#eris pov

[the-darkestminds]

A Dying Flame

Eris POV — my first fic

Heyyyyy friends. I decided to write the two scenes UTM from Eris’s POV where Lucien is being tormented and Eris is forced to watch. It can also be found here. I’ve never written anything before so be nice to me 😭 I took a few lines directly from ACOTAR to set the scene and make it as canon as possible, but the rest came from me. I tried to channel SJM's writing style as best I could. I am trash for Eris so I couldn’t resist. I hope you guys like it 🥲 title is dumb so I might change it. I am eternally grateful for any of you who choose to read the whole thing, I promise it’s not too long! 🙏

---------------------------------------------------------

Eris

I stood at the edge of the gathered crowd, struggling to keep the cool mask of indifference on my face as Amarantha once again had Lucien bound and on his knees before her. Would his torment never cease? He had never quite mastered the ability to keep his mouth shut, to leash his tongue until the moment it would best serve him. Lucien’s loud mouth had already cost him his left eye, plucked right from his head by Amarantha herself. Rage coursed through me at the role I was forced to play each day under this cursed mountain. How useless I’d become at protecting those I held most dear. 

Lucien and I had not exchanged honest words in over 30 years. I longed for the chance to speak to him alone, to beg him to hold his tongue so as not to draw Amarantha’s ire more than he already had. Not for the first time, I desperately wished for the daemati abilities the High Lord of Night possessed so that I might speak to Lucien privately. Abilities he was about to unleash upon my brother.  

Beside Lucien stood a small and ordinary mortal girl, likely Amarantha’s newest plaything to torture and discard.

“Her name?” Amarantha asked Tamlin, who didn’t reply. “I don’t suppose your handsome brothers know, Lucien,” she purred.

Give up her name! I nearly begged him. To hell with the girl. Instead I heard myself say, “If we did, Lady, we would be the first to tell you.” The words tasted like poison on my tongue. My brothers chuckled from behind me.

Amarantha only smiled and nodded at Rhysand. He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing slightly on Lucien, who hissed in pain.

I tensed as Rhysand began smiling faintly. Bastard. He was a loathsome, foul bastard. And though I knew he played a role and wore a mask as much as the rest of us, it didn’t stop me from hating him as he held Lucien’s mind in his clutches.

Lucien stiffened in pain. A groan slipped out of him, and– 

“Feyre!” the girl shouted. “My name is Feyre.” 

Lucien sagged on the ground, trembling. Relief shuttered through me, and I bared my teeth and snarled quietly at the girl to disguise the trembling in my hands, my legs. He was safe, for now. And no thanks to me. 

The conversation continued, but I let my mind drift far away. Tried to feel nothing as I attempted to calm my racing heart. I clenched my sweaty palms at my sides and allowed myself a quick glance at Lucien’s prone form. Alive–for now. 

I slipped back into the crowd as they dragged Feyre away. He was alive. I repeated this to myself as the cruelty continued through the night, as it did every night in this miserable place. Alive–as I sipped wine and smiled at the punishment the Attor was inflicting on the poor faeries Amarantha had singled out this evening. Alive, alive, alive a steady chant in my blood as the night wore on.

Alive.

---------------------------------------------------------

“Well, Feyre, your second trial has come.” I heard Amarantha smugly announce from her throne at the front of the room. A gnawing dread had been pooling in my gut for the last hour. I could only guess at what new horror she had in store for the girl, but I grew increasingly anxious when I did not see Lucien amongst the revelers. He tended to lurk in the shadows of the room, one eye on Tamlin, ever the loyal sentry. I couldn’t help the low snarl that escaped me at the thought. That Lucien was willing to risk his own life for the Spring Court brute. The faerie next to me skittered away at the sound.

I slowly made my way towards the gathered crowd. Faeries averted their eyes as I passed. It was a relief that I still commanded a modicum of fear from these leeches. Their fear of me was a weapon I wielded frequently.

Amarantha sat proudly on her throne. The Attor at her left, Tamlin braced stiffly behind her on her right. 

“Here, Feyre darling, you shall find your task. Simply answer the question by selecting the correct lever, and you’ll win. Select the wrong one to your doom. As there are only three options, I think I have given you an unfair advantage.” Something metallic groaned at the snap of her fingers. “That is,” she added with a snake-like smile, “if you can solve the puzzle in time.”

I had just gotten a glimpse of the girl when the floor where she was standing began to sink down, revealing a small chamber split in two by a metal grate.

I went rigid as I beheld the figure chained to the floor, previously hidden from view. A loud roaring began building in my head. My skin felt tight and hot as I saw that it was Lucien–Lucien, who would again be part of the night’s entertainment. Lucien wrenched at the chains binding him to the floor. I nearly puked on the throne room floor at the sight of it.

Only the many years of practice in my long immortal life stopped the cry of anguish from escaping me as burning spikes began to slowly lower towards Lucien from above. I was a fool. A wretched fool to think Amarantha was done torturing him. That she would not use his friendship with the girl again and again until she finally broke, or was dead, Lucien along with her. I made to take a step forward but then jerked to a stop. Nothing. There was nothing I could do to stop this without damning us both further. I would be forced to watch in silent agony as Lucien was slowly and painfully crushed under the weight of those red-hot spikes. 

I stared and stared at Lucien, only vaguely aware of the girl flailing and panicking in the chamber next to him. This was some new level of hell. My nightmare brought to life, one that I could not wake myself up from. 

“Answer it!” Lucien shouted, his voice hitched. My eyes burned, and I felt a cold drop of sweat begin to drip down my spine. Only sheer force of will kept the practiced smirk on my lips. The spikes lowered further.

“Just pick one!” Lucien shouted. He strained against the chains, panting frantically, eyes wide.

My brothers around me laughed gleefully, and I forced myself to join in, the sound a pitiful rasp in my ears. I was grateful that the crowd around me was thoroughly distracted by the horror unfolding before us. That they could not hear my pounding heart or the screaming inside my head as those molten spikes lowered another inch closer to Lucien’s body, helplessly chained to the floor. This was the true torture. Not the painful lashes I’d so often received from my father for disappointing him in one way or another. Not the loneliness and fear that threatened to crush me after so many years navigating the snake pit of my father’s court. But this. Forced to stand idly by as my loved ones were killed. Forced to hear the fear in Lucien’s voice as he begged the girl to just pick a lever and be unable to stop any of it.

“Feyre, please!” Lucien moaned. The terror in his voice nearly brought me to my knees. And yet I stood there like a statue. Maybe this was my punishment for being so useless. So worthless. I desperately wished I could take Lucien’s place. That it was me chained to the floor. I deserved it.

I held my breath and shut my eyes as the girl finally reached for the third lever, bracing myself for what was surely to come. 

Silence. Then–a sigh. From Lucien. 

I opened my eyes at the sound and choked down the sob building in my chest. The girl, Feyre, had actually done it. By dumb luck or fate, she had saved them both.

I did not stay to witness Amarantha’s reaction to the girl besting her once more. Could not stand to be there a minute longer. I turned, not seeing any of the faces around me, desperate to escape the swirl of both panic and relief pressing in on me, threatening to swallow me whole. I could not fall apart, not here.

I stumbled away to the back of the throne room and kept walking until I was alone in a darkened passageway, the sounds of jeering and wicked laughter slowly disappearing. I leaned heavily against the nearest wall and emptied the contents of my stomach onto the floor. My eyes and throat burned and I let out the broken sob I had been holding in. I would allow myself one minute to fall apart, away from prying eyes. Just one minute, and then I would return to join in the merriment of those who had cheered as my brother had nearly been killed again.

