Rhysand often found himself up late at night. In his youth it was a fascination with the stars, a desire to stay up past bedtime and push his mother's buttons. It was a habit he never got out of. Staying up late to think and fly.

But it had been a long time since he would sneak out the House of Wind's windows. A longer time still since his mother would chase after him, only to end up flying the night away with him and later his sister.

Of course in his wild youth late nights were spent drinking with Cassian and Azriel, getting into brawls and bedding anything that walked. Mother it was such a simpler time. One he longed for desperately. To have his brothers by his side, no worries expect relationship drama and where the next party would be. It was the one time in his life where people actually expected him to shirk his duties.

It was a liberating experience. To have every noble roll their eyes fondly at his antics instead of sneering in disapproval. Indeed, even his mother's disapproving gaze had been swapped out for indulgent smiles. Not that they last of course. She was never one to let him grow too full of himself. No, Rhysand's mother had certainly put him in his place when needed.

He distinctly remembers one particular night of merriment that had left him and Cassian in the same bed with the same nymph girl only for Azriel to rat them out. And oh how his mother had been furious. He didn't understand at the time, wondering why she decided now of all times to suddenly disapprove of his relationships when she was perfectly fine with it earlier. It was only after the Morrigan situation that he realised she was protecting Cassian not him.

Because that Nymph was a certain diplomat's daughter. As a High Lord's son and heir he was a perfectly acceptable choice in partner or rather someone to have a dalliance with. If word had got out about her sleeping with a nameless Illyrian grunt with no lineage or fortune there would have been hell to pay.

Not that it matters anymore. Not with him being High Lord and Cassian General. They could be with whoever they wanted and not fear the consequences. Of course there would be judgement and social pressure, but no one would hunt his brother's down for sleeping with the wrong person. Sleeping with the wrong person and having their blood. No. No one would hunt his brother's down again.

Now that he was in power again things would be different, starting with this meeting.

So here he was, long after Feyre went to bed and his brother's slunk off to wherever Elain has them roosting, writing up another redraft of Feyre's letter. It was sweet that she wanted to write it, because it would be better coming from her but now he had to tweak the words a little. Rhys tried, he really did try to help Feyre write it. But this has the fate of their little mission resting on it and every detail, persuasive technique and word needs to be carefully thought out and planned.

She got the meat of it done, for that he's grateful. Now he's just nit picking and tweaking.

Which is a long and tedious process so, no. Since he became High Lord late nights were spent finishing paperwork and having full nights of sleep instead of gallivanting in the lower cities away from the high streets and upper class houses. There was no longer room in his life for pub crawls and cock fights. Especially considering he was playing a whole new game of dick measuring at every meeting.

It was all about power. Sometimes intelligence but they all craved power even when they didn't understand what that would entail.

Rhys sighs, placing down his second glass of whiskey. He wouldn't have anymore, even if his fae body would burn through the alcohol it wasn't a risk worth taking in the human realm. There was also something to be said about class and dignity but he was too... exhausted to care.

No. Not exhausted. Lonely.

A longing glance at a sleeping Feyre was all he allowed himself before sliding from the room. Stupid. So very fucking stupid of him to be around her like this. To just openly taunt himself with the one thing he didn't deserve.

She deserved far better than him.

Before he knows it Rhys is out the door and striding down the hall. Idiotic, moronic fool, he can't help but curse himself. Of all the inept and abysmal ideas he's ever had of course he decided to involve Feyre and her family. Her innocent family despite all he thinks of them. Because when it comes down to it they are. Yes they were cruel to feyre, yes they were selfish but when your backs are against the wall like theirs were of course you're only going to look after yourself.

Mother knows he did the same.

Not that it makes it any easier to be in their home. To walk around looking at the proof of their mortality, Feyre's mortality she still had under the mountain. A shudder runs down his spine at the thought. She was so fragile. As delicate as her sisters are now.

War would crush them. They have no defences, not even an idea about what sort of enemy they face. No, the Archerons were something but they weren't evil and they truly didn't deserve whatever fate he had brought to their homes with his mere presence.

Turning back to Feyre and his shared room Rhys takes a steadying breath, prepared to call this whole thing off and find another way. An abandoned manor perhaps, a neutral ground with no host or maybe more... cruel host so he would feel less guilty about abusing their kindness.

The plan is forming in his mind, muddy and unclear but the beginnings of it building in his late night haze before a whimper has him halting in his tracks. Pausing, Rhys listens. Head tilting to the side slightly, observing his surroundings as he sends out a slither of magic to scan the area. For a moment he thinks it was nothing more than a tired mind playing tricks on him again until the sound comes back, louder this time. Not just louder, but sharper too - more high pitched.

Some instinct, old and ancient, has him moving before he's even registered the third whimper laced with a sob. The room is dark when he enters, the curtains only open enough to let in a slither of light that lands on the end of the bed. A large four poster monstrosity filled with pillows, blankets and a mountain of toys that carries a family scent. Yet sweeter, younger.

Rhys pauses in the doorway, willing the shadows to surround him, hiding him from view as he takes in the scene before him. Or rather the small human staring back at him. The poor thing sniffles, its fear tangible in the air as it - he - cling to a small soft toy. A toy that has a soft smile blooming on Rhys' face. Inexplicably the dark bat with purple embellishments brings back memories of his youth. Of his little sister scared of the dark and begging her brother to check the wardrobe for monsters.

The boy whimpers once more and Rhys startles in response. What he thought was just mere coincidence turned out to be a tracking gaze. He could see him. Through the shadows and glamour the little boy could see him. Or... Rhys paused, sniffing the air delicately as his eyebrows raised in surprise.

