STAR GIRL

someone who wants to hear

about all the things that go on in your head.

summary: in autumn, fire touches everything; the leaves, the people, the land, the air. eris vanserra, heir to his father’s throne, is no exception to this rule. many years ago, the court watched as lucien’s lover was made a spectacle. now they watch as history merely repeats itself.

word count: 1.4k (ish) (i did not proof read so i am SO sorry in advance..)

pairings: eris vanserra x fem! reader

The immortal world did not come with many small kindnesses. Eris Vanserra had been dealt an unfortunate hand at life, with no sly card tricks or ultimate surprises. His birth was ugly and his upbringing was even uglier. Hot touches that left traceable marks on his skin and the not-so-visible scars that made him feel unexplainably dirty.

His life had never been his own. The breath in his lungs, the beat of his heart, and the pulse thrumming beneath his skin all belonged to the crown.

Eris Vanserra was to be perfect, or he was to be nothing at all. And for most of his painfully long life, he had been able to keep up his facade of acceptance.

But then Eris had been sent to a neutral territory to discuss minor trading policies with the Spring Court, and everything had changed, Eris had changed.

Tamlin had grown lazy after the second war, not bothering to bless higher-ups of other courts with his presence.

The charm of Spring Court women was rather unfair, Eris liked to believe, when he sat atop his mare and felt an indescribable pull in his chest as his eyes landed one of Tamlin's noble courtiers.

The High Lord of Spring had a knack of keeping things that Eris had fondness for. His younger brother and his mate, how cruel.

The rest was flashes of back and forth. Push and pull. Tit for tat. Eris would purposely find flaws in Spring correspondence that would require him to meet with her, immediately.

She was less thrilled, made of sharp tongue and annoyed frowns. She flashed him all sorts of indecent gestures that signaled her distaste, and often spoke as little as she could during their exchanges.

But yet, she still came every time Eris called.

There wasn't a single moment in which he could pinpoint when her defenses had begun to fall. Maybe it was in the soft brush of fingers, or the heat of his breath fanning her face, the cold taste of spice on his lips, the stroke of his tongue against her own.

"You're wretched," she breathed. Her voice was rushed and breathy. She was eager to return to his mouth after he'd lifted her black tunic up and over her shoulders. "Absolutely terrible."

His lips attacked her with just as enthusiasm as an amused laugh rumbled in his throat. "Am I?"

"Yes," she gripped the lapels of his coat and pulled his even closer. Trying to soak up every lick of him, hands roaming as if he would disappear the second her hold faltered. "I hate you."

Eris let heat pool at his palms, just enough to contrast the biting cold of the atmosphere. His actions causing a delicious shiver to travel up her spine. "Maybe you do," he pulled away slightly, his lips still brushing against her own. "Or maybe you hate the way you always come back."

"This is a game to you," she whispered. "All of it. You like the chase," her eyes narrowed, the softness fading away the longer he waited to tend to her mouth again.

Instead, he reached up and traced a gentle finger against her bottom lip. "In order for this to be considered a chase, you'd have to be running." His lips quirked at her loss for words.

"I'm not scared of you," she quipped. Her lips turned into a deep frown that he very much wanted to kiss.

"No," Eris agreed, his eyes turning a molten shade of amber. "You're not."

Love had made Eris Vanserra utterly stupid, and reckless. And his excuses to see the center of his sweetest dreams grew more and more desperate.

Realization had set in entirely too late.

She'd been meant to meet him in the very spot his feet were planted, two hours before the sun was to set. Autumn woods were a dangerous place in the middle of winter, specifically at dusk.

Eris stood, hands trembling as he searched the saddle of your mare looking for any signs of where you had gone. You weren't by any means defenseless. Perhaps better skilled in combat and defense than Eris was himself, Tamlin and Lucien had made sure of that.

Purple shades of night began to dance with the golden hues of day in the skyline, causing Eris to move quickly as he tugged your mare towards his own, and tied your reins to his pommel before heaving himself back up into the saddle.