I breathed in the damp, cold air of the mountain, my body shaking silently as I sunk to my knees. I listened to the drip, drip, drip of water on the stone floor and used it to slow my quaking heart. When the minute was up, I stood. Tunneled deep down inside until I could barely feel the rage and sorrow. I brought the smirk back to my mouth–it was second nature after all these years. I took one last deep breath, and turned back the way I had come. I had been gone too long, and these caves had eyes and ears that were always watching, always listening–always reporting back to her. And though Autumn Court fire burned in my veins, I forced my heart to freeze over, as cold as Kallias’s ice. I let that ice flow through me as I walked back–as I blocked out the despair that fought to drown me with every step I took. Until I was no one, and nothing. 

---------------------------------------------------------

A small part of me was aware that I was in shock. I drifted through the following day as if underwater, not fully hearing the words spoken to me or how I responded. Through it all, I made sure to keep the haughty mask on my face. Only when I spotted Lucien across the room did I feel as if I had come up briefly for air. Our eyes locked, and Lucien’s mouth tightened in displeasure. He held my gaze, emotion flickering in his right eye–there and then gone before I could decipher it. After a beat he looked away and was promptly swallowed up by the crowd.

I knew Lucien despised me. It was written on his face whenever he deigned to look me in the eyes, and I let him believe I felt the same. As much as it pained me to do so, I treated him as if he were nothing to me, no more than trash to be discarded. I hated myself more with each passing day–was at risk of being consumed by it entirely and slipping deep into the burning pit of fire within me. It was sheer defiance against the bitch queen that prevented me from doing so. The hope that I might one day see Autumn again. So many years trapped down in the dark were wearing heavy on my soul. The steady fear that I would fail those I sought to protect slowly ate away at me. What I’d give to breathe in the crisp, cool air of home, to walk amongst the red and gold leaves that sparkled like jewels in the dawn light. I held on to the hope that I would one day return. Tucked it deep down inside where it flickered softly, the aching pain in my heart its only companion.

[rosesncarnations]

Nesta has put a spell on me and Eris

Enjoy a writing snippet below

The wind was beginning to bite with the signal of the true yearly autumn. Nipping at cheeks and noses, pulling gossamer fabric and unbinding hair in a way that hailed the wild magic that fell in waves in the way of the red, orange and yellow leaves that glided to the ground.

Eris had been outside as the esteemed court members were ushered in by the tending priestesses. He watched for a veiled figure that he had bargained for. Who the Night Court had exchanged for a loyal army and a very limited favor, the indigo ink climbed his right rib with warning of sharp curves.

Rhysand surely thought he had the better end but Eris knew to play the long game. The moving of pawns and rooks in ways one could never guess what his next move might be.

His queen came into view, a veil that cover her face and reached her fingertips while cascading down her back to trail atop the long train of her roses cream gown. He had his seventh mov planned but as he watched the leaves falling around her in the way of only The Mother commanding so, he wondered if plans were changing.

Her grey eyes found his amber ones and the hint of a smile shared with the privacy of the forest was hidden away in tall towers and endless locked doors. Oh how he wanted to know what keys he may find and use to unlock those very doors of that clever mind.

“Shall we? Husband?” She asked gaze wandering to the entrance that hummed with the people inside.

He offered his elbow, “we shall. Wife.” He responded with ease, guiding her to the call of the underlying tones of instruments in the temple, the High Priestess called out their respective titles of heir of Autumn and sister of the High Lady of Night.

As the words blurred together that the High Priestess spoke, he watched Nesta begin to glow at the mention of The Mother. A hazy silver you only saw at the right angle, one of which he had perfectly as he glanced down to her face, the silver that came from those of the divined. Those chosen by The Mother. Not that of The Cauldron or even that of the markers of a High Lord.

No in the way that the world seemed to whisper and yet hold its breath for her next move, be it her knight of perhaps the queen herself.

[nocasdatsgay]

From the Ashes, The Wildflowers Grow

Chapter 1: Family

Word Count: 2675

CW: IDK a baby? None

Chapter Summary: Eris and his wife, Celeste, hold a family get-together to introduce their new child.

Also read it on A03 Here

MasterPost and full fic summary here

First time posting chapters on tumblr AND ao3 so comments, likes, etc are welcome and appreciated.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Waiting in his chambers with his mother, Eris felt the wards break. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and watched the magic simmer. He then watched as they immediately repaired themselves. 

“Your son is here,” he said, with a sigh to his mother. He stood from his chair. “Dramatic as ever.”

Not even a moment later, the doors to the chambers opened. No knock; his brother never knocked. There was a squeal of a female and golden blonde hair rushing to him. 

“Eris,” Elain said, hugging him. Eris took a moment to realize what happened and hug her back. She pulled away and looked towards his mother. She gasped. “Is that the baby?”

“Good to see you Elain,” he said with a slight chuckle. 

She left him quickly with her lilac dress twirling around her feet, and went to the couch his mother occupied. She murmured her greetings and his mother handed her the babe swaddled in a green blanket. Elain sat beside her and he could hear his daughter’s little grunts from being shuffled around.

“Oh Eris, she’s beautiful.”

Eris felt another presence beside him. “Where’s your wife?” 

He looked toward his brother. Eris was surprised to see him in a tunic and trousers, and not in day court attire. Coupled with Elain’s dress that meant they must have come from Spring. 

“She’s napping. I’d rather not wake her. She refuses to rest. So when she does, I don’t disturb her.”

“Sounds like Celeste.” Lucien walked over to his mate. 

“You know you can't keep breaking the wards, Lucien.” Eris crossed his arms. “You’ll start a war because you’re too lazy to walk in.”

“I keep telling him that,” Elain said. “But he doesn’t listen.”

Lucien himself replied by dismissively waving a hand and giving his mother a hug. He then peered down at the bundle in Elain’s arms. “Oh thank the cauldron, she looks like her mother.”

“Careful,” Eris frowned. His mother didn’t suppress her laugh. 

Lucien only smiled at him. “Have you named her yet?” 

Eris didn’t answer him. He heard familiar footsteps to his right and tried not to scowl as his wife rounded the corner. She had changed into a red knit sweater and brown trousers. He was at least happy she didn’t feel the need to put on something more formal. Her brown hair looked hurriedly put into a bun, loose strands framing her face. The dark rings were still under her eyes. He wanted to tell her to go back to bed but he knew not to argue in front of family. She gave them all a smile and Lucien walked over to her to hug her. 

“I was just telling your husband what a blessing your child looks just like you,” he teased. 

“I heard,” she replied with a little yawn. “But she does have his hair.” 

“She’s beautiful, Celeste.” Elain told her with a smile. 

Celeste said her thanks while Lucien stepped back and looked her over. Eris glared but didn’t say anything. He knew it was ridiculous, but he refused to feel guilty for being jealous and protective. Even if they’d been married for nearly a century. 

Lucien frowned, “Eris was right, you still need rest. You look absolutely terrible.”

“Lucien,”  his mother hissed from the couch. 

Eris didn’t bother to cut his eyes to his brother. Celeste smacked him on the arm for the both of them. Eris chuckled when he saw Elain, still holding the babe, glared over for a brief moment before schooling her features. 

“Elain, come get your mate,” she laughed. “It’s been over a week. I’m fine.”

