gods would create something so beautiful, so full of life, and twist it into something so fatal?
It’s true, Rhys had been overly protective these last couple of weeks, and she could sense a melancholy in him - a desperation. One she had assumed was tied to the ever-looming threat of Briallyn, or of their tentative alliance with Eris.
Never in a thousand years could she have ever imagined he was carrying something as grave as this. All those lingering glances when he thought she wasn’t looking, the way he held her tighter each night, a shadow of pain hiding behind his violet eyes of late…
And more than the fear, more than the weight of those impossible truths, was the realisation that Rhys had known. He had known and kept it from her.
Maybe it wasn’t because he thought she couldn’t bear it. Maybe it was because he couldn’t.
But he knew. They all knew. Her friends, her… her family. He had told them.
He knows, and yet he still didn’t tell you.
Amren’s words shook her from her reverie. “I think it is best, girl, if you speak to Rhysand about this.”
She barely registered Amren’s parting retort to Nesta, did not even notice her sister had left, when Rhys’s dark talons ardently caressed her mental shields. She did not have the strength to keep him out.
Let him see. Let him see what he had reduced her to.
Feyre felt a rising panic through the bond, as Amren gently guided her to take a seat before she collapsed.
Feyre, please. Please let me in. His voice was a soft, desperate whisper against the fragile barrier of her mind. She could feel his panic, his grief, pressing against her shields like a tidal wave.
You knew? Her voice, sharp and cold, lashed through the bond. She didn’t wait for an answer. You knew this entire time and said nothing?
Rhys faltered, his mental voice cracking. I couldn’t… I didn’t know how to—
How to what? Tell your mate that she is going to die? That you had decided to carry this weight alone while I went about my days painting nurseries and imagining a future you already knew was impossible? Her mental tone was sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care. She let the rage pour through the bond, her grief fuelling it.
A deep, shuddering silence followed. She could feel him searching for words that wouldn’t come.
I was trying to protect you.
The words slammed into her, hollow and meaningless. Protect me? By keeping me in the dark? Letting me plan for a life I’d never get to live? Tears burned in her throat now, and her voice wavered, softer but no less angry. Is that your idea of protection, Rhys?
His shields buckled under the force of her words, exposing the raw agony beneath them. Feyre… I didn’t want to hurt you. I couldn’t bear to hurt you.
So you chose to let me live in ignorance instead? You let me think everything was fine while you— Her voice cracked. She couldn’t finish. Images of those lingering glances, of his haunted eyes, flooded her mind. How long, Rhys? How long have you known?
He hesitated. She felt his shame like a dagger to her chest. Madja told me a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been trying to find a solution ever since.
The bond trembled under the weight of her emotions, her sorrow bleeding into him despite her best efforts to contain it. You should have told me.
I know. His voice was hoarse, filled with self-loathing. I know, Feyre. And I will never forgive myself for keeping it from you. But I—I thought maybe I could find a way to save you.
The thought was there, unspoken but loud in the bond. If he couldn’t find a solution, he would have at least bought her some peace before…
She clung to the faint thread of his anguish, trying to piece together her own fractured thoughts. And what about our son, Rhys? Did you think I wouldn’t want to fight for him, too? Did you think I wouldn’t want to know what I was facing?
I didn’t want you to feel this. The terror. The helplessness. His words trembled. I wanted to give you hope, Feyre. Even if it meant carrying the fear alone.
Her shields wavered, letting a sliver of her heartbreak bleed through. You don’t get to decide that for me. We’re supposed to be a team. We’re supposed to share everything. And now… I don’t even know if I can trust you.
His presence dimmed, recoiling as if she’d struck him. She could feel his grief, his shame, his unrelenting love for her and their child. I will fix this, he said softly, a quiet promise laced with desperation. I swear, Feyre. I will fix this.
Her silence was answer enough.
Rhys knew better than to force his mate to be in his presence while she was still processing. The briefest of tugs on the mental bond made it quite clear how she was feeling.
Hurt. Angry. Scared.
All valid, he knew. And he knew she was at least safe, having taken refuge in the east wing of the River House.
He had opted to stay in the townhouse that night, wanting to give her space. His rage had given way to hurt, which had given way to panic, which had finally settled into numbness.
Azriel had tried to console him, reassuring him that Feyre would forgive him. That his spies were still making enquiries for healers in other courts who could perhaps safely deliver the child.
That all hope was not lost.
But those were problems for a different day. Tonight, his sole focus was on his mate, and how he had failed her at the first true test of his loyalty.
Sitting on an armchair, drowning his sorrows in a bottle of liquor, Rhys swirled the amber liquid in the glass before taking a swig, his throat burning. He had thought he was doing the right thing.
There was no sense in worrying her, in causing her and their son distress, when there might be a way through. It was not the prospect of his own death that scared him. No, he knew what he had gotten into when he made that bargain with Feyre, and that a world in which she did not exist was not worth living in.
But that was before she became with child. Before their bargain - however born of a desire to never have to live without the other - had become a liability rather than a lifeline.
And now, with no solution in sight, not only would their son grow up without parents, but the love of his life now likely hated him.
