Fictional Chaos

No thing defines a man like love that makes him soft  And sentimental like a stranger in the park For a few moments, I see you - Noah Kahan, Strawberry Wine

Lucien didn’t know what to do with the sudden knowledge that Eris had never been involved in Jesminda’s death. In fact, had been intentionally occupied elsewhere by his father, perhaps because Beron knew what Eris would have done for Lucien. 

He stumbled through the woods of the northern lands, far enough from any wandering Illyrian bands to be safe. He had winnowed there, remembering Nesta’s story of where Cassian had taken her. The air bit at his face. He welcomed the numbness of his nose and cheeks. His magic coiled deep in his chest. That magic which coursed through his bones was the twin to the fire that had burnt Jesminda’s body, the fire that left nothing behind but a scent of burnt flesh and a pile of ash. 

Feyre had no proof, no way of verifying the information but what had been told to her by Eris himself. Feyre had said it was Eris’ intervention that allowed Tamlin to find him at the border. How had he known? How had Eris, of all fae, known? And the knowledge snapped him back to the past, looking back at what might have been had Eris known what Beron had intended for Jesminda.

Jesminda . Lucien hardly allowed himself to think of her name. She had been a light in a time in his life which had been so dark, so terrible, he could hardly recall half of it. Therein lay the trouble: in forgetting what darkness had been, he too soon forgot the light. 

Jesminda had helped him one day as he stumbled from the Forest House grounds, a deep slice from ‘training’ with his brothers across his chest. He hadn’t understood. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure he understood now, three hundred years later. Their hatred of him cut deep as the rivers which wound through their court, and their anger rose just as fast. 

Lucien had fallen on a dirt road and fallen asleep, the healing magic in his body taking over. He had awoken with his head on a fae’s shoulder while she hummed a song, a basket beside them. The braid draped over her other shoulder had a greenish hue, while her pink hands danced across the fabric of her skirt. 

“Good morning,” she had said when she saw him blinking up at her. “I see you’re in bad shape. Can I help?” He had been mortified, a feeling he had long since lost with his youth. 

“I will be fine,” he responded, his tone clipped and words stunted. 

 “Really? You are laying in a puddle of your own blood, you know.” 

Lucien nodded. “I know.”

“Fine,” she shrugged. “Can you sit on your own?” He gulped, trying to sit and struggling to. “So that’s a no, then. Well. Here,” she rummaged in her basket and produced some hearty green leaves. “These will help. Chew them.”

Lucien had silently obeyed the order, shoving them in his mouth. They didn’t taste terrible, but left an odd sensation as he chewed. “Wha’ are ‘ey?”

“They’ll help that wound close a little faster. How did you get it?”

“Training,” he tried to speak clearly around the leaves. “Wi’ my brothers.”

“They let you leave like this?” 

He shrugged. 

“Without any care.” 

He nodded.

“To pass out on the side of the road.”

Lucien looked at her, saying and doing nothing as he chewed. His strength was returning, even if the wound to his torso didn’t seem to be changing. He gritted his teeth, and sat up. “There,” he said. “Thank you for your help.”

“You don’t expect me to leave you here, do you?” she laughed. “Sitting up or not, you’ll still be here, come dark.”

“I’ll be alright.” He reached to the side of the road for something to spit the leaves into, their consistency now something more akin to blanched kale than a leaf with structure. “I promise. Thank you.”

She had laughed, staying with him and talking to him until he agreed to return with her to her family’s home, where she promised him a home cooked meal and more medical attention from her father. 

“Alright,” he agreed at last. “But what is your name?”

“Jesminda,” she smiled broadly, extending her reddish hand to him. “Come on, up you go.”

In retrospect, it hurt to think how lovely those hours had felt. In the few months which followed, she would sit curled at his side, laughing, reading, working. He had studied with her asleep in his arms. They had run between trees in her family’s katsura grove, laughing and playing like feelings. He spent countless evenings with her youngest sister and brother, playing card games with her brother-in-law and elder sister, and holding their newborn faeling, all while Beron had plotted her death.

He couldn’t imagine the burden he had placed on her family through his presence. His continued presence in their lives put them in danger, a danger he was unwilling to admit to, if he had ever really realized. Despite his attempts to get to know her mother and father, they had held back. He had known they hadn’t liked him. He heard from Jesminda how they tried to keep her from him. Lucien knew his father was dangerous. He knew Beron was a sadist beyond his darkest imaginings, but he never anticipated this.

A note written in his father’s hand summoned him, but the stationery had been hers, the sweet scent of katsura filling him with dread for the first time in his life. He ran. He was close enough that he passed her home on the way to the clearing just outside the forest house gates. The sounds of that run had long since left him, replaced only by the bone-chilling screams as he raced ever closer to the end of her life.

She had screamed, arching away from the knife which his brother Wesley dragged slowly across her ribs. Her hands tied above her head, suspended from the tree branch of the oak under which he once had held her. 

His other brothers caught his arms, kicking the back of his knees until he knelt between them, yelling for her. He could feel their magic uniting to weave a web to hold him, their flames casting a glaze of heat over the scene which unfolded in front of him. In his remembrance, his own voice was lost to time. As her skin was cut away in ribbons, he saw Jesminda’s mother emerge from the trees on the other side of the clearing, her stony face wet with tears. He begged for Jesminda’s life, every word from his lips a renewed declaration of his love. It was not enough. It had never been enough. Their meeting that day on the side of the road, her care for him had ended here. His brothers paid him no heed, leering down at him. 

Jesminda wouldn’t meet his eyes. Wouldn’t look at him, not even for an instant, no matter how he called to her. Her ribs on the left side of her body were completely exposed by the time she lost consciousness, her head hanging forward and shoulders protruding as her body slackened. He had screamed all the louder, begging. His father emerged from the edge of the clearing. His brothers stopped, straightening. 

What Beron had said, Lucien no longer remembered, but he remembered the blow his father dealt to him. The cruelty of his laugh as he waved for her torture to continue, Aldac taking over the torture, chosing a whip instead of Wes’ knife. She had awoken partway through with a sob, blood coursing down her body. 

Only then had she cried his name, still not meeting his eyes. Once, twice, she shrieked the syllables, lips trembling. “Luc-” Her last attempt broke off with a cry.