“She refuses to let me help,” Eris interjected. Celeste rolled her eyes. “It’s the truth. I practically have to steal my own child to bond with her.” 

“Now that is a lie if I ever heard one,” Celeste came over and took his hand. “If I’m not holding her, he is. Edith said it would spoiler her.”

“Nonsense,” his mother replied. “She’s always said that. What she didn’t tell you is when she was my healer, she coddled every single one of my boys.” 

Celeste grinned. “I think she says it mostly because Eris also takes her to all his meetings even if she’s sleeping.” 

He brought her hand up and kissed the tops of her knuckles. He held her gaze tightly. “How can I not? I love to show off your work.”

Lucien made a gagging noise. “Please get a room.” 

“These are our rooms,” Celeste replied. 

Eris pulled her to him and kissed her cheek, then her lips. He was very pleased with the way she hummed in response, kissing him back. 

“Disgusting,” Lucien grumbled. 

Elain, ever the polite one, changed the topic. “Did you name her?” 

Celeste pulled away, and turned towards her. “We have.” She looked back at Eris. 

She asked him a silent question and he nodded. He saw the brief sadness in her eyes and he gripped her hand tight. He knew it would be hard for her, especially with Lucien present, but he stood by her decision when she asked before the baby was born. 

He watched her look over to Lucien. Her voice cracked a little when she said, “Her name is Andrea.” 

Realization washed over Lucien and his eyes widened. He looked to Eris but Eris only shrugged. Their mother, who had been watching quietly, stood and went to Lucien, squeezing his arm. Elain looked confused. 

“That’s a lovely name,” their mother replied. 

Celeste let go of Eris’s hand and she went to Elain to retrieve their child. “She’s named after Andras,” she said softly to her. “He was a dear friend,” she turned to Lucien. “A very dear friend to the both of us back in Spring. He gave his life for us to be free. I wanted to honor him.” 

Lucien was still eyeing Eris. “And you’re fine with that?” 

Eris glowered. “She could have named her Tamlin and I would be fine with it. Truly Lucien, that’s the first comment you want to make?” 

Celeste thankfully took no offense and laughed. “Would you let me name your child after my former high lord?” 

Eris bristled a little at the reminder. “You labored for two days, as long as it wasn’t Morrigan I was fine with anything.” He swore he heard Elain snort at that remark. 

Lucien nodded and looked him over with a grin. “Just checking. You are the jealous type. But I should have guessed Celeste gets whatever she wants.”

Eris only looked to his beautiful wife again, holding their child. He didn’t bother to change his expression into something other than the adoration he felt. “You say that as if it’s a terrible problem to have.” 

Another knock came to the door. His other brothers, Piran, Asher, and Cillian filed into the room; followed by Celeste’s mother. 

“These three were loitering in the halls,” she stated with great humor before curtsying towards Lucien, Elain, and his mother. “Something about how my daughter’s husband would murder them if they woke her.” 

Eris didn’t hide his grin. “I can’t fathom where they heard such an outlandish story.”

“Eris,” Celeste shuffled the babe in her arms so she could smack his arm gently. 

“It was kinder for me to kill them if they woke you than to let them suffer your wrath.” Eris retorted. “Everyone in this room knows you’re a monster to wake up.” 

Celeste scoffed, dramatically looked very offended. “You wound me deeply.”

Piran stepped around them to greet Lucien and Elain. “Good to see you both.” He turned his head to Lucien. “You keep breaking the wards, Lucien and I’m going to have you banned from Autumn again.”

“I repaired them, didn’t I?” Lucien replied. 

“Boys,” their mother said with a tone of warning. “Lucien, promise to your brothers you will stop breaking the wards.” 

“You treat me as if I’m a youngling.” He rolled his eyes. 

Asher spoke up from near the door. “That’s because you act like one.” 

Everyone laughed, including Elain, which made Lucien scowl. She finally cut him a look and he replied. “Fine, I promise I won’t break the wards again.” 

Cillian said from beside Asher, “this room is a bit crowded. We came to fetch you all.” 

They all filed out the chamber and Eris took Andrea from his wife. He still wasn’t used to it; holding the little being the cauldron blessed them with. She was still so new to the world, for any stark features to truly stand out other than the red hair, pale skin, and her blue eyes. Her little face scrunched as she settled in his arms while he walked down the hall. He smiled down at her for a moment and glanced at his wife walking beside him. He’d probably never understand what he’d done to earn this kind of happiness. 

They all reached the conference room that was refurbished as a sitting lounge several decades ago. Once Andrea was placed in the cradle, he sat with his brothers to continue talking. Even Lucien joined them. Eris would never admit how much that meant to him. His mother and Celeste’s mother were off to one side chatting. They offered to sit close to the cradle to keep an eye on the baby. Elain and Celeste went to the far side of the room. Eris could hear his wife talking, catching bits of gossip from Spring and how Elain was bullying the Tamlin into letting her redo the flowerbeds during her visits. He did catch the shift in Elain’s tone that had him worried for only a moment. 

“I started that book you sent me. You are just as terrible as my sister,” Elain said. He could see the blush on her face from his seat. “You did not warn me about chapter 33. You told me it wasn’t that bad.”

Celeste laughed loudly. “It’s not! But if that made you blush, then skip 40. It’s nothing but-” 

He instantly knew exactly what they were discussing and immediately blocked them out. His wife’s reading habits was something he decided a long time ago was none of his business. He glanced over and his gaze caught Lucien’s. Apparently he was doing the same thing, from the look he shared. Eris bit back his laugh and focused on what his other brothers were saying. It wasn’t long before a knock came to the door, stifling the conversations in the room.

Rowen, the captain of the guard, poked his head in. “Lord Helion is here. Shall I escort him in?”

Eris looked at his brothers. Unspoken words were exchanged between them with a look and Eris stood. 

“I’ll go.” When he got to the door, he looked at Rowen and nodded to the room. “Go in and visit.” 

Rowen looked at him skeptically. He ran a nervous hand through his dark hair. “Are you sure?” 

“You’re family, aren’t you?” He patted his friend’s shoulder. “Go meet the baby. You haven’t even seen her yet.” 

Eris understood his hesitation. Rowen was a good leader but very reserved. Asher was always the more outgoing one and Rowen gladly let his husband take on those responsibilities. He watched Rowen stare into the room for a moment. He then gave Eris a nod and went through the door. He took a shortcut to the main hall and found Helion waiting near the front entrance.

“Afternoon Helion.” His greeting was short. Even after all the time that passed, their relationship was still complicated. 

“Eris.” Helion gave a little nod. “Apologies for running late. Congratulations. I know your mother is excited to have a new youngling around.”

As if summoned, footsteps echoed in the hall. Eris turned to see his mother and wife walking towards them, his wife holding their daughter.

“You look well.” Helion said to Celeste as they approached. 

Celeste scoffed. “Don’t flatter me, Helion. Lucien’s already told me I look worse for wear.” 

He frowned. “Did he?” 

Eris replied with a little pride, “she handled it.” 

Helion cut his eyes to Eris’s mother, who nodded. He looked back to Celeste. “You look like you have a new babe keeping you up at night, but that’s expected. All that considered, you do look well.”

“Eris helps.” Celeste readjusted the baby resting in her arms. “Would you like to hold her? Her name is Andrea.” 

Helion nodded and Celeste handed her over to him. He grinned as he took her, part of the blanket falling to the side as she squirmed in his hands. She seemed more awake, her legs shuffling under the white gown they’d dressed her in. Helion cooed a greeting to her and Eris could see her yawn. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” His mother sighed and leaned onto Helion’s arm. 

