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“Congratulations. You have a beautiful baby boy.”
The breath that left Feyre was equal parts exhausted and happy. Tired and relieved. Broken and out of strength, too.
Beside her, she could hear the exact same sounds that had been enveloping her for the better part of the last couple of hours; beeping from the machines all around them and hurrying around from the medical staff she had only been able to hear. Quiet instructions from her midwife Madja, as well as gentle reassurance from Rhys, beside her.
There was a new sound in the room now, as well.
A new addition to the noise around her—piercing her heart with every new second.
The sound of her baby crying.
Rhys’s arm around her shoulder tightened softly, and beside her, Feyre could feel him hesitate. His lips were pressed to her temple—a simple gesture that shouldn’t feel so reassuring, yet somehow was.
He murmured against her,
“They’re checking him right now, love. Checking if everything’s alright.”
A quiet and painful sob escaped Feyre at that—at the knowledge of what was going on.
Finally.
Rhys continued,
“You get to hold him in just a second.”
With his arm still around her shoulders, and his lips still grazing her sweaty temple, Feyre nodded. And perhaps a few tears were trailing down her cheeks, too, but it’s not like she could really feel them anyway.
She pressed her eyes shut tight—and it didn’t change anything, truly, but at least it helped her tears slowly leak down her cheeks. When she felt Rhys’s arm gently move on her, she knew what was going to happen before he even offered,
“They’re bringing him to you, Feyre.”
And indeed,
“Congratulations, Mama,” Madja’s voice reached her ears even before the midwife placed the baby on Feyre’s bare chest. “You have a beautiful and healthy baby.”
His body felt small against hers.
And his weight light.
Feyre’s arms had moved immediately, as soon as he’d met her skin—and perhaps it had been out of an instinct she couldn’t even name, or perhaps it had been thanks to Rhys’s help she hadn’t even felt. But her arms had wrapped around her baby immediately, and now she was holding him—carefully cradling his body, gently securing him, softly protecting him from the world.
Rhys’s lips found her temple again.
“He’s perfect,” he murmured against her, his voice loaded and his words quiet. From the sound of his voice, Feyre guessed he was looking down at the baby breathing alongside them against her chest. “He’s absolutely—” Rhys kissed her skin again, though this kiss was lingering. This one was meaningful. “He’s so, so perfect, Feyre.”
Feyre tried to believe him.
She tried not to let the words bother her.
She tried not to let this dreading and infuriating and painful feeling overwhelm her, too.
Tried to focus on the happiness she should feel instead.
Slowly, she leaned her head—and she was slow, because she didn’t want to make any sudden movement. So she leaned her head slowly, and as soon as her lips found the top of the baby’s head—at least she guessed it was, though it could have been the back of his head, too—she brushed her lips against him.
Her kiss was tender and small—as delicate as she could make it and as careful as she managed.
She breathed,
“Hi.”
And the cooing she heard felt like an answer.
Feyre sniffled, a little messily. She half-chuckled, half-sobbed,
“Hey.”
Around her arm, she felt Rhys loop his own, providing another layer of protection and care. She turned toward him and buried her face in the crook of his neck. It wasn’t so hard, with how close he was.
And for a couple of heartbeats—or maybe so much more—they simply breathed.
They simply took their time to feel, and to love.
One, two, three.
A couple more.
Four, five, six.
“Would you like to try feeding him?” Madja’s voice cut through her thoughts, through her happiness, through this collection of feelings she had yet to untangle. “I seem to recall you—”
“Okay,” Feyre sniffled as she straightened, tightening her hold around the baby. “Alright.”
“Okay,” Madja echoed quietly. She moved, too, at least Feyre guessed she did.
The midwife was gentle in her movements as she guided Feyre and repositioned the baby in her arms—careful with her instructions or descriptions of what she was doing.
I’m gonna need to place him a little lower,
And,
I’m positioning him right now, alright?
And,
How does that feel?
Madja was gentle, and yet as soon as Feyre felt the first tug on her breast, she pressed her eyes shut tight again—making yet another wave of tears roll down her cheeks.
She couldn’t quite understand this feeling—not yet anyway.
Couldn’t quite comprehend it and make peace with it, either.
For she was, happy. She was over the moon. She was so fucking relieved and overjoyed.