It didn’t matter that he was going to tell her. He had betrayed her trust in the name of protecting her, just like Tamlin had done. In truth, he was no different to the High Lord of Spring.
In not giving her the facts, he had stripped her of her choices - the very thing he had vowed never to do. And if he could go back - gods above, if he had the power to turn back the wheel of time, he would have insisted Madja tell them together.
Rhys leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the glass dangling precariously from his fingers. The thought of Feyre drawing comparisons between him and Tamlin was a dagger to his chest. He’d spent so long ensuring she knew she was free—that her choices were her own. And yet, in this one, monumental thing, he’d done the very opposite.
He had stripped her of the right to prepare, to fight, to grieve. She would have been furious. Of course she would have been furious. But at least she would have known.
The mental bond between them lay still, a quiet, fragile thing. He could feel her there—her anger simmering, her hurt like a bruise that pulsed with every thought of her. She wasn’t blocking him, but she wasn’t letting him in either.
A part of him wanted to storm the River House, to fall to his knees in front of her, to beg for forgiveness and lay every last shred of his heart bare. But what would that accomplish? He had failed her. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness.
The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, and Rhys took another sip of the liquor, his hand trembling. He had seen Feyre furious before. He had seen her push back against anyone who dared strip her of her agency. Her fire was part of what had drawn him to her in the first place. But to be the one on the receiving end of that rage… it felt as if she had reached into his chest and crushed his heart with her bare hands.
He thought of her sitting in the nursery, surrounded by all the things they had lovingly prepared. The tiny, hand-carved cradle he’d had brought from Velaris’s finest artisan. The painted walls, adorned with stars and the night sky.
He’d imagined their son learning to fly under those same skies, his laughter echoing through the house. And now, all of it hung in limbo, a dream teetering on the edge of being lost forever.
Rhys let out a shaky breath, setting the glass down and pinching the bridge of his nose. He had to give her time, space, whatever she needed. But he couldn’t bear the idea of her facing this alone.
Tentatively, he reached for the bond, brushing it with the faintest whisper of his presence. Feyre. I am so sorry. The words were raw, stripped of his usual charm and confidence. You don’t have to respond. You don’t have to forgive me. But I need you to know that I love you. That I will find a way. For you. For our son. For us.
The bond remained silent, but he could feel her there, a quiet, steady heartbeat in his mind. It was enough to keep him going, to keep him from shattering completely.
Tomorrow, he would search for answers. Tomorrow, he would scour every court, plead with every healer, and, if he had to, bring the Mother herself to her knees.
But tonight, he would sit in the dark, drowning in his regret, and hope—hope that his mate, his equal, could find it in her heart to let him try to fix this.
Feyre sat cross-legged on the plush rug in the cenhtre of the nursery, her hands resting on her stomach. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of wind through the open window. It carried the distant sound of the Sidra, its steady rhythm a cruel reminder of the life she and Rhysand had built here—a life that now felt as though it were crumbling beneath her.
The walls of the nursery were painted in deep blues and gentle whites, constellations scattered across the ceiling like spilled starlight. She had painted them herself, hours spent with a brush in hand, dreaming of the child who would one day sleep beneath them. Nyx.
Feyre’s fingers brushed lightly over her abdomen, tracing the faint swell that held so much promise—and now, so much dread. Nesta’s words echoed in her mind, sharp and cutting.
The boy’s Illyrian wings will get stuck in your Fae body during the labor, and it will kill you both.
She clenched her eyes shut, willing the tears to stop, but they came anyway, hot and relentless. Her chest ached, a hollow, gnawing pain that spread through every part of her. She felt torn in two—one part of her consumed with terror, the other with rage.
Rage at Rhysand for keeping this from her, for deciding that she couldn’t handle the truth.
Her gaze drifted to the small cradle by the window, its delicate frame carved with intricate designs of night-blooming flowers. She’d imagined him there so many times—tiny, swaddled, safe.
She’d imagined rocking him to sleep, singing him songs from the mortal lands, telling him stories of far away kingdoms. She’d imagined Rhys by her side, his violet eyes filled with awe as he looked at their son.
Now, all she could see was a gaping void where those dreams had been.
Feyre stood, her legs shaky as she walked to the cradle. She rested a hand on the smooth wood, her fingers trembling. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Her words faltered as a sob tore from her throat. She gripped the edge of the cradle to steady herself, her tears falling freely onto the polished wood.
She sank to her knees, her forehead pressing against the cradle’s edge. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I love you so much. And I’m going to fight for you, for us. I don’t care what it takes. I won’t let this be the end.”
The bond between her and Rhys thrummed faintly in her mind, a gentle, tentative brush of his presence. She didn’t shove him away, but she didn’t let him in, either. Not yet.
She stayed there, kneeling beside the cradle, her hand resting on her stomach as the stars painted above her seemed to watch in silent witness. She let the tears fall until there was nothing left, her resolve hardening with each passing moment.
She would fight. For her son, for herself, for the life she’d dreamed of.
And Rhysand would have to face her wrath for not trusting her to do so sooner.
