Kate

Feyre’s heart seized in her throat, her fingers clenching around the echo of the little hands that were no longer seeking her grasp, but instead were clutching for the stars as he fell, again.

His bruises and scrapes barely manifested before they were whisked away again, but no doubt it was their phantom sting that still brought tears to her little boy’s eyes. His flying lessons were already progressing much better than hers had, oh so long ago. He had been a natural at it, as per his Illyrian heritage, except when he pushed himself to do things that his little body hadn’t caught up to being just yet - such as strong enough to perform hard banking.

Steely determination shone from his face as he fluttered to the ground. “Again.”

Rhys turned his head towards Feyre, his smile a mix of pride for their child and reassurance for her, as he positioned himself next to Nyx.

“Now, tell me what you’re going to do differently this time.”

“I’m not going to fight the wind,” came the immediate reply. “I’m going to lean into it, gather it, and then when I need to turn, I’m going to slip below it, use the momentum to carry me through.”

“And?”

“Arms together knees together, feet pointed and head up so I don’t catch my toes or my chin.”

Rhys nodded once, and inclined his head over the cliff.

Feyre felt her hands clenching again as Nyx fixed his eyes on the horizon and shifted his lean young body into position. His lithe frame was already corded with the beginnings of solid muscle, which he stretched and twisted as he readied himself. He pushed himself two steps into a run, before the ground fell away and his next step hurled himself off the edge.

Rhys, arms folded, just watched him for a moment as he wheeled and flapped, feeling out the wind and sky, gathering momentum.

“He’s magnificent,” he said softly, the picture of fatherly pride.

“No more for tonight,” Feyre insisted behind him. Rhys looked over to her again, his eyes a reflection of the night sky behind him.

“He’s doing well.”

”No more practicing ,” Feyre clarified.

“I could barely stand the sight of your bruises when you came back from your flying sessions,” he grinned. “You would’ve smacked the sense out of me if I said anything to stop you.”

“This is different,” she insisted, coming to stand by him. They watched their son loop and glide through the night, his hair streaming behind him, joy and freedom emanating from every line in his body, his membranous wings stretched out wide to catch the chill night breeze.

Feyre felt Rhy’s hand smoothing down her neck, and she leaned into the warm kiss he pressed into her temple.

“Last one,” he agreed.

“Mor wants us back for pudding.”

“Mor needs to stop sleeping over after Christmas dinner if all she does is complain about what we do afterwards.”

“She doesn’t know what we like to do afterwards.” Feyre’s smile turned wicked. Rhys barked a laugh, his hand smoothing a warm line down her back to settle around her waist, pulling her in towards him.

“Have I told you today that I love you so, mate of mine?”

Feyre rose onto her toes and pressed her smile into Rhys’ neck, breathing him in, savouring the warmth of him, of having her family all around her.

“Dad! I’m ready!”

Rhys squeezed her hand before stepping away, shooting straight up into the skies.

Feyre wrapped her arms around herself as she watched him join Nyx in the sky, and walked over closer to the cliff’s howling edge as the two males lined themselves up.

Indeed the reason she wasn’t up there herself was that she had stuffed herself a little too full during the uproariously festive dinner - which only seemed to become more chaotic by the year - and it served as a good enough excuse when all she really wanted was to be in the best position to shield Nyx if he made the wrong move.

Nyx seemed so small, a tiny body suspended in the night sky as he waited for his father to join him.

He waited for Rhys’ nod before stilling himself, his wings cocooning around his body as he began plummeting to the ground.

His wings snapped open before he dropped too far out of sight, each wingtip straining away from his body as he fought to gather his momentum beneath him, funnelling the wind to torpedo towards the cliff face, his form as perfect as how he had recited it.

Feyre’s fingertips trembled as she gathered her magic, poised to shield him.

Closer closer closer, the ghost of a wind stirred Feyre’s hair as she got ready to shield, and then -

Nyx wheeled like a bird, his clenched teeth the only tell as he grazed the cliff face close enough to send smaller rocks tumbling, his body arcing to the side with the hard turn as he angled away from and then back down along the solid wall in front of him, chin held high as he dropped headfirst, his front almost flush with the rock wall as he swooped towards the ground, before peeling himself back away from it and levelling out back into the air.

Rhys cheered for his son, his whoops echoing through the night, his wings out in an easy glide as Nyx soared back up again, his fists out in victory.

“I did it!” he shouted. “Mom I did it!”

Feyre waved and smiled at her son, thinking of the many bruises and broken noses he had suffered to get to this point. She dreaded the day Nyx was old enough to go head to head with Cassian. Azriel knew better, but she knew even then it would be only a matter of time before Nyx cajoled the spymaster to tangle with him as well. The boy was voracious, and wanted to do it all.

Rhys touched down first, leaving Nyx to shout and somersault his success through the air alone.

Feyre leaned back into her mate, and Rhys welcomed her touch by enveloping her in a hug, his arms banding around her. With her back pressed along him, they both were content to watch their son careen joyously through the sky. Even the stars seemed to shine brighter.

“Merry Christmas,” Rhys murmured.