This had been an undefended blow. Eris was good at expectations. He was good at hiding his flinching when his father delivered a blow. Managed to bite back a scream at the feeling of his flesh being melted away. Learned how to nod and murmur agreements in order to seem obedient. He learned how to step into the role of the perfect Heir.

But Eris had always been calculated. He had been given time to adapt and adjust to the physical cruelties of his father. He never gave it a chance to sting.

But he had no time to polish his armor, or brace himself for the burn.

He had known from the moment he threw himself off the side of his beast and two of his brothers lingered outside by the stable. They watched him with hungry eyes, as though they could smell through weakness oozing off of his figure.

He had learned to ignore their greed, and focus on the simplicity of their presence.

"You're late" Plamen, the younger of the two, snipped. His tone was taunting and cruel. Eris allowed the farmhand to take the lead on the mares as he managed to get his damn hands to stop shaking. "I suppose it's a good thing you're not coming back empty-handed." His eyes followed the extra beast, with a saddle but seemingly no rider.

"Unfortunate that father's sentries have become so careless with their lives," Eris lied smoothly, it came also as easy as breathing. His mental fortress began to rebuild itself. "Leads to pathetic hunting excursions. Of course, nothing short of entertaining." His feet began carrying him towards the Forest House.

"You know what father says," Ewan, almost a spitting image of Eris, grinned. "Survival of the fittest."

Her hair splayed across his pillows, allowing the perfect opportunity to twist a few strands between his fingers. Propped up on one arm, his satiated gaze roamed over her soft features. The slope of her nose, the curve of her cheeks, the sharp line of her jaw. He had a hard time deciding where to dedicate focus to.

Her expression remained even, devoted, as she poked at a small scar running along Eris's ribcage. She hummed, an unpleased sound. "Where did this one come from?" His body had been littered with markings, similar to the way inked was etched into a map of the Continent. Both harsh and meaningful.

It had been the least horrid-looking of Eris's physical reprimands from Beron, and yet she remained utterly fixed on the small patch of raised skin.

"A poker," he leaned down and kissed the corner of her lips, which were now twisted into a frown. "Put away the fangs, fireheart. I can handle far more than the press of iron."

"Liar," she murmured. She laid her palm flat over the scar. Directly over his heart. "This meant more than the physical burn."

Eris nodded, not intending to hide any part of himself in this rare moment of vulnerability. "I had attempted direct his wrath away from my mother one late evening after he thought I'd been tucked away in my rooms. I'd only been a boy then, young and foolish."

"You possessed a shred of decency," her eyes narrowed. "And he burned you for it."

"There is no room for weakness in the Autumn court," Eris repeated his father's teachings. "Not even love is an exception. It dwindles even the strongest men to nothingness."

Eris steeled himself, his entire body going taut as he stepped into the dining room and spotted six figures surrounding the lavish table. His remaining brothers, his father, his mother, and his heart.

"Excuse my appearance," Eris felt his limbs going numb. "Ewan urged that my absence was rather inconsiderate."

summary: nesta archeron knew cassian belonged wholly to another.

notes: do i base all of my works off of taylor swift songs? yes. who cares, play the track!!!!! this is a small blurb just to get back into the swing of things, longer writings coming soon!!!!!

From the very beginning, Cassian had never looked at her. Nesta Archeron could sneer down her nose, send the male sharp glares, spit venom his way. The only way she’d know how to show interest her entire life, not pretty words and lingering touches, but ugly truths and cutting insults.

She hated the way it bothered her. The way he could dismiss her so easily.

She hated the way her heart jumped when his hazel eyes snagged in her direction in a rare moment of conversation.

She hated the way that gaining Cassian’s attention had never been difficult for you, rather effortless, in fact.

From the moment Feyre had brought home the people she’d found solace in amidst the immortal lands, Nesta noted the soft tension that lingered between you and the red-siphoned male. The way he relaxed around you, shoulders slackening and wings slumping.

