#kneeham

[nyx, four years old]

The lamb with fleece as white as snow,

Eyes  as red as blood,

And claws as black as night.

She haunts his dreams—a girl with no name. She comes from nowhere, and she will go nowhere for she is nothing but a dream

a dream, 

a dream.

He calls her Snow White, and wraps himself in her mane. She is warm in his dreams, a contrast to his cold reality. In the waking light, he has no friends, no family and no purpose; they are nothing but unfamiliar blurs and loud, loud whispering. Nothing but a boy waiting to be reaped by the demons hovering out of the corner of his eye. All he has are his dreams, and only Death can take that away from him.

A parade takes place, winding down the streets of the city and all around him. The noise gets to him. He loathes the royal family and their loudness. The light, he can block out, but the cheers, chatter and clopping of the horses invade his shitty territory. He cannot hiss and claw at the intangible; sound moves just like his ghosts. He hides, covering his ears and wrenching his eyes shut because the monsters—the monsters are laughing at him. He wonders if the royal family are as faceless as the rest of those who stumble upon him. He wonders if he’s already dead, devoured by his demons, and that’s why he can no longer connect with the living.

“Nyx,” his mother wraps her arms around his shoulders and he tenses.  The touch and her concern is too loud. He grits his teeth against the rocking of their carriage over the cobblestone streets. It takes him a moment before he leans back against his mother dutifully. His blue eyes wrench shut and he simply bears the feeling of his mother caressing his hair. It’s no comfort to him, but at least one of them is soothed. That’s the only thing that matters to him because for all her faults, she loves him. 

“Nyx,” his father coax, leaning forward from  his seat across from them. “Let me in.”

The King of Velaris’ voice is gentle, and he taps his finger on Nyx’s knee. It takes the boy a moment to open his eyes, and he grows sheepish, half-burying his face into the side of his mother’s dress. The embarrassment is a momentary distraction; strong warriors don’t need their mother and their father to help, he can fight these demons alone.

“There he is,” his father grins. His father’s eyes are not his, so deep and iridescent—in the shade of the carriage, they look violet, but under the gleam of the sun, or the ambient kiss of the moonlight, they are a deep blue. Nyx stares into them, and immediately feels the soothing feeling of his father’s magic. It’s a wordless, soundless lullaby—a kiss of mind-magic to help ground Nyx in the things that matter and nothing else. The embroidery of his mother’s corset, the weight of her arm around him, the tap of his father’s finger on his little knee and most importantly, the warmth of having them so close “Feeling better?”

Nyx nods. With his parents around, his world is a little quieter. They shield him from monsters, real and imagined alike.

The carriage comes to a halt in front of a great white alabaster castle. A burly warrior with bat wings pulls the door open, the curls of his shoulder-length hair are pulled into a half-ponytail, but there are wild wisps that have escaped and frame his face. His grin is huge as he bows and makes way for the King to descend first, followed by the Queen. Nyx stays inside the carriage a little longer, dreading the outside world, but his uncle holds his hand out to him.

“We’ve got you, princeling.”

Nyx gets up, and his uncle, the great warrior Cassian, picks him up and helps him onto the ground. 

“Go on, now. Show them how awesome our royal family is,” he whispers to the little boy.

The royal family of Hybern welcomes them, with only two members to count. The King of Hybern with his pale skin and beady eyes makes it hard for Nyx to tell the difference between the real and the demons, but he will not cower in the face of future allies. 

“King Rhysand. Queen Feyre. It is an honour to see you again.” The King of Hybern says, exchanging formalities that do not interest a boy his age.

His little blue eyes fall onto the face of the princess—a girl his age with red irises and big, fluffy black hair, but underneath, her hair is fleece as white as snow, he can see it, he can see it! —and she is breathtaking. She looks—She looks just like his dream. He reaches for his mother, gently tugging at her skirts to get her attention. Nyx looks to the princess, then back at his mother. It’s her, it’s her!

“Is something the matter?” The other King says. His smile is sinister and his tone implies an unspoken ‘ with him ’. He glances at his daughter, and his smile grows wider.

Before her father can say anything more, the girl approaches Nyx.

“Hello! I am Princess Niamh. Would you like me to give you a tour?” 

She holds her gloved hand out to him and Nyx doesn’t know what to do. He’s only ever held the hands of those he trusts most in the world, like his mother, his father, his uncle and his aunts. It is such a monumental request to trust a stranger, but Nyx feels his father brush against his mind. Go on, you’re safe.

And—And—

She’s not a stranger, now, is she? She’s the girl of his dreams.

