{ moon on a string }

Rules & Guidlines:

Who I write fics for (x reader): Eris Vanserra, Lucien Vanserra, Tamlin, Azriel, Cassian, & Rhys (also sometimes Nesta & Mor! ). What ships I'll write for: Azris, Elucien, Tamcien, Feysand, Feylin, LOA x Helion, Cazriel, & sometimes Nessian. What I write: Angst & Fluff, Headcanons, Drabbles, & Oneshots. Very occasionally, I may write smut which will always be noted on this masterlist with an asterisk * (you can request smut , but as noted above it may not be fulfilled; it just depends...) What I don't write: Anything involving domestic violence or SA. Please do not request anything of this nature; thank you.

MASTERLIST

Character x Reader Masterlist

ACOTAR Ships Masterlist

Halloween Thrills 2023

The Folklore Anthology

The Evermore Anthology

Eris Week 2023:

Day 1 "Brotherhood": To Be Heard

After his coronation as High Lord, there is one person Eris is eager to show his true face, regardless of the outcome; his estranged brother, Lucien.

Day 2 "Heir": Den of Foxes

As tensions in the Autumn Court begin to rise, Beron becomes even more paranoid. Eris & his mate are forced to put their personal feelings aside to survive.

Day 4 "Autumn Equinox": Happy Equinox, At Last

As the first Autumn Equinox since Eris became High Lord approaches, he has a befitting surprise for his mate.

<100 Word Drabble Game:

Azris + Blue

Lucien & Eris + Fire/Teaching

Elucien + Snark

Azris + Sleep

~Autumn Court ~ Over 500 years ago~

The crisp Autumn air beat against the wood exterior of the Forest House, the glow of the moon reaching in through the bedroom window of a young Autumn Heir. Tossing and thrashing fitfully about his wine-red sheets, ten-year old Eris’ sleep grew more restless with each passing moment. The rest of the House slept peacefully, unaware of the turmoil brewing in the room at the end of the hall. The young male was not having a nightmare, not in the traditional sense, his vision was a cloud of swirling darkness, it was what he felt; pure, unmitigated terror was coursing through his veins like hot oil. A sheen of sweat coated his skin, his internal temperature steadily rising despite the cool breeze from the open window. 

With a final thrash, Eris jolted upright in his bed, a silent scream as flame burst forth from his hands, flame he was not actively producing using his gifts. Panicked, over and over he unsuccessfully attempted to extinguish the flame that was raging out of his control. Never had he experienced his power acting of its own accord, his chest was heaving as he jumped from the bed, waving his emblazoned hands frantically. Eyes blown wide, he darted to the washroom, frenzied he pulled the cold faucet to full blast, shoving the flames under the rushing liquid. To his relief, the fire dampened, steam rising from his still hot hands as he reached for a towel. Shivering with fear, he tossed the towel onto the counter before padding over to his bed and slipping under the bedspread once more. 

Deeply unsettled, Eris wrapped his arms around his shaking frame and curled into himself, an act of self-soothing in the absence of any outside support. Certainly he couldn’t go to his father with this information, therefore he couldn’t seek out his mother’s comfort at present either, as that would also mean waking his father. Moments such as these reminded young Eris that he was well and truly alone in this world, the only person he could count on was himself. Body still trembling with disquiet, mind racing through a million possible worse and worse reasons this could have happened, Eris was not blessed with the sweet release of sleep that night. 

~Spring / Autumn Border ~ Precipice of the 2nd war with Hybern~

Preternaturally blended as one with the surrounding autumnal foliage, the blazing reds and oranges, the warm browns of the tree trunks and rotting leaves on the forest floor, Eris stood, back pressed to one of the massive maple trunks, arms crossed, tapping his foot. When he offered his alliance to the Night Court in an attempt to bolster support for his eventual succession to Autumn’s throne, he assumed the undertaking would involve mostly independent information gathering and sharing; perhaps the occasional drop in to the Night Court’s High Lord with new details about his father or the state of the Spring Court, given its proximity to Autumn. Much to his chagrin, Rhysand assigned an intermediary, not only to gather any information he had to offer on the Night Court’s behalf, but from time to time, to join him in procuring the intel. The liaison, naturally, was the one person Eris would rather have drowned than be in the vicinity of: Azriel; the Shadowsinger. 

