Vibe: fluffy fluffy fluffy (Apparently I’m in an Azriel mood so enjoy!)
Warnings: None? If there should be any, let me know!
The book was… incredible. Emerie was right, the gentle adventure was exactly what you wanted for a night like tonight. With the thunder cracking outside and rain pelting against the window, there was nothing better than the roaring fire, a warm blanket, and a good book.
The only improvement that could be made would be having your mate sprawled in your lap on the couch, but he hadn’t made it home before the storm hit. Despite his promise he would be home for dinner, there wasn’t anything he could do about the weather. You had asked the House to keep his plate warm when he hadn’t arrived for dinner with you, Nesta, and Cassian, and you were sure it was still waiting for him, along with a note telling him exactly where you would be waiting.
A few chapters later, you heard the door swing open, and then shut again.
“Sweetheart,” Azriel murmured, bending down to kiss your forehead.
“Welcome home,” you said, reaching up to brush his wet hair out of his face. “You made it okay?”
He grumbled. “I need to warm up, but I’m fine.”
“Please tell me you ate your dinner.”
“Of course I ate dinner. That stew is my favorite, and if I hadn’t you would have dragged me back out there where it is cold. May I?” He holds the corner of your blanket up with a quirked eyebrow.
“Yes,” you laugh, “but no funny business- I’m in the last chapters of this book and I want to know what happens.”
Before you’re even finished speaking, Azriel has knelt between your knees and then stretched out, his legs sprawling off the end of the couch and his head in the crook of your neck. His wings stretch over the back of the couch on one side, and to the floor on the other, creating a little tent of warmth for you both.
“Hmm,” he kisses you gently. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
You kiss the top of his head. “You’re welcome, love.”
The storm slows, and for a while, the only sounds are the gentle exhales of Azriel’s breath, the turning of pages, and the roar of the fire. The main character has made a dumb decision- she’s trusting the character with the most dubious intentions instead of her best companion, and she doesn’t even recognize any of the tells which the author spells out. Your quick gasp draws a flutter from Azriel’s dozing eyelids, so you poke him in the cheek.
“Az.”
“Hmm…” he responds.
“Should we go to bed?”
“Bed?” he slurs sleepily.
“Yes, Az. Bed. Sleep.”
He jolts suddenly, causing you to drop your book.
“I’m sorry,” he reaches to the ground, picking up your book where it fell. “Here.”
You chuckle. “You’re so tired, Az. Why don’t we go to bed?”
“It’s just so cozy right-” he kisses your chin, your jaw, the hollow of your throat- “here. What do you say we make a night out of it?”
“How?”
“I’ll go grab my book and some snacks. We’ll make a whole night out of this storm.”
“Perfect,” you smile at him, his eyes filled with light and the slightest hint of joyous mischief.
“I’ll be right back,” he leaps up, making sure to tuck your blanket back around you before jogging out of the room. You shake your head, laughing under your breath at your handsome mate. He quickly returns, bounding into the room and kicking the door shut again behind him. His arms overflow with two books, one from your bedside table and one from his, and a couple pastries and treats from the kitchen.
“Here we are. Brought you your next book, since you’re almost done with that one,” he smiles, settling it all on the coffee table. He offers you a pastry, and your next book. You take them, tucking the book between your body and the couch back, and biting into the snack.
The chocolate filling of the flaky pastry fills your mouth, and you hum, letting your eyes slip closed.
He snorts, lifting the blanket again to rejoin you in its warmth. “Should I leave?” he quips.
“Ha-ha,” you snark in return. “Only if you want to keep your hair intact.”
Azriel mocks offense, his low laughter quickly following to join with yours. “You love my hair too much to do anything to it.”
“Of course I do. Just like I love all of you,” you kiss him gently, slipping the hand which doesn’t have chocolate on it around the back of his neck.
He chuckles into your lips, kissing you back gently before sighing contentedly.
“How’s your book?”
You smile, showing him how far you’ve gotten, even since he had gotten home. “I’m nearly finished. It’s good- but I think the author’s left it on a cliffhanger, and the next one won’t come out for a while which will be a hard wait.”
“Oh no. Well, at least you have a whole library to choose from.”
“The only thing to mend my broken heart,” you tease.
He presses another kiss to your lips, grinning. “The only thing.”
“The best thing,” you giggle. His grin widens to a full smile.
“Well, at least I know where your priorities lie. When you’ve finished with the only real remedy for your heart, come home to me?”
“Always,” you smile, bending to kiss him again.
As you both return to your books, the storm picks up once again, rumbling with thunder. You finish the first book, which Az takes from you and places on the table, hardly looking away from his own book. Instead of grabbing your next book, you take a few moments to admire him. These are your favorite moments- together, and yet in your own little worlds. His face twists with obvious reactions, the only time he’s unguarded when he’s engaged in the escapism of a good book. You admire the way the firelight’s flickering reflects in his dark hair, twining the ends between your fingers.
Eventually you both slip into sleep, Az’s hair twined between your fingers, his arms around your waist, and an open book on the floor beside the couch. The fire crackles on, a complement to the thunder and pelting rain. Cozy against the cold, you and Azriel sleep peacefully, the joy of simple togetherness being entirely unmatched, content in each other's arms.
Pairing: Cassian x You (Y/N but no Y/N use! Uses she/her pronouns)
Summary: Cassian comes home to a mate in pain, and does everything he can to help.
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 3.7k
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, heavy emphasis on the comfort for those of you who have been burned by me one too many times, mild sexual content and discussions (I think that covers it but as usual, if I have forgotten anything please let me know!)
A/N: Happy Cassian Appreciation Week! @cassianappreciationweek Shoutout to @tsunami-of-tears for the lovely Illyrian wing dividers. Enjoy!
Something was amiss in his home. Cassian noticed it the second he opened the door, stomping and wiping his boots on the doormat before stepping inside.
Your boots were there, dry and untouched, exactly as they had been this morning. As the day was coming to a close much like its stormy beginning, it surprised him to see the umbrellas showed no sign of use.
There was silence. Cassian’s brows furrowed. You spent rainy days singing. You liked storms, would dance and sing in the rain when it wasn’t too cold (and even, on occasion, when it was).
He bent to untie his boots, nearly ripping at the laces in an increasing worry. If he wouldn’t have been worried about dirtying the floors, he would have forgone the step all together. He worked in the darkness, his last clue that all was not as it should be.
No candlelight flickered against the wall. No scent of vanilla, or cinnamon, or mahogany swirled about him. Mahogany. The scent you had proclaimed was your favorite because it reminded you of him.
You saved it for days like this, days when you would be inside more than you liked. You told him it meant none of its light or scent would be wasted. That you would be able to sit in a reminder of him all day.
“I’ll buy you a hundred. Light them every day,” he had told you earnestly.
You had laughed. “Once I finish all the rest that you’ve bought me, I’ll let you buy me as many as you wish.”
He hadn’t argued. You had a rather impressive collection spread throughout the home you shared. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.
Boots finally off, he placed them next to yours, the appearance of his large muddy boots striking against the considerably smaller, clean pair beside them.
He walked down the hallway, peering into room after room, but knowing somehow that he would not find you on this level, in the kitchen, or the dining room; the living room or the office, no matter how much he hoped he would. When there was no sign of you, he wound slowly up the stairs at the end of the hall.
There. The bedroom door was shut. It solidified his concern. No light crept from beneath the door; no sound of your movement reached his ears. He ignored the open doorways to other rooms and strode quickly to enter yours.
Darkness met him. The room was as dark as it could be, given that the little light the storm might have allowed to filter through the window was blocked entirely by the heavy outer curtains.
On good days, those stayed open. The typical curtains before the window were a light gauzy material through which sunlight could flow. On the bad days, Cassian knew, the heavy curtains would close with a flick of your hand. They were a wall of thick fabrics to keep light and sound from your presence.
The tonics you took daily helped keep the episodes at bay, but not always. He stepped inside quickly and as quietly as his body would allow.
“My love,” he whispered. You gave no answer. He prayed you were asleep. It was often the only respite you had on days like this.
But that was too much to ask of the Mother, apparently. As he waited, a broken sob wrenched from your body followed by a whimper of pain. Whether it was from the movement the sob required or the sound itself, he didn’t know.
That was enough. He crossed to you slowly, trying to keep his footsteps from making any noise. The faint light of the bioluminescent clock hands reflected in the bottles beside your bed. It was the only light you allowed, its presence necessary to keep track of the hourly doses of pain relief you could take. He counted those bottles quickly, bit back a snarl of anger, then swore at what he found.
Six empty bottles. Six full bottles sat beside them. His anger wasn’t at you. The amount of pain you were in scared him. Twelve doses of tonic were all the healers would allow you to keep on your own. For mild episodes, one to three bottles sufficed. Six was pushing it. If this episode lasted beyond eight doses, Cassian would have no choice but to summon the healers for more help.
Your breath trembled from your lungs, shuddering on the shallow inhale and measured, calculated on the exhale. Nausea. He would bet anything you were trying to temper it with as steady breathing as you could manage. That was one symptom the tonics could never address, as you were allergic to the one herb that wouldn’t interact with the ingredients for pain relief you so desperately needed.
A faint rustle from the bed drew his attention. Your hand, extended to him. A request.
He placed his hand gently over yours, palm down so you could fingerspell your request into his hand. You had learned together, needing a way to communicate when you were in too much agony to speak.
H-E-A-L-E-R, you spelled slowly. He stiffened, his eyebrows raising. You had half the doses left. A quick request, ‘Lie w me’, followed. You never asked for him to send for the healer. Not until you had finished every single tonic.
Cassian waited until you withdrew your hand, tucking it back under your pillow to support your head. Quietly, he stood to fulfill your needs, walking around the bed before disrobing to his underwear. His clothes were cold. It would not help you, and he should let his skin warm a tad before joining you. But first - Cassian reached out in his mind to his brother.
Rhys.
Yes?
She needs help. She asked, this time.
It's that bad?
Yes.
I'll send them. Let me know if there is anything we can do.
