For days, both Rhys and Feyre had tried to convince him – to trick him, really – to let them help, but such efforts were often met with unimpressed looks and, at one specific time, a cold shoulder that had lasted until he had forgotten about it (which is to say ten minutes later).

Mor, too, had apparently been unsuccessful. When she had taken him shopping, Nyx had returned with a pleased smile on his face, his hands remarkably empty of any bags or gifts. Mor, for one, had slumped against the couch in defeat, looking at both Rhys and Feyre with a desperate sort of look on her face.

“He couldn’t be more your child if he tried.” She had said.

And that had been that.

As Feyre watched her son make his way towards her and Rhys, she finally understood why, exactly, Mor thought so.

In his hands was a too large, poorly-wrapped present – a clear sign he had refused any help yet again – but on his face pride shone as brightly as the stars in his eyes. It was obvious how proud of himself he was, just as it was obvious how much he wanted to make his family happy. By the delighted look on everyone’s faces when they had each received their gifts, there was no doubt in Feyre’s mind he had achieved exactly that.

Laughter had been a steady companion throughout the night as Nyx handed out his presents – his favourite book for Nesta (even though Feyre wondered what book Rhys would now read to him before bedtime), his favourite toy for Cassian (which he was only allowed to play with, with Nyx), an invisibility blanket for Azriel (“for the garden” he had said, and though it had made no sense to Feyre or Rhys, the blush on the Shadowsinger’s cheeks hadn’t gone unnoticed) and a beautiful silver comb for Mor (Feyre was slightly relieved she had finally found her favourite comb, even if a little upset it now apparently belonged to Mor).

As Feyre and Rhys opened their gift, however, tears filled everyone's eyes.

On the canvas in front of them was a painting of their family. Morrigan, with her blonde hair and red dress; Amren, her frame purposely short in a way that ought to make her complain about it in the future; Cassian and Nesta were side by side on one side of the canvas, while Elain and Azriel stood together on the other. In the middle stood Feyre - hair so long it nearly brushed the ground - and Rhys - a cheeky smile on his face and only one wing on display. Nyx, naturally, stood in the middle of them all, a full set of teeth grinning instead of the toothy grin he now gave them, waiting for everyone's reactions with a bated breath. In the night sky surrounded by them, the word Family was written in a sloppy scrawl that could only belong to Nyx - a word Feyre knew he had only learned to write a few weeks ago due to the insistent teachings of his dad.

“You painted this alone, my love?” Feyre asked, pride burning hot inside her chest.

Nyx smiled sheepishly. “Aunt Mor helped.”

Mor quickly objected. “I only helped him line the figures. In fact, he pretty much kicked me out of the room the second I offered to help him prepare whatever colours he needed.” She said, smiling knowingly at Nyx.

"Can I hang it in my office?" Rhys asked. 

Nyx's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Of course, love." Rhys kissed his temple. "It'd be an honour." 

Nyx smiled sheepishly at his dad, his cheeks rosy at the rising excitement surrounding him. Feyre pressed a kiss to his head before he ran off to hand Elain her gift. She could only watch him, something akin to wonder on her face as she watched him Her little boy who had a heart so big he had decided to give everyone a meaningful gift; who was already so independent he had decided to do it all on his own.

I really think we did. And what a blessing it was to see their son become everything that was good about Rhys, everything that was good about her.

We did good with him, didn't we? Rhysand's voice was as proud as she felt.