It was an odd sight, the most powerful Illyrian War General in all of Prythian becoming all but a puppy in your presence— even though he towered over you and his bicep was easily the size of your head. And you, a seemingly harmless female with a gorgeous smile and doe eyes, growing protective and wickedly cruel at anyone who all but looked at your male the wrong way.

And yet, Nesta had found that no one but herself batted an eye at the odd pairing.

Feyre’s eyes crinkled with delight when she’d catch a glimpse of Cassian chasing you down the halls of the Townhouse, all but tackling you for affection.

Azriel’s lips quirked when you entered the dining room, sparring his brother throughout the halls of the house despite Rhysand’s rules against it.

Morrigan cooed when Cassian would cocoon you in a wing as you sat side-by-side.

Even Amren raised an amused brow when she’d find you perched on Cassian’s shoulders during Solstice season, hanging decorations around the House of Wind.

Dear Elain sighed dreamily when Cassian would encase your face in his large hands and draw you in for a deep kiss.

Nesta wanted to hate you. Wanted to pick you apart as to why the Illyrian male she longed for should not love you.

But she couldn’t.

You had been a friend to both her and Elain after they’d been reborn. The only one who understood that their death’s were not fairytales and legends to be told for generations to come. You had been the only one who fought for her when the rest of the Inner Circle had pushed for Nesta to tell the story of her death to the other six High Lords of Prythian.

She respected you so deeply that she began to view you as not a foe, but a friend.

Hurt had cleaved it’s way into her heart the moment she’d found out what mates were, that undeniable bond she’d felt snap into place with Cassian long after she’d been turned Fae. The bond she tried to ignore for so long— to claw out of her very soul with every baited breath.

She had been meant for Cassian, and he had been meant for her.

And he knew it, the moment she’d tumbled out of the Cauldron, and he suspected it for longer.

But he hadn’t cared. Because for him, it had only ever been you, only ever would be you.

You belonged to another, too.

Nesta was not folly to the soft glances and pleading stares the Heir of the Autumn Court throne sent you each time the two of you had been holed up in the same room. The way Eris had studied your reaction carefully while he’d offered Nesta his hand in marriage.

But you hadn’t cared. Because for you, it had only ever been Cassian, would only ever be Cassian.

Tonight, Nesta tipped back her head, finishing off her third glass of rather expensive red wine while she avoided the dance floor of the Night Court ballroom at all costs.

You were so beautiful. The dress the Night Court’s seamstresses had crafted for you was so hauntingly gorgeous: a maroon dress so deep that it was nearly black, long skirts that looked around your ankles, diamonds encrusted on the fabric to create the illusion that starlight had exploded on the tail end— that you were that fallen star, the one that had landed right into the General’s hands. Nuala and Cerridwen had twisted up the top half of your hair into horns, letting the rest curl around your shoulders naturally.

And you had Cassian gazing at you as though you’d hung every star and the very radiant moon in the night sky, lighting the endless void of his essence.

You wrapped your arms around the General’s neck as he lifted you off your feet to twirl, dipping your full mouth gently to his ear and whispering something endearing, meant only for him. In response, your male tipped his head back and roared in seductive laughter, his shoulder-length hair ruffling at the movement.

Nesta hadn’t realized the small cracks craving up the sides of her wine glass from the tight grip she held on it. But the voice blooming at her side stole away any thought she gave her jealousy, “You’re gawking.”

As though Nesta’s thoughts had conjured the devil, Eris Vanserra had appeared at her side, his eyebrows drawn tight together as though it took every inch of his being to not attack the Night Court make who twirled his mate around the ballroom.

When Nesta did not indulge in Eris’s presence, he clasped his hands together and spoke lowly. “I once thought the idea of a mating bond was ridiculous, and beneath me.” The red-haired male began, “after my history with Morrigan, I had a hard time seeing why love would be worth the trouble. No man in my life that had been in love ever truly looked happy.“ He settled against the back of his seat, looking deep in thought for a long moment. “She tried to kill me, the first time I ever saw her.” Nesta bit back a smile, and the words that were on the tip of her tongue. Sounds about right. “She was so wholly devoted to Morrigan and the Night Court— to the bastard. She had hated me before I even knew she existed, she had loved him before I even knew she existed.” The silent confession hung heavy in the air.