Wes leaned down to whisper in his ear. “She can’t see you, you know. Hear you, either. You’ve abandoned her. Left her to her own devices. A pity, but you never should have slept with a lower fae bitch.” Lucien snarled at him, snapping at his brother’s face and missing by millimeters, even as they all laughed. “You never did belong in this family, brother. Looks like the son of our whore mother landed himself in the exact place he was supposed to be.” His other brothers laughed at that. “Wait until he finds out–”

“Enough,” Beron snapped. “Wes, end it.”

Lucien screamed as Wes shrugged, passing his hold on Lucien’s arm off to someone else. Lucien didn’t have the wherewithal to notice anything but Wes’ easy stalk towards Jesminda, her body trembling at whatever she saw on his face. 

“No, please,” she sobbed. Lucien echoed her plea as Wes circled behind her, his hands coming to either side of her head. He left them there for a second, smirking at Lucien as she thrashed, knowing what awaited her. Jesminda’s mother collapsed, eyes only for her daughter. Her hands clutched the earth beneath her, fingers tensing. 

Wes laughed cruelly. 

Beron waved a hand.

Wes snapped Jesminda’s neck.

Lucien remembered very little after that. He had been bound, he knew, left to lay and watch them cut her down. Somehow he knew they had left them there for hours, Lucien screaming until his voice had given out, then weeping until his tears saturated the dirt beneath his cheek. At some point, his brothers had given up on mutilating her dead body, burning her. They left the ashes where they lay, and cut him loose, laughing as they walked away. He could not move. 

Her mother only moved from her spot across the clearing when their laughter had faded. She gathered the ashes, carefully placing them in the cloth of her sash before tying them into a bundle. Her father emerged then, a simple wooden box in his hands. They gently placed the bundle of ashes into the box, Jesminda’s mother collapsing into her mate’s arms as he placed the lid softly atop the box. He could recall no sound, only the weight in his chest preventing him from standing, from going to them. 

They paid him no mind, if they could see him at all. Perhaps it was better, then. Their ignorance would be their protection. 

A note fluttered down beside him. He reached for it so slowly. A warning. A promise, that he was now being hunted. They would find him, and they would kill him. He wished they had done it when he knelt at their feet, her name on his lips. It would not be enough. He would never be able to undo the horror he had wrought on her, her family, this court. He could not touch another. His very presence would be scorned, his hands coated in her blood– her blood, not a drop of it left unscorched by the smothering fire. 

The time following that day was a blur. His escape to Spring, the miraculous presence of Tamlin at the border to summon him, protect him. The days and weeks which followed as he stumbled in a haze, Jesminda’s eyes dancing before him, light with laughter under the sweet smelling katsuna trees. The emptiness of her eyes as she was cut down. The sound of her screams. The dryness of his throat as he begged for her life, pleading with his brothers, his father to spare her, to spare her family this torture. Him passing her a bottle of strawberry wine as they lay in a meadow. Her musing how he survived his home, his upbringing. 

On the Illyrian hills, Lucien stilled, his eyes sensing someone behind him. He spun quickly, taken aback at how quickly this stranger had emerged. She was far enough off– she laughed, dancing and singing. For a moment, he saw Jesminda. He saw her how he remembered her best, feet bare as they chased each other and danced through the trees, him humming court dances and her singing her favorite dance hall songs, their feet and hearts light in the shadows of the evening. He had no breath to give as the female ran off, her laughter carrying to him across the wind. 

He could never know. He would never know what could have been. She was lost to him, cursed beyond belief simply from loving him. He missed her, grief deeper than life. He would never know if they would have been able to run to the end of life together. An unmarked grave in a simple box, and no matter how he would plead with the Mother for one more day, one more moment… this girl was not her. Would never be her. As his shoulders began to shake, tears beginning to fall, Lucien allowed himself to grieve anew for the female he had loved, standing alone on the moor.

KATHERINE: Okay, so what stories are you seeing?

ERIS: (seething) Does it matter? You keep killing me.

KATHERINE’s jaw drops, and she slams it shut. She appears to hold in a laugh, glancing to the side.

KATHERINE: Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know you were seeing them.

ERIS: Does it matter?

KATHERINE: Uh. I guess to you it wouldn’t, no.

ERIS: There is also the amount of times you’ve killed my ‘mate’. (sneers) And do you even know who my mate is? You seem to relish in pairing me with the most abysmal members of my enemies’ courts. Azris? As if I would ever be mated to the Shadowsinger.

KATHERINE: (coughs amusedly) About that. It’s called a rarepair, okay? I don’t actually think it’s going to happen. But have you considered it? Because I think it might actually help you two to get locked in a room with one be-

ERIS begins to pace in front of the stairs which lead up to where KATHERINE sits on the porch. 

ERIS: (growls) Finish that sentence and I will impale you.

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Taglist: @chunkypossum (welcome to the Azris taglist- this is one hell of an introduction, so let me know if you want me to be more specific!) @dusk-muse @ninthcircleofprythian @unanswered-stars @c-starstuff-man0 @lilah-asteria

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

A/N: Happy Day 3 of Eris Week! Thank you to @tsunami-of-tears for the gorgeous dividers! Shoutout to @dusk-muse who I may have forced to request some idea for fluff. Kudos to @ninthcircleofprythian for her help reminding me of this coffee post (HERE), which loosely inspired this fic in that most of the ACOTAR characters would greatly benefit from some therapy.

That being said, I am not qualified to write actual therapy things, so there will be no actual therapy session content. There are passing mentions of what was discussed in a session, but it’s like 3 lines total. This is centered around domesticity and love. <3

Eris loved coffee. He loved the simplicity of buying the roast beans from the shop, the sound of the grindstones, the scent of freshly ground coffee beans. When he and Azriel had first met, they drank coffee each morning. Eris drank it black. And Azriel, without fail, filled his cup with enough sugar and cream that even Eris’ mother had noticed it with some concern.

Azriel hated coffee. But he liked what coffee could do for him. He was never without a mug, so much so that Eris kept buying him mugs of different shapes and sizes, different spellwork to keep his coffee warm, to make all coffee added to it sweet, to refill automatically. Eris liked coffee. Azriel just liked feeling awake.

