Arcane Pt4 - Eris Vanserra x Unnamed OC
Eris’s best kept secret is infiltrated.
No use of y/n
WC: 1634
Warnings: Angst
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 (end)
It had been an hour. No words had been spoken. No questions. Rhysand had only left the room briefly to pull a chair for himself in. Azriel still stands stoic and emotionless in the corner, shadows swirling. Feyre and Madja still tended to the broken body before him. Eris hadn’t shifted in his seat, nor had he taken his eyes away from his mate. His tears and panic had subsided, and a meager attempt at his usual mask of indifference had been implemented. There was no use, he knew. The inner circle had already seen him as he was. The charade was over. His father knew of his indiscretions. The Night Court knew of his soul.
Footsteps on the other side of the door have Eris on edge, quickly rising from the chair. Hand on hilt, he takes a step to shield his mate and the two women tending her. Rhysand takes one step toward Eris, hands raised as if to say, “It’s okay.” Azriel remains unmoved and unconcerned when the door cracks open and the familiar figure of his youngest brother enters. Long red hair frames a scarred face. Mixed eyes, russet and mechanical gold, meet Eris’s amber. And with a sad smile, Lucien takes a singular glance toward the body on the table behind him and rests against the unoccupied wall across from the spymaster.
“You’ve made quite the mess of things, brother. You should know better.” Eris’s grip on his sword falls as he examines his brother. Unharmed, though shadows have made a home underneath his eyes. Shaking his head, he takes his seat again, eyes finding their home on his mate and the healer. Feyre, who had yet to say a word or glance in his direction, now stood next to Rhysand. Taking a break, he surmises. Madja is still at work, gentle magic fleeing her fingertips and bringing color back to his mate’s skin. The burns have subsided exponentially.
“How many of my brothers remain breathing?” Lucien asks.
“Bastian lives.” From his peripheral, he sees Lucien give a small smile. Bastian, who was less Vanserra than any of them. Mild-mannered and even-tempered, he was rarely involved in the malignancy of the court. Hopefully, Eris would not need to kill him upon his return to Autumn. It was a problem for later, he thinks. His mind is stretched too thin to strategize. Not while his mate still lay unconscious. A few moments of silence pass between them before Lucien prods at his oldest brother further.
“You should have known better, Eris. After Jesminda-”
“Do not speak of which you do not know, brother.” Eris cuts off, temper rising. Lucien’s jaw clenches, hands wringing together in an effort to hold his tongue. An uncomfortable quiet falls over the room once more as Lucien examines his brother’s mate. With a tilt of his head, he looks back to Eris.
“I recognize her.” A solemn smile rests on Eris’s lips in response.
“She adored you.” When Lucien had been but a babe, not yet old enough to hold a bow on his own, Eris would take him to the border to play in the forests. She’d be there with a wild smile, ready to chase him through the trees and toss him in the air. For every four days over a few short years, she’d doted on the young male as if he were her own. She’d been heartbroken when Eris deemed Lucien old enough to pose a threat to her. They’d fought over his descision, but Beron’s influence had begun to take hold of the boy. Eris would not risk it.
“You said she left the court. Emigrated to Summer.”
“You started asking questions.” Eris explains.
“I wouldn’t have told them.” Shaking his head, Lucien leans forward with his hands on his knees. “I would not have put her in danger.”
“I could not trust you, Lucien. You were so young. You would have led them to her. I would not allow it.” Lucien takes a deep breath, carefully picking his next words before he responds.
“I know now what you did for me and what you tried to do for Jesminda. And I thank you for it.” Eris nods his head in acknowledgment, hiding his surprise at his brothers thanks. A few more beats of silence follow before Lucien breaks the reprieve once more.
“She’d run with me, wouldn’t she? Chase me through the forest until I was too tired to walk on my own. That was so long ago, Eris. I was a boy.” He shakes his head once more before continuing, “For how long did you hide her?”