Given his role as Spymaster, the selection made logical sense, but Eris found himself increasingly annoyed as he awaited the arrival of his reconnaissance partner at their agreed upon location. A long, sordid history of dislike bordering on outright hatred existed between the two males; all of which stemmed back to an incident involving Morrigan, who was to be his betrothed before a lamentable series of events resulted in the aforementioned female, bared, tortured, and dropped into the Autumn Court like waste. Azriel came to her aid that day in the woods at precisely the moment the Autumn Heir himself had stumbled upon the scene. The Spymaster’s unmitigated rage for the male he perceived as responsible for the entire ordeal had never subsided, never dimmed; Eris’ own resentment at the pervasive ill-assumptions festered as time went on, making the pair more enemy than ally despite the handful of times their Courts had aligned. Over the last several months, their increased presence in one another’s lives had tamed the outright hatred, but the pair were far from friends.

Lost in his own bitter memories, a forceful gust of wind, leaves blowing up in a whirlwind around him, was his indication that the object of his flashback had arrived. Before him, massive, membranous wings stretched to their full length, shadows whipping around him, Azriel’s feet hit the forest floor, knees slightly bent to absorb the landing. Eris, who had stilled at the sight, cleared his throat, pushing off the tree.

“You’re five minutes late,” he leveled as he approached his joiner, “my time is precious, I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Up until a few moments ago, I was contemplating whether it would be worth the reprimand to turn around and fly home,” Azriel gruffed, “consider yourself lucky I arrived at all.”

Lucky, Eris scoffed. At least, he thought, they were on the same page about wanting to be anywhere else, with anyone else, at present; on that much they’d always agreed. With Hybern forces in the Spring Court, the pair of them were to spend the weekend sweeping the area and gathering new information about their troops, arsenal, and anything else that may be helpful in the impending war.

“Let’s split up,” Eris declared, the same tone he used as General, “you go east, I’ll head west. We’ll meet back here to touch base by nightfall before heading to our lodging for the evening.”

After a moment of hesitation, contemplating whether to deign and obey the “order” or protest, Azriel nodded, disappearing into a wisp of darkness. Materializing in the easternmost point of the Spring Court, the Spymaster began casing the area; he’d divide the east into halves, taking one each day of the scheduled outing. As he walked, light on his feet, shrouded in shadow, the ill-tempered mood he’d woken up in had yet to fade; the prospect of spending an entire weekend in such close contact with the Autumn Heir set him on edge. How Rhysand could trust the sly fox, Azriel was unsure; ally or no, he was slippery as an eel, only truly beholden to his own best interests. A noise approximately one hundred and fifty yards ahead caught his attention; a few of his shadows split from the cloud-like formation surrounding their master to investigate the source. 

Winnowing about a hundred yards nearer, settling into a patch of thick staghorn sumac, Azriel beheld the camp of Hybern soldiers as his shadows flew back with their report. Two hundred soldiers, presently unarmed, mealtime, they whispered. Nodding, he sent them back out to listen in on any pertinent conversations as he quietly held his position, observing what he could about their ranks from this vantage point. Absorbed in the task, the rustle fifty feet behind came as his shadows buzzed, all speaking at once, DANGER, AMBUSH, ARMED, ARROWS! Before he could react, a bevy of arrows rained down upon him; a handful missed, littering the ground surrounding him. As he turned three connected, one into his hand, the shaft stuck halfway through, another grazed his shoulder, narrowly missing his wing, and one lodged directly into his thigh. 