But she also felt an overwhelming sense of pain and sadness, and it didn’t really make any sense.
As if Rhys had known exactly what she had been thinking about—as if he knew exactly what she felt—he pressed her a little closer, brushing a gentle kiss on her neck.
“He’s healthy, Feyre,” he murmured, yet again. “He’s perfect.”
And she had to believe him.
It was her only choice, truly.
“Look who’s awake,” Rhys’s voice wrapped around her like a blanket. “Have I told you yet how incredible you were?”
Feyre didn’t really manage to offer Rhys a smile at his words—not one he would believe anyway. She turned her head to the sound of his voice either way, and felt her body slowly relax when she felt him scoot a little closer.
He had tried to argue with her when she’d started drifting off and fought her exhaustion to ask him to lie down with her.
You need the rest, he’d told her. And you won’t be able to sleep correctly if I’m here with you.
Of course, like any other day in their lives, Feyre won the fight without much more than a small plea.
And soon enough, she was drifting off to sleep in his arms.
She pressed a little closer to him, trying to bury her head in his shoulder and find the crook of his neck.
“Where’s—”
But her sentence hung unfinished in the air when Rhys gently wrapped a hand around her wrist and guided it somewhere between them—on the small body of the baby lying against his chest, she guessed.
Very gently, Feyre moved her hand—first feeling the bare skin of what she guessed was the baby's back, before slowly lifting it until it met the back of his head. His hair was soft through her fingers, no matter how short, and when her fingers darted a little down again, his breathing was deep.
Tears started prickling at Feyre’s eyes immediately at the feeling, and she had to swallow around the lump making a home of her throat before asking, her voice heavy,
“He’s asleep?”
“Perfectly asleep,” Rhys confirmed quietly, somehow managing to bring her a little closer to him.
A tear rolled down Feyre’s cheek without her even noticing.
“Madja came back a little earlier to check on him,” Rhys continued in this gentle voice of his. “Confirmed he’s doing great.”
For some reason, Feyre felt the need to remove her hand from the baby on Rhys’s chest at those words. She sniffled, albeit a little messily, and only realized tears were streaming down her face when she used her hand to brush them away.
Rhys tried,
“Do you want to hold him again? He—”
“No,” she rasped, her voice rougher than she had expected. She shook her head, just slightly pulling away from Rhys—from them. “No.”
There was a silence at that. One as loaded and heavy as Feyre felt.
And when Rhys spoke again, his voice was tentative and a little uncertain, too.
He said,
“Love, you—”
“I’m fine,” she cut him off quietly, then tried to offer a smile. Another one she knew he wouldn’t believe. And for the sake of it, she added, “Just tired.”
That, at least, was true.
“Do we want to keep breastfeeding him, Mama?” Madja asked the next time Feyre woke up—and she was a little startled at the midwife’s voice, because she hadn’t even realized she was in the room.
She was alone in her bed, this time—though Rhys’s hand finding her own immediately told her he wasn’t far.
Feyre blinked her eyes open uselessly, cleared her throat.
And she asked,
“Is it better for him?”
Feyre knew, truly. She had listened to so many podcasts about newborns and parenting while pregnant—simply because she’d wanted to be as prepared as she could. The books Rhys had read to her were still fresh in her mind, too, and so she already knew all of that. They both did.
Still, she felt the need to ask—felt the need to be told, just because she wasn’t sure she’d agree if the choice wasn’t taken away from her.
Madja hesitated, “It’s… It sure has many perks.” If Feyre had to guess, she’d say Rhys and the midwife were exchanging a look right now. “But it’s your call, too. Has to be done only if you want to.”
Feyre didn’t have the time to think about it much more before a cry was heard in the room, and she felt overwhelmed with a collection of instincts so deep and powerful she could do nothing but close her eyes. She took a deep breath.
And then she nodded, once.
She had no way of knowing if Madja would understand—or even notice. Yet, she knew Rhys would, and so she didn’t voice her agreement.
It was his hands that brought her the baby—her baby—close to her chest. Rhys had always been gentle with her, and he was even more so now. He was diligent in his movements to place the baby carefully on her chest, and kept a hand holding its tiny body while he removed the strap of her medical gown to allow her to free one of her breasts. Feyre was sure he noticed her sharp inhale, too, though he didn’t say.