I will. Thank you.
Of course. Good luck, Cassian.
No response would come until help arrived, one of three healers he, Nesta, and Feyre had vetted and assigned specifically to help you through these episodes when they had become more frequent a few years ago. The healers kept keys to your home so they could come and go as needed without making any more noise than was required. One of them was always on call.
Climbing into bed was always the hardest part. He had a choice. Do it quickly, and your pain could be sharp but brief. Do it slowly, and he may drag out your agony.
You had told him once after an episode that the shifting of the mattress beneath you caused your head to splinter into pieces. He had said he would sleep on the couch, a chair by your side, even the floor if it would keep you from pain. You had shaken your head.
“What I need most in those moments is you beside me. The warmth of your body in the blankets is soothing. Hearing the steadiness of your breathing gives me something to cling to, a standard I can use to measure my own breathing; to measure the passage of time without having to open my eyes.”
But he would not touch you. Not unless you asked. That was your one request, that he lay there, close enough for you to hear, but never to touch you unless you specifically requested it.
“My body often feels as if it’s on fire,” you responded when he asked about the experience after the first time he witnessed it. “It’s agonizing. My head feels as if it’s being wrenched in two or more pieces, my skin is aflame. My stomach roils, and I cannot seem to breathe without complete concentration.”
“And with me beside you?” He had asked.
You had managed to squeak out the request that first time, though it led to you throwing up beside the bed not two minutes later. He had cleaned it up, and then joined you, lying as far from you as possible as you choked out the need to have him there, but away.
“It centers me. Gives me something to focus on other than the pain.”
“But if you feel like you’re on fire, wouldn’t a cold compress help? Some ice, perhaps?”
You had sighed. “In my experience, it only causes a different sort of pain. I know for some it helps. In my case, I find it forces my body to fight harder against the sensation and drains me more quickly. I wish it did, but it never seems to help as much as it hurts.”
That first episode he had witnessed had terrified him. He had spent the night with you in his room at the townhouse, the both of you tangled in each other for hours before sleep caught up to you both. He was in heaven. But as he woke, he had been thrust into his own personal hell.
He hadn’t realized how much he loved you until he saw you with sweat beading at your forehead as your whimpers woke him. The panic that filled him immediately flowed in perfect synchronicity with the knowledge that he would do anything to help you.
The light flowed freely through his windows. The sounds of the city filtered in freely. He had curtains, but they were not designed for the kind of darkness you needed. They quenched no sound. It was not enough.
And you lay there, crying, as he sat up. He remembered it with horror now. He could recall it all, including all the things he had unknowingly done wrong.
“What’s wrong?” He had asked. You had whimpered, tensing. He sat up entirely, reaching to stroke your arm. You had only cried harder, tears streaming from between your tightly closed eyelids.
He had sat up quickly to analyze you better. He had kept asking you questions at full volume. He remembered how he hadn’t thought to block the light with his wing. How he had tried to reach for you, leading to your agonized words begging him not to, pleading with him to get a healer. He had jumped from the bed to do so, hearing your retching from behind him a minute or so after. He had spun back to you, but you waved him off, tearful eyes pleading him to do as you had asked.
So much had gone wrong that time.
He was fortunate he knew about your allergy, glad you had mentioned it offhand at dinner three weeks previous. It had only been your third date, but it had come up somehow. Had he not known, you could have died from the tonic the healer brought for you. In the end, Rhys was summoned in the early afternoon to push you into unconsciousness and put you out of your misery. Nothing else had helped. You slept for over a full day, not waking for anything.
He had kept vigil over you in his bed, not knowing how to help. Rhys had come and gone, checking in and bringing food and water for both of you, though your tray was exactly the same on the way out the door as it had come in.
You had awoken at dusk the next day. You had stretched with a groan which startled Cassian from his fitful dozing.
“My love,” he had whispered incoherently.
You blinked with a little yawn as you looked over at him. It took you a minute to orient yourself and frown.
“Cassian.”
“Sweetheart,” he said in response, eyes filling with tears at the ease with which you spoke his name. “Are you okay?”
You nodded. “I am,” your nod turned into a shake of your head. “I am so sorry.” He tracked each movement, but no wince or whimper followed. There was no visible indication of pain.
He was so lost in looking for any sign of your discomfort that it took him a few moments to respond. “Don’t be sorry. Are you certain you’re alright?”
“Yes,” you gave him a shaky smile. He wanted to crush you in his arms but had learned through your words and your pained cries that any contact would hurt, so instead he gripped the arms of his chair.
While you didn’t look as though you were in pain, embarrassment was written all over your face. Still, discussion needed to wait. He got you food and water, and a fresh shirt of his to change into.
Once he had taken your empty tray away, he looked inquisitively at where you sat propped up in his bed. “What happened?” He asked quietly.
You had indulged his question. Some things you knew could trigger the episodes, so you avoided them. Bright lights or loud noises for long periods of time. Sleep deprivation. Cassian had held in a flinch at that, knowing he had kept you up until nearly three in the morning.
Stress, built up over a period of time, was the most common instigator. He recalled your words from dinner the night before, about the hard deadline you were facing for an investigation into a trading company that had seemingly been avoiding tariffs. He had reached for your hand unthinkingly when it had clenched on the bedspread beside you, unable to withhold the only comfort he had to offer.
You had sighed and gripped his hand gratefully. “Can I hold you?” He had asked, stroking his thumb slowly from your wrist to your knuckles. Your nod was the only assent he needed before scooping you gently up from the bed and climbing in, settling you in his lap with your head tucked under his chin.
“I’m sorry for causing you trouble,” you whispered, tracing a hand lightly across his chest.
“It was no trouble.”
“I took away half your weekend. You had plans.”
“They weren’t anywhere near as important as this. I rescheduled.”
“Still -“
“No, my love,” he shook his head, the endearment slipping from his lips without thinking. He hadn’t notice you tense up at the words, and continued, “You needed help. I wasn’t leaving you.”
“Cassian,” his name fell like a breath from your lips.
“Hmm?” Now he noticed. You sat still as possible in his lap. Your hand had stopped its gentle tracing. He dipped his head to look at you, but you didn’t meet his gaze.
“You called me ‘my love’.”
“If it upsets you, I am sorry. But it is the truth.” A flush settled across your cheeks, and he continued, “I love you. Your pain felt like it was a part of me. I began to love you weeks ago, and I knew this morning... I love you.” His words were cut short by the quick raise of your head and the settling of your fingers over his lips. Your cheeks flushed, lower lip rolled between your teeth.
“I love you,” you said quietly. “Very much.”
He laughed softly at that, loosely grabbing your wrist to press kisses against it. “Well. Thank the cauldron for that.”
It was your turn to laugh, and you wiggled to face him. The darkness had truly fallen, stars glimmering through the still uncovered windows.
Cassian lay beside his love, watching the pained breaths, the occasional twitch of spasming muscles causing the quilt to shift.
The door opened slowly, letting the tiniest sliver of light in as a short male stepped into the room. Mirvyn, the head healer on your team. The light glimmered against his glasses before he shut the door again. He moved silently with the practiced footsteps of a cautious male.
Cassian knew the healer recognized his presence. They didn’t acknowledge each other in the darkness. Your hand reached for Cassian’s, gripping it until your nails bit into his skin.
The healer began to work, administering a more potent treatment that could be injected into your arm. You hated it, every second, but it was the only thing that seemed to help you.
You had lay like this for hours. Cassian knew the pain you must be in to have asked for the healer when you had taken only six vials of tonic. When you didn’t respond to the prick of the needle in your shoulder, he knew getting the healer been the right call.
You were asleep within minutes. The healer began to check you, your breathing, your heart, anything he could learn from your pain signatures. He sighed.
Just like every other time, Cassian knew. Nothing to be done. That was the most frustrating piece. Aside from avoiding the things which could trigger the episodes and taking your daily tonics, there was nothing you could do. None of the healers could find a single thing wrong with your body, even as you fell to pieces from the pain.
The healer walked around to Cassian’s side of the bed and bent to whisper, “I'll return in an hour to check on her, then stay in the guest room if you need me for anything else."
Cassian whispered his thanks in return. All they could do was wait. A silent vigil for the love of his life to return to comfort in her own body. A silent sorrow for the pain she must feel.
It was his greatest sorrow, that he couldn't share the pain. He didn't even know its extent. You were not his mate. You were beloved, but he could not understand or protect you. Hours, you would lay, knowing you could call for help. Struggling to decide whether it was bad enough.
A little over six hours, and a healer. Today was bad. He would wait.
Cassian quietly asked the healer to sit with you for a little bit when he returned. He went downstairs, made two sandwiches, and ate one as quickly as possible. You had told him once that him not taking care of himself did you no favors. He had promised he would not neglect himself, so he ate. He did it quickly, because he would not leave you longer than he had to.
The other sandwich he left on the counter with an empty glass. This healer liked the sandwiches, and he knew where you stored all your drinks. He could help himself.
He filled a large pitcher of water and walked up the stairs once more with the pitcher and two glasses. If you got thirsty, there would be water for you. It was the one thing he could do that he felt in control of. He didn't like how insignificant it felt. Still, you told him waking up and seeing a pitcher of water there, the one thing you usually forgot, always made you feel cared for.
Mirvyn had heard Cassian coming, and met him right outside the bedroom door.
"She's still asleep. Her vitals are steady, but for her to have called, I am concerned. Be careful. Sleep. The spell will let you know if anything is truly amiss, but if you sense anything out of the ordinary, come get me," the healer cautioned. "Often your senses will kick in before the spell will recognize it as an issue."
Cassian nodded. "I know. Can you tell how this compares to her last bad episode?"
The healer sighed, pulling his glasses off to clean them before replacing them on the bridge of his nose. "Cassian, it's about the same this time. I'm still surprised she hadn't passed out already, but by my measurements it's about the same."
"She seemed..." Cassian shook his head with a grimace. "It seemed even worse. She's everything to me, Mirvyn. If anything happens to her..."
