it’s too often that the high lord of the night court has a nightmare, these days; it happens so often, in fact, that there is now a commonplace procedure that accompanies a dream that’s soaked red, red with amarantha’s hair, red with amarantha’s lips, red with feyre’s blood spilling onto the stones and the SNAP of her neck cracking under amarantha’s hands, the SNAP of his own neck and heart breaking in time with his mate’s death. the procedure is this:
these days, this is easier done than said; feyre is laying next to him, more often than not already awake from the sound of his pained noises and the way his wings have a tendency to smack her in the face when he’s sleeping restlessly. this time, she’s awake, but silent, and he rolls closer to her, wraps his wings around her and takes her bare waist into his hands, all but tossing his head on the pillow as he finds her eyes in the dark. he wants to ask her if she dreamed the same dream, wants to ask her if her death is clouding her thoughts the same way it’s HAUNTING his. instead, he slides his hand up her side, then down, then up again, with lazy intent. touch, rhys has found, is often the best remedy for the horror that is their memory.
❝ did i wake you, feyre, darling? ❞ he asks, his voice too hoarse for its usual drawl. it’s not until the words leave his lips that –– ❝ don’t answer that question, ❞ rhys decides. feyre would answer, he knows; feyre would deny him nothing in the same way he would catch every star in the sky and bring it to her and kiss her hands and her feet while presenting her with the gift of the sky. she would answer, and he would love her for it, but it would allow that HORROR back into their bed and into their lives to give voice to it.
he loves feyre enough that he might speak of it, if she did. if she wanted to. he loves feyre enough that he might be weak with her.
so he kisses her instead, his hand tightening on her waist, slipping to her back to pull her flush against him, his wings shifting and rippling to block out the air of the rest of the world. ––– @whcwander
SLEEP WAS LESS A STRANGER AS OF LATE, yet still feyre woke before he did. she had found herself falling into the habit of tracing his features with her eyes ( sometimes she’d forget herself and trace them with the tip of a finger, which wrought no shortage of sleepy taunts from her mate. ) she had also become accustomed to the signs of FRETFUL sleep ; first would come the fierce fluttering of lids, the remnants of a scowl marring granite features, then utterances of distress which would rouse her if she were not already awake, followed finally by restless tossing and turning.
no matter how common an occurrence it may be ( for BOTH of them ), it never ceased to bring a pang of heartache to her chest. some nights she might wake him herself, smoothing the midnight locks from his fear-drenched skin and murmuring soothing assurances until the familiar darkness regained its comforting presence. some nights were worse than others.
this time, he wakes before she intervenes, and she cannot help the not altogether unpleasant skip in her pulse as his warm hands dance over her bare skin and his wings enveloped them in secure and comforting darkness.
lips twitch to contain a drowsy smile at his words, a melancholy fondness touching feyre’s tired countenance. she knows what he’s really asking and knows that it’s perhaps not a subject either of them are ready to breach, not yet ; not NOW. before a flippant, albeit groggy, retort can spring forth, she’s suddenly gasping into a kiss and melting into his touch, lazy hands trailing up his chest before winding behind his neck to bury lithe fingers in his hair.
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