Because Azriel was a horrible sleeper. Terrible. Eris didn’t know what to blame - court of origin, childhood trauma, his former line of work, his shadows whispering to him constantly. All were contenders for the crown of keeping the former spymaster awake at all hours of the night.

Eris was no saint, either. Cauldron knew he kept his mate up some nights. But the Cauldron also knew Azriel would get out of bed in the middle of the night and take off into flight, not returning until he knew Eris would also be awake. After the first time, they would rarely talk about where Azriel went or what he did. Instead, Eris would press a mug of overly sweet coffee into his hands and they would sit together in silence on the front porch, Azriel’s head on Eris’ shoulder and their hands clasped together.

Despite the way the habit had begun, Eris treasured those moments with his mate. Watching the sunrise radiate through the autumn clouds, it was easier to forget the foundational pain which motivated them in this tradition.

This morning was different. Eris woke to find Azriel’s side of their bed cool, the blankets rumpled as if his mate had spent half the night fidgeting restlessly until he simply gave up. The sun wasn’t up yet, so he got up, yawning as he flicked a hand at the fireplace. Reinvigorated, the coals flickered back to flames, Eris’ power breathing new life into them. He would drag Azriel back to bed if he could, and the cozier the room was, the more likely Azriel would be to let him when they were done watching the sun rise.

The hallways were dark, but the kitchen lamps were lit. Eris blinked sleepily at them, yawning once more as he stepped into the kitchen. 

Azriel stood there, hands on the edge of the sink as he stared out the broad window. His shadows swirled lazily across the expanse of his back, their dark cloak about him in a guarded comfort.  “Good morning.”

This was new. “Good morning, Az.” Eris paused, but Azriel didn’t move. “Are you alright?”

Azriel nodded, reaching to pick up his mug. “Just drinking my coffee.” One shadow twined around his leg, then darted to Eris and nestled behind his ear. ‘Upset,’ it whispered. Eris nodded. Clearly, he thought. But he wouldn’t say that to the shadow which only wished its master well.

It was rare the shadows deigned to speak to him. He wasn’t entirely sure how it happened in the first place, though he suspected it had something to do with the piece of his soul that was Azriel’s, and the piece of Azriel’s that was his. Whatever limited power it granted him, he was thankful for the insights of the shadows into his mate’s moods, whenever they chose to share.

“Az,” he began as the shadow spun back towards Azriel. 

“I made coffee,” Azriel interjected. “It’s in the kettle.” 

Eris nodded, crossing the room. “Thank you.”

They were silent for a moment. Eris poured his coffee, then crossed to stand beside his mate.

“What’s wrong?”

Azriel gave a wry smile, nudging Eris with his wing. “Couldn’t sleep. Too many memories, I suppose.”

“You’re drinking your coffee black,” Eris observed, taking a sip of his own. “That’s unlike you.”

“And you are observant, as always.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Azriel shook his head. “No. Not now. I had something I wanted to tell you, though.”

“Alright.”

“I’m going to see a mind healer tomorrow morning.”

Eris smiled. “Okay.”

Azriel looked at him, turning to lean against the counter. He paused a second, looking pensive. “I want you to come with me. I checked your schedule, you’re available. I know it’s last minute, but I want to talk about something, and I’d like to do it there.”

Eris nodded slowly. His mate wasn’t one to do things half-heartedly. “Can you tell me what it’s about? It might help me to be a little prepared.”

“I want to talk about you.”

“What, specifically?”

Azriel shrugged, scooping his mug up in his left hand and cradling it against his chest. “I’ve been seeing the mind healer for a couple of months. It’s been my meeting every week, the recurring block on my calendar that’s marked as ‘busy’. I wasn’t ready to talk about it, I don’t think, but I want to. And I want you there, if you are willing.”

“I am willing. What do you want to talk about?”

“I think you should see someone.”

“Someone.”

“A mind healer. Not mine, probably, but someone.” Azriel sighed, looking over his shoulder at the trees ruffling in the breeze. “You internalize the way I do, and I think you might find it helpful.”

Eris nodded. “I’ll go tomorrow. But I can’t promise anything.”

Azriel smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

“What did you think?”

The remains of dinner were spread in front of them; the pumpkin ravioli Eris loved, a pitcher of apple cider which would probably get mixed with some bourbon later that night. Azriel took a bite of the spiced cake. It was one of his favorites, Eris knew. No wonder the cook had been so amused when he made the request. The pumpkin ravioli was time consuming, and Eris never requested it except on special occasions, which meant Azriel had made the request for him. Perhaps it was an effort to soften this very conversation.

“I think it was good,” Eris shrugged. “It wasn’t what I expected.”

“Is there anything we talked about you wanted to come back to?” Azriel set his fork and knife down, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t want to go to bed with things unsaid.”

Eris smiled. “Thoughtful. No, not really. Why were you drinking your coffee black yesterday?”

Azriel chuckled. “I was wondering if you would come back to that.”

“Do you blame me? You hate drinking it black.”

“I know. I wanted to try it again.”

“For any particular reason? Or just because?”

“Just because.”

“Did you like it?”

Azriel laughed. “No. I still hated it.”

Eris smiled. “I’m not surprised.”

Azriel was right. It was helpful, the sessions with the mind healer. Eris hadn’t expected to feel as challenged or as supported, but he was both. He could discuss anything. Though they often touched on the day to day stress he experienced as High Lord, they just as easily discussed his childhood, his family, and the horrors of war. 

He enjoyed the walk there and back. He had winnowed, at first. He had been concerned about being seen at the building, preferring the anonymity winnowing straight into the office could provide him with. Over time, he found it peaceful to walk, whether it rained or the sun was on his face as he came and went. His route took him through some small roads in the city, roads he knew but wouldn’t have regularly walked had it not been for the small healing office on Maple Street. It gave him time to think, and every other week, he walked by the market set up along the street adjacent. 

The area held mostly offices, service-oriented businesses with at least a few employees each, and the market benefitted. They rotated through the city, ten different locations for two weeks worth of opportunities for sales. 

The shops participating rotated on occasion, so Eris always made a point of engaging with them, occasionally stopping on his way home to buy lunch or something to send to his nieces and nephews in Day and Night. Today, it had been raining, and the smell of cinnamon and chocolate wafted on the foggy breeze as he passed through, an umbrella in his hand. The less he used his powers in public, the more unnoticed he would go.