[nyx, six years old]

Niamh is his best friend. The two of them run down the halls of the Moonstone Castle, their feet pitter-pattering down the hall. Nyx leads the way, showing her all his best kept secrets; she’s the only one who knows them and she keeps them close to her heart. He trusts her with his world, treating his hallucinations like imaginary friends who are jealous of the wonderful world they craft together. Since she came into his life, he doesn’t see the monsters much. Her light keeps them at bay, and if it doesn’t, she has claws and fangs at her disposal.

“Careful, kids,” General Jurian—Niamh’s escort for this visit—warns as they careen past him. Nyx blows a raspberry in his direction and keeps running by, giggling with Niamh. “Hey! That’s not very nice!”

“Your butt’s not very nice, Juicy Jurian!” The boy shouts to the symphony of Niamh’s giggles.

“Cassian!” Jurian shouts in frustration, heading the opposite way to find the other General. “The fuck are you teaching these kids.”

The adults get up to whatever they do on these trips, but Nyx takes Niamh all the way to a side passage that leads to a narrow, spiral staircase. His parents saved a tower just for him, a secret place where the monsters aren’t allowed and he can collect all his favourite trinkets. No one else comes here, it’s his sanctuary. Nyx shows Niamh the secret knock that unwinds the magic that keeps the door locked. It’s weirdly complex, but he shows it to her slowly.

“Okay? Now, you.” Nyx speaks softly, his preferred tone and watches her patiently. They’ll practice until she gets it right so she doesn’t have to wait for him. She can come surprise him, too. He doesn’t like surprises, but he’ll make an exception for her. He thinks he’d like that.

Niamh copies his knock, getting it on the first try. 

“Very good,” Nyx says seriously. He takes her hand and leads her inside to his secret space.

The tower of the Night Prince is a sight to behold. Magic clears all barriers between him and the sky, as if the very stars have come down to keep him company. The moon watches over them, basking their room with enough light so they can play. Books line the floor all the way up to the ceiling, and there are wooden toys scattered about. Nyx skips over to pick up a piece of paper artfully placed on the floor in the middle of his controlled chaos.

“Look,” he says, holding up a drawing of a horse with too many lines and gears at the joints. “I designed a magic horse. It never gets tired, and it doesn’t get hurt because you can replace the parts that are broken.” Nyx gets excited, sharing his latest invention. “So, when soldiers go to fight, you don’t have to be sad because your horse-friend got hurt.” 

His father and uncles would tell him stories of battle during training. They’d share the importance of bonding not only with his brothers-in-arms, but also the animals that carry them into the fray. Nyx could not imagine losing his horse, a black mare that’s far too big for a boy his size. His aunts fill his mind with fairytale in and myth, too—about kelpies and skeletal horses that never die. It inspired him to make something out of his imagination and that is a power only he has. His family told him so. He never shares his inventions with others outside his family. Not even Cassian gets to see anymore because he doesn’t get it, and keeps giving Nyx’s creations stupid names.

“Whoa,” Niamh says, her ruby eyes widening in awe. She takes the drawing very carefully in her gloved hands and looks at every detail with care. “Can we glamour the horse? So it can blend in, or change its mane colour.”

Nyx touches his chin, his dark brows furrow in thought. “Okay. I was gonna make it a black horse, but only her favourite people are gonna see past the magic, okay?”

Surely, there’s no specific significance to his choice. He asks for his drawing back and gets his coloured inks. Nyx sets the paper up between them, and hands Niamh a quill. “You can colour with me.”

He trusts her with the world; she is just as precious as all the things hoarded in his wondrous tower.

They colour all night and play pretend. The children are as free as their imaginations. They marry each other in front of all of Nyx’s wooden models, a thought that was implanted in them since the first day they met. Two kingdoms to be united by their marriage when they come of age, but they are enamored of the idea of having their own castle where they can play all day, eat all the sweet treats and keep Jurian out! They fall asleep on a pile of furs so soft, they sink into them and Nyx has to wriggle closer to Niamh so as not to lose her in all the fluff. He is a little ball at her side, warm, safe and happy.

It is Velaris’ shadowsinger who wakes Nyx, one of the few people who can intrude in his sacred space without making him feel vulnerable. Azriel never physically enters the tower, but his shadows gently nudge the children awake. When that doesn’t work, he tugs on Nyx’s ankle until he falls off the fur pile and wakes with a harmless start.

It’s time for the princess to go.

“Don’t wanna,” Nyx grumbles, wiping his eyes with his hands.

It is your duty, Azriel insists kindly. She has a kingdom too, and her people miss her.

Nyx is a good boy; he wants to do well, not only for his family, but to make sure that Niamh remains respected and beloved by her people. He huffs, disappointed and shakes Niamh carefully. He wakes her and takes her hand, leading her back down from the tower and to General Juicy Butt. He carefully arranges her hair, brushing wisps out of her face before hugging her goodbye.

