His hands shook sometimes; that was how she could tell when he was thinking of his father. Then he would squeeze his fists until his hands turned white and the tremors stopped.
She'd seen it in meetings with old loyalists or when he stared at the portraits and carvings honouring the Vanserra legacy, and once after she had told him she was pregnant.
One night the tremors had climbed up his arms and rattled his bones until his body began to curl in on itself. Cresseida had never been so afraid as when she found him on the floor, reached for him and felt ice, not fire. Or so scornful at her own magic for not being able to fan his flame; but she had tried, had breathed warm citrus air into his lungs and reached deep enough to push and pull the very blood in his veins.
And when he'd come to, he'd reached those trembling hands towards her.
They still shook now, a century later, every time he was forced to grapple with some terrible decision, or he woke from dreams of fire and blood. But they were steady, sure, unafraid when they cupped Rowan's face, braided Amber's hair, or brought Cresseida's own to his lips and whispered, 'thank you'.
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thank you for the ask, i hope you don't mind me picking this super niche pairing
“Hi.” was what he’d first said to her the day they met. Now and then.
Encompassed the extent of most of their conversations, actually.
Though once, at one of Feyre’s games, he’d arrived late and asked nebulously for the score. She’d answered, “Ten, nil.” And the words had stuck with him, probably because no one from Prythian really used the word ‘nil’.
Years later, Tarquin sat in the underground airport parking, still an hour early. He listened to the radio warn about a possible storm passing through in a day or two; the last dregs of hurricane season before summer settled and Adriata flooded with tourists.
He picked up his phone and checked – for the fifth time that morning – the post he’d screenshot from Cresseida’s feed: a woman in a fur hat and coat, standing before a statue of soldiers in Rask.
He couldn’t read the caption, written in Scythian and screenshot before he’d thought to translate it. Though two attempts to find out had led him to the last man hanged by the Scythian monarchy two years before it was overthrown.
He zoomed in on her face, tried to commit the details to memory.
It was stupid. He'd already made a sign with her name on it so there was no way they’d miss each other. But because – in all the time he’d known her personally – he couldn’t remember actually seeing Nesta Archeron smile in person, the person in the picture was even more unknown to him than the stranger he was waiting for.
He’d been a freshman at PNU when he met Feyre and Lucien, and through them, their older siblings, Elain and Marcel.
But it had been through his own cousin, that he’d met Nesta, then Cresseida’s roommate, and Eris, now Cresseida’s fiance.
They’d been equally intimidating figures.
Nesta in particular had been so unlike her sisters – lacking Feyre’s playful charm and Elain’s calming warmth – that he, always a little more reserved than his friends, had only said one word to her. And hesitated about, or outright avoided, any interaction after.
Eris at least shared Lucien’s sardonic wit and sometimes wrangled Tarquin into a joke to get under Cresseida’s skin. In retrospect, his affection had been almost embarrassingly obvious. But for a while, Cresseida hadn’t been a fan of either, said Nesta was blunt and unsociable and that Eris was an arrogant asshole. The three of them locked into a tense academic rivalry.
So for the year and a half, he and Cresseida – three years ahead – had both attended PNU, he’d not interacted with Nesta much, outside of the occasional run in or match attendance.
But something had changed soon after Cresseida and Nesta had started their master’s programme, and even after the eldest Archeron had dropped out, the two had remained in touch.
Subsequently, his dealings with Nesta Archeron had remained minimal. Until now.
Now, he was about to pick her up and take her to his apartment, where he was going to have to live with her until they left for the island where Cresseida's wedding would be held.
A week. A week with a woman he barely knew and still hadn't managed to hold even a text conversation with.
His stomach tightened and he checked the picture. Again. The sixth time that morning.
///
Nesta Archeron flew into Adriata two weeks before Cresseida’s wedding; decidedly done with the last leg of her attempt to live, love, laugh her way through her breakup.
She carried all she owned with her; an entire life boiled down to the mismatched luggage set piled onto her cart. A sorry contrast to the mountain of baggage she’d been trying to escape.