“May I interest you in a hot chocolate?” a merchant called to him from under his canopy. “Favorite of the Winter Court, and it’ll warm you on a day like today!”

Hot chocolate. “I’ll take one,” he smiled. The merchant smiled in return. “Certainly. Would you like coffee extract? It will give you the wakefulness of coffee without the flavor, or I can give you a coffee hot chocolate mix for the same effect.”

“I’ll take one with no coffee, please.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Eris stifled a laugh. He was unable to be anonymous, even dressed as simply as he was in a blue buttoned shirt and trousers.

When the merchant handed him the mug, she said, “The mug is spelled to return, unless you wish to buy it. My children make them– they own the pottery studio on the eastern side of North Village.”

“I have plenty of mugs at this point, unless my hounds decide they want to break them again,” Eris explained. “I appreciate it, though. If you have a moment, may I ask you a question about the coffee extract?”

The merchant nodded. 

“Does it provide all the same effects as coffee? I know someone who drinks coffee like water, but hates the flavor.”

“This may be good for them, then. It can be mixed in any drink to the same effect, though of course we mostly put it in hot chocolate.”

“You wouldn’t happen to sell the extract, would you?”

The merchant shook her head. “I don’t have enough at this point to be able to do that.” She paused, then added. “I could maybe sell you a bit for a trial, and then if you liked it, I could provide a supply as an importer. It may be expensive.”

Eris waved a hand. “That’s no matter. May I add a hot chocolate with the extract, please? I’ll have him try it today, and then I can let you know.”

She nodded. “Give me one moment to make it for you.”

Eris watched as she scooped a tan powder into a mug. If Azriel liked it, his sugar consumption would decrease considerably. Plus, he would likely enjoy the drink. He liked chocolate more than most people Eris knew, save perhaps Nesta and Gwyn. And Azriel wouldn’t have to drink coffee. The merchant added the hot chocolate, stirred for a few seconds, and then set the mug on the table. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” Eris handed over a few coins. He took her contact information, making a mental note to contact her before the end of the week. She sent him off with a smile and a wave, his umbrella tucked carefully between his wrist and his body to keep it in place as he walked with his hands full.

He walked in silence, only pausing to greet the occasional passersby, until a small wisp of a shadow darted out of the sky and wrapped itself around his wrist. “Is everything alright?” The shadow darted away again, quick as it had come. Was Azriel alright?

Eris heard him before he saw him, the loud flap of wings announcing his descent. When Azriel landed next to him, his hair plastered to his forehead, Eris grinned. “Hi.”

“Are you alright? You’re usually home by now.”

“I’m fine,” Eris said, extending the mug which held the concoction. “For you. Walk with me?”

“What’s this?” Azriel quirked an eyebrow, but took the mug all the same.

“Hot chocolate, she said. With a coffee extract that apparently has no flavor, but gives you the same benefits of wakefulness.”

“That sounds amazing.”

“I hoped you’d say that.”

They set off, Azriel tucking Eris close and replacing the umbrella with his wing. “How was your session?” 

“It was good,” Eris sighed. “A bit of discussion about Father.”

“Ah. Feeling alright?”

Eris nodded. “Tired, but fine.”

“Maybe it’s a good day to cancel the rest of your meetings?” Azriel suggested slyly, nudging his shoulder. “Seeing as it’s so dreary. We can spend the rest of the day together.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working with the guard this afternoon?”

“Cobblestones get too slippery,” Azriel protested. “I wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings when they slip and fall.”

Eris snorted. The Autumn Guard was more than used to rain, and trained on those cobblestones every single day. They had learned how not to fall.

“And this isn’t at all an excuse to spend the afternoon together?”

Azriel grinned, pressing a kiss to Eris’ temple. “It’s a good excuse.”

“Uh huh,” Eris laughed, pausing their strides with a grin and a hand on Azriel’s arm. “Convince me.”

It wasn’t a challenge as much as a tactic to get Azriel to kiss him. Their first date, they had both been guarded, despite their admissions the previous week that they had been dancing around each other for far too long to ignore the ongoing attraction. “Go on another date with me,” Eris had asked at the end of the night. Azriel had smirked, then said, “Convince me.”

Eris had taken the opportunity to kiss him. Ever since, they’d used the challenge as an invitation.

“Happily,” Azriel grinned, sliding an arm around Eris’ shoulders. He kissed him deeply, cradling Eris’ head in his arm. Eris sank into him, the exhaustion of a session with the mind healers hitting him full blast. “Consider me convinced,” he murmured, laughing against Azriel’s lips.

Azriel pulled back, grinning. “Good. Especially since I already canceled your meeting with Lord Merton.”

Eris snorted. “Of course you did.”

“Do you blame me? You know, my mate buys me delicious drinks. I do love this, by the way.” Eris amended the mental note to write to the merchant immediately. “And he kisses me in the rain like he’s drowning and needs me like air. Not to mention, he hasn’t taken as much as half a day off since Solstice two months ago.”

“Alright, alright,” Eris laughed, pressing a kiss to Azriel’s temple. “Let’s take the afternoon off. Maybe today calls for just sitting by a fire.”

Azriel grinned, leaning in for another kiss. It was sweet, and soft, and Eris found himself humming his satisfaction against his mate’s lips. 

“Agreed,” Azriel grinned. “Maybe in bed. Warm blankets await.”

They resumed their walk, sipping their respective drinks. When Eris finished his, the mug disappeared in silence, and he slipped his hand into Azriel’s.

“Az?” Azriel hummed in response. “Do you think we’ll ever be done with the mind healers? There’s so much to sort through. I wonder if we’ll ever get through it all.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s hard to say. It doesn’t have to end, which is a good thing. And maybe, if we feel good for a while, we take a break, and we go back.”

“Do you ever worry it will feel like a failure?”

“Do you think it’s a failure if you need help again?”

Eris shrugged. “Maybe.”

Azriel nodded. “You could talk about that next week, if you think it will help you. And maybe we can talk about that at our next combined session.”

“We should do that again. It’s been a while.”

“Alright. Let’s get it on the calendar. Any chance we could make it a date, too? I’d love to get some more of this hot chocolate.”

Eris smiled, resting his head on Azriel’s shoulder. “It’s a date.”