Watching them awe over his child made Eris wonder if somehow, in another life, that would have been how they looked at their own babe. Would that have been how they looked at Lucien? How they would have looked at him? He must have let his emotions show. Celeste slipped her arm around his and took his hand. She weaved her fingers around his own and she squeezed gently. With a blink, he squeezed back. 

The moment didn’t last for long, however. Eris knew instantly by the quick little movements his daughter was making that she was about to start screaming. As if on cue, her face scrunched up. Celeste moved first, holding out her arms as Andrea let out a little cry. Helion thankfully wasn’t offended, letting out a soft chuckle. 

“And she’s hungry,” Celeste quickly took the wailing babe. She held her close and looked at Eris.  “I’m going to feed her and drag out Elain. I left her alone talking with my mother and she was trying to needle out of Elain her cinnamon bread recipe,” she added, making a face. 

“I’ll go with you.” His mother told Celeste and stood on her toes to kiss Helion on the cheek. 

Eris caught her gaze for a brief moment. He knew she was leaving them alone on purpose. He didn’t hide annoyance on his face. His mother flashed her eyes in a way that told him to behave. Eris crossed his arms. He and Helion turned to watch them retreat for a moment. Eris could taste the awkward silence hanging between them. 

Helion finally turned to Eris. “You know you’re welcome at my court, Eris.” Eris could only nod. “I do mean that. Next time Celeste visits, you should join her. I know your mother wants to see more of you. Especially with the baby-“ 

“I am aware.” Eris finally snapped back. He said it more harsher than he intended to. Helion frowned and Eris continued. “What I mean is, when Andrea is old enough to handle winnowing, I will send notice.”

That softened the Day High Lord’s demeanor. “There is a lot of bad blood between us. I’m not asking for a miracle; I’m merely asking to start making amends. We are family.” 

Eris nodded again. He knew he needed to try harder. It had been over a century. He was at least trying. Even if it pained him. 

Helion didn’t let the silence lapse for long. “I spoke with your mother and we both agreed there will be Pegasus waiting for her when she’s old enough.” 

“That’s hardly necessary,” Eris replied, taken aback. 

Helion shrugged, wearing a smirk eerily similar to Lucien’s. “So was giving us two smoke hounds as a mating present.” 

Eris rolled his eyes. “Again, hardly. Aspen and Jora missed my mother dearly.” 

Helion didn’t seem to buy it but also didn’t further argue. “Shall we?” He asked, looking toward the hall. 

“Of course,” Eris nodded. 

He told himself one day he would be used to the family he made and acquired, just like he had gotten used to the peace. For the time being, he would try to enjoy it for what it was and accept the happiness the cauldron and Mother granted him.

[snaileer]

Call to My Bedside - Part 2

Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/snaileer/733019972168761344/call-to-my-bedside

Danyal wakes the next time with a weight to his limbs. From the moment he opens his eyes, he realizes he is not where he is supposed to be.

This is a medical bay, but it is not in the league, the constant twittering of League doctors monitoring his health is suspiciously gone. No shadows on guard outside the door.

The most glaring thing though, there was no Lazarus Water in his veins.

Perhaps Ra’s had decided he was no longer worth the expense, had decided-

No.

It was something else. That wasn’t an option he would consider.

Danyal tested the feeling of thin metal on his right wrist. Handcuffs, not shackles. It was odd.

But again, this wasn’t the league.

But he’d need to go back before Ra’s became angry. Danyal couldn’t fail.

He glances to the door as it opens, an old man-the one from before- and a younger, slender man standing just behind him.

Danyal stays still, his breathing even, forcing his heart to stay at a constant, stable rate. He watches them, analyzing.

The old man blinks, “It’s good to see you’re awake, young sir-,” He steps into the room, left foot a second slower, old weakness?- English accent, in Europe? the man behind him follows- stiff posture, rib injury, core focused strength, gymnast, combat trained and familiar- Richard Dick Grayson, Nightwing, he’s in America, Batman- “You gave us quite the shock earlier, myself especially.”

Nightwing watched Danyal warily, he saw him as a threat, and by the angle of his feet, a threat to the older man. He remembers now, he’d attacked him before, Nightwing was here to prevent it again.

They are heroes.

He was a part of the League of the Assassins.

He doesn’t fit here, could never.

Danyal considers the merits of speaking English, he wants to, deeply, and perhaps it would even benefit the situation; but his chest clogs with fear before he can even compose a sentence. It’s been too long anyways, the League dialect is easier.

“How long have I been here?” Danyal says, still not moving enough to even jostle the cuff at his wrist.

Nightwing sighs deeply, “We rescued you and Damian from a League of Assassins boat yesterday.” The words of the language are stilted, either by unfamiliarity or awkwardness, and who’s Damian? There’s a pause, “Do you know who I am?” Nightwing asks, caution in the words.

Danyal takes a deep breath, finally sitting up, despite the rattling of the chain on the cuff, “You are Nightwing, Dick Grayson, correct?”

Nightwing nods, his eyes briefly flitting to the elder man, “And you?”

Danyal’s eyes narrow, trying to find the trap, “I am Danyal Al Ghul, Heir of the Demon’s head, Blood of the Batman.”

Danyal watches the eyebrow of the old man tick up in his peripheral.

Nightwing pinches the bridge of his nose, “God I can’t believe Talia did it again,” He murmurs under his breath. In English. And Danyal would be lying if he said he wasn’t happy to hear the language again, even just a little.

“Perhaps it would be best to bring Master Bruce back from his meeting,” the old man says pointedly. Danyal ignores as he changes and resets the IV attached to him, familiar with the autonomous care. With or without his consent.

“I’ve already notified him, he should be here soon.”

“Very good. In the meantime,” he turns to Danyal, “I am Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne family butler. It seems I did not get the chance to introduce myself the last time you were awake.”

Danyal can’t help but blink at the almost joking tone Alfred says it with, knowing that Danyal had been the one to knock him out. It makes his lip twitch, and he silently huffs, surprising himself with the action.

The amusement vanishes as the door opens once more, footsteps barely audible in the second before.

The man standing there is large, tall and broad shouldered, strong- dangerous, calloused hands from training- his eyes stay glued to Danyal, blue and steady amidst the square jaw and sharp features, black hair tussled like he’d been rushing, just like Dad always-

Danyal feels his jaw wire shut, back straightening.

The thin chain of the handcuff jingles in the sudden silence.

This he remembers. This is Batman. The Dark Night of Gotham. The Detective.

The source of every expectation Ra’s Al Ghul has ever placed on Danyal.

He feels his face try to screw into a sneer, because he hates him and everything he’s done that has ever affected Danyal, but his face remains still. Controlled. Because there’s nothing he can do about it anyways.

Batman had introduced himself before.

As another name. A civilian. His training forces him to remember it.

Bruce Wayne.

It means next to nothing to him. But the man doesn’t stop looking.

It’s Nightwing that speaks next, “Danyal, this is Batman, Bruce Wayne, your father.” The smile is at odds with the weary tone of the words, “He was there when we saved you and Damian a few.. yesterday. God that feels like longer.”

Saved? The sentiment makes him want to scoff. He doesn’t, because Batman’s eyes already narrow with Nightwing’s words, and Danyal doesn’t need to make it worse.

A thousand more questions rush through his head. Each one bitten back with practiced force.