“Two hundred years.” Lucien does not respond, and the quiet that follows lasts for another hour. At some point, Azriel and Lucien left the room. Feyre had done her part, it seems, and had taken to her own chair next to Rhysand, who still rests silently. It’s Madja who finally breaks the silence, addressing Eris as she begins to pack away her tonics, potions, and bloody supplies.
“Her internal injuries have mostly healed. The burns have faded but will remain permanent. She will likely rest through the night, and she’ll wake in pain, but she will recover.” A breath of relief escapes Eris as he stands, stepping to the healer to grasp her hands in his.
“Thank you, Madja.” She responds in kind, patting his hand with hers as she nods in reply.
“Clean her,” she says as she moves to the door, “and be with her when she wakes.” Nodding his head, Eris takes Madja’s place at the table. It’s the closest he’s been to her in hours, and his breath shudders in his chest at the sight of her. Her skin is ashen, mottled with puckered red burn scars. Madja and Feyre had healed the deepest cuts on her arms and chest, leaving just the smallest marks and bruises that would heal with time. They’d wiped away most of the blood, but some remained on her skin and torn dress. He crouches to his knees beside her, a shaking hand rising to brush a wisp of hair away from her face. He pets her hair gently before he finds her cheek; her skin is warmer than before but still so cold. He allows his heat to escape him, warming her ashen skin slowly.
“My love,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry.” His voice is choked, and his audience is forgotten as he examines her. He aches to see her eyes and hear her voice. He takes her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a chaste kiss before he returns to gently running his hands over her skin. She’s still so cold. She hates the cold, he thinks. He startles when his concentration is broken, Feyre stepping into his line of vision, but does not stop his soft movements against his mate’s skin.
“We have prepared a room for her here as she recovers. You may stay with her, Eris, until she is well.”
“Thank you. All of you.” Feyre nods in response, motioning her head toward the door.
“Follow me.”
Feyre assisted him with the task of bathing his mate. Once she’d been settled in the grand guest room, the two were finally left alone. He’d bathed quickly in the connecting chambers, accepting the clothes offered to him by Feyre before returning to her side. He took his spot next to her on the plush bed, sliding under the covers and ensuring her warmth. Hours were spent watching the rise and fall of her chest. Watching as color returned to her ashen skin. His hands never strayed from her body. Gently caressing her hair, her face, and her arms.
As the hours continue to pass, he finds himself growing tired. His mind begins to race, worrying about what’s to come. He will soon be facing his father once more. His remaining brother. His mother—gods, his mother. What will she think? What will she have to say? Has Beron taken his anger at Eris out on her once again? His most worrisome thought, though, is how he will keep his mate safe once she heals. The Night Court has offered him more than he could have hoped for, but their mercy will run out. Eris has spent hundreds of years ensuring that. Their grace today relied upon their belief that his mate should not have to pay for his actions.
His fingers pace gentle patterns upon her hand, his eyes examining the new burn scars with intensity. He pulls her hand to his lips once more, another chaste kiss upon her skin, another whispered apology escaping him. Another tear rolls down his face.
“I’m so sorry, my love. Forgive me.” He closes his eyes, resting his head above hers.
“There’s nothing to forgive.” His heart stops beating, and his lungs falter at the sound of her voice. So hoarse, so broken, and so beautiful. He lifts his head, immediately taking her face in his hands. Her eyes are heavy lidded, but his tears renew as they meet his. Her hand raises to grasp at his hand on her cheek.
“Do not cry for me, my love.” He laughs, a bright smile overtaking him. A sob escapes him as he leans forward, a chaste kiss against her brow. His shoulders shake as he kisses her cheek. His chest heaves when he kisses her paradisiac lips.
“Are you okay? What do you need?” He pulls away, ready to serve her. “Water? Are you in pain?” She instead shushes him, a weak hand grasping his to pull him back to her.
“Water,” she croaks, “and your brothers heads on a golden platter.” His sobs turn to laughter, and after pressing another kiss on her brow, he summons a glass of water.