“She’s your mate,” Nesta breathed, her icy gaze blew wide. The faintest nod from Eris confirmed the senseless admission. “And— and is it?”

Eris quirked a brow at the eldest Archeron sister, and she swallowed deeply, slowly prowling a softened eye around the room at all the pairs of people in love. “You claimed to have a hard time seeing why love was worth the trouble. . . but I assume you know now.”

Eris smiled, not malicious or inviting. Almost, apologetic. “How destructively ironic of me,” he pushed up from his seat, causing Nesta’s hand to dart out in attempt to slow him. “Yes. My answer is yes, Nesta Archeron.”

an elaboration of this blurb!

War wasn’t fair. The blood-soaked fists that had dug into your pretty flesh and squeezed your heart with a vicious haste. The collapsed air of death that stole the breath from your lungs as everything you’d grown to vicariously love had been snatched away from you like a carrot dangled before your godsdamned nose.

Death had always taken a peculiar interest in you, trailing you like a shadow from the time you’d been born. Caring for you when you’d had no mother to rock you to sleep, and no father to protect you from the monsters that surely existed beneath your bed.

You’d seen it— you’d felt it. Sometimes, you even welcomed it.

All had gone to hell.

Chaol had gone to kill Dorian. Slunk off into the night while you’d been carefully assessing the sheer power that radiated off of the Blackbeak Matron’s granddaughter, Manon.

Fear— and a sick mix of relief— clawed up your throat as Rowan scrambled up from his position on the ground, head twisting in all directions to scent which direction Westfall had taken off into.

Aelin let out a string of curses, pushing to her knees, “where the hell did he go?” The blonde’s nose twitched before she suddenly hurtled off into the woods, not wasting any time in idly contemplating the consequences of her actions. Rowan followed shortly after, and you wondered if Aelin knew that she too, had gained a shadow of death in finding her Prince.

You were up on your feet before Aedion could grab ahold of you, heart thundering in your ears and a sudden nausea nearly knocking you back onto the cold forest ground. The war general was far too familiar with that reckless gleam in your eye, and he tilted his head. “Don’t fucking move—”

Chaol had taken off northbound, but your feet carried you the opposite, an odd tug pulling at your bones as though you were a puppet. You knew that feeling.

Grinning over your shoulder was the atonement of death and destruction. The reaper.

But he was not leading you towards death, he was commanding you to it.

The rustling of leaves and a loud growl indicated Aedion was begrudgingly following after you, instead of Aelin. You figured his queen would have his head on a silver platter if you had so much as a scratch to you under his watch. She rather liked you.

Ripping open the sheath on your thigh, you dug out a rose-encrusted blade, the very same weapon that had been used to collect every soul you’d ever stolen in your existence.

Vengeance was careening you, laughing in delight as your feet leaped over thick branches and boulders scattered on the floor of the woods, eyes pinned on the edge of the wood line, where you knew the royal carriage was carrying Dorian away.

Dorian Havilliard had been the first to look death in the eyes and swoon. He didn’t tremble, nor did he sneer. He smiled, and from that moment on, you’d been his. And he had been yours.

Death and her weakness.

“I’m telling you,” Aedion panted out, his footsteps loud and uncaring as he chased after you. “If you get the both of us killed, I’ll raise you from the fucking dead and murder you myself.”

“You can try,” you murmured, hands trembling as you were coming to terms with what you were going to do— what you had to do. The wicked scent tainting the night air was twisting your face into a scowl. Rotting flesh and undiluted violence.

Despite the blood-curdling scream that retched through the woods in the direction of where Aelin, Rowan, and Chaol had darted off into, you didn’t glance back. You didn’t falter. You would not yield.

You readjusted your grip on your blade, palms sheer with sweat.

He’d loved you. Dorian had loved you. He’d told you as often as he could, and yet you could never wrap your mind around the thought of someone being capable of seeing all of you and not minding the gore. But Dorian always had a knack for proving you wrong, and he surely loved to kiss you quite insane.