Instead he dips his head briefly, aiming for a show of respect, whatever that might mean here. However little he means it. Danyal can adjust regardless.

“Hn.”

Danyal lifts his head. That was the only response?

They uproot him entirely, chain him, throw him into unfamiliar waters where everything-everyone- is in new danger and all he does is grunt?

Danyal bites his tongue hard, letting his head lift, carefully non-defiant. He’s not quite sure his eyes get the message because he can feel the glare from them.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred pipes in, tone sharp.

Batman sighs, but the set of his shoulders changes, no longer so heavily lined with suspicion.

“What do you know about why Damian was-" There’s an even sharper cough from Alfred. Another sigh, “Fine. What has Talia already told you about me?”

Danyal glances between them, purposefully keeping his eyes from jumping down to the metal around his wrists.

No one else speaks.

“I know that you are Batman, the Dark Night of Gotham. You are also the detective, great enough to impress the Demon’s Head, Ra’s Al Ghul. The Demon’s daughter informed me you were dead.”

There’s a slight twitch on Batman’s face. “I survived Darkseid’s attack, although it led to me being lost in time and assumed dead for nearly a year,” Batman’s eyes flick across the room, almost considering, “Red Robin was responsible for my return just over a year ago.”

Red Robin. Timothy Drake. The one Ra’s favored. The second source of expectations placed on Danyal.

And he was lost in time? What did that consist of, what did it mean for Batman? Did it matter if it didn’t affect Danyal?

“I see.” He says. Silence lingers. They still expect him to speak. He hedges his bets, asking something he actually cares about, “Why am I here, Batman?”

The question seems to be expected and yet still strike with surprise.

“I… regrettably, did not know you were… present at the league. I do not believe in their methods and would not have left you there had I known.”

And that makes it all okay. Danyal wants to scream. But he narrows his eyes instead, only more suspicious, “And why were you there then?”

“We followed the shadows that had taken Damian. He told us who you were.”

Danyal pauses, leaning back slightly. They were willing to answer his questions, to actually talk with him. Of course they were, they were meant to be heroes.

But it had been so long since he’d actually talked with anyone other than Ra’s, and their conversations were a battleground of expectations and tests.

He fights with his conscious knowledge of this and the habits that have been beaten into him so thoroughly.

“Who is… Damian?” He asks, watching their reactions for the answer.

All three seem surprised by the question. But not angry. Of course not, he reminds himself.

“You’ve mentioned him several times like I am supposed to know who he is.” He had barely been told anything since his forceful return, and any knowledge he had from before stopped at Dick Grayson. And then Timothy Drake.

Danyal had purposefully ignored the hero world he had lived in-

He forces his eyes up to meet Batman’s, noting the hesitance in the set of his shoulders.

“Damian is… your brother. He was.. Talia’s son, before he came to me just a few years ago. He was raised in the league.”

Danyal blinks, anger disbelieving in his chest. Is that what she did?

“When.”

There’s no response, save a twitch of Batman’s eyebrow.

“When,” Danyal says again, his breathing controlled, “Did he come to you? How old was he? How long ago?”

They seem to pick up on the way Danyal’s tone has changed. Good for them.

“Nearly three years ago. He was ten.” Batman answers, voice rough. Tinged with curiosity and unfulfilled questions.

Danyal breathes deeply, his heart rate picking up against his wishes. Icy rage flares.

The beeping of the machine at his side matches the pounding in his chest, uneven, unbalanced, uncontrolled.

Keep it under control. Keep it. Under. Control.

Control is power. Control is strength. Control is the only thing that will ever be enough.

He breathes deeper. Holding his breath. Once. Twice.

The beeping is steadier with each tone.

“Danyal?” An old voice asks beside him. It’s Alfred. The butler.

Danyal shifts his jaw from its clench, “I am fine.” His eyes slide back into focus, still on Batman, “Damian is your son then.”

Batman nods solemnly, a heavier sigh through his chest, “Talia and I have had an… interesting relationship. But I loved her. Once. She has never failed to make me regret it.”

That was why she had visited him. Her words. What she had almost said. Talia had wished he was Damian, wished he was Bruce. Just not Danyal of course. The weapon she discarded for a better version. One she could love.

One who would be heir.

Batman continues, “Talia is Damian’s mother, told him he would be my heir, as I’m sure you were but-” Batman stops, looking at Danyal as confusion flicks across his face, “You weren’t.”

“I was never told I would be heir of the Batman, only of the Demon’s head.” This, at least, Danyal is familiar with, “That’s the only reason they needed me: to be their weapon made from the Demon Head’s enemy.” Danyal breathes, “A weapon does not have parents, and I have never been more than a weapon to them, crafted for the league’s purpose. For Ra’s.” 

Ra’s is the reason Danyal is alive at all. Is the only reason he has survived the league, but he is also the reason Danyal had to, no- has to survive.

Danyal drops his eyes, tired, so so tired, like he always is. Unerringly, his eyes find the shine of the metal around his wrist. Arm held carefully still to keep from jostling it, even as his other hand has found its way to his lap.

“You can’t really believe that,” Dick says, disbelief in his own voice, unsurety in the frame of an unfamiliar language.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

And it doesn’t. It only matters what he can do. That’s he’s strong. He just has to be strong enough. Ra’s is the reason Danyal suffers, has always been, and Danyal will never let him escape that.

Silence lasts. Danyal quickly grows tired of it.

Luckily, Batman breaks it, “Why were you exposed to the Lazarus waters?” He asks, voice rigid and flat once more. 

Perhaps the casualness is getting to him because Danyal manages to lift one lip in a slight sneer, “The only reason anybody uses the Lazarus Pits.”

The Batman stays silent, clearly talking about the unorthodox method of exposure they had resorted to.

Danyal sighs this time, serious, “My heart is damaged. Electricity. The pits are a short term solution for it. Grandfather had said he found a long term one.” Danyal doubts it matters now. Whatever care his grandfather’d had was fragile, dependent on Danyal’s performance. 

The palm of his left hand tingles sharply.

Would this be enough to tip the scale against him? What would he lose for being here? Who would he-

Danyal looks into Batman’s eyes, “Am I to be a prisoner here?”

The man glances over him at the two on the other side, Danyal doesn’t follow it, nor the silent conversation he’s sure is happening.

Instead, Danyal focuses his ears, senses sharpened by training, by the pits, by his accident… and turns his attention to the person hiding in an alcove above them.

Low breathing, higher pitched, the scent of sword polish and hair gel. The person was small and armed.

“You’re not a prisoner… but if you leave.. you’ll be in danger,” Batman says, voice deep, “We can’t let that happen.”

So either be followed or don’t leave. What great options.

Danyal tries not to scowl, not to show any inflection at it, “And do I have to stay here? In your…. Cave?”

“It might be difficult to move- uh.. the medical things-” Nightwing starts, but Danyal cuts him off by swiftly removing the IV tucked in the crook of his elbow.

He presses his thumb against the small well of blood as he looks forward.

Alfred shouts, jolting towards him, “Master Danyal! That is hardly sterile-“

Danyal’s eyes snap to him the moment the title leaves his mouth, heart stilling for a second, commands in his eyes. Alfred falls still.

Danyal lets it fall away the next second, barely two beats missed. The beeping starts again.

“I see.” Alfred straightens, stepping forward slowly to turn off the IV and coil it, removing other monitors, “Another one for the dramatics then.”