"I know. We all know. Take care of yourself, Cassian. If either of you need anything, I'll be down the hall."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Sleep. He would sleep, and more importantly, you would sleep. In the morning, you would be alright. He had to believe it.
Cassian woke first, approximately twelve hours later. It was unsurprising. He woke before you on the good days, too. So he waited, his hand in the space between you in case you decided in your sleep that you wished to hold it. You would wake soon enough, if you felt better. Cassian wouldn't let himself think of the alternative.
"Cassian," you whispered.
"My love," he greeted you quietly.
"May I have some water?"
He smiled. "Of course."
You sat up while he retrieved your glass, filling it with careful precision in the darkness.
"Here."
You gulped it down before handing your glass back to him. "Thank you."
He nodded, replacing the glass and the pitcher. "How do you feel?"
"Well enough," you sighed. "A bit of a residual headache."
"That's good," he smiled.
"Yeah. Hold me?" You asked. After the first time, you always asked.
"Of course. Always." He climbed into bed beside you, scooping you into his arms as he sat against the headboard. Once you had sat up, you often didn't want to lay down again. Changing from laying to sitting to laying again so quickly had seemed to do odd things, and now you avoided it at all costs.
"Thank you," you whispered, settling your head against his chest.
"You're welcome."
"I love you, Cassian."
"I love you, too," he hummed. "Mirvyn is here."
"I know. I remember him coming in last night."
"Remember anything else?"
"Other than you coming home, not really. Everything else is blurry."
"That's alright," he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "That's everything important."
You laughed. "Oh? the important things, you coming home, and Mirvyn showing up?"
"Yeah," Cassian couldn't help but laugh.
"I heard that swear, you know. When you saw the tonic bottles."
"I was worried," he protested. "I'm always worried when you're sick."
"And? Foul language," you teased in return. "Ghastly, nasty language. You kiss me with that mouth, you know."
"And you love the things this mouth does," he teased in return. You were happy. You were fine.
You hummed your acknowledgement, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "I do. I love the male its attached to more, though."
Soon, you were both quietly laughing, intermittently interrupting each other for gentle kisses. It was the best ending for what had been unbearable just hours before. This was Cassian's favorite. The calm between the storms, when you were yourself, in his arms.
You deserved this every morning, every day. This peace. This lightness of heart. In the meantime, he would love you, even in the dark.
A/N: I am by no means a definitive authority on migraines or chronic illness. I do, however, suffer from migraines. This is based largely on my own experience, though I've never had the benefit of a Cassian in my life and frankly, even if I did, the last thing I might want is someone anywhere near me.
All that aside, I wanted to explore what Cassian the Lover might feel when his beloved was in pain. And what better way to do that than with an indulgent fic?
Additionally, I felt it was important to acknowledge that it takes a village. Sometimes, the best thing your person can do for you is to be there and help you ask for help. I may not have a Cassian in my life, but I have many a Mirvyn, and many incredibly supportive people. I am very, very grateful for every single one of them.
I hope you enjoyed the fic, and that you enjoy the rest of your lovely Cassian week! Don't forget to give cassianappreciationweek and maased-out a follow so you can stay up to date with future fandom events for your writing and reading pleasure!
All my love,
Chaos
P.S. I reblog a lot. Want to see the fics without any chaos? Totally cool! @fictionalchaos is the place to be!
Permanent Taglist: @ninthcircleofprythian @c-starstuff-man0 @dusk-muse @lilah-asteria As always: If you want on or off of the taglist, let me know!
It had been a long day. A trying meeting with Azriel’s brother never put Eris in a good mood, especially when treaty negotiations were this drawn out. Over a hundred years, they had been mated, and not once had Azriel missed a meeting between Eris and Rhysand. Which was good, Eris mused, given how terribly this one had gone without Azriel there.
Azriel had sent no word. Eris leaned back in his chair, reaching blindly behind him for the bottle of whiskey which sat on the table behind his desk. A glass was pointless; the bottle almost empty as he uncorked it with his teeth.
Rhysand (Eris refused to call him Rhys, just to spite him) had expected his presence and tactlessly implied Eris had done something wrong to cause Azriel not to show up. They weren’t perfect by any means, but as far as Eris knew, there was nothing he had done that would cause his mate to treat him so callously. Not that he didn’t deserve it on occasion.
Azriel would say he didn’t, that no one deserved something like that. Azriel was smart enough to see a mind healer. Eris still didn’t trust that as a safe avenue. He preferred his glasses of whiskey, a soft evening with his mate. Low conversations after they waved the faelights off in their bedroom; the stroke of Azriel’s hand along his arm, his back.
He deserved that much, he knew. It had taken them both time to adjust to caring openly about each other. He remembered their first months together, the fast, hard way they would interact, speak, hold each other. Like a collision between forces moving in opposite directions, rebounding again and again. Azriel on his doorstep, near feral with need, Eris winnowing to the heart of Velaris to track Azriel down only to hastily drag him out to an inn which had become their sanctuary. The innkeeper remained on Eris’ payroll all these years later, simply for the privacy he’d given the males in that time of desperate need and heavy reluctance.
Over two years, the time between collisions had lessened, the distance they moved apart before coming back together shortened, and the collisions became less forceful, less hasty. They circled each other with more and more gentleness, eventually collapsing together like the silent explosion of a star. Azriel quietly left Velaris, setting up the beginnings of a life in Eris’ home and heart.
His mate. Eris chuckled lightly at the thought. It hadn’t been possible, he thought, for someone to know what he had done and see him with love. He had been sixteen when his father had ordered him to kill for the first time, and he had done it, quietly and with a sneer, as he knew was expected. He hadn’t cried. He had long since lost the sweetness of youth, if he had had it to begin with. Yet, he thought that night about how the blood on his hands had felt, and wondered for the first time how someone could fall in love with someone who had been carved into a weapon held by another’s hand.
It had shaped his thinking over time, until he took lovers without loving, taking what they gave without giving more than physical pleasure in return. To be seen, to be known… one would not survive the rejection of a mate. And a mate would never want a person who was nothing more than a vicious shell.
Azriel had seen that. Azriel had understood that, in a way Eris suspected very few others could. The scars they both bore at the hands of family were not treated lightly in their home. They were worn unashamedly, reminders of survival in a life far harder than any fae deserved.
His distracted mind was drawn quickly back to the present as his office door opened, just a bit. A shadow darted playfully around the doorframe, but not for Eris’ benefit. A soft tumble and the scratch of small claws drew Eris’ attention to the floor.
A kitten mewled at the shadow, staring intently with head ducked and the twitch of its tail. The shadow stayed still a moment, then darted to the left, and the kitten lept. The shadow was faster, and Eris couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the devastated yowl the kitten let out as its playmate disappeared from view entirely.
“Eris?” Azriel called from down the hall.
“In the office,” Eris responded softly. The kitten took notice of him for the first time, and darted quickly from the room. Eris stood to follow, settling his glass down on the table by the door.
“Oh, there you are,” Azriel said, still in the hall. His mate stooped to scoop up the kitten in a scarred hand, and to Eris’ surprise, the kitten simply curled into Azriel’s chest. “You ran off.”
Eris bit his lip to hold back a laugh. “New friend?”
Az simply grinned at the kitten. “I may have rescued him from your infernal beasts.”
“They aren’t infernal. I’ll have you know, they’re a gift from the Mother.”
“Well, Midnight would disagree.”
“He has a name?”
“He does. He has to.”
“He’s staying, isn’t he,” Eris sighed, crossing his arms.
Azriel shrugged with a wry grin.
“He seems rather attached to you.”
“Well, I did save his life.”
Eris smiled at that. Azriel had a habit of finding creatures and bringing them home. They were surrounded by softness– Azriel’s motley crew of creatures followed him around like worshippers after a god. It wasn’t shocking to see him with a small sprite on his shoulder, a squirrel at his heels. It seemed he could whisper to them and be heard. Whether it was the shadows which gave him the ability or not, Eris had no clue. Whatever it was was unique to his mate.
Life. It was always the theme with Azriel. Wars, and torture were things of the past. This century was for life. This millennia, if Eris had it his way, would be for life.
“I can’t argue with that,” he faked a heavy sigh, knowing Azriel would meet his gaze with– that look, right there. He winked in response, and Az huffed a laugh.
“Cruel male,” Azriel mock whispered to the kitten, eyes darting up to Eris’ with amusement. “He doesn’t think you were in danger from his beasts.”
“Oh, I’m entirely sure he wasn’t. Their curiosity wouldn’t have gone beyond a little inquisitive nudge.”
“Well, Moony is far too little to put up with that. Aren’t you?”
The kitten just gazed up at Azriel, yawning.
“Seems like he’s sleepy, Az, and so am I.” Eris waved a hand over his shoulder, letting the faelights flicker out.
Azriel grinned, extending the hand not currently supporting the newest member of their family to Eris. “Come on, then. Home?”
Eris grabbed Azriel’s hand, pulled his arm around his shoulders and tucked himself under Azriel’s arm. “Home.”
@lady-of-tearshed poked the bear. So… have fun everybody!
This is dark! Violent. Graphic. Heavy on the ANGST!!! Wrote this on mobile in about ten minutes because I’m not back at my laptop yet, so forgive me the formatting. It just couldn’t wait 😇
@erisweekofficial for Day 3: BETRAYAL.
Eris and Azriel begin a courtship during the war against Hybern
Azriel recognizes the mating bond but says nothing
Eris doesn’t realize Azriel is his mate, and considers the attachment casual at best. Can’t get too attached when you’re constantly days from being killed by your own father, you know?
