#feysandweek

Feyre pushed her deck of cards across the table, to the male that had originally piqued her interest. He was a sailor—and not the type that usually frequented these taverns. A merchant sailor, one who worked for the High Lord, if the Night Court emblem embossed into the buttons of his navy jacket was anything to go by.

His kind usually slipped past the docks and stayed at the inns on the other side of the Sidra, where the rooms were more expensive but were met with the promise that the sheets had been cleaned since their last use. Given that this tavern charged its spare rooms by the hour, and its occupants hardly stayed through the night, Feyre had a feeling he was here for something other than clean sheets.

And if she couldn’t win money off of him through cards, then she could always work for it the old fashioned way.

“Shuffle the deck, then cut it as many times as you want. Once you’re satisfied, pick a card from the top. I’ll tell you what it is.”

The sailor narrowed his eyes. “I suppose all the cards are identical.”

Around him, the drunken males shifted. Some of them had seen her play this game before, and wore smirks that said they were excited to see someone else lose their money—which they would later be heckling her for. Others looked disapproving, suspecting some trick. Sometimes, that disapproval was directed towards the male falling into her trap. Usually, it was directed towards her.

Feyre tipped her chin. “Have a look. They’re ordinary cards.”

With slow, methodical examination, the sailor spread the cards face up over the table, allowing the tavern to witness the numbers and symbols that were standard of any deck.

The sailor paused. “These are not ordinary cards.” He pressed a finger to one of the face cards, Night Triumphant, to admire the portrait of a male crowned in stars. “These are hand painted.”

“All card sets are hand painted,” Feyre countered.

“No,” he was frowning. “I mean, yes, they are. But these were painted by you, weren’t they?”

She straightened a bit. No one had ever noticed that much about her cards. “How could you tell?”

“There’s a smudge of paint on your cheek,” the sailor said with a soft laugh. “And I doubt a female reduced to these parlor tricks could afford a deck of such fine artistry, otherwise. You’re either a thief, or you’re very talented.”

Maybe she was a very talented thief.

Her cheeks were beginning to burn. “I may have painted the cards, but they’re identical at the back. I won’t be able to tell which is which.”

The sailor smirked. With a graceful swipe of his hand, he arranged the cards back into a pile and pushed them back across the table.

“For my peace of mind, allow us to play with my own deck.”

“Fine.”

She watched him draw a collection of cards from his breast pocket. Unlike her own deck, these cards were almost certainly rigged. Which meant that he would bet with greater confidence.

Feyre smiled. “Cut the deck, then.”

He arched his brow. “You don’t want to see my cards? They could be a different set than you’re used to.”

She studied the back of the cards, marking their glossy, onyx surface and the serpent that coiled around the border.

“I recognize a Night Court deck when I see one.”

Now, it was the sailor’s turn to smile. “Very impressive.”

The tavern went quiet as they watched the sailor slide his fingers along the edges of the cards. She could see his lips moving, counting some metric in his head, before he paused and lifted the deck at its midway point. He placed the lower pile of cards on the top of the stack, then cut it twice more, each move seemingly well-calculated.

Finally, he looked across at Feyre, and he lifted a card from the top.

“I’m feeling generous,” he said. “I’ll give you five marks if you can guess it in under three tries.”

“How about ten marks if I can guess it in one?”

He pitched his voice low, just like his eyes, which trailed from her face to her breasts, and lower. “And what do I get when you guess wrong?”

“Ten marks, the same from me.”

Feyre didn’t have ten marks to spare, and from the way the sailor laughed in response, she could tell he knew it. And that he would demand something different, if she couldn’t pay her debt.

“Let’s make it twenty, then.”

Maybe he was hoping she would lose and he could force her to go back with him on his ship. She almost didn’t hate the idea. Seeing the world outside of Velaris, never worrying where her next meal was coming from, chasing the sea and sky and never looking back. If that freedom could be gained from fucking a male a few times each night, she couldn’t imagine it would be any less pleasant than sharing a filthy matress on the floor with her two sisters.

“Deal.”

She could scent the magic before she felt the subtle tingle on her skin. A small, delicate whorl etched itself onto her forearm, connecting to the pattern of blue-black swirls that stretched to her fingers like an intricate lace glove. A tribute to the many, many bargains she had made under this very roof.