“Ready?” he murmured, his lips finding her temple even before she could realize he was leaning closer.
But the baby was still crying, and Feyre’s feelings were still all over the place.
She was tortured by the sounds of her son crying in such despair, breaking under the uncertainty she felt, drowning in her own guilt and sadness.
She didn’t know what to feel, which emotion to believe, how to react.
She simply nodded again—pressing her eyes shut tight when one of her hands wrapped under the back of the baby’s head. It was purely her instincts that drove her to guide his head a little closer to her, that enabled her to position him on that exact spot he had found a little earlier, that helped him find the perfect position to finally latch the milk he desperately needed.
Feyre released a breath.
And her heart was still aching, but somehow her mind was a little quieter, now.
She heard the door open and close in the room, and she guessed Madja had just left, but all she could focus on was Rhys’s lips on her skin and the baby in her arms.
Rhys tried,
“How does that feel?”
Feyre sniffled.
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t know how to even begin to answer that question.
The first night was so difficult Feyre spent it mostly crying—in between drifting off to sleep and hearing Rhys softly murmuring to the baby to try and calm him ; in between having the baby brought to her chest to get fed and having Rhys’s arms gently encircle her.
Her feelings still didn’t make any sense.
And she was still struggling to make peace with them.
“Why,” Feyre groaned—her voice a weird mixture of exhaustion and sadness, “is he always crying.”
It was supposed to be a question—it was something she wanted an answer to, at the very least.
But it had come out in a plea instead. A quiet and desperate one.
She knew Rhys was rocking the baby, probably by the window to make him feel the slowly setting sun of February, like he had told her he would.
And when he answered, his voice was so very quiet in the afternoon and in the tangle of her mind.
He was hesitant—almost as if he didn’t want to voice the words.
“I think,” he tried, “he might need his Mama.”
Feyre felt her heart stop a little at that. Or break, perhaps. She couldn’t be sure.
And she felt her eyes water again—so she snapped them closed to keep the tears from falling.
Instead of answering—answering his question, his plea, his hesitant inquiry—she waited for the cries to slowly fade. And she breathed,
“You’ve managed to calm him.”
The next time she woke up, she guessed she was alone in the room because she heard faraway voices.
“It’s not unusual,” Madja was offering quietly, “for mothers to feel very strong feelings after giving birth.” She paused, as if trying to find the right words. “Your wife has been through a lot. Her body has changed, and her hormones are very intense, Sir. The pregnancy has already brought a lot of questioning to her. I’m not—”
“She doesn’t want to hold him unless it’s to breastfeed.”
Rhys’s voice was so fucking quiet again.
It always was, these days.
And the tone of his voice—hesitant and desperate and… angry?
No, not angry per se.
Disappointed, perhaps.
Either way, the tone of his voice made her feel ten times worse than what she was feeling right now.
Madja tried,
“She needs a little time to adjust, Sir. You’d be surprised to know how many women feel the same kind of struggle.”
“I just—”
She knew what was in Rhys’s voice, now. It was despair.
“I just want to be there for her and help her go through whatever this is. But also, I—” He paused. “I want my baby to feel how loved he is.”
The nights were always the worst.
Feyre had been warned all during her pregnancy.
She hadn’t expected them to be so fucking hard, indeed.
The second night confirmed it.
The third was even worse.
Feyre broke down on the fourth one.
Madja had come into the room to announce they would be ready to be discharged the next day—both she and the baby were okay, and there was absolutely no reason for them to stay in the hospital any longer.
And it was weird, Feyre thought, because all the testimonies she’d listened to had told her how that was the best part, how any parents were eagerly waiting for this. That it was a testament to how well and healthy the baby and the mother both were.
And yet, all she felt when she heard about it was an immense sense of dread.
Stronger and wider than she had felt even since she had given birth.
“You still have to give him a name before you leave tomorrow,” Madja offered gently, the smile on her lips obvious just by the sound of her voice. “You have the night to think about it.”
Because they still hadn’t named their baby.
Rhys had tried to broach the subject—he’d tried to make a game out of it, too, had tried to make suggestions and to nudge her by kissing her with every single one she rejected.
Feyre had frowned, or shaken her head, or grimaced every single time.
She still didn’t know how he could be so patient with her.