With his uninjured hand, he reached for the sword strapped to his back, unsheathing it with the grace and precision of a battle hardened soldier. Despite his injuries, Azriel made swift work of eliminating his opponents, the blade gliding through the air, connecting with the precise points in the body that ensured fatality. Scanning the area, as his shadows searched beyond where his eyes could see, he confirmed that he was once again alone. Adrenaline wearing off, his injuries throbbed with pain. He cursed; unable to complete the day’s mission, he resolved to winnow back to the meeting point and wait for Eris to arrive. As he called his shadows nearer, he remained solidly in the current plane. Unable to use his magic, cold sweat formed at his forehead; he examined the arrows, faebane, they were coated in faebane. 

Survival instincts kicking in, Azriel scrambled to find a sheltered area to seclude himself to; he walked, pain shooting down his leg with each step as the arrow was jostled, until he found a shallow trench. As he laid down into the hollow, his shadows formed a wall of darkness around him, concealing him from sight. Wounds aching, the reality of his circumstance set in: he was alone within a hundred yards of enemy troops; sustaining injuries that would not heal themselves, unable to remove the arrows or he’d bleed out without the proper herbs to counteract the faebane, and the only person who knew his general whereabouts was a sworn enemy turned “ally”, who may not care enough to come to his aid. With nightfall swiftly approaching, the notorious Spymaster of the Night Court sent a silent plea to the Mother to see him through this predicament.

Thirty minutes. A whole half hour had passed without the sun in the sky, and Eris’ patience was growing thin. He had been quite clear that they were to meet back up by sundown, and yet the Shadowsinger had not returned. Eris crossed his arms, contemplating his next move. The overgrown bat may have simply abandoned the mission, he had said that he very nearly skirted the responsibility all together; yet, the auburn-haired male couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. After all, his own reconnaissance had confirmed the presence of heavy troops from Hybern sprinkled throughout the court; as much as Eris resented Azriel, he also knew he was an extremely capable soldier, but could he hold his own against an entire army?

After another twenty minutes passed, he grew restless; biting his nails, he paced back and forth, leaves crunching underfoot. With no way of knowing where in the entire eastern half of the Spring Court the Shadowsinger might be, and darkness now blanketing the forest, the search would not be easy. Running his hand through his hair, he knew, there was one other way he might locate the male. Heart pounding as he wrestled with the decision, he resolved to put his hesitation aside, this may be a life or death situation for all he knew. Shutting his eyes, the Autumn Heir reached into the pit of his soul, searching deep within until he felt it at last; the threaded cord of fate, long ago buried and ignored. Awakened, delighted at being acknowledged after centuries of neglect, the golden rope glowed within his chest. 

~Battlefield, 500 years ago during the 1st War~

“Stand your ground!!!” Eris bellowed to his troops, a wall of flame held off an onslaught of enemy soldiers threatening to break their ranks. The battle had been raging on for hours, his men were growing fatigued; all around him, he watched as knees buckled, Autumn’s finest soldiers succumbing to the forces plowing into their defenses.

As more and more of his battalion fell out, the harder he and the remaining few exerted themselves; sweat poured down Eris’ forehead, his auburn curls, muddied and slicked to his skin. Bones aching, the Autumn Heir felt himself tiring. As General, he could not allow himself to back down; he fought on, a symbol of strength and hope for the men fighting alongside him. With all of their energy spent on defense, they’d hardly put a dent in the enemy’s ranks. Cut off from the rest of their ally court’s troops, he knew they were fighting a losing battle based on numbers alone.

Eris yelled out as he pushed forth a final scorching blast of flame, cutting into the enemy line enough to blast them back several yards; his troops regained their footing as they took a moment to catch their breath.

A storm of arrows and spears descended into Hybern’s troops around them from above; Eris spared a quick glance to the sky, Illyrians. The Night Court’s aerial troops had joined their forces; the Autumn General felt relief set in as aid had arrived at last. 

Out from the sky, beside him landed Azriel, Shadowsinger; his seven cobalt blue siphons like beacons in the smoky haze of the battlefield. The Illyrian ripped two blades from their holsters across his back, and began slicing through the enemy's offense like a knife through butter; Eris used the opportunity to draw his own sword, fighting now with both flame & steel. With the renewed numbers and added component of winged combat, Hybern’s forces were easily decimated. 