“Go find Aelin, Aedion.” You whispered into the quiet of the atmosphere. The only sound was the snapping of twigs beneath your booted feet, and the faltering of the War General’s steps. “She needs you.” You didn’t want him to think of you as a monster, when he witnessed the retribution you were going to command.

“Whitethorn and her make quite the team,” Aedion bit out, his tone venomous. “And if I let you die, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Some part of him understood you, no matter how much you hated it. Years of war and slaughter stained his hands, a mirror image of your own.

You made it to the edge of the woods, a clear view of the golden carriages that belonged to the wealth of the Havilliard family. They were heavily guarded, four soldiers patrolling each cart. The scent of decay had become overwhelming, and the land was scarce of any small folk.

You had found him.

Leaning casually against the frame of the caravan, face so unfamiliar to you that your stomach churned, Dorian had been gazing into the horizon— straight at you and Aedion— a cheshire cat smile adorning his chapped lips as though he’d been waiting for you.

You wanted to scream. Horrified.

His eyes were not his own. The way they’d once burned into you, now dull and dreadful. His mouth was not the same. Not the one he once slain over yours with so much tenderness, now wicked and hateful. His cheeks and brow bones no longer belonged to him. The same face you’d traced with your fingers and memorized with your lips, now so cold and empty.

“Dorian,” his name had left your lips, so quietly that the wind had carried your voice away. Faintly, you could hear Aedion pray to the gods.

The two of you had watched Dorian swagger his way through meeting the Blackbeak clan just moments before, but he’d never once looked your way. It hadn’t been real, then. You allowed yourself to harbor hope that you could save him.

Now, you wished he was dead.

Death would be a sweet reprieve from the egregious thing that was watching you through your lover’s eyes.

The Prince that dwelled inside him raised a hand, and sent you a haunting wave. Tears began to sting at the corners of your eyes as you realized you had let Dorian suffer for so long. You didn’t move, you didn’t blink, you didn’t breathe— you couldn’t breathe.

Aedion called your name, his own voice thick as he laid a gentle hand on your arm. “We have to go,” he rushed out. His head whipped around, trying to locate the thunderous roaring that was shaking the earth whole. “We have to go, now.”

You dug your fingers into the harsh bark of the nearest tree, using it to hold up the weight of your body while you attempted to hold yourself together. “No,” you slapped Aedion’s hand away, your skin feeling too tight and itchy. “No.”

Hushed whispers sliced through the air like knives, and you could barely register Aedion gasping out someone’s name before the heavy traces of pine and blood flooded your senses. You didn’t tear your eyes away from the man who held your beating heart in his hands.

“The witches,” a feminine voice that your brain registered as Aelin informed. “We ran straight into a den of witches. And we pissed them the hell off.”

The Prince cocked his head, daring you to make the first move. Your body wracked with uneven breaths, wanting nothing more than to bolt across the distance separating you from your lover and crush him in an embrace. To hold him close and never let go. To tell him you loved him.

“They’re already on our scent.” Rowan, wheezing through baited breath and clenched teeth. You presumed he was the one who reeked of blood. You should be moving, already urging him out of the woods to meet up with Lysandra and Nesryn. “We have to move quickly.”

You traced the edge of your blade with the pad of your thumb, blood beading at the cool kiss. That seemed to catch the Prince’s eye, and his smirk widened.

Your friends had fallen quiet, four cautious stares sharing knowing glances.

A gentle hand wrapped around your own, carefully trying to disentangle the blade from between your fingers before you inflicted any more damage to your skin. “We’ll find him again.” Chaol’s voice was raspy as he spoke, maybe even shaky. Dorian had loved him, too. “I promise.”

“Dorian,” you said, loud enough for your friends to soften, but not enough to travel across the field. You told yourself that you couldn’t leave him like this willingly, that wasn’t love— it was selfishness.

You surged forward, grief forking through your heart. You would bear the pain of losing Dorian a hundred times over if it meant he didn’t have to suffer anymore. Sometimes love was calloused, and demented, and twisted your soul in hellish ways that left you breathless.