They frequently meet— but, out of sight, out of everyone else’s mind
Always a different court. With all the troops passing through and refugees from Spring, it is easier than ever to go unnoticed
Beron becomes suspicious at his son’s frequent movements when his guard repeatedly reports not being able to locate him
Beron gives him a chance to explain to save his own skin rather than disgracing the court
Eris turns in Azriel, claiming he has been spying on the spymaster and Azriel is a traitor working with Hybern, using his shadows to keep the King of Hybern up to speed on troops and their movements
No one trusts Rhysand to be objective in his daemati assessment, and no one else is willing to expose themselves as a daemati to intervene
Because no one can corroborate, Azriel is issued a death penalty, to be carried out in his camp of origin two weeks later
Eris is devastated, but the damage is done. There is nothing he can do, though he tries
Sends his trusted soldiers to try to retrieve him and get him out; even attempts to sneak into Night and find him, but no one knows where he is
Eris feels horrible, but he still doesn’t realize that Azriel is his mate
He is on the battlefield when Azriel is killed and is so distracted by the fracturing of his heart and soul that he doesn’t see his brother raising his sword to attack him in a desperate attempt to gain power
Eris dies on the battlefield, Azriel’s name on his tongue and tears streaming down his face. Those who saw it said his tears boiled as they fell, the last whispers of his power burning his anguish into his face
And nobody lived happily ever after.
The. End.
Tag list: @ninthcircleofprythian @c-starstuff-man0 @unanswered-stars @lilah-asteria @dusk-muse
Brought to you by Corner Productions: @ninthcircleofprythian and I are back at it again! For @erisweekofficial Day 7: Free Day.
In special recognition and honor of Ninth's 10th wedding anniversary. Pure domestic Azris fluff. Pinky promise.
Eris Vanserra had always been known for his immaculate fashion sense with his perfectly tailored suits and bold choices of color. But it is of the belief of these authors that it was his choice of jewelry that really stood out the most. What follows are the headcanons of Chaos and Ninth in regards to Eris’ hands (yum (extra yum! Love, Chaos)) and their ever changing adornments, especially after the appearance of a certain Shadowsinger in his life.
Eris cares about his jewelry, especially his rings
He’s meticulous with which pieces he chooses to buy
Mostly he sticks to dainty stackable pieces so that he can have many rings on at once
There is the occasional statement piece– usually for special occasions
He is very intentional, even ritualistic, with setting the vibe of the day every morning with what he chooses
Azriel expects this to carry over into his treatment of the rings when they aren’t being worn, and finds himself amazed at the lack of care Eris seems to have at the end of the day
However, Az can always tell how Eris’ day has gone based on where he finds the discarded rings in the house
By the front door? Terrible, awful, no-good day. Eris is likely in the bath cooling off his temper and his body
In the kitchen? Decent day. Eris probably decided to make a cup of tea and wanted to hold his cup without his rings in the way
In the library? Eris still has work on the brain, and is probably working somewhere in the house
If Azriel comes home and he can’t find rings anywhere, one of two things is likely:
Either Eris isn’t home (boooo) or Eris is home, and he’s still wearing them, and they’ll end up piled on Eris’ bedside table at the end of the night
No matter where he leaves them, Eris always seems to know where they are
This drives Azriel bonkers because there is no pattern or reason behind it besides Eris’ whims
Azriel has bought him numerous ring holders and dishes in the attempt to condense them into little areas so they won’t be lost
Eris uses them for a few days, but even if the ring holders are in the places with the most frequent use, Eris still doesn’t use them consistently
When brainstorming for an anniversary early on in their relationship Azriel decides they need a more permanent solution and scours Prythian for some option that will work. He doesn’t like any of the options and decides to come up with his own
He describes the design to a carpenter, who creates the holder. It is a series of dowels laid horizontally in a wall-mounted holder, carved with notches to hold each dowel. It’s easy to add spaces for new dowels, and Eris can see his whole collection instead of storing them in jewelry boxes all over his dresser top or scattered around the whole house like little dragon hoards
Eris loves the rack. It’s easier to see them all, and he can display his rings like trophies (ooo shiny) (crow behavior)
Azriel loves buying Eris jewelry as well
Azriel is especially attentive to how the rings sound
Azriel has noticed Eris tapping his fingers on tables, chairs and cups - so he purposely chooses rings that have good pitch
When he gifted rings, he used to give them directly to Eris, but when Eris starts using the display, Azriel starts sneaking the jewelry he brings home onto the display instead
Eris is so attentive to it that he always notices within a day
They still have to add dowels frequently. After all, over 500 years of life gives you the chance to collect a lot of jewelry
Now, Eris and Azriel find themselves the owners of an incredible collection of jewelry, a beautiful display rack for them, and many, many empty boxes and dishes. Eris is disappointed at their lack of use but can’t bring himself to just get rid of them, especially since some of them are family antiques and many of the dishes were gifts from Azriel
Azriel takes it upon himself to give the boxes and dishes new uses
He begins bringing home trinkets and souvenirs to fill them, usually with some sensory gain: the items are shiny, or they make nice sounds when you fidget with them
Eris teasingly calls Azriel a “more of a crow than a bat”, and a new name for the collection is born
The ‘crow boxes’ slowly accumulate enjoyable objects to the point where there are tiny collections everywhere around the house
A few years later, Azriel proposed
He slipped the jeweled engagement ring onto a dowel - thinking Eris would acknowledge it once he saw it
Eris just placed it on his hand and carried on with his day, not saying a word
Azriel spotted it at breakfast - “Do you understand what that means?”
Eris - “I wouldn’t be wearing it if I didn’t.”
Eris doesn’t wear any other rings on that finger with his engagement ring
It is the only finger that he doesn’t add stacks to because his love for Az forsakes all others
In acknowledgement of their mating ceremony, Azriel gives Eris a new addition to the ring display: a new bracket with a shorter dowel, engraved with the date of their mating ceremony
They both keep their mating rings there, and that is the only jewelry Azriel keeps on the display
It is also the only bar on the display that is ever completely empty. It becomes a new ritual at the end of their days for Eris to put away all his rings, and last, for them to both slide their mating rings on the dowel and return it to its place
As they have children, Azriel gives Eris a ring for each child, and those rings join their mating rings on the dowel
Eris wears those rings amidst all the others, in stacks which remind him of each of the children
When their oldest children are still young, Eris decides to start a tradition of giving away the filled boxes of treasures to them at Solstice
It becomes the most anticipated part of the holiday - the kids sifting through the objects and exclaiming their excitement over their “crow presents"
They begin to trade things, each child keeping their designated box filled with its objects but trading with the others for things that better suit their interests
In the end, Azriel jokes that he might be a crow, but with the fire powers and as protective as the children are of their crow boxes and Eris is of his rings, they might just be dragons after all
Taglists:
xx @mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @pit-and-the-pen @prythianpages @chunkypossum
xx @dusk-muse @unanswered-stars @c-starstuff-man0
P.S. If you're seeing this you need to go read the title and header of Ninth's blog bc if nobody notices before I go on hiatus I'm gonna be sad. That is all. Thank you. Love, Chaos
Summary: Azriel and Eris find themselves drawn together during the first war with Hybern. (Requested here)
Rating: Explicit (see warnings- I mean it. I can give details in DMs if you want specifics before reading)
Word Count: 5.5k
Warnings: violence, homophobia/homophobic violence (if you want details my DMs are open), graphic depictions of wounds and wound care with a very rudimentary understanding of the subject, alcohol use, and much less important than the others but still concerning: unedited.
A/N: Shoutout to @tsunami-of-tears for once again providing me with the perfect divider for this fic. Shoutout to @unanswered-stars forgiving me permission to do whatever I want with this request. And please know I tried to make it short. But now it's almost 10k so this is part 1 of 2. Maybe 3.
Their first meeting was unremarkable. Azriel, blinded with rage over Eris’ rejection of Mor and the ensuing pain it had caused his family, thought nothing of the young lord other than how callous he had been, and avoided him under the orders of his High Lord.
So the first time they had truly met was in a war tent five years and seven months into the war with Hybern. Eris stood with his elder brother behind Beron’s seat at the round table. Rhys and Azriel stood shoulder to shoulder behind Rhys’ father. When the High Lords had dismissed their advisors for a recess in planning, somehow only Eris and Azriel found themselves walking outside.
They were silent. Azriel scanned the passing troops for any sign of Cassian. It had been three weeks since either he or Rhys had seen him, but there was a chance, stationed here near the western battle grounds, that they would encounter him. Still, even Azriel’s shadows hadn’t been able to locate his brother.
The shadows' presence was thin. There were only so many he could task, only so many he could control. Only a fraction of his usual cloud of shades stayed with him. Still, they whispered to him.
“The Autumn lord watches you,” they hissed. They seemed less concerned than intrigued. It wasn’t often people stared directly at him, and yet when Azriel turned his head, the lordling was staring, openly and with no concern.
“Can I help you?”
Eris shrugged evenly. His face was impassive, but he either didn’t know or didn’t care Azriel would notice the shuffle of his feet. “No.”
Azriel raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you have something you want to say.”
Eris’ lips pinched, his eyes darting to the tent entrance. “You have less shadows this time.”
“Yes.”
Eris waited, but Azriel was more patient and well aware that the Lord just wanted him to speak. Finally, Eris sighed. “Are you… well?”
Well? Azriel was… oh. He dared a glare. The lord was nosy. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“You have less shadows. That isn’t a symptom of something being wrong?”
“No. It’s a symptom of being at war.”
“Ah,” the lord breathed. “That’s… good.”
Azriel didn't bother to respond before he turned and walked back into the tent. Such an odd male.
Two months passed before they crossed paths again. Azriel had shadow-walked to take a message from his High Lord to the High Lord of Winter. Rhys had been sent away as well. There was little to lure him back, so he would take advantage of the distance between the two encampments to take a night away. It was already after dark. He could safely return in the morning with no one noticing.
Once he retrieved the paper with the instructions, he walked the encampment shrouded in shadows. Here, Winter and Autumn soldiers did not mingle. In fact, the road Azriel walked through the camp was so stark a dividing line he found himself all alone. Except…
“Oof!”
A figure had darted awkwardly from behind a Winter tent. They were looking over their shoulder, and had plowed straight into Azriel.
Azriel snarled, wings flaring behind him to keep himself righted as the figure fell at his feet.