Out of breath, the auburn haired male and the Spymaster made eye contact; though no emotion but hatred had ever passed between them, in that moment, a look of gratitude shone in Eris’ eyes. Azriel nodded his acknowledgement, and shot off into the sky; as he did, Eris felt a snap in his chest, a golden thread secured in place. Eyes widened in shock, he glanced up to watch his mate fly away.

~ Autumn Forest, Meeting Point, 500 years later ~

Chewing his lip, aware his next move may result in the Shadowsinger finally discovering the bond, he tugged. Nothing. Despite the warmth he felt on his side of the golden thread, there was nothing but cold, emptiness as he reached down the bond, as if the rope had been severed, as if his mate had ceased to exist. 

No. Eris, centuries of conflicted emotions in a whirlwind, winnowed to the eastern border. Materializing in the Spring woods, he sent up a silent prayer to whatever Gods may be listening, that fate would guide him where he needed to go.

After searching for what felt like an eternity in the unfamiliar, darkened wood, the pungent scent of blood and death hit his nostrils; he stilled, taking a deep breath before he walked on in the direction of the smell. The outline of a body came into view on the forest floor ahead; slowly, he approached. Crouching down, the details of the deceased’s face came into view; he let out a long breath. A Hybern soldier. Relieved not to have found the Shadowsinger slain, he stood once more; scanning the area, he understood at once that this meant there had been a fight, that Azriel had likely been in this very spot. Two more bodies came into view as he continued onward; he approached a fork in the nature-worn trail, and as he glanced down each path something caught his attention. Barely detectable to an untrained eye, a patch of air appeared tinted darker than the rest, a shield of shadow. Jogging over to the darkness, he crouched down at the edge of the hollowed out ground.

“Shadowsinger?” he whispered tentatively, careful not to let his voice carry, aware there may be more troops nearby. Shadows dispersed, revealing a pallid Azriel; Eris noted the two arrows lodged into his person.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled; as he attempted to lift himself out of the trench, he winced in pain. Extending a hand, Eris tsked.

“I would think you’d be showering me with gratitude,” Eris snarked, “I could have just gone back to the cabin when you didn’t show up.”

Azriel reluctantly accepted the redhead’s aid, grabbing his hand; Eris hoisted the Spymaster to his feet, or foot, he held his injured leg up so as to not put his full weight on the appendage. 

“Why did you not remove the arrows?” Eris asked, brows knit together as he observed the injuries closer up.

“Faebane,” Azriel spat, limping forward. 

Ah, so that’s why the bond was blocked, Eris thought; he outstretched his hand once more.

“Come on, I’ll winnow us to the cabin,” Eris insisted, “there’s a cabinet fully stocked with healing materials.”

Azriel sighed, hating the helpless state he found himself in, hating that the one person who could help him currently was a male he’d spent centuries despising; he extended his good hand, intertwining it with his freckled companions. Appearing at the entrance to a small, quaint cottage, Eris held open the door. The Illyrian sauntered in, holding his wings tight to his frame as he ducked inside. The cabin consisted of one room; a bed, a couch, a breakfast table, an unimpressive kitchen, and luckily, a private restroom. Azriel found himself surprised by how ruggedly pedestrian it seemed; not that he had any grand expectations, but he’d assumed that the Autumn prince’s private cabin might be a bit more…lavish. A fire was already blazing in the hearth, warming his skin against the chill autumn breeze they’d just left outside. 

“Make yourself comfortable–well, I suppose as comfortable as one can be with two arrows impaling them,” Eris joked, earning a glare from his surly patient. Holding his hands up as he made his way to the medicinal supply, he added, “I’m just trying to bring a little levity to the situation.”

Eris returned from the bathroom with a mortar full of a poultice; the thick paste contained the necessary roots and petals to stop the bleeding despite the effects of the faebane, which would then ween out of his system naturally over the night. In his other hand, a salt water solution, tweezers, and several strips of clean cloth bandage. 