They were a permanent mark of her poverty, and the things she’d needed to sacrifice to keep her family alive. Feyre was almost—almost—tempted to guess wrong, if only so she could go with him on his ship and spare another bargain from ever marring her skin.

“The Cauldron of Fate,” Feyre said, sitting back proudly on the bench. “A rare card. I’ve heard they’re hardly ever used outside of the playing halls for High Lords and their sons.” She cocked her head. “Did you steal it?”

The sailor’s face had slackened. A drunk male clamped a hand onto his shoulder, leaning to see the card before he howled, “No fucking way!”

A murmur swept through the tavern, though very few people were celebrating on Feyre’s behalf. Most of them were now likely contemplating how they’d win, or steal, the money off her.

“20 marks, please,” Feyre said with a slow smile.

“You cheated.”

“How?” She crossed her arms. “I didn’t touch your cards. Though, if there’s an issue, I’m sure the High Lord would be plenty interested to know how you came about—”

He whipped the money onto the table as he abruptly stood up. There was a dark look on his face that made Feyre edge back in her seat, just a bit.

“Thieving halfbreed whore,” he spat, swiping his tankard from the table and storming towards the door.

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, though she could feel the smooth curve of her ears burning as the eyes of the tavern turned their attention to her, to the features that marked her as other, even among the lesser fae. Feyre quickly pocketed the money and rose from the bench, elbowing her way through the crowd. She grit her teeth as she shouldered their passing jeers.

“Not gonna stay for another game, sweetheart?”

“Looking for more coin? I’ll give you another 10 if you let me take you upstairs. I’ve never had a halfbreed before”

Someone groped at her, and she yelped as she stumbled forward, into a male who spilled his tankard all over the front of her shirt. The ale had left him swaying and he only grumbled some nonsense about Feyre buying him a new drink before she was able to sidestep him, too, and quickly disappear up the stairs.

Their room was at the very top of the tavern, in the cramped attic that was as far away from the drinking and fucking as they could possibly get. They paid a reduced fee, since this room was hardly big enough to rent to customers looking for a quick fuck, and had otherwise just been used for storage.

Elain and Nesta were nowhere to be seen, which was just as well since they would likely have something to say about the stench of ale. She’d bathe in the Sidra tomorrow. For now, Feyre just wanted to hide the coin she’d won and go to bed without thinking about the tavern-goers or the spiteful sailor.

-

The wind clashed heavily against the sea, scattering white-foam tips across the surface of the inky water. It chopped against the shoreline in persistent, arrhythmic assaults, occasionally crashing into the rocks so violently that it sent the salt water skywards. The mist rained down over Feyre, clinging to her skin, the salt beginning to sting—just slightly—as it was agitated by a cool, whipping gust of air.

Feyre wondered why she didn’t come to the shore more often, especially when it was storming. The world was so alive here. The churning water and the hissing wind and the screaming gulls. It all rushed past her, crisp against her cheeks, tangling in her hair. She could breathe up here. So far away from the cramped attic she had fallen asleep in, where the air was stale and leached with the scent of mold and alcohol.

By the sea, nothing could contain her.

She leapt from the cliff face, stretching her arms to feel the rushing air as the water surged towards her. She laughed, though the sound was quickly torn away before it reached her ears. Then, just as she was about to greet the roiling surface, large membranous wings snapped out from behind her back, pulling her upwards until she was soaring towards the gray sky.

A lock of blue-black hair fell into her eyes. She reached up with an unfamiliar brown hand to push it out of the way. Ferye jolted a bit, to realize that she wasn’t in her own body. This was someone else, flying over the ocean, and the joy she felt building in her chest was not her own. This was someone who was drawn to the sea. Someone who was sharing this moment with her, lending this feeling of freedom that she had never known existed until she tasted the skies.

"I am sorry, I can‘t." Rhys rests his chin on top of Feyre’s head, arms curling around both her and baby Nyx. "Because everything I‘ve ever hoped for is right here in my arms. There is no more wish I could have."

His arms are like a thick coat in winter, warm and soothing, providing comfort and safety. The High Lord is right — everything one could ever hope for is right here. Right here on this balcony. 

The landscape below is is dark, but the night sky is lit by many passing stars that feel like whispers in the darkness, telling tales and secrets of old times. Each one is a fleeting sparkle, glowing and illuminating a small part of the darkness. The House of Wind is dark behind them, so everyone's focus can be on the sky. 