“Okay,” Rhys announced the minute Madja was out of the door. Feyre felt the mattress dip at the foot of the bed, and she guessed he had just plopped down on it.
Most probably with their baby in his arms—he was always carrying the baby in his arms, lately.
“So,” he said, “we have one task for the night. Might as well get started right now, huh?”
Feyre, just like she had done for the better part of the last couple of days, didn’t answer.
Instead, she leaned her head against the pillows and closed her eyes—taking deep breaths after deep breaths.
“Feyre—” Rhys tried, his voice bearing the same exhaustion she felt within and his tone painful. “Feyre, what—” he trailed off, and she guessed he was shaking his head, too. “What can I do? What can I—”
She pushed him off when he tried to take her hand in hers, and for once in her life, she was almost glad she couldn’t see anything.
She wouldn’t have been able to bear the hurt on his features at her rejection.
The silence that enveloped them now was different.
It was loaded—and so fucking heavy it was hard for Feyre to breathe.
When Rhys spoke again, it was hard to listen to the harsh tone of his voice.
“I can’t do this alone, Feyre.”
And she knew—god, she knew.
And yet she felt so helpless, she didn’t know how to act any differently.
“I—” he tried again, and the sound indicated he was shaking his head, too. “This is supposed to be the best days of our lives,” he tried, and she knew he was trying very hard not to make his words accusing, but it felt like that anyway, “but I can’t pretend like everything is okay when you won’t even hold our baby in your arms.”
Feyre was crying even before he finished speaking—ugly crying with heavy tears, sobbing through her breaths, heart breaking, and everything. She was crying and she didn’t really understand why it was so fucking hard to breathe.
“I can’t,” she managed to rasp eventually—didn’t even realize Rhys was moving a little closer to her until she felt the mattress dip beside her this time. “I—” she was struggling to get some air, struggling to breathe, struggling to live this life and feel those emotions she couldn’t understand. “I can’t, Rhys, I—”
His hands on her cheeks didn’t even feel reassuring—not like they were supposed to anyway.
“Can’t what?” he murmured, his voice a whisper compared to her heaving breaths. “You can’t what, Feyre, you—”
“I can’t do this,” she breathed—a little easier this time. “I can’t—can’t be—” another sob shook her, and she pressed her eyes closed for the sole attempt of getting her breathing a little steadier. “I can’t be a mother to a baby I can’t even see.”
There.
She had said it.
What had been torturing her for days and nights.
What had been tearing her apart, ever since Madja had announced how beautiful her baby looked, and ever since Rhys had told her how perfect he was.
What had been breaking her heart repeatedly—and breaking her open with it, too.
She would never—never—be able to see what her baby looked like.
Would never be able to see his rounded cheeks or know the exact shade of his skin, or distinguish the way he’d grow up, day after day.
Would never see the changes in him with every breath he took, would never know if his hair was darker or lighter than hers, would never get to see the freckles Rhys had told her were on his cheeks.
Would never be able to know if his nose was the same shape as Rhys's or if his smile was made of the same curve as hers or if his eyes were the same perfection as Rhys had always described his to be.
She would never get to see her child, and she didn’t believe, not for a single second, that she would be able to take care of him like that.
For it would be so easy for her to make a mistake with him.
It would be so fucking easy for her to buckle him wrong in a car seat or for her to leave him in a room near a dangerous object or to place him in a crib without realizing it wasn’t as steady as she thought it was.
It would be so fucking easy for her to harm him without wanting to, and she knew—she knew, deep down in her core, that it would be best for this baby to grow up away from her.
To find peace and gentleness and care in Rhys rather than in her.
To feel his love instead of hers. To rely on him instead of her.
Because she could barely rely on herself as it was.
“You—”
Rhys’s voice was as quiet as it was painful—and Feyre knew his chest was heaving, too, just by the sound of his voice.
Her admission had probably broken something in him.
Just like voicing the words had broken something in her.
Because she was broken.
She had been for a long time, and believing she could take care of another human being—believing she could be a mother…
That had been one of the worst mistakes of her life. She was sure of it, now.
“Feyre,” Rhys breathed—and his hands on her cheeks were so fucking gentle. Much more than what she deserved.
She guessed he was crying, now.