“Why should I trust you to do this,” Azriel spoke as the redhead set up his supplies on the table beside him. 

“I don’t see that you have much choice,” Eris countered, “it’s allow me to help, or bleed out if you remove the arrows on your own without the proper treatment. I’m a General, remember? That necessitates a certain level of familiarity with on-the-go wound treatment, of which I’ve done my fair share.”

Azriel looked the male up and down, contemplating his words; he did often forget in his own lowly narrative surrounding the Autumn Prince that he was indeed a General. The musculature of his arms, the veins in his freckled hands, all now visible as the male had removed his outerwear, donning only a tight, cream colored long sleeved shirt, would suggest a frequency of strength and tactical training that mirrored his own regimen.

“What’s in the paste?” Azriel questioned once more, eyeing the mortar as he continued to put off the inevitable pain he was about to endure in removing the arrows.

“Echinacea, Lavender, Root of the Mother’s Willow, Calendula, and a little Aloe,” Eris recited easily, having made the poultice on many occasions, both on and off the battlefield. Azriel winced in pain, having absentmindedly tapped the foot of his injured leg without conscious thought. 

“Are you going to let me help you or not?” Eris inquired, irritation setting in; each moment they delayed, the more Faebane that seeped into his bloodstream, making the healing process more difficult.

“Fine,” he agreed, voice a gruff sigh.

Eris approached, assessing the injuries; in addition to the two glaringly obvious arrows, there was a relatively deep graze in his bicep, which he’d address last. In his long life, Eris had learned that treating wounds in order of which would be most to least painful to address was the key; as such, he planned to start with the arrow in the male’s thigh.

“I’m going to cut the leather away so I can get a clear view of the wound,” Eris explained, Azriel nodded his permission; he made easy work with the knife, cutting the hole in the material even wider, “Do you want something to bite down on? This is going to hurt.” The dark-haired male shook his head, glancing around.

“No, but some whisky would be appreciated,” he admitted, “if you have any.” Eris rose, retrieving an unopened bottle from the bar, undoing the lid and handing it to his companion.

“This is my best vintage, I’d been saving it, but…you’re going to need something strong,” he said as he sat back in the chair directly in front of the Illyrian, who raised the bottle as if to cheers his sentiment before taking a long swig.

“Ready?” He asked; Azriel nodded, and within a second, Eris had broken the tip off the arrow, pulling it clean through. The Shadowsinger’s fist slammed the table so hard, it’s a wonder the furniture remained in one piece, a string of strangled curses escaped his lips. Eris made quick work of disinfecting with the saline solution, checking the wound for any splintered wood before applying a generous amount of the poultice evenly throughout the open flesh; once evenly coated, he reached for a strip of the cloth, wrapping the area tightly. As he glanced up, he noticed his companion’s skin was a little paler, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he brought the bottle to his lips once more. Azriel, noticing the amber eyes fixed upon him, the furrowing of his brow, sighed.

“I’m alright, let’s just get on with it,” he grimaced, taking another swig. Nodding, Eris grabbed the wounded hand, assessing the arrow; he grabbed his small knife, ready to cut away the leather glove, but the male pulled his hand away.

“Don’t,” Azriel warned, his hazel eyes dangerous as they observed the male before them.

“What? Why? I have to remove the glove so I can treat the wound,” he countered, confused by his sudden resistance; realization dawned on him that he’d never once seen the male without those gloves, a staple of his uniform he had assumed, but perhaps there was more to the accessory than formality.

“No, treat it as it is,” he insisted, voice stern, but Eris detected a faint panic to the words, observing the way his shadows seemed to frenzy about his frame.

“That’s impossible, Shadowsinger,” he leveled sympathetically, “I may be able to remove the arrow without touching the glove…but then we’ll need to remove it anyway, so I can see the full extent of the damage.”

Azriel kicked the leg of the table in front of him, frustrated; after a brief silence, he sighed, glancing up at the ceiling, shaking his head.