Taglist: @lilah-asteria @unanswered-stars @c-starstuff-man0

“What do you want to read tonight?”

“I want to know what you were like when you were little, like how Mommy talks about the park and the puppy and her friends.” 

“Ah,” he said, adjusting his positioning on the edge of her bed. “Well, let’s see.”

Your daughter didn’t know to look for the subtle twitch of his hand, or the tightening of his jaw. She didn’t know the tells that Eris had, the quiet strength which held back centuries of heartache. She only knew her father as the loving man he displayed in your home. She knew him as the “best hugger in the world,” as she had insisted you caption the picture she drew him for his birthday. As the kisser of her scrapes and cuts from falling out of a tree in the forest. As the one who held her hand when she walked through the streets of the city. Her “favorite Daddy,” as she said every day. “You’re my favorite. My favorite Daddy.”

“Do you have another?” he would ask, his eyes twinkling with mirth. His response never changed, but hers would.

“No. Which means you’re my extra special favorite,” she had explained one rainy morning. “I only have one. Which makes you extra special.”

He had cried that day. He had smiled, and kept it together until she left, holding your niece’s hand as they walked to school together, lunches in hand. When the front door clicked, he spun, tears streaming down his face. It had healed something in him, he told you, something that had felt broken and hopeless even after she had been born.

Her love meant everything to him, to the man whose father had hardly cared to use his name unless it was to berate him with a sneer.

“Let’s see,” he smoothed her blanket up to her shoulders, smiling. “Can I tell you a story about me and Uncle Lucien?”

“No,” she pouted. “Uncle Lucien was a baby when you were big. He said so. I want to know what you were like when you were little like me.”

He faltered for just a moment before yielding to her request. “Let’s see. How about a story about me and Mamé?”

“Yes!” she giggled, wiggling beneath her blankets. She clutched a small plush hound beneath her chin, its ear worn. She had carried it around every day for the first four years of her little life. On occasion, you still saw it in her hand as she skipped through the house singing to herself.

“In the time of Bran, when the leaves were red and the wind sweet, the fire warm and welcoming, there lived a faeling named Eris, and his mother.”

“And that was Mamé, right, Daddy?”

“Yes, love,” Eris chuckled. “They lived in a little house in the woods, with a stream behind the house. Every day, they woke up and went to the stream, and splashed around until they were soaking wet. Sometimes, Eris’ aunt and uncle would come, and they would splash around, too. And the four of them would lay in the grass by the house in the woods and eat the forest berries and drink cream from the neighbor’s cow. The neighbors were our friends, and would come for supper. Mother would cook, and Eris would set the table.”

“Like Mommy taught me?” 

“Yes, sweetheart. Like Mommy taught you.”

“Fork, plate, knife, spoon,” your daughter recited.

“Just like that,” Eris smirked, tapping the tip of her nose with a slender finger. “Smart girl.”

She giggled. “Was Eris good at setting the table?”

Eris twisted his face in a show of thinking very hard about her question. “No,” he decided with a wink in your direction. “He was very, very bad at setting the table, because he didn’t pay attention to where he was going and broke plates almost every day.”

“Every day?” 

“Almost,” he nodded solemnly. “But he was very little, and his mother fixed the broken plates until he learned.”

“That’s nice of her.”

“It was very nice of her.”

“Did she yell?”

Eris paled just slightly. “No. She never yelled, Calliope.”

“That’s good. You don’t yell either, Daddy. My friend’s daddy yells all the time.”

“Hmm,” Eris said. “Well. I hope she’s okay.”

“She is. She says it’s scary.”

“I’m sure it is. Sweetheart, can you tell me and Mommy more about that in the morning?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Now, where was I?”

You turned down the hallway. He would be another few minutes, but you couldn’t keep standing in the hall. It had been a long day, interactions with courtiers, staff, and . You didn’t mind taking some of the responsibilities for Eris on occasion, especially if it meant he could get away for moments like this. 

One or two more letters wouldn’t hurt tonight. The rest could wait until morning, after the children had come for breakfast and left for school, the small pack of them all. 

It had been one of Eris’ first decisions after your marriage. Your nieces and nephews descended on the house for breakfast every morning before lessons. He cooked with the staff more often than not, you, your siblings and one of the two brothers whom he had reconciled with, and all their spouses, crowded around the dining room table while your mate brought out the food each morning. He loved cooking, one of the few joys he held onto through his tumultuous younger years. 

Over the years, the number of children had grown, and you had expanded the dining room to fit everyone. Now, Calliope joined them, cooking with Eris before going off to school every day. She had asked if one or two of her friends could join, and soon, more than half her class was at your house for breakfast. It was just as well. Her cousins were older than her, and she enjoyed the company. It also resulted in her being exposed to families outside your own, with a greater variety of company. You all were invited to dinner at least once a week at the houses of various classmates, and it afforded you and Eris the ability to feel normal, even if some of the motivation behind the invitations was likely the bragging rights of dining with the High Lord and his family.

Calliope enjoyed it, her ruddy cheeks bright as she skipped ahead with bows in her hair. “Mommy, look!” she cried on one occasion, a moth fluttering in the bushes at the roadside. “It’s pretty!” 

“It’s very pretty, Callie,” you agreed. She reached out a chubby hand, giggling. 

“Let’s not touch it,” Eris called. “Let it fly, love. Let it fly.”

He gazed at her with such adoration, her innocence and joy at the world. That open adoration was something he rarely allowed in himself, even after his father’s death. 

You turned your attention back to the letters at hand, writing until you set down your pen and reached for the ink blotter. 

A strong hand settled on your shoulder as you pressed the blotter against the page, rolling it over the text you had written to the Minister of Commerce.

“Hello, sweetness,” he bent to press a kiss to your head. You hummed in acknowledgement, setting the ink blotter and the letter aside to dry. 

“Hello, handsome,” you smiled up at him. He came around your chair, spinning it so you faced him as he leaned against the corner of the desk. 

“Working after supper again?”

You shrugged. “You were telling an excellent story. I figured one more wouldn’t hurt.”

Eris raised an eyebrow. “If it were me, you’d be stealing the pen out of my hand.”