“What about me?” Her guardian asks, but receives only a vicious glare in return. “What is that face!”

“Allow me to escort you back the next time you visit,” Nyx says to Niamh, kissing her hand and bowing formally. His family, who have come to see the princess off, raise their brows in surprise and grin, proud of their young prince.

“How about you grow a couple of inches, squirt,” Jurian teases. “That way you can actually protect her.”

“He could probably kick your ass,” Cassian supplies, grinning and winking at Nyx.

“Do you have something in your eye, Uncle Cassian?”

Jurian howls of laughter.

[nyx, ten years old]

Nyx waits impatiently at the gates of the castle, a metal flower he’s made himself in his hand. For years, they have been visiting one another, and he learned to make her gifts. Each time, he offers her a flower so that she can make an eternal bouquet. Each flower will remind her of a memory they have together. When they are married, he will give her flowers every day until their whole kingdom is nothing more than a tribute to his loyalty to her.

He fiddles with the stem, growing impatient. He is a creature of habit and expects her to arrive at the same time as she usually does. He keeps glancing over to the long road leading up to the beautiful gated city of Velaris. Out of the corner of his eye, a woman with no eyes watches him, peeking around the wall. Age has done nothing to ease the plague of his mind, but his father’s powers help keep the monster at bay, even this far from the castle.

“She’ll be here. Don’t worry,” General Cassian glances down at Nyx. He extends a wing to wrap around Nyx’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort and reassurance. “Worst case, I’ll fly you over myself to go and demand answers about our princess’ tardiness.”

“No,” Nyx says sternly. “We will wait as long as we need.” This, he is sure about. No matter how much time Niamh takes, it will be worth it. 

As time passes, he starts to grow tired, and begins to lean on Cassian for support, refusing to sit and vehemently against being carried. He is ten years old, just shy of a proper man. Other boys his age would be preparing to try for Velaris’ army—to see if they are fit to become future warriors, or if they should search for purpose in other places throughout the city. Nyx wants to stand head and shoulders above the rest not because he thinks he is better, but because he must be to lead. A leader is at the front of his army, not hidden in the back.

In the distance, a dark dot catches Nyx’s attention. He straightens, elbowing Cassian and pointing out the movement. As it approaches, they see nothing but a lone rider in black. This is wrong. Niamh’s carriage is rarely preceded by an emissary, it simply isn’t necessary. A simple letter is more than enough. No one follows this stranger, and his steed kicks up speed at the sight of the city. Each stomp of hooves kills the ground around it, turning green to black ash. It is an omen, gloating in the disguise of a warning.

“Nyx, go to your father.” Cassian steps in front of him, blocking him from the rider.

“I said, I will wait.”

“This isn’t a game!” The warrior snaps, his blood red siphons begin to glow. “Tell them we’re under attack. Go.” He turns, shoving Nyx. “Winnow. Now.”

It hurts, and Nyx hisses. He is sensitive when it comes to being touched or struck, but he always tries to hide it. Winnowing is difficult for him. His magic is only starting to come in, and is only barely a fraction of his father’s or his mothers. The sorceresses have always said that Nyx is a late bloomer. He runs towards the castle, burdened by too many false starts. The panic and the frustration does nothing to help him, slowing him down and making him clumsier. He scrambles up the steps, sweat beading his forehead and pain shooting up his knee from where he fell on the cobblestone outside.

“Father!”

“I know,” King Rhysand says, already at his side and wearing his Illyrian leathers. “You need to hide. Follow Azriel’s shadows.”

“I can fight. I’ve built—”

“Now is not the time, Nyx.”

“I cannot leave my family behind.” There is a wisdom of a thousand years behind Nyx’s words, a shadow of the man he will become one day. “You taught me that.”

“And I cannot ask a child to uphold my responsibility.” Rhysand kneels, touching his son’s cheek.

“It shouldn’t take long,” his mother’s voice says with the utmost confidence. 

At her side, his aunts are dressed in Illyrian black. Nesta’s sword glows silver at her side, and Elain simply carries a black blindfold in her hand—her prowess lay not in the battlefield, but the things she can see beyond it. Queen Feyre grins. She kneels beside her husband and holds her arms out, asking for a hug. 

“Trust us. We’ve done this before and we do win once in a while,” she needles her son.

Nyx obliges, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “If this is not resolved by sunrise, or I do not receive news from any of you, I will be forced to intervene.” He says, looking at each of them seriously.

They do not laugh at him; they respect his determination and trust him, just as much as he trusts them. Nyx hugs Rhysand, Nesta and Elain, sending them off and following Azriel’s shadows into the food cellar. If the battle turns to war, Nyx will be well-supplied and there are many little nooks and crannies for him to hide. 

Sunrise never comes.