She guessed, too, that he wouldn’t be crying as hard as she was. He couldn’t.
And probably because Rhys knew she wouldn’t be able to listen to him—probably because he knew she was too overwhelmed, too shaken by her own admission, and too disturbed by her own sobbing, he moved.
He let go of her cheeks—and she felt bare the moment he moved away, but Feyre guessed she deserved it. He stood as well, the mattress adjusting as he did.
Feyre leaned back on her bed, she pressed her eyes closed, she tried to find a way to breathe normally again, all while knowing she couldn’t, truly.
She took a few deep breaths that were supposed to steady her, pulled her legs toward her and brushed away her tears—no matter that a new wave was already rising.
She was startled when she felt Rhys’s hand find her cheek again, and then she heard his voice again,
“I’m here.”
Just because he knew she might need his words as well.
The mattress dipped beside her again, before she felt his hand slowly dart down on her. He was undoing the buttons of her nightshirt as he said,
“I’m removing this.”
There wasn’t any place in his words or in his tone for an argument—and it’s not like Feyre felt like she was strong enough to voice any, either.
Her chest was bare before she knew it, and she sniffled as Rhys continued, his tone almost harsh, but she knew better.
“I’m placing your son on your chest right now.”
And he did.
He did, and for the first time since she had given birth, she felt the weight of the baby's naked body against hers for something other than feeding him.
Feyre released a sob the moment she realized the weight felt small yet a little heavier than it had been that very first time.
The baby’s head was tucked right under her chin—at least almost. And his arms were curled on either side of his body, resting on her. One was slowly moving—as if his fist was trying to hold onto something—and Feyre only realized that he was when she felt Rhys take her hand and lift it until the baby could wrap its hold around her thumb and squeeze. Tight.
Another sob shook Feyre’s body—and with it, the baby’s as well.
But he took a deep breath against her, and Feyre had never felt something so soothing and relaxing.
Her other hand found his bare back to rest on. And her lips, the top of his head to graze.
“This is our son, Feyre,” Rhys murmured, his voice still so close to hers. “This is your baby.”
She nodded against the baby—a couple more tears leaking from her eyes.
“And you’re his mother.”
Another sob broke through her lips. And it was all it took for Rhys to move, repositioning himself so his arms encircled them both.
Feyre leaned against him immediately, nestling close to him as if he could fix whatever was wrong with her.
She was quite certain he could.
“I can only imagine,” Rhys started quietly, “how distressing it must feel for you, Feyre.” He pressed his lips against her temple and he lingered there, even as he continued, “I know losing your sight has been hard and I know—god, love, I know times like these are the times you wish things were different.” He pressed another kiss on her skin. “I know you wish you could see him and see what he looks like, if only just for a few seconds.”
Almost instinctively, Feyre tightened her hold around her baby. Almost her way of saying, yes.
“But,” Rhys continued, “you’ll be there for him, anyway.”
The baby stirred in her arms, and it was Feyre’s turn to press her lips against him in a kiss. One she hoped would make him understand how much she loved him. No matter that she had been unable to show him.
“Maybe, you—” Rhys moved a hand to thread his fingers in her hair, “you won’t see his first smile. And you won’t see his first steps. And—and you won’t see the first pimples on his face when he hits puberty or—or see the first person he takes out on a date.”
Feyre pressed her eyes shut a little tighter. Rhys held her a little closer.
“But you’ll hear his laugh,” he murmured. “You’ll hold his hand. And you’ll talk him through all of it. You’ll hold him in your arms when he falls and you’ll kiss away his first heartbreak and you—you’ll make sure he makes his first mistakes all while knowing we’ll always be there for him.”
Feyre felt the hold on her finger tighten. She wrapped her own hand over the baby’s tiny one. “And you’ll love him, Feyre. You’ll love him so, so much.”
She already did.
Just a couple of days together, where she had been struggling with her feelings and barely been there for him, and yet—she already did.
“You’ll be the best mother he can ask for,” Rhys breathed. “And you don’t need to be able to see him for that.”
Feyre slowly nodded—the only thing she could offer to tell Rhys she agreed.
Silence enveloped them for a couple of minutes—a couple of minutes where Feyre tried to commit the feeling to memory, tried to pour as much love as she could into this hold, tried to realize that maybe she was broken, and maybe she was feeling like she couldn’t do this, yet it didn’t mean she was right.