“I was done when you got here,” you protested. “And-”

He raised a finger, his lips twisting. The mirth you recognized earlier returned to his eyes as he corrected, “You were not done. I’ve been here since paragraph two.”

Your eyes widened, even as you smiled in jest. “Well, it’s a very important letter.”

“Ah. A very important letter, you say,” he bowed to look you levelly in the eyes, his nose inches from yours. “More important than sleep?”

You nod in mock solemnity, leaning backwards. “Much.”

“More important than your well-being?”

“Oh, entirely.”

“I must disagree with both your somethings,” he said seriously, but then returned to his teasing. “More important than your husband?”

You laugh, raising a hand to brush his cheek. “Never.”

“Never? Well, then what are you doing at that desk?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m done now,” you grinned, accepting his hand to raise yourself from the chair.

“Come to bed with me,” he wrapped his arms around your waist, dropping his head to your shoulder. 

You nudged him backwards, the two of you maneuvering around to the side of the desk before releasing each other from your embrace. 

“Did she like the story?” you asked, pulling him with you from the office. 

“I think so,” Eris sighed. “I didn’t.”

You were silent. It was easier, he had told you once, to fill the silence rather than answer questions. 

He continued, turning to his dresser, “The story was true. I wouldn’t lie to her, not outright. Not if I can truly help it. But the truth was… it was during the massacre. It was where Mother took me to avoid the bloodshed.”

You winced. The massacre of nobles under Beron’s reign was the single spot in Autumn history which had not been overshadowed in brutality by Amarantha’s slaughter. It was the single most bloody conflict in the last three thousand years, and had solidified Beron’s hold over too many things for far too long. Eris had been no more than six, and yet the stain of his father’s reign hung over him like a dense fog.

He retrieved his night clothes, tossing you a garment from his drawer. You smiled and nodded, slipping out of your evening dress and replacing it with his shirt. “Thank you.”

He smiled over his shoulder, rummaging in the drawers again. “Here,” he added, tossing you a pair of wool socks. “Your feet were freezing last night.”

You pouted. “You’re a lord of fire, it shouldn’t be a problem when I use you to warm myself.”

“You’re just using me,” he laughed. “If you want to use me for warmth, at least have the decency to cuddle me while you do it.”

“I do!” You protested. “But you were a furnace.”

“If I was a furnace, and you were cuddling me,” he crossed his arms, smirking, “then how come your feet were cold?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you slid into bed. “I don’t know what to tell you except that I am right, and you are not.”

“Well,” Eris drawled slowly. “I see we want to fight tonight.”

You smirked in return, tucking the blankets around your waist. “If by fight you mean sleep in preparation for the incredibly busy day we have tomorrow, then I have to agree. Otherwise…”

Eris inclined his head. “It is outrageously busy tomorrow. Still. I’d like to hold my wife, please.”

“Come to bed with me,” you whispered, tossing the quilt from his side of the bed. He joined you, rolling into your side with his arm around your waist. “Anything you want, sweetness.”

You both were silent. Eris extinguished the candle flames with a twitch of his finger, breathing deeply in your neck. You stroked his back gently, fingers catching on the soft cotton of his thin shirt. It was a wonder he preferred sleeping in one at all. Habits formed in childhood rarely break, you supposed.

“She’s the same age I was when the massacres happened,” Eris whispers. You nod, not stopping your gentle movements. “What legacy will I leave to her? Will she inherit his evils through me? And the harm done in my time? What will her life be, seven centuries from now?”

You sighed. “We can’t know that. But as far as I know, you haven’t slaughtered the entire nobility, adults and children alike. You care for her. You care for her friends, our family, our extended family. You love her, and me.”

He huffed a laugh. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I know. And we will, in some ways. But we do our best.”

“She told me I’m her favorite daddy again,” he laughed. “I tucked her in– like a river nymph, as always– and she said it in the sleepiest voice.”

You smiled. “She means it.”

“Do you know which friend it is she was talking about?”

“The one whose father yells?”

“Yes.”

“No,” you sighed. 

Eris was protective of his daughter, and, by extension, her friends. It was no doubt Eris would have a conversation with the man if he found anything to his distaste. Eris Vanserra, defender of children. The savior he had needed as a child, come centuries too late. “I’d rather be certain of harm before we say anything at all.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I truly hope sheis alright.” 

“Laws are stricter now. You could send someone, instead of getting involved yourself.”

“Don’t I owe it to Callie, to help her friend?”

“You did help her friend. You wrote those laws yourself, forced them through the council. You insisted on trained professionals in every school, to educate the children on what abuse was and what it looked like, the forms it could take. You’ve done a great deal to ensure their safety, and you did it all well before she was even born.”

“It doesn’t seem like enough.”

“Eris, this is a part of your legacy,” you nudged his cheek with your palm until he raised his head to look at you. “This is what you are giving her. This is what you leave her, greater safety for her and her peers, and an example to follow. Not a massacre, but safety. Not fear, but love.”

He nodded. “I know. I know that. It still feels too little.”

“To them, it isn’t little…”

“‘...to them, it’s everything’,” he finished the line from his own speech with a chuckle. He had said that, at the ceremony to pass the laws which now protected the children of Autumn. “Alright. I’ll let them handle it.”

“Good,” you kissed his forehead. “Now please remember that your daughter needs her favorite daddy whole and entire in the morning.”

“Her mother, too,” he poked your side until you squirmed, laughing. “Stop it!”

He kissed you gently through his smile, his hands gripping your hips as he rolled, pulling you on top of him.

“I love you,” you whispered between lazy kisses. 

“I love you, sweetness.”

The dinner had been fine. Acceptable, by all accounts. Eris had spoken to the mother of the girl, no more than a child, really, who sat across from him. His father had placed him there intentionally, not because the girl or her mother were important in any way, but to reinforce that he was not.

The girl’s father sat beside Eris’ and paid no attention to his wife or child. He flirted with Eris’ mother. He wouldn’t pay for that until Eris came to power, but he would, since it was Carmina Vanserra who would pay for it tonight.

The sound of clinking glass and a splash of liquid brought him back to the dim light of the sitting room. Eris gazed out the window, barely feeling the press of the glass in his hand, his friend’s silhouette blocking the faint light from the candles in the hallway. 

“Any injuries?”

Eris sipped the drink. “None visible.”

“It’s always that way, isn’t it? Game of chess?”

