Forever (Feysand Week: Day Four)
Day Four of @acotarshipweek‘s Feysand Week: Family
Summary: The cutest fluffiest family fluff starring Feyre, Rhys, and their two children, Galeran and Alyssandra. Alyssandra is learning how to fly, and Rhys gets emotional for.. obvious reasons. Cute beyond cuteness!
Ships: Feysand (this should probably be implied but I’m a thorough person, lol)
From the meeting hall, Feyre’s Fae ears perk up slightly as she hears the pitter patter of tiny feet scurrying down the hall—and then joyful screams when another set of footseps—larger, heavier, and belonging to the her brother—catches up with them. She knows that Rhysand, who’s has the floor right now, is dying to be out there, with their three-year-old daughter, Alyssandra, playing with her until they’re both exhausted. It’s only been eight or so months since Rhysand assumed full-duty High Lord jobs. Before that, he had spent most of his times taking care of Alyssandra, while Feyre took on both duties for him. For their first child, Galeran, who’s four decades older than Alyssandra but only appearing to be a decade and a half oldr, their roles had been reversed: Feyre staying with Galeran for the majority of the days, while Rhys took on both of their jobs. Now, they are both back to work—and it was just as stressful as they had imagined.
“So can we? The Children of the Blessed are becoming out of hand—a mob of them showed up at my palace, stripped themselves of all their clothes, and began praying.” Varian, who had taken the throne before even Galeran was born, as Taruqin had stepped down, insisted, causing Helion to snort.
“It’s a compliment, Varian. If you don’t want them, I’ll gladly let them occcupy the Day Court.” Helion suggests with a wink, causing Varian, who seeemed exceptionally tired, to sigh.
“It’s settled, then. Half of the Children of the Blessed will be relocated to the Day Cour—“ Helion breaks him off.
“Oh, no, no, no. Learn how to tell what a joke is. Just send some of them back to their lands—it was your soldiers, of course, who begin to rebuild some homes there. Let them go back, repopulate.”
“Yes, we have considered that, but the Children are simply too—“
Alyssandra bursts into the room, heading straight for her father, who was still standing up. She ran into his arms, and luckily the only two people in the room besides Feyre and Rhys were good friends of theirs, Varian and Helion.
“Daddy, daddy! Look at what I can do!” she exclaims once he lifts her up. Feyre crosses her arms, smiling as Galeran enters the room, breathlessly apologizing. She is about to say that it’s okay, it’s fine, when she sees a flash of small wings out of her peripheral vision, and turns to see Alyssandra flying out of Rhys’ arms and around the spacious, windowed meeting room, being carried by a miniature set of Illyrian wings, just like Rhys’, her dark black hair flaring in the wind.
“I told her to wait until the meeting was over to show you guys, but…” Galeran trails off, but Rhys steps up to him and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Lift it up,” Rhys mutters, gesturing to the window right in Alys’ path, and she soars through it. When Rhys turns to me, his violet eyes are filled deeply with pride and love.
Galeran had gotten his wings—the Illyrian bloodline still floods through his veins, but he keeps his under a glamour for his own reasons. Besides that, Alyssandra’s wings are different.
Illyrians aren’t born with their wings—they develop them in their early years, and, with Rhys only being half-Illyrian and Feyre not being Illyrian at all, Alys wasn’t guaranteed to get wings. But she did. And, though her flight is rough, bumpy, and close to the ground, and she lands in a bush of flowers in the garden, trampling Elain’s daisies from last season, she got her wings. And she’d get to keep them.
“This meeting is over.” Feyre announces, knowing that this is a moment for only their family. Helion bows—Feyre and Rhys return the favor—and saunters out. Varian stands up slowly, smirking at me.
“Don’t let her around Amren anymore. She’ll send Alys to the stores for everything now that she can fly,” when Alys falls again, Varian adds, “Sort of.”
“Galeran,” Feyre says, voice gentle, and he turns to her, “Make sure your sister doesn’t fall too hard, please.”
With that, she grasps Rhys’ hand and leads him out of the meeting hall and winnows them to their room in the townhouse.
Rhys sits on the bed, silent, looking down at his tattooed hands—newer, recent tattoos he’d gotten when Alyssandra was born. Hidden between tight curls and whorls of black ink are four sets of Illyrian wings.
Feyre winnows away and comes back moments later, clutching something behind her back. Rhys looks up.
“What have you got for me, Feyre Darling?” Rhys asks her, standing up and walking towards her.
“I painted this on her third birthday. It was difficult to get myself, but the mirrors we put up that day helped to capture this scene better.” Feyre reveals a canvas painting of all four members of her immediae family, including herself.
It wasn’t the classic family portrait, with them all sitting and posing elegantly in front of a backdrop for twelve hours while somebody else painted them—it was a scene that captured the very essence of them.
In the painting, Rhys stood on tile floors, holding up Alyssandra, who had a beautiful set of wings, matching his own larger pair. Galeran was kneeling down below them to catch Alys if she fell—though she wouldn’t unless Rhys wanted her to fall into Galeran’s arms, and Feyre stood, her arm wrapped around Rhys’ waist and her head resting on his shoulder, gazing lovingly. Family, she’d titled it. Because there was nothing more to say as Rhys took in the members of his inner circle scattered throughout the background—Mor’s bright golden hair, the tips of Cassian’s wings, Azriel’s blue Siphons, Amren’s bloodred lips, and Nesta—just being Nesta.
“You knew?” Rhys asks astonishedly, and Feyre nodds.
“Elain said that she Saw it a few weeks ago, and rushed here all the way from Autumn to tell us. But you were busy, so she got to me first. I decided to make it a suprise. Show the painting to you at the perfect moment.” Feyre says, placing it down gently.
Rhys leans forward, wrapping his arms around Feyre and pulling her closer to where their lips are just barely brushing against each other—soft and sweet, but leaving each other wanting more, although at another time. Not now.
Feyre notices Rhys’ mind wander, and mentally taps on his shields a few times before he lets her in to see what he sees. Downstairs, in a previously abandoned room, hung a framed set of two wings—one much smaller than the others—those of Rhys’ mother and sister. Tamlin had never actually burned the wings—he kept them hung up in a secluded room of the manor. When Galeran was born, Tamlin personally delivered them to us, apologizing for lying and for the act itself. Rhys had placed them in an empty room with a locked door—not wanting to see them whenever he walked down the stairs or read a book or was bedding Feyre in an unconventional location.
The wings no longer hung up in that room. Less than a week after Tamlin delivered them, Cassian, Azriel, and Rhys unframed the wings and gave them a proper Illyrian burial.
The memory pulls at the strings in Feyre’s heart, and she knows it does the same thing to Rhys—worse.
She takes his face in her hands;
“Never, Rhys. That will never happen to our daughter. Not in a million centuries, nor in a million more.” Feyre whispers, her blue-gray eyes meeting his.
“We’re family,” He responds, a prayer, a confirmation, everything.
She rests his forehead on his.
Hope you liked it! Stay tuned for Day Five: Laser Tag!