“Watch where you’re going,” he growled, stepping back. His hand instinctively rested on Truth Teller’s handle while he glared at the figure. The road was so dark he couldn’t even see the insignia on the soldier’s tunic.
“I- My apologies.” It took Azriel the time it took for the male to scramble to his feet to place the voice.
“Vanserra?”
“Shadowsinger,” was the response. It was curt in a way Eris’ attempts at conversation hadn’t been previously. Yet this time, Azriel’s shadows said nothing.
“You really should watch where you’re going.”
“I know,” Eris snapped.
“Snippy tonight, aren’t we?” He had been moving quickly, and yet was no longer rushing. It was odd enough for Azriel to order shadows to examine him. It was dark, so it was easy for them to go unnoticed.
“Do I owe you courtesy?” was the bitter response.
“You crashed into me.” His shadows slithered about his ears, talking over one another.
“And I apologized.”
It was then that the shadows’ one-word report made sense. Blood. There was blood gushing from the male’s body. When he paused, Azriel could smell the metallic tang from Eris’ general direction, distinct from the days old blood scent of the camp around them. It was enough to send his shadows into a vague fury, as if they couldn’t decide whether this was something to be concerned about given who the male in question was.
Eris waited, standing there in complete stillness.
“You’re injured,” Azriel finally settled on.
Eris snorted. “And? So is everyone.”
“It isn’t a war wound. This camp has not seen battle in over a week and that wound is fresh.”
“Does it matter?” Eris snapped. “I don’t know why you bother to bring it up at all.”
Azriel took a deep breath. “Because if you’re fighting next to my brother your injury could get him killed. I know you haven’t seen much battle, but from what I’ve heard your father is doing everything he can to keep you on the front lines to get you killed. I’d rather not give him the satisfaction if it means my brother dies.”
Autumn and Night court soldiers had been fighting alongside each other frequently. With Winter replacing Night Court forces in this camp, chances were dwindling, but it wasn’t a risk Azriel was willing to take.
Eris tried a new tactic: complete silence. Still, Azriel saw his silhouette cross his arms defensively. It was a bad move. His hands were pinned where they were, and he was already off balance. Azriel took the opportunity to reach a hand out and shove the male’s shoulder with a moderate amount of force.
Eris’ sharp intake of breath gave Azriel more pause than he expected. “I’ll tend your wound,” Azriel said gruffly. “I refuse to let you get killed over some stupid fight with a soldier from another court.”
Still, Eris didn’t move.
“You can walk, can’t you? You were doing fine when you ran into me.”
“I’m fine,” Eris bit out. “Leave.”
Azriel snorted. Now he definitely wouldn’t leave the male alone. “No. You’re in more danger like that than you know.”
“And what would you know of it?” Eris all but hissed at him, arms uncrossing to clench against his sides. “You don’t scare me.”
“I should,” Azriel snapped back. “I should terrify you. I could have killed you about thirty different ways in the course of this conversation.”
“You’re not touching my– wound.” Eris’ voice broke.
“You aren’t tending it yourself.”
“I’ll go to a healer.”
“No,” Azriel shook his head. “You won’t. Because if your father finds out he’ll use it to his advantage. Why does he hate you so much?”
“I can handle it myself,” Eris’ voice was losing all conviction and confidence.
“No.”
“Leave.”
“I trust you know somewhere safe enough. I’ll get the supplies and meet you there. A shadow will tell me where you end up, or I can winnow us there.”
That seemed to give Eris pause. “I thought shadowsingers did something called shadow-walking.”
Azriel balked. It was rare anyone bothered to know the difference, let alone remark on it. He nodded, then remembered the male likely couldn’t see him. He cleared his throat before saying, “Yes.”
“Can we shadow-walk?” Now, the lord just sounded tired.
“Yes. Where are we going?”
“North of camp, there’s a glade.”
“It’s safe?”
“Yes.” Eris reached his right hand out.
Azriel gripped the male’s wrist roughly with his own right hand, binding their hands together with shadows who seemed all too eager. “Don’t let go,” he warned.
“I won’t.”
A blink and a breath of complete darkness followed before they arrived in the clearing, which Azriel’s shadows had found quickly. A small fire was reduced near to ashes in the center of the glade, but it was more light than the road had held. Eris moved to drop Azriel’s hand, but the shadowsinger shook his head, motioning for the lord to stay silent and wait.
The shadows not binding them together scattered, darting around the trees at the outskirts and winding back to Azriel once they had cleared the area and confirmed its safety. “Safe. Safe. Safe,” was their chorus, one after the other.
When Azriel was satisfied, he sent a third of them for supplies, tasking another third to unroll the lord’s bedroll, which they had found tucked in an oak, next to the fire. Dropping Eris’ hand, he crossed to a small pile of wood at the edge of the glade and collected half of it to bank the fire. Eris stayed where he was, watching silently.
“Come sit,” Azriel ordered, pointing to the bedroll as he squatted to blow at the cinders and coals and encourage what little flame was left to grow, to light the new wood and give them more light and heat. Eris made no move to help him, so Azriel didn’t bother to ask.
With the increasing light, Azriel could see the dark gleaming of what had to be blood down Eris’ thigh as he walked. There was a lot. The side of his leg was saturated to the top of his boot, while the wound seemed to originate near his hip bone. It had to be nasty for Eris to be bleeding that much. That explained why he hadn’t offered to help with the fire, or, better yet, to feed the fire himself with his power. Yet, he walked.
That took strength. Azriel almost found it in himself to be impressed as the male lowered himself gracefully to the ground.
His shadows had begun piling bandages and other important things by Azriel’s side. He sent one of them off in pursuit of a new pair of pants for the lord, who wouldn’t be wearing this pair again without an excellent laundress, and those who could keep secrets were in short supply in a war camp when information was money.
“Take your pants off,” Azriel commanded. Eris winced.
“I’m not sure I can.”
“I'll have to cut them off.”
Eris hesitated, his eyes darting to Truth Teller. “Be careful.”
How badly hurt was he, that he would allow Azriel to have a knife that close to his skin, to vital blood supply?
As the light increased, so did Azriel’s concern that the male’s condition may not be as stable as he originally thought. His skin seemed to pale more and more with every flare of the fire. Sweat dripped from his brow, despite the chilly night around them. And he was obedient. Vanserras, in Azriel's admittedly limited experience, were never obedient. Certainly not to orders given from a Night Court grunt.
As if they sensed his growing concern, shadows dispatched to scan the male again. They returned with whispers of blood and wounds– multiple. Azriel nearly sighed. This was perhaps a bigger job than he anticipated. He sent shadows now to retrieve his own bedroll and bag. He’d be damned if the last thing anyone saw before the autumn lord died was the two of them together, and there was no real way to guarantee he hadn’t been seen with Eris on that road. Damn it all.
“How many wounds are there?” he asked, unsheathing Truth-Teller and setting the supplies beside Eris.
“Just the one.”
“Don’t lie to me. If you die, it’s my wings they’ll come after.”
Eris glanced over Azriel’s shoulder at the reddish membranes which were his constant companion, his pride and joy.
“Three.”
“Only three?”
“Only three,” Eris confirmed.
“Where?”
Eris gestured at his right shoulder, waved a hand over his injured leg, and then looked away.
“That’s two,” Azriel commented. “You’re going to need to take that tunic off, too, but let’s start with your leg.”
Eris laid back. Azriel reached into his boot to retrieve a flask and offer it up. “Whiskey. It’ll take the sting off.”
Eris grimaced, but took the flask anyways, draining what was left of the alcohol from it before handing it back.
Azriel knelt at his side, the fire on Eris’ other side giving him light to work. Truth Teller made quick work of a cut through Eris’ pants from ankle to waist, and Azriel sheathed the blade quickly. When he removed the fabric a barrier which had begun to form to protect the wound would be removed, and he needed to know everything he could before that happened.
“What blade was used?”
Eris blinked at him slowly. He was fading, fast. “A dagger.”
“Was it poisoned?”
“No,” Eris shook his head with conviction.
“Was there anything special about the blade?”
“Standard Winter court issue,” he said.
Azriel nodded. “Alright. This is going to hurt.”
Eris paused, looking at Azriel, then turning his head to the fire. Azriel barely heard the quiet “I know” which followed.
Azriel pulled the fabric of the male’s pants away from him and grimaced. Eris didn't even flinch. The cut went across the male’s hipbone nearly twelve inches to the outside of his upper thigh, getting deeper as if Eris had rolled into the knife to protect his midline.
“Tell me what happened,” Azriel ordered as his hands began to move. Damn it all, they were cold. And tired. He was so tired. But he couldn’t let Eris die. For some reason, he needed the male to live.
“No.” Eris countered with a fire he hadn’t shown all evening. It was the first anger Azriel had heard from the male, and it awoke something in him. He dumped three antiseptic potions across the wound. Eris barely moved, blinking up at the stars.
“You could die,” Azriel snarled, pressing bandages against the seeping wound. “Why? You are the son of a high lord. If it was a standard issue Winter court blade it likely wasn't anybody of your status. Why protect them?”
Eris bit his lower lip. Azriel pulled Truth Teller out to cut through what was left of the male’s pants and underwear and remove them. A long strip of fabric wound around the male’s waist, then around his upper thigh, to secure the padding of bandages against the long wound. When Azriel was certain the bands wouldn’t move, he tied them off in a quick knot and looked up at the lord’s face.
His eyes were closed, his face turned slightly toward the fire. He looked slightly flushed, and yet entirely too pale. His breathing was shallow. He needed water. Food, too. He didn’t seem to be interested in answering any more questions. Maybe those things would loosen his lips.
First, the other wounds. The removal of all his clothing revealed a gash along his shoulder, about four inches long. It wasn’t deep, but it was angled, and the skin could be folded back away from the wound. Azriel stitched that one with quick stitches. He would have stitched the large one, but without any indication that it wouldn’t get infected, he was unsure about closing it with the sutures which would solidify by the time the horizon had light on it. An infection growing beneath the skin was much worse than a scar from skin knitting itself back together.