Eris shook his head. “No.”

Alastair sighed. “If you always mope, you’ll never feel better.”

“If I don’t mourn, don’t I become complicit?”

“If you are, what does that mean for the rest of us?”

The night was cool, and the moon was high, its sickle poised to raze the forest over which it hung. He could see himself in those trees, his laughter carrying on the breeze to where he stood in his mother’s stead, a frown rather than a smile on his face.

“Don’t we owe it to her?”

“Of course we do.”

“How do you set it aside so easily? She raised you, too, as much as your own family did,” Eris asked, turning to set his empty glass on the table between the armchairs where Alastair reclined, his glass in his hand. He gestured absently towards the fireplace in silent demand, then polished off his drink. Eris blinked, and the wood lit with a blaze, another destruction in which he would find himself complicit. One day, one day.

Alastair leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor. “She made that bargain of her own volition.”

“He’s getting stronger.”

“So are you.”

“It’s taking her with him.”

“That was the bargain.”

“I need to sleep.”

“If you try, will you?”

Eris bit his retort back. Alastair had seen him wander the halls in the middle of their childhood nights. On occasion, he’d joined him, the two of them in night clothes, their feet padding against the wooden floors to sneak out into the darkness and light the world ablaze with fire and rain storms, Eris’ flames shooting like lightning through Alastair’s clouds which shrouded them from view.

One such night had brought them here, the freedom of their powers having buried them in this living tomb, strangled by a choice neither of them would ever make and a promise they would never fulfill. The sickle moon, taunting him with each passing day.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he had told his mother the last time she had come for tea. She waved a dismissive hand, ignoring the scars which the movement exposed on her arm. 

“It wasn’t your choice to make.”

“He hurts you, more now than ever before.”

“And he will not lay a hand on you.”

Eris hadn’t told her the damage had already been done, that the initial promise his father had made to her when he was a child had not been kept, and that Beron held it over his head for thirty years while he tortured others in Eris’ stead.

“So others must suffer?”

“Better them than you,” Carmina had said softly. When he met her gaze, her eyes were hard, their burnished gold lit with a fire Eris rarely saw lit anymore, another destruction to fuel his fire. He had said nothing, and after a moment, turned the talk to the weather.

Alastair cleared his throat. “I could use a real walk.”

“Alright.” Eris took the three steps forward to stand beside his friend. “Lead the way.”

Alastair snorted, turning his eyes up to Eris. “I think that’s your job now.”

Eris’ stomach turned. He was thankful his friend couldn’t see the despair which crossed his face at the sight of the clouds in the eyes which had been blue, a rarity among the Autumn Court nobility, the biggest sign that Alastair’s father had not been of this court. Eris made himself breathe a small laugh. “Let’s go.”

It had been ten years since Beron had performed the spell which removed Alastair’s sight and Alastair had been dumped on Eris’ doorstep, dried streaks of bloody tears on his cheeks where they had streamed down his face. The lack of color in his eyes since that night served as Eris’ reminder of all he owed to his childhood friend, and the darkness which awaited him for all he had allowed to happen.

“I warned you,” his mother had hissed as Eris dragged Alastair’s body inside. “I told you what he would do.”

“Mother, please help him,” Eris had begged. 

“I cannot save him,” Carmina’s hand pressed to her chest, “even if I had the power to.”

“Why?”

“The bargain.”

The bargain. Always the bargain, the tattoo which graced the space over his mother’s heart, which shielded her from feeling, from involvement. That flame burned his skin as much as it did hers.

So Eris had cared for Alastair. Until he couldn’t anymore.

“Promise me,” Alastair had asked him when he woke. “Promise me you’ll stay out of it, no matter what happens.” He wouldn’t relent, no matter how Eris deflected, how he avoided the promptings.

Now, they stepped out the door together, a warm coat draped around Alastair’s shoulders. The bite of cold pressed into Eris’ upper arm where the scorch marks were. ‘So it goes,’ he thought.

After fire came cold nothingness, the emptiness of wrath spent on the deserving and undeserving alike. He knew it all too well.

“What was it this time?” Alastair asked. Wisps of clouds danced across the ground around them, parting only as they walked through, a single line left behind them.

“The guest of honor flirted with her all night. She was tactful. Either way, he would have been displeased. She couldn’t offend the guest. She couldn’t flirt back, either. She was stuck.”

“He’s a bastard.”

“If only he were,” Eris mused. “Maybe then I could unseat him.”

“You’ll get your revenge one day.”

“It won’t be soon enough to save us.”

Alastair said nothing. Eris could hear the faint cracking of leaves beneath his feet. The call of an owl in the forest to his left reached his ears, and he sighed. What could it hurt, to join them in this forest every night? To know the call of the owl, and the scent of the trees, as if they were a part of him, and he a part of all of them, living under the threat of the blade above their heads?

“Remind me, what was the phrasing of the bargain?”

“It won’t help you to go over this again,” Alastair reminded him. They stepped onto the forest path, Alastair staying close beside Eris to follow where his friend stepped.

“I know. Indulge me.”

“‘Eris is to remain safe from you and anyone you control. You, and those you control, will not harm him. You may not make a deal which could result in harm to him. In return, I will give you my power, freely and without reserve, as your carranam, until the day of my natural death. I will not request your power in return. I will not act against your interests. If either of us breaks this bond, we will suffer immediate death.’”

Eris tried to focus on the words, but they were fuzzy. Spoken in his presence, but so many years ago that he could not find them in himself. Alastair reminded him, when he wished to hear them, but it never helped.

“There’s no way out,” Eris murmured. 

“For any of us,” Alastair remarked. His voice was flat. “It was your saving.”

“And your undoing.”

“I suppose.”

“I can’t even wish he was dead, because it means she goes, too.”

“Death isn’t so bad.” When Eris said nothing, Alastair went on. “It’s freeing.”

Eris focused on the crunch of the leaves beneath his feet, the path winding up the hill away from the stream. “And what of those left behind?”

“They survive, in their own ways.”

Eris emerged into a clearing. “Is it really surviving?”

The sickle moon emerged overhead, its light brighter here atop the hill, the darkness of the forest between him and his home striking a contrast against the gleam of a large white headstone in the center of the glade. Eris paused. It was undisturbed, the marbled pattern a reflection of the fog which surrounded it in the cool night.