“Do what you need to do,” he spoke, voice devoid of emotion, shadows moving in closer as if to shroud him from facing what he sought to avoid.

Eris repeated his motions from before, breaking the tip off the arrow and pulling it through as quickly as was possible; once the cursing had subsided, and Azriel untensed his shoulders, he waited for hazel eyes to meet his own.

“Do you want to take it off or do you want me to do it?” Eris asked, earnestly; unsure what exactly he was about to witness, but aware that it was something the male had not wished him to ever see. After a deep breath, Azriel removed the glove, watching his companion's freckled face carefully as he observed the marred skin. Eris felt his heart sink to his stomach, he recognized the scarring from third degree burns immediately; deep within, rage, pain, horror pooled at the point where the golden thread lived. The raven-haired male watched as flame seemed to sizzle in the Autumn Heir’s eyes, a bevy of emotions flickered across his features, though none of the one’s he’d expected to see.

“Who did this to you?” Eris asked at once, thinly veiling his emotions; his voice even, though the inferno in his eyes gave him away as they met deep pools of hazel.

“It happened a long, long time ago,” Azriel admitted, surprised by this reaction; there was no teasing, not even pity, only genuine compassionate horror.

“How?” Eris pressed, carefully beginning his work to treat the puncture the arrow left in his already scarred skin. The male was quiet for some time as he watched the diligent care being given to his injury. For some reason, the way Eris was looking at him, despite having hardly spoken of this to his closest friends, made him want to be honest.

“I had a step-mother who hated me enough to lock me away in a cold, dark cell for the entirety of my childhood, step-brother’s who hated me enough to set fire to my oil-doused hands for a laugh, and a father who cared so little that he let it all happen,” he shared, only including as much detail as he could endure reliving.

Eris stilled at the confession, hands halting the cloth mid-wrap around Azriel’s hand; his eyes fixed on the hazel ones before him, searching for any clues of how to proceed, what reaction would be accepted. Returning his eyes and hands to the careful wrapping of the now healing arrow mark, he found his words.

“I’m sorry you endured such cruelty, and I’m sorry circumstances were such today that you had to share this story with me, when I’m sure you’d rather not have,” he offered, securing the wrap in place with a tight knot. Standing, he cleaned out the gash on Azriel’s arm from where the arrow had grazed his skin.

“I never speak of it, with anyone,” Azriel spoke, so quiet it was nearly a whisper, “so please don’t share what I’ve told you today.”

“You’re not the only one who can keep secrets, Shadowsinger,” Eris affirmed as he wrapped up treating his final injury, “consider this another in a long list I’ll take to my grave.” 

A silence fell over the cabin, neither male sure what to do next; this had been the longest duration of time they’d not been at each other’s throats, even if in jest, and by far the most personal conversation they’d shared. Clearing his throat, the Autumn male gathered his supplies, and headed towards the washroom; a voice halted him in his tracks when he was half-way there.

“Eris?” Azriel called from his seat at the table, where he’d remained unmoved, lost in his own head.

“Yes?” Eris answered, the bond warmed at hearing his name in that deep, quiet voice; his heart raced as he waited to hear his next words.

“Thank you for not leaving me in the woods to die,” he offered, earnestly.

“For Cauldron’s sake, do you really think so little of me?” Eris returned, the offense only slightly in jest, “I’m not a monster, Azriel.”

“I know,” the Illyrian affirmed, swallowing a heavy swig of whiskey from the bottle before standing, finding the pain in his leg already subsiding as he sauntered to his bag, ready to don his nightclothes.

The cabin was quiet as the two males readied for slumber, save for the sporadic pop of wood in the hearth, the shuffle of clothes being changed, or water running from the faucet as they carried out their respective nightly routines. Eris returned from the washroom to find Azriel looking rather uncomfortable as he attempted to lay on the couch, a decorative pillow resting under his head.

“What’re you doing?” Eris laughed, eyebrows raised.