The last wound didn’t immediately present itself, so Azriel had nudged Eris until he grudgingly rolled onto his side.
His bare back was a maze of scars. Azriel was struck immediately by how well his hands blended with the mottled skin of Eris’ back, burns seemingly crisscrossed by the stripes of what had to have been made by a very long, thick whip. It turned his stomach to see just how broken the male’s back was. They weren’t that different in age, and Azriel had his fair share of scars. But this was a level of brutality Azriel hadn’t expected to find carved into the male’s skin. It was no doubt he hadn’t flinched at the stitches, or even the bandaging. He had to be intimately familiar with both.
One wound on his back, a long stripe across his shoulder blade, was red and struggling to close. Azriel stitched that closed, too, before throwing the bandages he had used to wipe the male’s blood away into the fire. Seeming to know it was over, Eris rolled back onto his back. He didn’t open his eyes, but his breathing seemed slightly steadier.
Azriel grabbed his bag from where the shadows had dumped it unceremoniously behind him and retrieved a tin of dried meat and crackers.
“Eat,” he ordered, setting the tin on Vanserra's stomach. “I’m getting us water.”
Eris cracked an eye open to stare at him. “Fine.”
Azriel ordered some shadows to scout ahead for water, and some to watch over the lordling, as he unrolled his own bedroll next to Eris. Better to have the fire lord between him and the fire, he told himself.
His shadows returned with a satisfactory report, so he went when he was certain Eris would eat more than a bite or two.
On his return, the container sat on his bedroll, half the food gone.
“You should eat more,” Azriel said, nudging it towards him.
Eris shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“Drink, then,” he tried. Eris nodded, reaching a reluctant hand to grip the offered bottle.
He propped himself up on an elbow to drink, and swallowed until he finished the whole bottle with a gasp. “Thank you.”
Azriel nodded. He felt as though he hovered over the lord, but he found himself unsettled. “I’ll take the watch.”
Eris didn’t argue or say they didn’t need one. It would have been a lie neither of them would have accepted. He just nodded, dropping his head back and closing his eyes again.
Azriel didn’t bother to wake him through the rest of the night. When light began to peek over the horizon, Eris stirred on his own, sitting up with a groan and a stretch.
“Thank you,” he said again.
Azriel nodded. “I need to check your–”
“No,” Eris said abruptly, sitting. “Enough. I will go back to camp, and so should you.”
Azriel shook his head. “You can’t fight like this.”
Eris smirked up at him. “I’ve done it before.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Azriel narrowed his eyes.
Eris shrugged, shuffling awkwardly until he was on his feet, even though he panted. “That’s fine.”
“I just spent last night putting you back together. If I hear you undo that work, I’ll kill you,” Azriel protested. Eris seemed to soften at that. “I think you should go.”
Azriel bristled even as his shadows obeyed his silent order to retrieve all his things. “Fine.”
“I’ll burn away any trace of you being here,” Eris assured him, waving a hand at his bedroll. It disappeared.
Azriel nodded. “Check those wounds this morning.”
Eris nodded. “I will.”
When Azriel had his bag and bedroll in hand, he shadow-walked away, Eris not sparing him more than a moment’s glance as he disappeared from view.
Their third meeting was much like the first. Outside a war tent, the Autumn court delegation lingered in hushed circles. Their forces had been hit hard in the last of Hybern’s offensives. No doubt they were reconsidering their participation in the ongoing war, if only to save the rest of their soldiers. Still, from the thick of the fray strode Eris Vanserra, his gait no less even than it had been the first times Azriel had seen him.
Azriel couldn’t help but watch him as he stood outside the tent. They had tightened the circle allowed in. The recent losses had been too stark to eliminate the possibility that someone on the council or one of their advisors was selling information or even was an agent of Hybern. It was no doubt that fact which kept the sons close, and everyone else at a very great distance. Still, Azriel could watch from here. Could keep an eye out for either of his brothers.
Shadows told him nothing of them. Their names were not on the rolls. But here was Eris. Alive, breathing. He would have known if Eris had died. And Eris had not.
“Shadowsinger,” a curt acknowledgement. Azriel nodded firmly in return. No words could explain his relief, even to himself. Eris rolled his shoulders, his embroidered coat restricting his motions. Instead of walking past Azriel, the lord stopped at his side.
“Thank you,” Eris murmured. If Azriel hadn’t been attuned to the male's presence, he wouldn’t have heard it at all. It was dangerous to speak this openly. Eris had to know that. Surely, a High Lord’s son would know that speaking to the spymaster of another court was dangerous. Surely.
Azriel turned to walk away. He would not risk it, but Eris still tried. “Azriel.”
He spun to face Eris, schooling his face into an angry mask. “What?”
Eris’ eyes flashed with an answering anger, then cooled. “I saw your brother. The soldier.”
This was unexpected. Azriel’s eyes narrowed. How would Eris know he searched for his brothers?
As if anticipating the question, Eris stepped closer. “Your shadows, the ones who stayed, told me. I asked them how I could… repay you. They told me. He’s in the next camp over. Injured, but not badly. Ask for Madja.”
Shadows zipped away from Azriel faster than he could respond. He had left some of them with Eris that morning to ensure the male checked and cleaned his wounds.
Now, Eris watched them go, nodding once, then walking on past Azriel. Eris knew what it meant to see those shadows go out. It was all he had needed to see.
Azriel may not be able to get away on his own, but he could send those shadows. They would find Cassian, who would recognize them and maybe even be able to get away for a day.
More pressing was that the shadows had spoken to Eris. Had deemed him worthy of information about Azriel. That happened so rarely. Only when Azriel was truly in need of something, or on the rarest of occasions, when he was in true danger, would his shadows bother to try to communicate with anyone. Never before had they shared with someone as nonsensical as Eris Vanserra. He would ask them later why. He hoped they would tell him.
Someone was calling his name. It was the middle of the night, and his shadows were rousing him from sleep with a frantic energy. Months had passed since he had seen Cassian, or Rhys. He had only just gotten back from a scouting mission in Hybern that evening. The war still raged, still slowly marching them all toward death.
But someone was calling his name. “Hurry,” his shadows urged him. “Fight.”
The second prompt was enough to speed him. He rarely slept without weapons at hand, and he grabbed two Illyrian blades and strapped them to his back with the speed of a soldier who had been at war for over six years.
Finally ready, he ordered his shadows to take him where they willed. Emerging from their total darkness into the moonless night with Truth Teller clenched in his hand, he found himself at the edge of that familiar glade.
This time, it was anything but peaceful. Eris fought against three warriors dressed in dark clothes, their faces concealed by darkness. Azriel recognized the fighting style more than the clothing, and it was for good reason Eris didn’t bother to use his powers.
In a split second, Azriel shadow-walked to be behind the Autumn court soldiers, disarming one with ease while Eris held his own against the second. Azriel’s blade slid into the side of the throat and was pulled through the front, removing the attacker’s ability to scream as his life faded to a bloody end.
The third spun from Eris to Azriel. He opened his mouth, but behind him, Eris flicked a dagger from his waist, the blade glinting before Azriel saw the male’s head jerk forward. When he fell, the handle of the blade stuck at a perfect right angle from the base of the male’s skull.
As Azriel had drawn Eris’ attention, his moment’s glance to throw the blade had left his left side unguarded. The remaining autumn warrior took advantage of the opening, and launched himself at the lord. His hand closed around the lord’s throat, and Eris was knocked toward Azriel, but Azriel was faster than the other warrior had perhaps anticipated.
In the span of moments, Azriel had removed the male’s hand from Eris’ throat, disarmed him, and bound him hand and feet with a cord he kept coiled in his boot for moments like this. His shadows had been dispatched to guard the borders of the glade.
Eris rubbed his neck as he offered a wad of cloth to Azriel, who crouched beside the bound warrior. Azriel took the fabric and shoved it into his mouth until he was satisfied the male wouldn’t be able to remove it.
“You need to kill him,” Eris said quietly.
“I know,” Azriel said. The male’s eyes settled on Azriel as if he had only just now recognized the winged warrior. He began to scream through the fabric. Azriel’s remaining shadows spun around the warrior, examining him.
“Why do you scream?” Eris asked, crouching beside Azriel. “You chose to attack me. Your death was predetermined.”
The male’s eyes flicked to Azriel, then back to Eris, then back to Azriel again as his screaming increased in volume.
Eris snorted. “You truly think the death he will give you is worse than the death I could?”
Azriel couldn’t help but watch the Lord of Autumn as Eris stood.
“A word, Azriel.” Eris looked down his nose at the screaming soldier. Azriel stood. They walked some distance away before Eris paused and looked over his shoulder at their prisoner.
“We have to kill him,” Eris said. “He recognized you.”
“That’s not surprising,” Azriel said. “Why did they come after you in the first place?”
Eris sighed. “I did something I shouldn’t have, and got caught doing it. Whether my father sent them or they took it upon themselves, I don’t know.”
Azriel paused. “What, exactly, were you doing?” If Eris was spying for Hybern, if he had used Azriel somehow…
Eris sighed. “I slept with one of their brothers.”
Oh. Oh. Prythian was generally safe for males like Eris. And Azriel. But some families held old ways of thinking that would incense hatred beyond caring that Eris was the son of a High Lord. It was that which kept Azriel hiding. He lacked the protection offered to Eris. Currently, he lacked even the protection of his brothers.
So Azriel just nodded. When Azriel didn’t say anything, Eris sighed.
“How did you come here?”
“My shadows sent me. They were concerned.”
“Have they been watching me?”
“I don’t know,” Azriel admitted. “Sometimes they follow their own whims.”
Eris nodded. “I can handle him.”
“Do you want to?” What was one more body on Azriel’s tally? He’d killed nearly thirty yesterday, getting away from the Hybern guard who had started asking too many of the right questions. What was one more, in the face of the river of blood which had flowed from his hands?
“Not really,” Eris sighed.
“You sound weary,” Azriel dared. After six years he was more than used to the ebb and flow of fights and battles, yet his heart still pounded in his chest.