The humid, tropical air hit her before she’d even exited the busy airport. It wasn’t too much of a shock after a year in Bharat, actually reminded her of the sweltering summers of her childhood, but six wonderful months in Rask and so many less wonderful years in Velaris had baked an appreciation for winter into her bones.
In all honesty, it was the only thing she actually missed.
Nesta pushed her cart forward, finding herself thankful for the unexpected three day lay over in Montesere that had broken her jet lag and exhaustion.
Cool and comfortable in the dark blue lounge set she’d bought, unwilling to cut through the saran wrap she’d bound her bags in, she’d managed to freshen up her perfume and makeup before disembarking the plane. Wore it like armour; proof she’d survived ripping her own heart from her chest, and that she’d survive whatever else came her way.
Including this wedding.
And the underboob sweat she knew was coming.
She checked her phone, pleased she’d arrived on time after so many complications. There was a message from Tarquin, one of only six exchanges made since she’d gotten his contact details a week ago.
Here 🙂 wearing an orange Phoenix jersey.
She was glad for message and the sign that held her name when she spotted it. Not that she would have needed either.
He literally stuck out among waiting crowd, and she'd remembered he played basketball in college. And though their features were as varied as any cousins might be, contrasted especially since the twins were unmistakable in their resemblance; he, Cresseida and Varian shared the same cool toned dark skin.
He smiled when he spotted her. Not happily, but in that way that some people did. Politely. He’d always fallen under that category she classed so few in: kind. Tarquin was kind.
And when he said, "Hi." she remembered that too.
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super shy x neurodivergent, guess who's who
dont ask me why I wrote this when I have 7 thousand other things to be working on, I just needed it 😔
Still interested in writing something for Eris/Cresseida? What about a scene when they decide to get married? Or just anything with them
💚
"You're serious?" Cresseida cocked a white haired brow, bangled arms crossed as she angled slightly towards Eris.
He leaned against a marble pillar, tall, pale skinned, bright haired, tightly wrapped in burgundy clothing. A contrast to her own dark skin, white hair and vibrant cerulean slip of a silk dress.
She half expected him to shrug, he always played close enough to the edge to back out of the game. But he turned to her, golden eyed and...earnest.
Cresseida shifted on her feet, "You really are serious." The repercussions were immense, both in their appeal and in their risk.
A marriage between them would cross a line drawn as much in blood as it was on a map. Amarantha had forbade inter-court marriages for just this reason. And before her, the families had found themselves too much at odds, locked in unending power struggles.
But now Rhysand, with three Made Fae at his back, moved to impose his will over all of Prythian. And Lucien wrestled with Day and Autumn in his blood.
Everything had changed, an alliance between the seasonal courts might save them but Winter-
"Don't."
Cresseida pulled herself from the board in her mind and met the Autumn Prince's golden gaze, finding again that strange sincerity. "This isn't something to be taken lightly, Eris."
"No, it's not." He agreed, taking his hand from his pocket and closed the gap between them; reaching for her, the calloused pad of this thumb ghosted over the wrinkled space between her brows. "Marriage is more than an alliance. I already know what the Princess of Adriata thinks, I want to know what you think."
Her walls were a second skin, existing without thought. They protected her heart as much as they did her people. Cresseida had been untrusting of even Tarquin at first. And then when her brother had left, abandoned his duty...and her, for them...
So how now had she come to trust Eris Vanserra, to let her muscles ease and her eyes reflect the uncertainty and hope she felt inside?
"Where would we even live?" Her own words surprised her and she saw his face quirk, an almost laugh.
"I'd build you a palace on the border if you like. A west wing in Summer and east in Autumn."
"Realistically, we'd need to establish an integrated household for that, including an army and while I trust your experience-"
The brush of his lips against hers stole the breath from her lungs, killed the words on her lips and ignited a fire in her gut.
They'd tiptoed around this. Flirted and fought with their words, danced so close they shared breath but never...
She tilted her face, angled for another kiss and almost moaned when he pulled her close and gave her everything she'd wanted and so much more.
She pulled back with a grin tugging at her lips as he chased her mouth, "I thought you wanted to know what I think."