“Am I surviving? I never wanted to do this without you, carranam.” Alastair gave no answer as Eris knelt beside his headstone, the penitent at an altar of grief. He placed the coat by the headstone. “For you. If it’s cold.”

Eris lay his head atop the coat and stared at the sky, the moon burning into his eyes until he hoped he, too, would go blind with death. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Alastair.”

The fog blew across his face, brushing against his cheek in the night as if, on the other side of the cloudy veil, someone wished him a good night, too.

A/N: A huge thank you to the mods @erisweekofficial for putting together this week! I'm so glad we all get to celebrate our autumn prince together, and incredibly thankful to be a part of my first Eris Week. Thank you to @tsunami-of-tears for all of the beautiful Eris Week dividers (you can find them here!). Last, but certainly not least, thank you to @dusk-muse and @ninthcircleofprythian for the super last minute beta read, brainstorming and coming up with titles with/for me, and for never actually attempting to kill me at the end of a fic. I hope you all enjoyed it! All my love, Chaos

Obituaries

Azriel Vanserra, 45, of Velaris, Night Court, died on October 9 from complications from treatment of wounds sustained during the War. 

He was born in Windhaven, Illyria. Upon completion of his training, he served as spymaster to the former High Lord of Night Court.

Azriel found the most enjoyment in the training and teaching of others. In his time as spymaster, he regularly found time to work with young soldiers, for which many have since thanked him, crediting him with saving their lives by instructing them in his limited spare time. In the years since the war, Azriel enjoyed collecting books from all over the world. The collection he amassed was the instigator for a library to honor his mate. 

The Eris Vanserra Memorial Library, located on Archer Street in the Rainbow, was established as a permanent branch of the Nights Alive foundation earlier this year. Nights Alive is a humanitarian aid project of the leadership of Night to support the veterans and victims of the War, and all those displaced by the battles which were waged. Staffed by fae who have sought refuge in the borders of Night following the raising of the Wall, the Library will continue to be a place of rest for those who desire a temporary escape from their struggles. Azriel’s support of the Library and its initiatives was well known, as he was there nearly every day, often in the Orange Room, where he would enjoy speaking with other veterans and their families over a cup of coffee.

Azriel was preceded in death by his mate, Lord Eris Vanserra, and his adopted sister, Lady Stella Cicaro. He is survived by his adopted brothers, High Lord Rhysand Cicaro, Lord Cassian Lunae, and his cousin, Lady Morrigan Savis.

All services to be held in the Velaris Temple Proper, 16th Street. Memorial service will begin at 19:00. Funeral proceedings will begin at 21:00, with a private burial to follow. In lieu of flowers, please consider making a donation to the Eris Vanserra Memorial Library.

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“Welcome, Azriel.” A soft voice. 

Azriel had bowed before the face of death when she came to greet him. This must be the afterlife.

There were no doors, no windows. No visible source of light, and yet he could see.

Stone walls, as far as he could see. A hallway through the doorway over his left shoulder. And in front of him, a throne where a figure began to materialize around that voice.

“Azriel.” The figure on the throne solidified in front of him. “I am the Mother.”

He bowed, silent, stoic. His wings shifted behind him. His body, his wings, did not ache in this world. His hands were unmarred by scarring. He felt almost as though he were floating.

“Rise, Azriel,” she said. He could hear a small smile in her voice. He could rest here. He would be fine. 

She wore a dress of cobalt blue. It would have matched his siphons, but he did not wear them here. He had no need to fight. He would not have to fight anymore.

The Mother raised a pale hand to her face, raising the solid panel of fabric that veiled her figure until it fell back over her shoulders. She was different than he imagined she would be. More human seeming than fae.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked. Her blue eyes cut into his soul. He could feel her watching, examining, even as she wrapped a curled strand of dark blonde hair around her finger. Perhaps he imagined it, but she seemed almost sad.

“This is the afterlife,” he remarked. 

She smiled. It was unreadable. “Yes.”

“It was a slow death,” he added. 

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Do they mourn? I wasn’t kind, in the end.”

“They mourn. They mourn you deeply.”

Azriel sighed. “I wish they didn’t.”

The Mother’s head tilted to the side, that curl falling as she lowered her hand to the armrest of the throne. “Why?”

“I killed him,” he said stoically. 

The Mother sighed, gazing off to the side. It was not a tired sigh. It was pained. “I know.”

“I deserved to die.”

“You all die, eventually,” she remarked as her gaze snapped back to him with piercing precision. “Does that mean you all deserve death?”

Azriel ignored her. He couldn’t respond. Eris had not deserved the death he received. He had deserved a long life, peace, and a family.

“Azriel,” she said gently. He met her eyes. Blue. Blue, and sorrowful.

“I am not staying here, am I?” he asked quietly. She paused, fingers tracing whorls in the wooden grain of the throne’s arm. 

“I wish you could,” she sighed again. “It is beyond my power.”

He nodded. “Where am I to go?”

“To fight,” she looked at him sorrowfully. “You did not mean to, but you killed your mate. You will not know peace until you have been cleansed of his blood.”

“How long?” Azriel asked. “Will I see him, in the end?”

“I do not know,” she said. “I only know you will suffer. But in the end, yes. You will see him again.”

“That is all I ask,” he bowed again. 

“I am sorry, my child,” she whispered, standing. “I am.”

“There was nothing you could do?” he asked. “I begged you.”

She shook her head. “He would have died, regardless.”

“Did I… did I lose my wings?” he asked. 

She smiled that terrible, sad smile. “Sometimes. Sometimes you lost them, and sometimes, you didn’t. The only surety was that he died that day, and that you died on this one. His death is the tragedy of love. Your death becomes a lesson for those that follow. To be careful.”

“Mother,” Azriel looked at her before him, in that shimmering dress, her sorrowful eyes and gentle smile. “Did he love me?”

“He loves you more than life itself,” she answered.

Everything faded away.

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Taglist: @ninthcircleofprythian @lilah-asteria @dusk-muse @c-starstuff-man0

“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. 

Nyx froze mid-spin. “I- What?”

Tamlin sniffed. Definitely blood. “You’re bleeding.”

Nyx started, so Tamlin added, “I can smell it.”

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.