“I am.”
“I’ll do it. Stay here.”
Eris said nothing in return but bowed his head.
Azriel crossed back to the bound warrior, who had started trying to roll and scramble away from them with whatever faculty he retained. Azriel placed a booted heel against the man’s collarbone, his toes grounded to the earth as he stood above the male.
“I’m going to take out the gag. Then you’re going to tell me who sent you, and what they wanted. If you don’t, I’ll torture you. This is your one chance. Do you understand?”
The male nodded, eyes glinting with starlight and terror. Azriel bent to remove the gag, whispering, “Scream, and I’ll gag you with something much more unpleasant than this fabric.”
He ripped it from the male’s mouth, and to his credit, the male said nothing.
“Who sent you?”
“No one. We came with him,” the male tipped his head at one of the bodies. “His brother died, and when they found his body on the battlefield, that bastard’s scent was all over him.”
“Eris’?” Azriel questioned.
The male nodded. “They were… intimate.” He said it with a snarl, as though Azriel would not know and was being deceived.
“You wanted to kill him.”
“Yes. For that, yes. It’s not–”
“Enough,” Eris’ voice sounded behind Azriel.
Azriel glared at him. “If it’s enough, kill him yourself.”
Eris shrugged. “Fine.”
The male opened his mouth to start screaming again, but Eris flicked his slender fingers. Azriel stepped back quickly as a reddish glow started emanating from the male’s throat and smoke began to billow from his mouth.
Eris was burning him. Burning him from the inside out. The light of life in the male’s eyes was steadily replaced by the glow of that slow burning fire until the male was nothing more than ash in the wind.
Eris turned to Azriel. “Thank you for coming.”
Azriel nodded. Why was he so hesitant to leave? The second the male was dead, he should have walked away. Dawn was nearing again. He would need to be back before the High Lord woke in case he had further questions after last night’s debrief. Six years and ten months of this. Azriel wasn’t sure how much more of it he could take.
“Thank you for finding Cassian for me.”
Eris smiled at that, not even looking as he lit the other two bodies on fire. “You saved my life.”
“You gave me the chance to see him. It had been a long time. It means more than I think you realize.”
Eris shook his head. “I imagine if I had a brother I trusted I would do just about anything in my power to see him.”
Azriel chuckled at that. “No friends among family?”
Eris sighed ruefully. “I’m afraid not.”
“Me neither. Except–”
They finished the sentence together, “my mother.”
“If you didn’t send for me,” Azriel crossed his arms, “Why did you trust I wasn’t there with them?”
Eris tipped his head back to stare at the sky. “My father has railed against your… proclivities in sexual partners. How he knew, I have no idea. I’ve never even heard whispers of you from anywhere else. I knew, if my father was somehow right, your presence was either on orders or to help me. I was willing to bet you wouldn’t kill me for something we share.”
“Beron knows about me?”
“Somehow. I think he had someone tailing you for a time, after Mor.”
Azriel bristled. He had been careful at 19, but apparently not careful enough. It was likely the best explanation. “You have no idea? Truly?”
Eris shrugs. “I was young when he brought it up. The timing seems right. I never put much thought into it.”
“So you assumed I was safe because of that.”
“No,” Eris laughed, quietly, but unmistakably amused. “No, I mostly assumed you were safe because the last time you saved my life you told me not to undo all of your hard work.”
“What happened then?” Azriel was demanding. He felt as though he was truly seeing the Autumn Lord, seeing him open and unguarded for the first time. Maybe now he could get answers.
Eris seemed to be willing to indulge him. “A winter court soldier didn’t realize who I was until I was on my way out of his tent. He tried to kill me.”
“It seems to me like you’re sleeping with the wrong people,” Azriel commented. Eris finally turned to face him, levelling him with a molten stare Azriel found himself drawn into. “And who are the right people?”
“People who have as much to lose as you do.”
“Like you?” Eris challenged.
Azriel shrugged. “Are you offering?”
Eris smirked, turning to face Azriel. Dawn was growing, and the red light of morning lighting the leaves around him gave him the appearance of a body of molten fire. “If you ever wish to take me to bed, Shadowsinger, show up. I have spells on the glade. It will let me know you’re here.”
Azriel laughed. “Chances are slim, Vanserra.”
“But not zero.” Eris raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms in a slightly mocking reflection of Azriel’s own stance.
Nyxlin because my gods that first part has me full sold on them
Please!
The Wine Cellar
Pairing: Nyx Archeron x Tamlin
Summary: In which Nyxlin get stuck in a wine cellar.
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 2.4k
Warnings: There's drinking. Because wine cellar. Nothing else that I can think of!
A/N: Shoutout to @thrumbolt who enthusiastically informed me the proper ship name is NYXLIN. Also, this was supposed to be a drabble, but it turned into 2.4k so fast. It is connected to the Nyxlin drabble "Banned from Bed" if you're interested! Linked in my masterlist under ACOTAR>Drabbles! <3 Prompt 58: being locked in a small space
As soon as Tamlin stepped to the second step, the heavy door slammed behind him. “No, no, no, no.”
“Lord Tamlin?”
The voice came from total darkness. Tamlin shifted his eyes quickly into the eyes of an owl so that he could see down the stairs more clearly.
Nyx. He was locked in a wine cellar with Nyx Archeron. To Nyx’s credit, he looked absolutely petrified to be facing his mother’s ex-lover in Thesan’s wine cellar.
"Nyx?"
“Um. Yes. Hello,” the male said. He was almost 300 years old, wasn’t he? Not the smooth salesman his father had been at that age, then.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a key, or a way out, would you?” Tamlin asked cooly. Nyx fidgeted, his hands fidgeting at his sides as he looked in Tamlin’s general direction.
“No. You don’t, either?”
Tamlin shook his head until he saw Nyx pause quizzically, awaiting an answer. Right. Total darkness. He may be the Darling of the Night Court, but Nyx couldn’t see anything here. “No, I don’t.”
Nyx spun on his heel and began to pace. The room wasn’t very large. It was Thesan’s private wine cellar, and Elain Archeron had sent him (by request of Thesan) to retrieve a bottle of wine he wanted for dinner.
“Could you break us out?” Nyx asked. He paused his pacing, looking rather peevish as he looked up.
“I wish,” Tamlin admitted, sitting on the stairs. “Thesan has intense spellwork on this cellar.”
Nyx nodded shakily. “I know. Aunt Elain had to talk me through how to get into them. And they’re so strong, I couldn’t even make a faelight.”
He returned to his pacing, his hands fidgeting away at his sides. It was on his sixty fourth trip across the room that Tamlin smelled blood. Not a lot, but in a small room like this, it only took a drop. Nyx was facing the far wall, and wouldn’t turn around for another second or two.
“Are you alright?” Tamlin asked. He immediately regretted it. What did he care for the life of the child of his ex-lover and the male she had left him for? But he had asked, anyway.
That didn’t seem to put the lord at any ease. “Okay.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” Nyx wavered as he resumed his pacing, his eyes darting between Tamlin’s form and the floor. He still couldn’t see Tamlin, because he never came close to making eye contact. “I just bit my lip.”
“Are you certain?”
Nyx stopped entirely and frowned, a hint of anger flashing in his eyes. He has Feyre’s eyes, Tamlin realized. No wonder he thought they were pretty.
“I’m fine,” Nyx snapped. And there is Rhysand.
“Alright,” Tamlin said.
But Nyx wasn’t done, and he started pacing again, hands waving emphatically. “I just don’t like being trapped. And this room is only ten feet by eight feet, and the shelves take up all but the three foot walkway between them, so I am feeling very, very trapped. I do not like this. I couldn’t even fit my wings properly if I–”
Nyx froze, completely froze this time, as he turned back to face Tamlin. “I’m sorry.”
Well. That was unexpected, coming from an Archeron. “Sorry for what?”
“Rambling. To you.”
Tamlin shrugged, leaning back on the staircase to prop himself up on his elbows. “You wouldn’t be the first to do it. Lucien’s much worse than you are.”
Nyx snorted. “He’s so put together. Uncle Lucien doesn’t ramble.”
Tamlin laughed at that, and Nyx looked so curious that he couldn’t help but add, “Oh yes, he does, if you give him the right amount of liquor. Or if you ask him about Elain when he’s tired. He’ll talk for hours about the curl of her hair, the pretty color of her new dress. Try it sometime.”
Nyx laughed. “I’ll do that.”
“What do you say we crack open one of these expensive bottles of wine to pass the time?” Tamlin offered.
Nyx shook his head. “I can’t. Lord Thesan would kill me.”
“I outrank you,” Tamlin shrugged, standing up. “Blame it on me like the rest of your family.”
Nyx paled and said nothing.
Tamlin chuckled, stepping down the stairs to reach for an 800 year old bottle of Autumn merlot. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing new.”
Nyx shuffled back until his back hit the wall. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. I can see you.”
If it was at all possible for a fae to turn green without literally turning green, Nyx Archeron was making his best attempt. “What?”
“I can see you.”
“Mothers’ tits,” Nyx swore, crossing his arms. “You shifted your eyes.”
“Yes,” Tamlin said, grinning. “And it’s been very informative.”
Nyx frowned, then seemed to think better of it, and schooled his face to something more neutral. “How so?”
Tamlin shrugged out of habit, scoring the wax seal on the wine bottle with a taloned finger. “It isn’t every day you learn an heir to the Night Court is afraid of the dark.”
“I’m not afraid of the dark!” Nyx threw his hands up in the air. Tamlin began to sink a falcon’s talon into the cork to try to pull it off. “I said I’m afraid of small spaces!”
Tamlin froze at the same time as Nyx, the wine bottle in his hands forgotten for the confession the male had made.
Nyx swore again. “Please, don’t mention it. Ever.”
“No,” Tamlin shook his head. “I won’t. But, are you alright?” He took a swig of the wine straight from the bottle.
“No!” Nyx shouted. He tugged at his black curls (oh, why was that attractive?) before waving his hands in the air as if gesturing at the room. “I am not.”