But that was the gamble you had taken when you allowed Dorian to love you. When you allowed yourself to love him.

Arms immediately snared around your waist, a brute force hauling you backwards as you struggled to throw yourself forwards. “Dorian!” You screamed, hating the way you’d become so unrecognizable. Hopeless.

The Valg’s eyebrows drew taut, and his smile fell into a grimace.

Your insistent thrashing threatened Chaol’s grip, and wasted time. Valuable time to escape the wrath of the Blackbeak coven. You knew your friends’ patience had quickly come to an end. Where Rowan’s life was on the line, Aelin became less lenient. Vice versa.

“Aedion,” the Queen of Terrassen demanded.

A sigh loosed out before, “don’t kill me for this.” You slashed out with your blade as Aedion scooped you up and tossed you over his shoulder. The metal didn’t manage to do much besides slice open the back of his emerald tunic.

“No,” you cried out, betrayal evident in your tone while Aedion began to sprint through the woods, following a heavily wounded Rowan. “Please, I have to help him!”

summary, rhysand danced to the beautiful echos of death.

author’s note, back with my rhys fic, same reader/world as this and this!! 

Rhysand did not know where to put his hands. The surrounding High Lords watched his every move with baited breath, and his court settled into their seats around him, filling in every chair except the one at his side.

A year had passed since the war with Hybern, but Rhysand had not gone to any celebration or gathering the High Lords held in their courts. He had managed to survive the war, Feyre Cursebreaker having saved his life by begging the High Lords for a kernel of their power.

Rhysand was someone who should’ve died, his body laid gently into the cold earth alongside his eternal love. It had been his time, and yet he was greedily stolen from death’s rightful hands.

No alcohol or ignorance was enough to void the pain. Five hundred years Rhys had been at your side, and you at his. Five centuries of memories; of nights filled with your rich laughter and his eagerness to know all of you.

But the various lifetimes of memories he had made with you would never overshadow the warmth of your blood coating his hands, and the unnaturally stiff limbs as he held you to him, hoping that if he closed his eyes and prayed hard enough, he could merge your souls together— keeping yours from leaving him behind.

It hadn’t been enough, nothing Rhysand ever did was enough.

So, with baited breath, he decided to set his sweat-coated palms over his knees, the fabric feeling itchy against his skin. The movement did not allow the other six High Lords to relax— if anything, they had only further tensed.

“I am not made of glass,” he murmured hollowly. His voice did not feel as though they belonged to him, despite his lips forming the words. His surroundings pulsed with fever. “You have forced me here for reason, I’d rather not waste my time sitting in a room of gawking fools.” No feline smirk graced his lips, nor did he lean forward with practiced grace. His shoulders were slumped and his hair unkempt.

Beron’s lip curled in disgust as he observed the deep purple bags that lined Rhysand’s eyes. “You look pathetic as always.” Such a pleasant soul, the Lord of Autumn was.

“Well, recovering from a costly war seems to have that affect on all of us,” Rhys’s lips slowly spread into a vicious smile. He was struggling to breath. Nothing would ever be as it once was. “I suppose you would know.” Cassian chuckled deeply from behind Rhys as Beron’s face flickered with hatred.

“I’d say I’m doing rather well, actually,” the spice-haired male began, idly tracing along the arm of his chair with a taunting finger. “Prythian has been doing far better since Hybern rid us of that Illyrian bitch on a throne too big for her britches.”

The air staled. Shadows stilled. All movement halted. No one dared to loose a breath. Cassian had gone pale, Azriel’s siphons blared, Mor’s breath caught in her lungs, Feyre held a white-knuckled grip on the arms of her chair. Helion’s face softened, Eris’s gaze fell to the floor, Tarquin didn’t dare blink. Kallias drew back in shock, Thesan’s lips parted, Tamlin didn’t appear to be breathing. Even Beron recoiled, as though he’d realized what he’d done.

