Chapter Text
Three sisters.
The Cauldron had Made three.
Bent them into the shape of its power; molded them to be something more than human; more even, than Fae.
The first had pulled out Death. Silver flames of immortal incandescence; cold enough that they had made even the High Lord of Night go still when he had first gazed upon Nesta Archeron’s face.
The second sister had pulled in the Sight. It, too, comprised of a depthless power the High Lord could never breach himself. Eyes blazing white as Elain surrendered herself to the gift; summoning her visions as if from the very silk the Fates spun from.
The third little Archeron had been a curious mystery of her own. Had emerged with a blend of powers the High Lord could not altogether place; a heady elixir of light and dark and heat and cold, and something reeking of his own signature darkness that it made the beast within him stir. Rise up with voracious hunger to protect the wild creature he could sense prowling in the corners of her young, unguarded mind. Feyre, it growled, writhing at the serpentine coil wound deep in his chest. Feyre, my sweetling. My m —
The powers of all three sisters had called to the High Lord of Night from the moment they’d been spat out of the Cauldron’s depth’s, sodden and leaking upon the Hybern King’s floor. They’d slammed into his own well of terrible might; coiled and screaming with primal urgency to be met. Taunted him as he’d taken them under his wardship; poked and prodded at the somber mask he’d been forced to wear as their guardian.
Protector. Provider. Inheritor of a terrible strength.
It had haunted Rhysand endless nights, what he could do with that power.
What these females could do for his Court.
“Do you know why I’ve called you here tonight, sweetlings?” Rhys inquiries, regarding the three girls patiently.
He'd summoned them to his lower court; a first in the long years they'd been under his careful watch. Usually, he keeps them cosseted away in the House of the Wind, away from prying eyes and ears. But now, as they stand primly in his Court of Nightmares, he wonders why he’d been so remiss in showing them the real seat of his power; allowed them to bask in the redolent, immutable well of his might.
They shake their heads, and Rhys’s mouth curves as he watches them squirm.
He's not oblivious to how the sisters had begun responding to him as they’d come into maturity; each female subtly greedy for her High Lord's presence.
He’d caught Nesta first. Delicately sniffing at his leathers several months ago when she'd been training with Cassian. Rhys had initially written it off as disgust; a female catching the unsubtle stink of Ilyrian males in their primacy. But when she'd sidled closer to his pile of discarded gear, inhaling deeply with an almost imperceptible sigh, he'd seen it for what it was. The unmistakable acknowledgement of his scent; a natural submission to the power within it.
Elain, he’d caught wearing his boots. Sighing contentedly as she’d worked the gardens, small feet swimming in his large, worn shoes as she'd been bent over, working a small garden bed. He hadn't interrupted. Simply watched, amused, as she'd dug her heels deeper, as if she could somehow imprint him onto her.
And Feyre — sweet little Feyre — he'd found in his closet. Nose pressed to his shirts; greedily inhaling his scent as she slept atop his laundry one evening. His heart had nearly broken with how tightly she'd been clutching at his clothing; as if ready at any moment for them to be wrenched from her grasp. The last little sister; always forgotten; always left wanting.
Impulsively, he'd smoothed a hand over her brow. Preened as she'd turned into his caress, a softly murmured papa nearly sending him to his knees.
He sees that longing subtly building now as the girls watch him. Needy and aching in their innocence as they stand in his chambers, confused as to why their guardian had summarily called them to his Court of Nightmares for the first time since he’d brought them under his guardianship.
He’d raised them, coddled them, indulged them — and now it was time for them to see what he’d done it for.
”Look,” he encourages, bidding their gaze down. They’re in a small, flat alcove carved high above the rock, the entirety of the court and its people laid out before them. “Can you see it?”
Feyre shakes her head. “See what, papa?”
He tucks his fingers beneath her chin. “The future, darling.”
Regards each of them carefully. “You each have a duty to this Court. To help it grow. Survive. You want to help this Court, don’t you?”
“Yes papa,” Feyre nods eagerly.
“Good,” he murmurs, pleased at the simple acquiescence. Sinks into the large throne carved into the black stone and beckons them forward. “Come.”
The younger two clamber obediently towards him: Elain hopping up onto his right knee, Feyre on his left. Nesta takes longer; arms crossed in mulish defiance as she stands before him, eyeing her two sisters cautiously. She’s wearing that look of ill-content she’s adopted of late, and Rhys can’t decide whether it’s a hindrance or a provocation.
She’s old enough to have witnessed what happens in the Illyrian camps; hazards she might already guess at what he wishes.
No matter.
He’ll just have to train it out of her.
“When the time comes, I expect you to carry out your duties without hesitation,” he says, smoothing a hand over Feyre’s head. He can see it's on the tip of Feyre's tongue to ask what, exactly, her papa expects of her.
But it's Nesta — arrogant, spiteful Nesta — who moves in between his spread knees, body coiled like a serpent. “We're not whores to be summoned at your beck and call,” she sneers.
“No,” he accedes, eyeing the eldest Archeron evenly. “Whores have a choice.”
He smooths a hand down Elain's back; the other along Feyre's flank where she's curled atop his thigh. “This is the bargain each of you made the day you were brought to me. The arrangement that has kept you here. You know what happens to those who refuse my bargains, Lady Death?”
She holds his gaze; that terrible, cold fire within her flaring until it’s an incandescent blaze; searing in its frigidity.
Then, in a blink, it’s gone. Banked by the fear he can smell at the sight of his monstrous shadows rising behind him; ebony coils snapping in threat and retribution. There’s terror in the eldest Archeron’s face, but beneath, another scent — subtle, and unmistakable. Curiosity. Of what it would mean, exactly, to fulfill that duty. To make use of her incalculable power in his Court.
Satisfaction coils through Rhys at the thought.
Something of their unspoken battle must leak into the air, for Feyre suddenly growls; snaggletooth catching her bottom lip as she digs her fists into Rhys’s lapels. “Mine,” she bites out petulantly. Snuggles closer, nose falling into the crook of his neck. “My papa.”
Rhysand can’t help the indulgent smile that crosses his face as he looks down at her. He’s overly fond of the littlest Archeron in particular. Feels that familiar tug in his ribs; can almost see the tether, golden and shining —
The other two, he’ll rut out of necessity.
But Feyre — he’ll enjoy breeding last, and longest.