Of course.

Isabella's son. The only person in this house other than her most likely to see through his magic.

"Hello." He murmurs, voice soft and low in a way he barely recognises.

Unsurprisingly the boy only whimpers in response so Rhys steps closer, into the light and out of the shadow. There was no need to play monster when in the presence of a child. A subtly flick of his wrist has his magic straining to slowly pull back the drapes on the window. The extra light is a blessed relief when it seems to capture the little bat's attention and distract him long enough for Rhys to place a stronger glamour on his fae ears and a damper on his powers.

"What's got you up so late at night?" He keeps the question light, not wanting to scare the boy when it was obvious he had some kind of bad dream. Except the boy most definitely has no intention of talking if the scared and shy demeanour is anything to go by. Rhys honestly considers leaving, knowing he's trespassing and stepping on so many social rules that its unbelievable but- but he knows that look.

He's seen it in Azriel's eyes, in Cassian's and countless other soldiers. Including his own and and Feyre's, whose confused nose scrunch seems to be haunting him in the form of her nephew.

"Well I'm up late because I had lots to think about." He begins conversationally, taking a seat at the very far corner of the bed. The furthest away from the boy and leaning against the post. "Lots of adult decisions to make."

His exaggerated eye roll seems to spark a curious look in the little boy's eyes and he once more thinks about leaving. He's here to make a deal, a bargain with the queens. Not to make friends with human children. Rhy once again curses his stupid trauma and ability to connect with children better than adults.

"There's these scary women I need to talk with. You know... " Rhys pauses, thinking of a suitable description to make the boy smile. "Like those governesses." Definitely the wrong thing to say because the boy frowns in confusion and Rhys is once again reminded that this house of luxury isn't his home. That he no doubt lives in the same conditions his brother's once did. "Essentially they're going to judge my manners and table etiquette." He thinks that might have been a too fancy word for the boy's age but he swears the little kid sniggers at his complaint. "And then I'll have to sit through hours of their conversations where I just 'catch up'. " Oh yeah, the kid recognises that phrase.

Soon, Rhys finds himself drifting into a one sided conversation with the small human. A watered down version of his current problems and a story about the evil villain who loves the pretty hero later and the kid has stopped crying and whimpering. The scent of fear has been replaced with curiosity and mild amusement. Rhys doesn't think the kid is actually amused by his story about night court politics and love but rather finds his irritated reactions and funny voices hilarious.

It had been a cute skill in his youth, a way to make all the court mother's coo at him in approval. It certainly helped when he had his sister but his mother cou;d never understand why he could connect to and entertain children so easily when conversation with children his own age seemed foreign to him.

Simple truth is that kids are just blunt.

Innocent little hellions that will say what they see and even their insults and intentional cruelties are gentler and laced with care. Of course that only last to teenagerhood where they become budding psychopaths.

"Where's your mum?" The question has him wincing. Isabelle might kill him for this. Nesta certainly would but the mother seemed docile enough at dinner till provoked. He knew a cornered animal when he saw one and going near her cub was an absolutely suicidal idea. "Shall I go get her..." Silence but the boy tentatively bites his lip. Rhy hides his triumphant smile at the small victory. "Maybe she'll read you a story."

That certainly does the trick. Eyes lighting up and a suppressed smile gives Rhys all the answers he needs. But the boy pauses and the sadness that sinks into the little bat's eyes is enough to have Rhys' heart clenching.

"Mummys sad." if it weren't for his fae hearing he would have never caught the words.

"I always find that a hug makes me feel better when I'm sad." He comments, heavily implying that his mum - or rather the little boy who still seems to have forgotten his previously terrifying nightmare - would love a hug. "Or maybe a hug and a chunk of chocolate."

There's no smile in response and Rhys frowns. The boy perfectly enjoyed his story about the time he and his brother snuck into the kitchens and proceeded to act as spies in an attempt to smuggle out donuts. He'd actually smiled at that story.

"We don't have any chocolate." Well now he feels like an arsehole.

"I could get you some." He answers somewhat lamely and then pauses at his own words. He distinctly remembers a stranger danger conversation with his mother.

"She doesn't like talking when she's by her tree." Rhys tries to bite down his sudden flare of anger and outrage of a boy this age already knowing his mum doesn't like to spoken too when she's at a certain place. He couldn;t imagine ever telling his kid not to talk to him or not to bother him to the point of never interrupting even when he has a nightmare. Sure, Rhys understands that a place to work and some time away from everything is necessary but there is such a weight on his small shoulders that Rhys wants to scream at Isabella.

"Well how about I go find her." It seems to be an irrelevant question because the boy has already begun to drift off to sleep. If he was honest with himself then Rhys would acknowledge that the boy had been dozing off in many of his stories but for a moment it had felt like he was with his sister again. Like it was just one of those days at training with cassian and azriel and he felt the need to vent his problems in roundabout stories and metaphors until his sister fell asleep to his version of a bedtime story.

Before the guilt can weigh him down Rhys rises to his feet, sleeping out the bedroom silently with one last look to check that the boy is indeed asleep. Some sad nestles into his chest, into his heart. He misses that feeling. That sense of family.

And then Rhys sees Isabella outside in the cold, wrapped in a blanket as she sits on a bench beneath a large oak. There's something so solitary about her that a wave of pity washes over him. She left her sisters in poverty, dreaming of a better, more comfortable life where she could start her own family and yet here she sits. Husband at home and her son waking from nightmares as she remains oblivious.

But if this is the fate she has earnt for abandoning her sisters then why something feel so out of place in it all?

A/N: Thoughts on Rhys here?