Work Text:
“With those lungs, he certainly is Illyrian.”
Another bout of wailing pierced the otherwise silent night.
Feyre sighed something unintelligible into her pillow. Rhysand could make out the words Illyrian and baby, though those words were unhelpful in deciding if Feyre was talking about him or their son. Probably both.
In any case, he leaned over to press a tender kiss to her exposed shoulder. Right over one of the many freckles he frequently enjoyed charting with his mouth.
When he was younger, his mother had taught him how to use the stars to navigate. So that if he was ever lost during a midnight flight, he knew how to follow the stars of Ramiel to find his way home. Sometimes, that’s how he felt staring at the constellations on her back. His True North, always guiding him home. Always ensuring there was a home to be guided to.
“I’ve got it, darling,” he murmured, unable to resist a second kiss against another one of those freckles. And then a third.
Nyx’s crying was the only thing preventing him from stealing a fourth.
He pulled the blanket over Feyre’s shoulder, tucking her back into the warmth of his phantom body heat before he walked over to his son’s cradle.
“Shh, I’m here little one,” he cooed, looking down at the small face that was scrunched with discontent. Rhys evaded his son’s flailing fists as he released him from the swaddle of blankets and lifted him carefully out of the cot. “Let’s go on a little walk so that your mother can rest.”
Moonlight flooded in through the open window across the hall, carrying the scent of jasmine from the Sidra. The floorboards creaked beneath their weight, but Rhys could barely hear it beneath the cries of the babe in his arms. He hummed as he rocked his son gently, and by the time he came to the end of the hall the cries had tapered.
“Seems like all you needed was to stretch your wings,” he whispered. The window sill offered a nice place to perch, and Rhys sat so he could lay the dozing babe against chest. Innocent and haloed in starlight, Nyx looked so out of place against the harsh Illyrian tattoos. “Do you hear your mother’s heartbeat?”
There was, of course, no answer. But Rhys paused like there might be. He rubbed softly in the space between those small wings, watching in awe as they fluttered in response. The softest beats of a miracle.
“I think that our hearts were in sync from the moment the first star shined over Ramiel," he cotinued, because Madja had said it was soothing for the babe to hear his parent's voices. "If there’s anything good beating in my own chest, it was her doing. Her beautiful mortal heart…” Nyx lips parted. His son took such a small breath, and yet Rhysand felt it steal all the air from his lungs. Words suddenly became thicker in his throat. “I suppose you’ll have one of those too. Or at least, I hope you will.”
Rhys couldn’t resist ducking to press a kiss to his son’s head. His scent was so strong this close, and it clawed at Rhysand's chest in a mix of emotions that he would never have enough time to sift through. Even in his immortal lifespan.
He’d forgotten what newborns smelled like. It had been so long since he’d been able to hold one in his arms. Not since…
Suddenly Rhysand’s eyes stung, and rather than venture down the razor edge of that memory, he elected to take another long inhale of his son’s scent. To bask in its meaning.
Nyx smelled of a combination of his parents—of their mating bond. Of their love. And despite all odds, Rhysand was holding the proof of that love in his arms. Fluttering his impossible little wings, beating his remarkable little heart.
A challenge to the Cauldron’s will, just by existing. Rhysand couldn’t help smiling to think that his son was already such a fighter.
Like Feyre. And most certainly like an Illyrian.