Nightwing steps up, hands out placatingly, “There’s..mm really no need, Danyal, uh-” He glances back to Batman, “Of course you can leave the cave-,” the next words are in bright clear English, “I’m sure there’s already a room picked out for you.”

“Right you are Master Dick,” Alfred says, “Young sir, do you need any help moving?” He directs to Danyal.

He wants to rip his hand from the metal cuff. Snap the thin chain to pieces.

Instead he looks to Nightwing, then Batman, “The restraints?” He says, voice as empty of want as he can make it.

The click of the key in the lock echoes in his ear and it’s only through practiced calm that Danyal does not immediately jerk his arm away from it. Instead, he calmly retracts his hand, bracing slightly against the bed as he turns and plants his feet on the floor.

The others have already moved out of his way, watching intently, waiting for him to fall- to fail.

Danyal straightens his legs. He stands. He breathes. He controls his heart. He walks forward.

He does not fall. He doesn’t have the option to fall.

“I can go now.” He says, looking at them. His knuckles are white on the edge of the bed.

Nightwing looks at Batman once more. The man grunts, then turns from the room in a way that he can only imagine would perfectly flare a cape.

Danyal’s feet feel like they’re filling with cement. Nightwing stares at him expectantly. Danyal understands expectations- but these ones, it leaves him helpless and-

“Follow me then, dear boys,” Alfred says, stepping in front smoothly, already moving towards the door, “We can go upstairs, I’ll start on a meal and Master Dick can show you the rooms.”

Nightwing goes next, leaving Danyal to follow not quite behind him, the angle purposeful to keep him in sight.

Nightwing casts a wary glance to him every few minutes, continuing a light chatter with Alfred. Danyal stares forward, taking in the cave from his peripheral - computer, showers, training mats, an unfamiliar shadow watching him, armory, swords, knifes, suits, cars and vehicles lined up on platforms, a t-Rex, giant penny, a glass case- Danyal lets his eyes linger on the shadow, never faltering his steps.

His neck itches at the attention.

He looks forward. Nightwing is looking at him again, snapping forward the moment Danyal’s eyes narrow. Good.

The steps are slightly narrow, dark, but they come out to a warmly lit study. Dark wood, papers, books on shelves, a portrait on the wall, pictures on the desk, three black hair boys, another of only a single with stiff posture, a ballet dancer- they keep walking. The door-clock- closes behind them like the clamping of an artery.

Nightwing and Alfred’s conversation continues in smooth, low-toned English. Danyal blinks, slowly, slower than he needs to, for a breath of a second relishing in the almost familiarity of it all, the dissonance from the last three years alone enough to well emotion in his chest.

His eyes open. He continues after them.

“This is where I’ll leave you, I’ll be up with some food young sir,” Alfred says abruptly, turning towards a swinging door that reveals a glimpse of a stainless kitchen.

“So…” Nightwing says, swinging his arms a bit at his sides, “uh… I can show you the room you can sleep in, yes?”

Danyal’s shoulders tighten, rising from a subconscious millimeter slouch. He nods stiffly.

His heart remains under control. Always under control.

“So this is the Wayne Mansion, you can go for food any time, uh…” There’s an unsure pause as they start up the stairs, “You can meet the rest of us soon maybe, a correct introduction to Damian…depends on Bruce really… he can be … over …over.”

Nightwing looks at Danyal properly, “I’m usually better at this, most of the bat kids know the League dialect but… I haven’t exactly practiced it.”

Danyal stares at him. He doesn’t want to hear the sound of the League’s twisting words, he wants to leave. He wants to find his family, protect them, get them as far away from Ra’s al Ghul and the league as possible. He wants to go back to Ra’s convince him to let his family go if Danyal stays willingly. Wants a blade strong enough to run the man through and-

“I know you are probably stressed and this is all unfamiliar but … we want you to stay… you won’t be hurt here. This is different than the league, you’re safe.”

Danyal scoffs, not bothering to stop it, he hasn’t been safe since the day he tripped over a wire and died.

Nightwing doesn’t seem surprised by the response.

“This can be your room,” He says, opening a door in the hallway and gesturing a wide arm to Danyal. “The rest of us are just down the hall.”

Danyal steps in, looking around, counting exits, tactical advantages, possible listening devices- He turns around, giving Nightwing a stiff nod, “Thank you for the room.”

Nightwing still stands at his door, “Anything else I can help with for you?” He says.

Danyal considers staying silent, obedient, but he hates hearing the language at every turn, he never wants to hear it again, the words they forced in his mouth, ripping away what was in their place-

“Can you just speak English?” He says, realizing too late how weak it sounds, “You don’t have to use the league tongue, I can-English is.. fine.” Fine. Better. Familiar. A remnant of a family he’s almost certain he’s lost now.

Nightwing barely quirks a brow, eyes flicking over him.

“Can do,” He nods, “Well then… Welcome to Wayne Manor, Danyal.”

And he closes the door behind him.

'It’s just Danny, please.' He wants to whisper to the silence. But he’s grown too used to shadows and it catches in his throat.

He goes and sits on the bed. Staring out of the window. A window he can’t leave from. Where would he go? He doesn’t have anyone, they’re all in danger because of him. He can’t leave.

He’s trapped.

Always trapped.

Bound. Stuck to one place. One thing.

Emotions well in his chest, in the back of his throat, thick and dark and painful. He wants to cry. He can’t. Emotions constrict around his lungs.

And Danyal sits, staring at the wall, wishing he could cry. But the emotions just twist themselves until they’re tight enough, heavy enough to fall down, settle back like a layer of heavy chainmail over his insides.

Danyal turns on the bed, facing the wall.

It’s empty tan-beige. Neutral colors. No personality. Temporary.

This is familiar to him. This he can do.

Danyal stands again, he strips down his tunic, his shin-guards and pants- notes the lack of his typical weapons- methodically placing it on the dresser. Not his dresser, he already has one, painted blue with yellow stars back in-

Danyal gets in the shower, glad to find soap there, contemplating not using it, not wasting the energy. He watches condensation develop on the glass walls, water droplets collecting until they finally rush down the glass.

His finger lifts, already wanting to trace the letters he knows. Three lines, an H. One. i. Or e, he could write hello. Or ghost. Mom. Dad. Jazz, Sam, Tucker. Write it in English so he wouldn’t forget the way they were meant to be spelled, let the water wash it away.

His fingers ache where they’d been broken for it. For tracing letters in dirt or on mirrors, in the foggy glass at night. A break for every word.

Danyal can see his hand shake, inches from the glass. Pain and fear a leech on his bones.

He drops the hand. Turns to wash away the soap and get out, towels left on the counter.

He doesn’t even glance at the mirror as he goes out.

His tunic is where he’d left it, neatly set on the dresser top… but…

Danyal opens the drawers, changing into the boxers, the next one is dress pants and collared shirts, but in the third-

Rough denim scuffs against his fingertips.

They’re dark wash jeans, fancy and nothing like the ones his mom would buy on sale from the thrift store but…

He doesn’t let himself debate it further, he has to wear clothes and no one is here to tell him which. They put them here so they should expect him to wear it- it could be a test but he doesn’t care, let them do what they want if only to pretend the jeans are stiff from ectoplasm stains instead of fresh starch.

He chooses a white t-shirt, ignoring the collared shirts and polos that are probably meant to go over it.

He breathes, letting his shoulders drop, tilting his head back with his eyes closed, pretending for only a second that he’s getting dressed for school. Jazz is across the hall getting her books together, Sam and Tuck are on their way to walk together, his parents are already downstairs working.