And Rhys kept holding her—holding her and the baby both—all throughout.
And he told her,
“Look at you,” his lips were still grazing her scalp. She had never felt something so reassuring. “Already calming him down.” Feyre wasn’t sure what Rhys was referring to, and she was glad when he offered, “He’s been restless every single night since he was born. Unable to sleep for more than a couple of minutes.”
He pressed his lips to her temple again, before moving to rest his chin on her shoulder. To observe the sleeping baby in her arms, she guessed.
“And here he is now. Perfectly peaceful on his Mama.”
A small chuckle—mixed with an almost sob, really—left her at that. Because she realized he was right.
The nights had been difficult since she had given birth. The baby was crying every few minutes—and the only reprieve they had gotten had been when Rhys eventually managed to calm him down, though it hadn’t been easy.
Perhaps she was what the baby had needed all along.
It would make sense, she guessed. Because he felt like all she had needed all along.
There was no longer place to doubt and uncertainty when she was holding him so close.
“I’m here, baby,” Feyre murmured—just for the sake of it. “You can sleep through the night.” She knew it was unlikely. Yet she assured him, “I’ll be here all along.”
Feyre took a deep breath. She kissed his hairline again. And she breathed,
“And I love you.”
Her hand started roaming up and down the baby’s back—and for the first time since she had given birth, she could feel herself relaxing. Her body, her heart, and her entire soul.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, turning her head toward Rhys beside her and finding comfort when he moved to enable her to nestle her face in the crook of his neck. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Rhys murmured. “You have every right to feel the way you feel, Feyre.”
And with Rhys, she knew she did.
They spent a couple long minutes, just like that. Breathing and enjoying the feeling of peacefulness they all felt for the first time as three.
And when Feyre spoke again—a couple of minutes or hours later, she couldn’t be sure—her voice was almost hoarse with feelings.
All good ones, this time.
“I thought the nights were the worst,” she admitted very quietly. “But I’m starting to think if every night is like that… it might be my favorite part yet.”
Rhys huffed beside her, and he moved to be able to kiss her lips.
“Agreed,” he murmured against her. He let another few minutes of silence stretch between them before he said, “We have yet to name him, though. I think it’s about time.”
Feyre huffed quietly. He had a very good point.
She asked,
“Did you have any preference?”
“Not really.”
She felt him move again beside her, and this time, she knew it was only to get a little closer to the baby in her arms, wrapping his wide hand on the back of his head and enveloping him entirely.
“I’m a little out of ideas.”
Feyre chuckled at that—then rolled her lips together when she realized her laugh made the baby stir slightly in her arms.
And she said,
“Did you know Cassian taught me a few Illyrian words, once?”
Rhys’s voice was surprised but only half-heartedly when he asked,
“He did?”
“Mh,” Feyre nodded. “I was curious.” She paused, just long enough to lift her hand—the one the baby was still holding—to her lips. She placed a kiss on his tiny fingers. “Do you know what the word Nyx means?”
Beside her, she knew Rhys paused—his body almost humming at her words, at least she could believe it.
“Night?”
She hummed her confirmation.
“Night.”
Feyre didn’t offer more.
But she knew, just like herself, that Rhys was most probably thinking about it—probably trying it in his head.
Nyx.
Their little wonder of the night.
“Nyx,” he mused, his voice so quiet.
“Nyx,” she repeated, trying the name on her tongue as well.
Rhys kissed her shoulder.
“I like it.”
“Yeah?”
He kissed her neck.
“Yeah,” he confirmed. “I love it.”
“Nyx,” she repeated—then felt something deep inside her settle down.
And strangely enough, she found peace in the fact that the night was always cast in shadows. Always lost in obscurity. Always blinded by darkness.
Just like she was, every single day of her life.
“Nyx,” she repeated, yet again, with a deep breath. “My little Nyx.”
During their first year as parents, Feyre and Rhys learned how difficult it was to take care of another tiny human.
They understood how amazing it was, too.
They were both tired beyond reason, both tiptoeing the line between what they thought they were doing right and what they hoped was okay, both drowning in uncertainty and trying their best.
And it was funny, Feyre realized, because there were only two things capable of calming Nyx.