The next morning, Feyre walked into the townhouse and found Rhys slumped on the floor of the sitting room, his head leaning back against the seat cushion, mouth slightly ajar and a half-empty bottle of liquor in his hand.
He stirred as she sat on the couch opposite, her blue-grey eyes red from tears and lack of sleep.
A tentative smile tugged at his lips. Rhys sat up, placing the bottle on the floor, and rested his elbows on his knees.
"You look terrible." Her voice was hoarse, raw, but not unkind.
Rhys chuckled softly, though it was devoid of his usual charm, but said nothing. He rubbed a hand over his face, as if to scrub away the lingering effects of the liquor and exhaustion.
"But I didn’t come here to trade insults." Her words were flat, her expression guarded, though her gaze softened as it settled on the bottle at his feet. "Is this how you planned to solve everything? By drinking yourself unconscious?"
Rhys sighed, leaning back against the couch. "If only it were that easy." He paused, studying her, his violet eyes swimming with guilt and uncertainty. "But no. This was just… a way to quiet my mind for a few hours."
Feyre folded her arms across her chest, her posture tense. "You didn’t trust me."
The accusation, spoken so simply, cut him deeper than any blade. He lowered his head, staring at his hands. "I was trying to protect you."
"You keep saying that." Her voice cracked, betraying the storm of emotions swirling within her. "But you didn’t protect me, Rhys. You… you lied to me."
His head snapped up at that, his expression stricken. "I never lied, I-"
"You didn’t tell me," Feyre interrupted, her tone sharper. "You knew what this meant, what it could cost, and you decided I didn’t need to know. You made that choice for me. That’s a lie in itself, Rhys."
Rhys ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to burden you with something I wasn’t sure I could fix. I didn’t want to see that fear in your eyes, to add more weight to what you already carry."
"And you thought carrying it alone was better?" Her voice trembled, raw with pain. "Do you know what it felt like to find out from Nesta of all people? Do you know how small, how powerless it made me feel to realise everyone knew but me? That my own mate didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth?"
Rhys swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "I trusted you, Feyre. I trust you with my life. But this—"
“Do you remember what you told me? Before we left for Hybern?” She interrupted, her tone softer now. “You decide your fate—your choices. You choose every day. Forever.”
Her words hung heavy between them, the silence only broken by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantle. “I remember.”
“Forever, Rhys.” Her voice cracked and he looked at her with tears in his eyes. “I understand you were scared. I’m terrified.”
Rhys reached for her hands, stroking her knuckles tentatively. "I was wrong." The confession was quiet, but firm. "I should have told you. I should have trusted that you’d fight, that we’d fight, together. I can’t… I can’t change what I’ve done, Feyre, but please, let me fix this. Let me try."
Feyre’s lips trembled as she regarded him, his violet eyes filled with so much guilt and love it made her ache. "This isn’t something you can fix, Rhys. Not on your own." She exhaled shakily, her gaze falling to her hands. "You have to let me help."
Rhys nodded slowly, his voice cracking as he replied. "I will. I promise."
The weight of those words pressed between them, a fragile hope flickering in the wreckage of their shared pain.
“And while we’re on the subject of apologies…” Feyre’s voice hardened, her jaw tightening.
Rhys’s eyes flashed, anger sparking behind them. “I know where you’re going with this,” he said tightly, “but Nesta—”
“Went about it the wrong way, yes,” Feyre interrupted, her tone steely. “But you took it too far, Rhys. She’s still my sister.
Rhys opened his mouth to object, then stopped. His jaw clenched, his gaze dropping to the floor.
“Be angry all you want,” Feyre pressed, her voice softening just slightly, “but you know I’m right.”
Rhys exhaled heavily, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I’ll talk to her,” he muttered.
She reached up, cupping his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Thank you.”
“Feyre…” His breath hitched, his hands covering hers where they rested against his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
She shushed him firmly, shaking her head. “No. Enough of that. You’re not perfect, but neither am I. And I still choose you, choose us. I will always choose us.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch as though her words were the only thing keeping him upright. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
“Don’t say that,” Feyre murmured, her thumbs brushing against his cheekbones. “You’re the best male I’ve ever known, Rhys. And I love you, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
His eyes opened then, shimmering with unshed tears. “I love you too, Feyre. More than I can ever put into words.”
Her lips curved into a soft smile as she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. “Then we’ll start here. No more secrets. No more trying to protect me by keeping me in the dark. We fight as one, Rhys.”
“As one,” he repeated, his voice steadying as he nodded. "I swear it, Feyre. On my life, on my soul, I will never keep anything from you again." He tilted his head, brushing his lips against hers in a kiss so tender it made her heart ache.
The kiss deepened, slow and full of unspoken promises, of mending the fractures that had formed between them. When they pulled apart, his hands stayed cradling her face, as if afraid to let her go.
“Will you stay with us a while?”
His violet eyes glowed as he nodded, letting the careful choice of wording from his mate sink in. “Always, my love. Always.”
She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
The world outside could wait. Nesta, Briallyn, Beron, the Trove… all of it could wait.
Together, they would face the darkness, unyielding and unbroken, no matter what lay ahead.