'See?' He wants to say, 'I’m still the same person, nothings changed!'

The metal of the door knob clicks and Danyal’s head snaps towards the sound.

There’s nothing. Danyal doesn’t trust it, eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes the tall double doors.

“I know you’re there!” he calls out, fists ready, “Open the door and show yourself or I will!”

There’s a harsh tutt behind the door before it swings open, revealing a kid standing there. Short, black hair- hair gel-, dress slacks and shirt hiding multiple bladed weapons-

“Clearly I meant for you to know I was here, I am not incompetent,” The kid scoffs. So Nightwing wasn’t lying about them all knowing the league dialect…. Yet somehow, it sounds different coming from the kid, familiar in a way that makes Danyal's skin burn. He looks irritated, arms crossed in front of him even while his eyes wander over the room and Danyal with curiosity. And judgement.

Danyal rolls his eyes at it, “Did you need something from me, or did you just want to stand there looking like a hair gel commercial?”

The boy’s face goes red impressively fast, “How dare you-” he moves- and a knife is flying at his face, Danyal dodges, catching it in a second, shifting to throw it back but stops, half way extended. He looks at the hilt, there’s a League marking engraved on the bottom no larger than a droplet.

Danyal's eyes flick up to the boy still standing in front of him, glaring him down.

That’s all it takes before the boy jumps forward, another knife in his hand.

Danyal blocks it, twisting the arm as he drops his own acquired knife to his other hand and lunges forward.

The boy flips over his arm, and Danyal doesn’t let his surprise show as he reaches to grab the second knife he’d forced the kid to drop.

The boy tutts at him again, “So this was who Mother replaced me with? Street rabble?”

Danyal blinks, Mother? Then it clicks.

So this was Damian. The child the demon’s daughter wanted, beloved by all. Treasured. Preserved.

Danyal grits his teeth against the bitter taste in his mouth. He lunges forward, already expecting the larger dagger Damian uses to block him as he’s forced to retreat.

Danyal doesn’t stop, continuing to press him, “The Demon’s Daughter is no mother of mine,” he spits as he slams a kick against Damian’s elbow, blade dropping once more. Danyal cuts a shallow slash across Damian’s left cheek before dropping his own stolen knives.

He doesn’t stop though, continuing to push Damian back- Damian swerves to the side, grabbing his arm, flipping him, Danyal retaliates, grabbing the others shirt and taking him with him.

He catches his feet a second before the other, using it to pin him face to face with Danyal’s arm at his throat, “Maybe if you were good enough, you wouldn’t have had to be replaced at all and I never would have been forced to be here, this is your fault. I was free,” He grits out, teeth bared, “You got to live these last three years because I paid for it, and you’re angry because they don’t want you!?”

There’s something startling in Damian’s wide eyes, “What are you talking about?” He snaps, “I am Damian Al Ghul, Heir to the League, Ibn al X-“

Danyal slams him harder against the floor, cutting him off. Green simmers, almost boiling, under his skin. He grits his teeth harder against the sharp pain through his chest.

He leans closer to Damian, snarling, his grip bruising, “You don’t even know what you escaped, what Ra’s really wanted with you, do you? What being heir means. You’re nothing more than a -”

Damian jerks his head upwards, colliding with Danyal’s forehead and knocking him back with a grunt. Danyal’s grip loosens momentarily and Damian pulls free.

He slams a palm strike into Danyal’s front, pain lancing through his chest as he gasps, heart convulsing.

He moves through it by force, both rolling off each other with violent hands.

They stand opposite each other once more. Blood drips from the cut on Damian’s cheek. Danyal’s ragged breaths join Damian’s in the silence. He can hear footsteps on the stairs. His heart clenches in his chest painfully. There’s barely enough Lazarus water in his veins to keep it pumping for a week, less if he keeps this up.

The door flings open with a slam, both of them turning to look.

Batman stands there, battle calm in his eyes.

Damian turns fully at the sight of his father, but Danyal doesn’t shift from his stance.

“Father, I-“ Damian starts, but Batman just lifts a hand, silencing him.

“What. Happened.” Batman says, looking straight at Danyal, not even a question. A demand. Green tinted steel shoots up Danyal’s spine and he does nothing but glare back at the man.

Batman doesn’t break eye contact, “Damian.”

“I was determining if he was a threat. He is from the League, Father,” Damian says  shortly, standing tall despite the blood on his face.

Batman looks between them briefly, and oh what a picture they must make.

Two kids, both born in the same cage, one trying to claw his way out of the chains and the other trying to fight his way in.

Exhaustion washes over Danyal, and he drops his fists, letting them hang by his sides.

Batman hums, barely a sound, but a muscle twitches in Damian’s jaw.

“Father-“

“Go Damian. Now.”

Damian looks back at him, not-quite-hate in his eyes, before dropping to a crouch to grab the knife closest to his feet with one hand and turning to leave.

Faced with Batman’s sole attention, Danyal lifts his chin defiantly, daring him to take action, to punish him, to do something that he can predict, can defend, can justify the anger he feels when he sees him.

“I know it was different in the league, but here, this is not acceptable.”

Danyal half-scoffs. He finally steps out of his stance, “I could leave.”

“That’s not-” Batman pinches the bridge of his nose, voice like gravel, “I am trying to protect you, the manor is not the league. I understand what it must have been like to be raised like that, but you can’t hurt others, no matter what teachings you’ve had. I can guarantee you won’t be hurt here, I won’t let-”

Danny huffs a dry laugh, “You won’t let?” He steps forward, rage bubbling back up, “Hurt me? I’m not worried about me, Batman. You can’t stop him. Ra’s is going to get what he wants, and as long as that is me, everyone around me is in danger, I’m dangerous. I'm a weapon, a weapon of your enemy. You can’t fix that, can you?”

“We can protect ourselves-”

Danyal scoffs again, “Because you’ve done such a good job of that already? Don’t forget, all of this is because of you, they wanted you, and now they want me because of you, Batman. You.”

Something stricken shoots through the man’s face before it flattens. Batman nods and steps back, a hand on the doorhandle, “Don’t leave.” Is all he says, before the door clicks shut.

Danyal feels the walls closing in on him like a cell.

He looks to his left.

The bathroom door is open. He can see his reflection in the mirror, any condensation gone.

Danyal stares.

When he had been younger, back in- before. Danyal would stand in front of a mirror and pick out parts he thought looked like his parents. Like a Fenton. His shoulders were from Jack obviously. His eyes and hair too. His jawline was from Maddie, his hands from Jack, and the love of engineering and planning from Maddie. He had the same legs as his mom. Same voice as his dad, always loud. If he didn’t look too hard, he could almost convince himself he was really their kid, their son.

But he could never quite place his tanned skin, or the texture of his hair. The shape of his eyes and nose. Always just a little bit wrong.

What had pretending done but put them in danger?

Danyal turns on his heel, flicking the lights off and putting a glass soap bottle on the door handle.

He knew he’d wake up regardless… but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Danyal rubs his chest with the heel of his palm as he lays down on the far side of the bed, his back to the door, staring out at the city beyond the window glass.

How close would he come to freedom before he’d have to give it up again?

And he knew he would.

For his family, he would give the Demon’s Head anything.

Everything.

If that’s what it took.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pretend he would fall asleep.

———

Bruce runs over Danyal’s words again and again during the flight.

'This is because of you, Batman,'

He flicks a switch.