“I assumed I’d be sleeping here for the night,” he returned, a note of confusion in his tone.

“First of all, it pulls out into a bed,” Eris explained, gesturing for the male to rise from the sofa, “but I’ll be sleeping here. You’re injured, and you have wings. The bed will be more comfortable, and I’m a generous host.”

For a moment, the male looked poised to argue, but he crossed the five feet to the bed, grumbling under his breath. Soft, slowed breaths filled the room as the two men settled into their respective mattresses; Eris found himself exhausted from the emotional whiplash he’d experienced in the past twelve hours. Awakening the bond after centuries of repression had stirred a ridiculous sense of longing, one he hoped would subside by the light of day.

Deep in the night, Eris’ eyes moved frantically under his closed eyelids. From the bowels of his subconscious, a dream so vivid it felt corporeal had overtaken his mind. Looking down at a grand bed, he observed a little boy thrashing violently in fitful sleep. No, this was no random boy. As the view came in closer, he recognized his own messy auburn locks, his freckled skin; the boy was him, centuries younger, in the same bed he still slept in night after night at Forest House. Concerned for this juvenile version of himself, he watched as he shot up from the bed flames bursting forth from his hands. Sweat poured from the boy’s forehead as present Eris watched the complete and total panic painting his features. At once, he recalled the memory he was witnessing; long ago brushed aside as a strange, childhood occurrence he desperately tried to call out to his boyish self, to provide the comfort he had so longed for this night over five hundred years ago. He called out, louder and louder, but the flames continued to rage from those tiny hands, no indication he heard his attempts to help.

At once, the familiar darkness of his cabin at night came into view as he woke with a start; a firm, rough hand gripped his shoulder, a whispered voice capturing his attention as hazel eyes came into view above him.

“You were shouting,” Azriel explained, removing his hand as he sat at the edge of the pull out mattress.

Eris sighed, running a hand along the tired features of his face. By the complete absence of light in the room, Azriel’s shadows hardly visible billowing about their master, he knew it must be late in the night.

“Gods, I’m sorry for waking you,” Eris muttered, voice husky with sleep, “now we’ve both witnessed one another in a vulnerable state today, consider us even.” The Illyrian shook his head, hiding a smirk.

“Are you alright?” he questioned, his tone sincere; shouting wasn’t quite an accurate word for what he’d awoken to, the male had been screaming.

“Yeah, it was just a nightmare…,” he explained, trailing off as he caught sight of the marbled skin of the Shadowsingers hand.

“Azriel,” he gulped, struggling to keep his breathing even as understanding washed over him, “when exactly did your brothers do that to your hands?”

Taken aback by the sudden recall to his trauma, the too familiar way he’d asked the question, Azriel questioned, “what does that have to do with anything?”

“Please, just…when?” Eris pressed, “How old were you?”

The desperation in the male’s voice, the way his eyes narrowed, calculated, as though he was solving a centuries old riddle, disarmed Azriel. For the second time that night, he found himself wanting to give in, wanting to share with this male who he’d always considered more enemy than friend; a voice in the back of his mind urged him to answer.

“I was eight,” Azriel shared, “so five hundred and thirty years ago, the night before the summer solstice.”

Eris stopped breathing; he was two years Azriel’s senior, making him ten at the time, and as he thought back to that night all of those years ago, he remembered that while it was perpetually Autumn in his court, the Solar courts were experiencing the heat of summer, and his Father was to travel to Summer Court the following day for the Solstice. As he watched a bevy of emotions play out on his companion's freckled face, Azriel’s own anxiety grew. 

“Why did you ask me that?” He insisted, more command than question.

“I was dreaming of that very same night, the eve of the Summer Solstice five-hundred and thirty years ago,” Eris explained, “I awoke that night, flames blazing from my hands outside of my control. My magic acting of its own accord. I had to douse my hands with water in the washing basin to stop it. I’d been dreaming that night of darkness, shadow, and all-consuming terror.” 

