A Court of Friends and Family

Part 3: Rainy Nights

2 weeks after Feyre lost the baby.

It was after dinner, and the Court of Dreams were all in the living room, drinking, talking, half-sleeping. Rhysand stood by the fire with a glass of amber liquid in his hand, absentmindedly staring out the large window while conversation flitted around behind him. He wasn't really listening to the various voices until Cassian said something about Feyre.

"Don't talk about my mate," Rhys snapped and whipped his head around. Cassian and Mor both looked a little shocked, and embarrassed.

"Sorry, Rhys," Cassian said, looking away. Rhys closed his eyes, and ran a hand over his face.

"No," he replied, opening his eyes and shaking his head. "I shouldn't have snapped like that, I'm sorry." He took a breath. "Both me and Feyre are more on edge than I think we'd like to admit right now. And I mean you see Feyre, she's quieter." Rhys turned back to the fire. "I think that losing the baby made her feel incompetent in some way. She's . . . distant," he paused as the minimal sound from the others in the room ceased. Rhys turned around to find Feyre—back from one of her now very usual nighttime walks—standing in the archway, rain dripping from her coat, and her expression unreadable. Rhysand straightened as her eyes locked onto his. She took a shallow breath.

"I'm going to bed. Goodnight all." She turned and walked up the stairs. Rhysand stayed glued to the spot, mentally running over everything he had just said, trying to figure out what she might have heard, until—

"Just go follow her, boy," Amren said from her spot on the couch. Their High Lord nodded once and placed his drink on the mantel. Someone would drink it. Probably Mor.

"Goodnight," he bid quietly. They all chorused back their goodnights as Rhys hurtled himself up the staircase, grabbing onto the bannister to yank himself up faster. Once Rhys made it up to him and Feyre's room he paused outside the door, listening. When he didn't hear anything he quietly slipped in. Feyre sat in front of the vanity, staring at nothing, her golden-brown hair damp from the rain and curling at her temples.

"Are you alright, Feyre darling?" Rhys asked as he crossed to where she was sitting.

Feyre didn't answer.

She just turned her body towards his, and buried her face into Rhys's stomach, wrapping her arms around him. Rhys leaned down into her grasp, letting his hands run circles on her strong back.

"It will come. I promise," he whispered. "Maybe it wasn't this time, maybe it won't be the next, but I promise it will come. And when it does it will be the most joyous of occasions." Her arms tightened around him, but Rhys crouched down into a kneel before her, letting her hands rest on his shoulders. He kissed her, quietly and surely, and when he pulled back she had tears in her eyes.

"What if I can't do it?" his mate asked him almost inaudibly.

"Then we'll find a way that you, we," he corrected, "can do it." Feyre smiled faintly before wrapping her arms around Rhys's neck, giving Rhys the perfect opportunity to scoop her into his arms and carry her to bed. She let out a breathy laugh. One Rhys hadn't heard in days, and Mother above, the joy that he felt at that sound. So Rhys kissed her hard on the cheek before settling them on top of the soft covers.