"I do," his eyes still lingered on her mouth for a second before they met hers. She fought a smirk and signalled for him to continue.
"You think a palace on the border is perfect for centralising power and that consolidating our armies will help to secure Spring's border too." A frown tugged at her lips and his gaze dipped to them once more before he continued, "You think that because you can't help it. You're the Princess. You can't escape that part of yourself anymore than I can. Which is why you trust me to think the same. To work with you for the benefits. And you're right... But you also know that's not the only reason I asked."
She did know. She felt it as well as he did. Saw her chance at something more with him. Cresseida once again put away the armour of the Princess, let her heart be vulnerable and trusted Eris Vanserra, "Then you already know my answer."
Sometimes, Eris wondered if it had been Cresseida born to Autumn, not him.
She moved with a practiced grace that all at once threatened and beguiled; with hair like aspen, skin like mahogany, eyes like honey and a tongue like a silver blade - she was Autumn personified.
Which made it all the more comical when she sneezed so hard, Eris thought her corset might pop open.
They stood in their bedroom, already dressed to attend the evening's ball but - as they had made a habit of - allowed themselves time alone before setting out.
The habit had been born out of the conspiratorial nature of their marriage, but now, months later - even with most of their troubles solved, or deceased - they had not made any moves to break from the routine.
His mouth quirked, almost smirking as his wife frowned, hands smoothing over her intricately embroidered bodice, as if she too worried it might have ripped.
Eris glided across the room, to the vanity she had flooded with pearls and shells, to find the vial of medicine he'd asked the royal healer to concoct to combat the temporary stress on Cresseida's summery constitution.
She blushed when he approached with it, still embarrassed at the difficulty she was having. But a few drops and her senses would be soothed for half a day at least.
She'd gotten a rash the first week in Autumn, not used to wearing velvet, wool and fur. So Eris had ordered her undergarments and hosiery of summer silk to protect her skin.
She'd lost weight a month later. And he had ordered lemons, pineapples and mangoes to be made into desserts.
They were, to him, small and almost insignificant actions but they had changed the way the Princess saw him, softened her in some ways, moved her to see him in a light beyond ally, beyond possible friend and lifetime companion.
The idea of a wife was something Eris had had a complicated relationship with. From before he'd been old enough to truly understand it, he had rejected the notion of living the way his parents had. The rejection had been a violent thing born in fear and had caused him to act out, even at the expense of another.
With time, he'd come to accept the idea of a ward of sorts, an asset if not an ally.
But this, whatever it was, was something he had not let himself imagine. Not quite love but rooted deep in him, blooming quiet and unseen.
He moved to place a white fur stole around her, matching her hair but contrasting beautifully with her brown skin and the blood orange dress she wore.
He dipped his head, slow but not hesitant, to place a kiss at her shoulder as he clasped his arms around her and let the heat of his body rise as it pressed against hers.
Then another at her neck, resisting the urge to suckle and bite when he felt as much as heard her sigh.
It made her blush when his hands and eyes lingered like this. The reactions alone would have been interesting enough to encourage he continue, but the truth was he'd become accustomed to her. He found himself wanting her more and more, even just in presence.
It felt natural, felt right, to reach out, to bring her near and share his warmth. To seek her opinion beyond the next steps of allying with Winter or adding a regiment to the southern border.
They had begun to turn to each other with barely veiled exasperation during their difficult dealings with what remained of his father's loyalists. Sighs building in synchronization. Chuckles and nicknames for the rigid old fools now passed between them as easily as plans for the integration of border towns did.
And they sought tentative approval in each other and felt budding pride at how, as time went, smiles came easily, victories built into noticeable change and the distance between them seemed to burn away.
She was not of Autumn and perhaps she would always be chased by chills, but Eris knew now that Cresseida would seek his warmth to ward off the cold, and that he would be waiting with open arms every time she did.
*
It's not much but I had to do something, everyone has been so nice, building this ship from the ground up with me.
Inspired by ideas from @feynessupremacy, @katymckateface as well as this art by @kvitkapaporoti1