“How is that possible?” Azriel questioned, breath quickening; he was reeling at the story he’d just been told, feeling a sense of looming revelation, as though his life was about to be irreparably altered by whatever Eris might say next.

Eris rose up to a seated position on the sleeper sofa, utilizing his magic to light the lanterns and fireplace so that he could better see the male to whom he spoke. With a deep sigh, the Autumn Heir made a move he knew might undo the carefully curated course his life was on for worse or, potentially, for better.

“Can you feel this?” Eris asked, tugging hard on the golden rope attached to his soul. Azriel’s eyes blew wide, knuckles white as he gripped the frame of the sofa-bed. 

“Is that–?” he asked, already knowing the answer, in such deep shock he was sure his spirit had left his body.

“A mating bond? Yes,” Eris confirmed, losing a shaky breath, crossing his arms as he watched his mate process this new information; information that had taken him centuries to come to terms with, and he’d still chosen to ignore the knowledge. After minutes of silence, Eris grew worried.

“Az–,” he began, cut off by the man he’d meant to address.

“I need a drink,” he breathed, voice devoid of emotion, expression hard, unreadable, as he lifted off from the bed headed towards the island bar in the kitchen. Cautiously, Eris followed; he entered the kitchen to find the Illyrian downing an alarming amount of his finest whiskey. 

“How long have you known?” he hiccupped, leveling an accusatory glance at his… mate. Eris sighed, snatching the bottle from his scarred hands, bringing it to his lips for a shot of his own.

“Since the day we fought side-by-side against Hybern,” he admitted, eyes distant as he recalled the memory. Azriel tightened his fists, feeling a heat boiling his blood.

“Five hundred years,” he uttered in disbelief, “you’ve known for five hundred years, and you decided to keep it to yourself until today?!” Eris’ own temper had now ignited at the foolishness of his mate’s ire.

“You hated me, hell, I thought I hated you,” Eris reminded, “what would you have had me say?”

“I deserved to know! I had just as much a right to the information as you,” he countered, fist slamming on the wooden counter.

“Look, Azriel,” Eris leveled, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “I do not know why the Mother revealed the connection to me and only me that day. I’ve been bearing the weight of this knowledge ever since, knowing that I had been blessed with a mate, but that the very person who was supposed to be my soul’s perfect match, loathed me entirely. Centuries, Azriel. For just a moment, imagine how that must feel.”

“I can’t,” he answered in a defeated breath. Eris scanned his features, confusion furrowing his brow.

“I can’t, because you never allowed me the opportunity to know how that would feel,” he reiterated, and like a tidal wave, Eris felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness flood the bond. Eris gasped as the lifetime of despondency his mate must have endured overwhelmed his emotions.

“I should have told you,” Eris agreed, voice soft, quiet.

“Yes,” Azriel concurred, eyes distant, fixed on the opposite wall.

“I’m sorry,” Eris offered.

“I am too,” the Shadowsinger returned, turning to face his mate, observing him, truly seeing him for the first time; the sharp angle of his jaw, the fire like coloring of his features, the built musculature of his body, the warmth hiding behind his carefully constructed steel facade. 

“For what?” Eris asked.

“I’m sorry that I’ve wasted half a millennium unknowingly loathing the person I’ve been beseeching the Mother for my entire life,” he answered, head hung low, crestfallen. Slowly, unsure of himself, not wishing to further discomfort his mate, Eris reached out, resting his hand on Azriel’s unbandaged one.

“It’s–not too late to change that,” Eris offered, an olive branch, “we could start over, right now.”

After a moment of quiet contemplation, Azriel lifted his head, met by eyes of burning amber. While the two of them would need time to work through the complexities of their past, he had never been more certain of himself as he was in this moment.

“I’d like to try,” he answered; a warm thumb stroked the back of his scarred hand.

“So would I,” Eris agreed.

At last, the golden string of fate came to life, glowing between them so brightly it was as if daylight had entered the cabin. Azriel smiled; amused at the fate guided happenstance that led to this rare sight, Eris smiled back.