"This," Rhysand says as he lowers his gaze for a moment, "is the kind of darkness I was talking about. The one that is restful, peaceful, soothing." He kisses the top of Feyre's head. "And in this peaceful darkness, it is not the travelling spirits in the sky, but the two who are the brightest lights in my life, darling." 

A single tear leaves the corner of Feyre's eye, leaning her head to the side so she can rest it on Nyx's head. "You are, Rhysand."

The night sky above them looks like a puzzle that keeps changing every second, with stars moving by, leaving their shimmer behind. 

"Da!" Nyx babbles, suddenly, kicking out his tiny feet, his little hands frantically waving when a shimmering shooting star passes right above their heads. He looks after it, eyes aglow just like the travelling spirit and starts to bounce up and down in his mother's arms. "Ma!"

"Your first Starfall, my little star," Feyre hums and presses a soft kiss to the giggling baby in her arms. She looks at him for a long moment, her heart swelling once again. "Maybe, I do have a wish though."

Speaking it out loud is bad luck, so Feyre only opens her sense to her mate, lowering her mental shields. I want the brightest future for Nyx. I want no obstacles in his life. I want him to ever be happy and joyful. And I want him to find the same love I found in you.

Feyre closes her eyes, relaxing back against Rhysand's solid chest. He hums, and kisses the side of her head. "I will wish for the same thing, darling."

His own eyes close for a moment, nothing but the calm chatter of their family and some soft music in the distance surrounding them. 

It is later on, when more spirits start to travel, that Feyre hands their baby boy to his father, and accepts a glass of wine from Mor. 

Rhysand lovingly cradles his little son in his arms. Nyx's eyes are still wide with awe as he gazes at the spectacle above. Wine glass in one hand, Feyre rests her other hand gently on her baby boy's back, a bright smile on her lips. 

Nyx's eyes shimmer with wonder as he excitedly points to the stars, bouncing up and down in Rhysand's strong arm. "Dada!" he babbles, giggling and squealing and pointing at every travelling spirit on the night sky. 

Rhysand's eyes always follow the direction, for every passing spirit he shares little Nyx's excitement. "Exactly, this one, little star, is yours," Rhys chuckles, now also pointing at different shimmering lights in the sky. Nyx squeals happily, drumming his little hands and feet against his father's chest. 

But all of a sudden it happens. Something bright and glowing heads right into their direction. Before Rhysand can turn him and Nyx away it —something sparkly, blinding and tinkling— hits the High Lord's face, little droplets also splashing onto baby Nyx's face who squeals at first. Then he looks shocked, eyes wide, lips quivering. But Feyre is quickly there to comfort him, rubbing his back and mumbles soothing words, while a radiant smile is plastered on her face. She is delighted, her mate and little baby boy looking just too adorable with the glowing dust on their faces.  

"Oh, baby," she says, "did a traveling spirit hit you, huh?"

"And what about me?" Rhys huffs, faking a dramatic pout. But it does not stay on his face for long before it turns into a full toothy grin. 

A whole hearted laugh escapes Feyre's face, taking in the colourful and twinkling dust on Rhysand's face. Rhysand soon joins in, his chest rumbling when he looks back at little Nyx. 

The High Lord loves his son's fascination, cuddling him even a little tighter so Nyx can drag his little finger through the colour on his face. 

"Dada," Nyx squeals again, his little wings wiggling on his back. He is bouncing once again, fingers full of the colourful glimmer as he reaches them up to his father's face. 

"Well, buddy, this is Starfall. Full of shimming and twinkling spirits that pass over our heads." 

Rhys squeezes him, and places a gentle kiss to the top of Nyx's head. 

Turning fully to her son and mate, Feyre says, "Isn't it beautiful, sweetheart? Aren't you beautiful?" She giggles softly, the sound warming Rhysand's heart just like the babbly noises that escape Nyx. The little boy beams at his mother, then once again at Rhys. 

And as the High Lord gazes at his little son, a single tear also slips out the corner of his eye. How did he ever get so lucky?

He blinks rapidly, his throat a little dry all of a sudden. 

"Starfall is proof for all the wonders in your world, but the biggest wonder, the greatest gift, I hold in my arms, my little star."

As if he is already able to understand his father's words, Nyx let his head rest against his father's chest, snuggling tightly to him. A contented sigh parts his little mouth when his eyes close. 

~~~~~~~~~