Rhysand swallowed, his throat tightening with each breath he inhaled. He decided to keep his violet eyes trained on his hands, studying the scars that flecked them and the birthmark between his thumb and index finger in a way that you once had. You kissed each and every mark with affection. He’d called you a sap for it, then. But now, he’d beg with any god to feel the warm press of your lips against his skin.

He was going to tear Beron’s throat out with his teeth if he dared a glance up.

“The High Lady of Lunar laid down her life so that we could win the war,” Eris’s firm tone snagged everyone’s attention. The Heir of Autumn’s face was solemn, and Rhysand remembered exactly how easy it was to forget that he was not the only one who felt your loss. “Without her sacrifice, we would not be here today. So I suggest you mind your tone, father.”

Rhysand did not nod in thanks to the Autumn Heir, nor did he voice his agreement. He only inspected the hem of his sleeve, noting the tiny imperfections in the stitch. The loose longing provided enough of a distraction while Beron and Helion bickered over the true meaning behind the High Lords gathering for a meeting.

“There has been. . . activity, on the edge of my court.” Helion decided, wringing his hands nervously. The action was enough to peak Rhys’s interest. “A band of barbaric Hybern soldiers that have yet to disband, who claim to have the bounty of a High Lady’s life.”

Rhysand tensed, his mind slipping elsewhere before he could stop himself. Not Images— but memories. Of what you’d look like, battered and bruised, shredded and dehumanized. The way your killers had beaten you into oblivion, attempted to saw your wings from your back. He had not forgotten that you were not granted the blessing of an easy death. It was slow, painful, while he was helpless. Unable to find you. Until it was too late.

“Pray tell, Helion. Where are these soldiers now?” Silence was a dangerous command. And six of seven of the High Lords shared a concerned glance.

The High Lord of Day straightened before a cruel grin spread across his face, so unlike his usual bored morale. “The dungeons of the Day Court, keenly awaiting your arrival.”

Rhysand was suddenly more aware of his surroundings, a newfound purpose in every waking beat of his heart. He’d been shrouded by grief for so long that he’d forgotten the truly holy grail.

Retribution never enticed him; justice never excited him.

summary, you were so, so familiar.

author’s note, back again with the angst, my favorite. <3 this is meant to be similar to one of dorian’s chapters when he was possessed by the valg.

He couldn’t remember his name.

He liked his name. It kept the memory of who he used to be alive. Without his name, he was forgotten— nothing more than a body buried six feet below the cold dirt his feet stood on. Why couldn’t he remember his name?

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he had forgotten something as simple as his name, yet he could vividly recall every soul that had been stolen at his hands as he was forced to watch through the eyes of the body that used to once be his own.

The dark soul that had inhabited his flesh was slowly eating away his heart, and soon there would be nothing left of him to swallow. So why couldn’t he remember his name? In his dying moments, he would remain nameless.

Through midnight eyes that he used to wear smugly, he watched the grieving frame of someone he used to love as you mourned his death. You were painstakingly beautiful— to beautiful to be weeping for a man who could not remember his own name.

A familiar man with shortly-cropped, chestnut hair hauled you back as you fought to reach him. Your mouth was moving, calling out for something— or rather, someone.

He felt his traitorous lips move against his will, tugging into a daunting grin as the demon inside him taunted you for your weakness.

But you didn’t seem to care, only raging harder against the force holding you back. A man with white hair and tattooed skin rushed into his view, aiding the brunette in forcing you to retreat.

It wasn’t wrath fueling your actions, despite what it appeared. Fury didn’t drive the soul to fight against everything sensible.

Love was what drove you to fight for him, against all odds.

He strained to hear your voice over the deafening silence ringing throughout his head. He fought against the piercing hold of the demon just in time to hear the name fall from your trembling lips.

“Dorian,” you cried out as the white-haired male tossed you over his shoulder. Betrayal crossed your features, tears glimmering in your eyes as you realized you were losing him, you were losing Dorian.

Dorian. Your honeyed tone repeated in his mind like a mantra.

He wanted to smile, and he wanted to cry.