“Is there…” Tamlin sighed, setting the wine back on the shelf. “Can I help?”
Nyx rolled his eyes, crossing his arms again. He had as much attitude as his parents, the brat. “No.”
“I will, if I can.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“So I could help, you just don’t want it?” Tamlin teased. It was like he had forgotten, in the absurdity of the position they were in, just who this male was.
Nyx bit his bottom lip and scuffed his toe against the ground. It didn’t seem to matter if he knew Tamlin could see him. That, or in his anxiety, he had forgotten he could be seen at all. “No.”
“Great. Now that we’ve established you don’t want my help, what can I do?”
Nyx sighed. “Hug me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You could hug me. It’s easier to pretend I’m somewhere else if I have physical contact.”
It was Tamlin’s turn to freeze. Well, this was ending up one of the weirder days in Tamlin’s life. “Alright,” he shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. He had said he would help. Of course, that meant he actually had to do it. He wouldn’t be made a liar by Feyre’s son, of all fae.
Nyx rubbed his arm, shifting his weight awkwardly. Tamlin strode to him, then murmured, “Any particular… request?”
Nyx shook his head. Standing close to him, Tamlin could see the blood crusting on his lower lip and the panicked glaze in his eyes. “Alright.”
When his arm went around the male’s back, Tamlin was surprised to find how easily Nyx folded into his arms. One of his hands hovered for a second above Tamlin’s heart before fisting into the fabric of his shirt. Nyx smelled like ink and a piney soap he couldn’t quite place. It was distracting enough that it took Tamlin a few seconds to realize how tightly Nyx was gripping his shirt. In the same moment, he realized he didn’t care if the fabric was wrinkled.
Mother save me, Tamlin thought as Nyx buried his face in his shoulder.
“Thank you,” Nyx whispered. Lost for words, Tamlin simply stroked the male’s back and nodded.
Nyx’s breaths slowed, and after a few moments, his grip on Tamlin’s shirt loosened. He was muscular, more so than his thin frame would suggest. Still, his shoulders were much more tense than the rest of his body, as though he carried the weight of the world in the muscles which lay there.
“You’re so tense,” Tamlin murmured. Nyx huffed, picking his head up and leaning back. “What?”
Cauldron boil and fry me. “Your shoulders. You’re tense.”
“I am stuck in a wine cellar,” Nyx returned, sounding every bit as though he’d rather be discussing anything else.
“This didn’t happen in the last hour,” Tamlin countered, his hand drifting up to squeeze Nyx’s shoulder as if to confirm. Nyx rolled his eyes, shifting his weight to step back, but Tamlin was quicker, and tightened the arm around the male’s waist. “Nyx.”
Nyx stiffened, eyes widening as he looked at Tamlin. His jaw dropped slightly, a huff of air leaving his lips. Tamlin raised an eyebrow. “You’re a beast,” Nyx snarled suddenly with flashing eyes.
Tamlin would have responded in kind had it not been the snarl of a cornered animal. “Nyx.”
Nyx pinched his bicep. “Let me go.”
“Fine,” Tamlin returned, raising his hands in mock surrender. He had pinched him. Brat. “As you wish.”
Nyx retreated to the far wall, breathing heavily before resuming his pacing. Tamlin grabbed the bottle of wine, reclaiming his perch on the stairs as Nyx turned angrily on his heel. “You’re going to wear a path in the floor.”
“I don’t care,” Nyx snapped.
“Why so hostile all of a sudden? You were the one who asked me for help.”
Nyx said nothing, so Tamlin took another swig of wine. Mother help him. Somebody needed to find them, and soon.
Ten minutes later, Tamlin heard the creaking of the hinges above him. Light which was way too bright filtered into the room, and he blinked as he looked up, shifting his eyes back quickly.
“Nyx?” Lucien said. Then, as though surprised, he added, “Tamlin? What are you doing here?”
“Don’t let the door shut!” Nyx said quickly.
Lucien eyed his nephew and his friend with concern, but took a step back, holding the door open. Nyx bolted up the stairs as quickly as he could, his legs brushing Tamlin’s shoulder as he did so. Pine. The scent of his soap was so strong.
“I’ll grab the wine,” Tamlin said dully, standing to walk down the stairs and into the gloomy cellar. He had drunk half of the bottle of wine he was already holding. What was another?
He grabbed a bottle, and found himself questioning why Elain Archeron would send him to get a bottle of wine. Surely a servant could have been spared for this errand?
Nyx and Lucien spoke in low voices at the top of the stairs, but when Tamlin began climbing the stairs, they stopped quickly, Nyx stepping further out of the doorway to let Tamlin through.
Lucien was examining his nephew the way he assessed prey, and when his eyes, one russet, one golden, slid to Tamlin’s approaching form, he blinked quickly as if to clear his vision of some obstruction.
Tamlin ignored his oldest friend, pressing the sealed bottle of wine into his hands. “I’m not coming to dinner. Please give Thesan my compliments and let him know I’ve gone to bed.”
“Why?” Nyx’s head shot up at that, looking concerned. Tamlin ground his teeth together, swirling the remaining wine in the bottle he still held.
“I’m tired.”
Lucien nodded. “We’ll tell him.”
“Do you need anything?” Nyx’s heedless words clearly surprised him as much as Lucien and Tamlin. The tips of his ears flushed as Lucien arched an eyebrow at the young male while Tamlin looked at him one last time. Last, because whatever pine scent was addling his brain could not find him again.
“No,” Tamlin shook his head, not unkindly.
“Alright. Thank you for your help.” Nyx turned and walked away, his steps quick.
Lucien’s hand shot out to still Tamlin before he could turn in the other direction.
“What is he thanking you for?”
Tamlin felt his cheeks heat. Fuck. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it, Lucien.”
Lucien tilted his head. “He’s my nephew.”
“I know.”
“Rhysand’s son.”
“I know.”
“Did you,” Lucien waved a hand in the air, grimacing. “Did something happen with him?”
Tamlin ground out, “No.”
Lucien raised an accusatory eyebrow.
“I didn’t do anything,” Tamlin growled.
Lucien sighed. “If you insist.”
Tamlin bit his tongue, barely refraining from asking why Lucien might have thought that they would have been together in the first place.
“Goodnight, Tamlin.”
Tamlin nodded, finally stepping away from the redhead who saw far too much. “Goodnight, Lucien.”
Mother help anyone who tried to get something past Lucien and his mate. Elain could see far more than she let on. It was no doubt she– Elain, Tamlin realized suddenly. Hadn’t Nyx said Elain had sent him there as well? Tamlin swore under his breath, turning to call down the hall.
“Lucien!”
Lucien turned to face him.
“Tell your wife I need to talk to her tomorrow, please.”
Lucien sighed. “I’ll ask her.”
“No,” Tamlin shook his head. “Tell her. It’s essential.”
“I will ask her,” Lucien repeated firmly. “She isn’t yours to order any more than she is mine.”
Tamlin swallowed at the hard set of Lucien’s face. His role as the heir of Day had changed things between them, but never before had Lucien leveled such a look in his direction. “Very well.”
Lucien smiled faintly in acknowledgement, then raised a hand in a parting before resuming his walk towards the dining room.
Lucien be damned. Tamlin swore he could still smell the scent of pine, his chest tightening with something akin to longing as he thought of the hand which had fisted in his shirt, the blood on Nyx’s lip. Fuck. It lingered, no matter where he tried to drive his thoughts. Tamlin swore as he opened the door to his rooms, then shut it behind him once again.
They had only just met, but somehow, Tamlin knew: Nyx Archeron would be the death of him.
A/N: guys I did a writing sprint and chaos happened. I don't even know what to say. It's been too long. Enjoy whatever the fuck this is.
Dear Nyx,
I would imagine this strikes you as a little unsettling. The family history is admittedly less than ideal. In fact, I would argue it is entirely inadvisable for us to court, regardless of the Mother’s decision to mate us.
Against all reason, I must say I desire to see you again. I failed in my courtship with your mother, it is true. And the failure was, in part, hers. But the failure was also mine. I failed to see how she needed me to be present. I failed to see where I was failing. For lack of a better word, failure abounds.
Against my better judgement, I desire you. Carnally, even. Though I would shudder to know how you would feel, assuming you are familiar with my courtship with your mother.
This is a terrible idea, isn’t it?
Despite these things, despite my unending anger at your parents, your mother especially for her treatment of my court, and your father for being… himself… I must say I cannot see a life as enjoyable as one with you by my side.
Perhaps my hatred of them will one day be overshadowed by the love we can share. For it is, in fact, love that I have for you. You must see how eloquent we could be together: the prince of night and the lord of spring, united in splendor. As horrified as I was at the realization of our mating bond, I think our courts’ history shows that you cannot argue with fate. It is a horrid fact that we must not ignore: ignoring one another would only lead to pain. For example, I assume you could look to your aunt. That was a terrible situation.
We shouldn’t ignore what fate designates, no matter how distasteful it may seem. I have to say, I can’t be displeased by your attractive qualities: wit, a symmetrical face, a terribly good sense of political intelligence, and a charm which rivals Helion’s smile. You are by far my favorite person to hate. And it is said by some that love and hate are separated only by a thin line. Perhaps we will find that to be the case. Regardless, I must propose.
Will you join me in Spring? At least until your parents have passed, I can imagine you would find it safer here. Should they disown you, I can provide stability and support. Should they not, well, you wouldn’t need their support anyways. Your mother’s actions before your birth did not harm my court so much as cause an opportunity for growth. It has been rather fortuitous, as we have grown more than we would have otherwise, and now find ourselves a primary trading partner of Monteserre.
You would find benefit to being in residence here for the duration of our courtship. I would say to expect a spring wedding, but as it is always spring, perhaps a calendar date should best be set. (You do enjoy jokes, don’t you?)
When you arrive in spring, please don’t hesitate to explore. Your presence is expected, whenever you choose to arrive.
From now until you inevitably abandon me out of misguided love,