Feyre holding him in her arms.
Or Rhys playing him a lullaby.
And if Nyx was really, truly inconsolable—then they would do both.
Rhys would play for him in the comfort of their living room while Feyre held him—and they would wait until his tears dried and his sobs eased out.
Nyx started to crawl a little before he was nine months old. And he was always trying to crawl toward her.
He was in her arms the day he called her Mama for the first time, and Feyre cried so hard that Rhys came running to the kitchen to check what was wrong.
Of course, Feyre wasn’t able to see the first steps Nyx took. But she was there to hold him when he stumbled on his feet and nearly fell, she was there to hold his hand when he got a little more certain with his steps, she was there to hold him, too, when he was simply lazy and preferred to be held instead.
He was running all around their house by the age of two. And Feyre was trying very hard to keep track of him, all while feeling a little helpless the moment she didn’t hear where he was running to.
But, she realized over time, Nyx understood her, too. Because whenever a fear overwhelmed her, he was back beside her. He was holding her hand. He was reassuring her—simply because he had learned over time, that she might need his presence when she couldn’t see him.
Rhys was there to teach him to ride a bike. But Feyre was there to hold his hand in the park.
Rhys was there to show him which color looked like this and what color was like that. But Feyre taught him all the differences in shapes and textures. She taught him how to distinguish different kinds of fur or certain materials.
She taught him how to paint with his heart, too—paint without opening his eyes and to rely only on his other senses.
They were both a little teary on his first day of school. And Nyx surprised both of them, in front of the school gate, when he lifted both his hands to Feyre’s face and started tracing every single line he could find. Just like she had done ever since he was a baby.
He traced the tear that started rolling down her cheek when Feyre realized, too.
And she had never felt more seen.
When she came alone to pick him up from school, they always had a little ritual, both of them.
She knew he always came running, but stopped just a few steps away so as not to startle her. Then, he’d slid his hand in hers. Squeezed once. He’d say, “Hi, Mom.” Squeezed again. “I’m here.”
And Feyre didn’t know if Nyx knew how much she loved it—how he knew her, how he understood her, how he knew exactly what she needed.
She always crouched down to his level to wrap him in her arms, then. And always took the extra time to breathe him in.
It wasn’t rare for Nyx to come meet them in the early hours of the morning and slide under the covers in between them. And it wasn’t rare, either, for Feyre to pad her way quietly through their house at night—when no one would be there to see her struggle with a toy in the middle of the hallway or stumble on a piece of clothing in her path—only to sneak her way into Nyx’s bed and hold him through the night.
She felt her body really, truly relax the minute he stirred in her arms and nestled close.
And as the years passed and the days came and went, Feyre realized perhaps Rhys had been right.
Because maybe she was never able to see how dark Nyx’s skin was (as dark as Rhys’s she’d been told), but she knew his favorite foods and his favorite books and his favorite songs.
She was never able to witness how black his thick hair was (like a raven’s, Rhys had told her once, a little teasing because he’d already offered her the same words once, a long time ago), but she was the one he came to find in the middle of the night.
She was never able to place each of his freckles (no matter how many times Rhys had pointed her fingers to each of them), but she knew what made him laugh the most, what made him chuckle excitedly, what made him shriek in an uncontrollable wave of giggles.
She never saw his eyes (a deep blue, almost violet—with stars of silver and beauty in them. Or so people exclaimed every time they met him), but she knew each of his fears and insecurities.
She knew him. Inside and out. Better than she knew anyone else, and more than she even knew herself.
She knew what woke him up at night and what would calm him when he was insecure. Knew how good his heart was and how kind he would always be.
And Nyx, in turn, knew her.
He knew not to startle her, learned to put away his toys so as not to harm her, knew to always tell her where he was. Knew to always keep a door open or to leave a vocal note for her to listen to. He knew not to wake her up when she was exhausted and knew not to disturb her when she was painting. He knew not to take her by surprise and knew not to show her something she wouldn’t be able to see—but describe it instead.
He knew to let her feel his face when she needed to feel close to him. Knew to hold her hand often, knew to let her press him against her sometimes, knew to talk to her, always.
He knew her, understood her, perhaps as well as Rhys did.
And the knowledge overwhelmed her more than once with a sense of love and care she had rarely ever felt.