An army followed the black rider on the horizon made of wraiths and soulless, deathless creatures. They swarm Velaris, killing the mortal winged warriors under the Night King. Those who survive are forced into a battle of endurance against an enemy that never tires. One by one, they fall. Ataxia is swallowed by darkness. The Seer is blinded. The Cursebreaker is cleaved. All the things that had made the Archeron sisters formidable are turned against them. The Lord of Bloodshed is grounded, fighting several monsters at once, a berserker in his dying moments as red steeps into the ground beneath his boots, turning it into mud. The Shadowsinger is backed into a corner, swallowed up by darker things.

Run, he whispers to Nyx. Run as far and as fast as you can. I will find you.

The King’s final stand is a valiant one. He dives into the mind of demons, unafraid for he has shielded his son from torrents of them for all his young life. His powers are a vice grip on the wraiths, turning them against the hordes of Hybern soldiers that follow at their backs to finish off anyone these horrors have not killed. He cannot fight and control their minds.

When he falls, Nyx feels it.

The walls around his mind come tumbling down. Everything that has haunted him and hovered in the corners of his mind comes rushing to his sides. The demons claw at him, and Nyx writhes in the middle of the burning city, his escape thwarted because he is dying, he is dying, he is dying, heisdying—

Voices fill his mind along with the screams of the people he swore to protect alongside his father. Nyx picks up a sword and stands his guard against the soldiers of a nation he was taught to trust. Hybern is Niamh’s people, and she would never harm him, so why?   Where is she? She wouldn’t let this happen.

He’s too small, too powerless and too late of a bloomer to do anything. He’s hit so hard, his brain rattles in his skull. Nyx hits the ground, but not without hearing one last damnation.

Thunder claps in the middle of the night and shocks her from her sleep. She hadn’t scented the storm coming their way before bed. Else, she would have prepared herself better. The rain will be good for the Green, and if Tamlin weren’t stuck freezing his bottom off in a Winter Court diplomatic visit, he would have said so himself. Instead, he’ll grow the occasional ice blossom to reassure Niamh and Johan that he is well, but cold.

The children will be afraid.

She wraps her night robe around her waist, padding towards their rooms. There seems to be an infinite number of them, and yet, not enough. The manor has become more of an orphanage than a High Lord’s manor run by two faeries and a half who’ve never experienced the love of a good family. Not until much, much later in their lives.

Niamh pushes the door open to the first room, only to find two empty beds with the covers pulled back and the handcrafted stuffed animals gone . She peers under the beds. Empty . Their absence sends a worried flutter through her heart. She listens for the thoughts of fearful children who hear danger in the boom of the storm, but nothing.

She cannot—will not panic.

Perhaps they are with the others.

And yet, the two other shared rooms are empty as well. It’s a feeling of dread for any… guardian to wonder where her children are. Niamh balls her claws into fits and loosens them repeatedly, a very small giveaway towards her growing fear. It’s one thing to face her father and defeat the cruel Kingdom he created, but these are just babies—her babies.

Her slippers mute the padding of her steps as she hurries towards the workshop. He wasn’t in bed when she woke, so he can only be there. Johan gets so lost in his ideas, so determined to finish whatever project gets a hold of his mind that he doesn’t notice things like a thunderstorm (and the children who fear it).

“Johan!” Niamh searches for him at his workbench, but he is also missing. This cannot be. If something has taken the children, she can rest easy knowing that they have someone who can protect them at their side. 

She creeps further into the room, and relief—oh, sweet Mother, she is so relieved when she sees two bright blue eyes staring at her from the low lights of his workshop lamps. There, laying on the chaise added for the very purpose of the children’s comfort, is Johan with a pile of children atop him, sleeping soundly and cuddling one another or their toys. His metal arm is slung over them protectively, and there’s a sleepiness to his impassive expression.

“You’ll wake the children,” he drones softly.

The vice grip of anxiety in her chest loosens. 

“They came to you,” Niamh says with mild awe and reassurance. The children felt safe enough to trust him with their fears, as they should. Niamh has never doubted him; she sees the way he cares for them in little ways, albeit a little inconsistently. Her worry is that they didn’t see it. Johan is an acquired taste with his strangeness and particularities, and she means that with the utmost affection. He doesn’t play, but he will make toys for them. He doesn’t comfort, but he will kill for them. He isn’t soft, but he will hold them until the rain is over or for as long as they need.

“Of course.” Johan says, looking at her with a sarcastic question on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t go fetch them.

“Do you want me to take over?”

“Why?” He snaps. “Do I look like I’m struggling?”

“No,” Niamh laughs, finding a little sliver of couch to slide onto and curl into his side. “I was simply offering in case you needed to finish your work.”

“No,” Johan says firmly. “This is more important.”