'You.'

The landing gear lowers.

'You can’t fix this.'

He can see the way the shadows of the forest twist around the clearing.

'Dangerous.'

Wheels touch grass. Batman lands at the coordinates, just on the side of the field in front of the woman waiting for him.

'Because of you.'

He breathes.

“My Beloved, how are you?” She greets him as he descends the ramp.

Bruce says nothing. He cannot even begin to fathom what he would say if he did.

Instead, he stares at her. A woman who had once meant so much to him, whom he had nearly thrown away everything for. And who had nearly done the same for him.

But she hadn’t. Wouldn’t. And it had hurt him, but he had recovered.

And then she hurt him again.

She had stolen and lied to him in his vulnerability.

And still, he had found himself loving her.

Had allowed her to continue hurting him. Again and again. Out of a vain hope that she would change. Because he thought that he could change her. That she would change for him.

It was foolish. It was senseless.

Yet he found it just as impossible to stop.

And so she had hurt him again.

“Talia.” Her name grated against his heart, “Why did you not tell me I had another son?”

“The boy is no more yours than he is mine, Beloved,” She says with a roll of her eyes, as if explaining a basic fact, “He belongs to my father. And to the league.”

Bruce is silent. He notices a slight bruise forming on her left cheek.

Talia’s face is tight, “Do you not care about the son I have given you? Has Damian not satisfied you?”

Bruce feels the leather of his gauntlets stretch over his clenched fists.

“I deserved to know,” He near growls, “Just as I did Damian, just as I did with Jason. You cannot continue to keep my children from me-“

“If it was not for that boy, you would not have met Damian at all,” Talia snaps.

Bruce blinks. Hard.

“His return brought Damian into your arms, you should be grateful.” She spits at him like an accusation, “Damian is ours, Bruce. From our love. That boy was made before we truly knew each other, before we understood each other as we do now. He was borne of nothing more than my father’s obsession. Damian is our son, not him.”

“His name is Danyal, Talia!” Bruce bellows, “He is a child, and he is a person! Just like you, and me, and Damian, and he deserves more than to be written off as one of Ra’s al Ghul’s projects! He deserves better than this!” Than us, he doesn’t say. Deserves better than him.

Talia straightens from already perfect posture, “I made a choice Bruce, for Damian. To protect Damian. I knew our son was never meant to bear my father’s hands, he was never meant to be what Danyal is.” Talia pauses, eyes sharp on him, and he can see when she chooses her next words. Already knows they are meant to cut him, to hurt him. He steels himself and listens anyways.

“Perhaps you should ask him where he’s been all these years I’ve supposedly kept him from you, Beloved.” She says coyly, stepping forward.

“What are you talking about.”

She takes another step, “The truth of the matter is that Danyal could have gone to you any time he wanted. He chose not to. Chose to stay away.”

He stays silent.

“Oh- Did the boy not tell you?“ Talia says, barely hiding the falseness, “Danyal was living in America before he returned to his rightful duty. Almost didn’t work, but…” Talia hummed, “His gifts were fortuitous in the end. A risk well calculated, my father’s doing I suspect.”

Talia almost seems blaisé as she talks about it, but he can see the way it irks her. Her father had tricked her. Somehow. Or had manipulated her into some choice she hadn’t known about.

Batman says nothing, analyzing, taking in clues.

“Beloved,” Talia sighs, “Surely you must know, the boy must return.”

“And surely you know: I can’t let that happen.”

Talia glowers at him.

“It’s him or Damian, Bruce, you must choose, just as I did.”

“No.” Bruce growls.

“You cannot have both,” She snaps at him.

Batman stands firm, staring her down, resolute.

“You invite his anger on them both,” She snarls, “You save no one.”

Batman ignores the words. He has made it his job to make sure that’s not true. He’ll die before it is.

“Fine.” She snaps again. But she lingers for a few seconds more. The lines of her face softening.

“I remember I once loved that same unbending drive.”

It feels odd to hear her confirm something he’s not sure ever really existed.

Then Talia turns away and walks into the forest. Shadows contort and reform around her at the edges of the clearing. Slowly emptying until there’s nothing left but the trees and the grass and him, standing alone at the center of it all.

He turns to leave.

He won’t choose between his children.

He climbs the ramp.

He will protect them.

He sits down in the pilots chair, flicking switches and gears.

All of them.

Engines roar to life below him.

He will not fail.

And yet… he cannot forget her words. Twisted they may be, and just as easily lies.. but, her irritation at her father’s plans… he had always been good at telling when it was real.

'Living in America… chose to stay away,'

Living in America?

Had he been secluded at one of their bases here? Had it even been close?

Had Danyal been just miles away, suffering, and Bruce hadn’t known?

But it felt wrong. What Talia had said sat like a jagged puzzle piece, poking and prodding at him, not quite fitting the theories he threw at it.

‘Returned.’

Did she only mean returned to the League’s home base? Closer to their original strongholds in Asia?

It didn’t make sense. She would have crafted the words differently, to drive her point home.

She’d said ‘supposedly kept him from you’ like she hadn’t. Like she hadn’t kept Danyal hidden, the way she had Damian. It didn’t add up.

She could have just been lying. Bruce didn’t think she was. It couldn’t be that simple. No, there was something specific about the way she’d phrased it all, like she was telling him a secret. Like it was something Ra’s had hidden. Like something Danyal was hiding.

Batman narrowed his eyes, staring out at the landscape in front of him as it rushed past.

Whatever it was, whatever she wasn’t telling him, Batman needed to figure it out before it came back to hurt him or his family. Danyal included.

Then there was the rest of it.

The ‘gifts’ that Talia had mentioned.

He knew Danyal had been forced to interact with the Lazarus waters, but he didn’t know to what extent. What it had done to him.

It’d had an effect on him, that much was clear by the acid green of his eyes when he stood off against them in the Batcave. And earlier when Bruce had first interrupted the fight with Damian.

He didn’t even think Danyal had noticed they were glowing then. Too defensive to think about it. Or perhaps he was used to it.

How many times had he been submerged? Had been so injured that Ra’s saw fit to put him in?

How many times had Bruce not been there to protect him from it?

Even if he was only acting out of defensiveness… was that not Bruce’s fault too?

That he still felt unsafe in the Manor. That he didn’t know if Bruce would act the same as Ra’s, as the League.

And Danyal was right, he was responsible for the pain the league caused him, for them hunting him. If he had never let himself be pulled into Talia’s web- or if she was to be believed… even before that.

When exactly? When had Batman become enough of a threat that Ra’s had decided to use him? Was it because he had refused to be his heir? Or before that? Before or after Dick? Jason?

He doesn’t even know how old Danyal is. How long Batman had let him suffer because of h-

“I do hope you aren’t planning to brood like this with your children around, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, cutting through his thoughts, “I don’t believe your pride would survive the repercussions.”

Bruce glances at the monitor Alfred has decided to call from.

“Hn.” Bruce grumbles.

Alfred is right, his children would tease him mercilessly for ‘brooding’ as they called it. If only Dick at least, who hasn’t missed a chance to do so since he’d been a freshly christened Robin.

How would Danyal fit into that? Would he grow to tease like the others? Or remain stoic like Damian?

“I’ll be approaching in 30 minutes, A.” He says. ‘Will Danyal be there?’ He doesn’t say.

Alfred says nothing in response. The engines fill the silence.

He grits his teeth, he just wants to know the situation, to stay updated, he wants to know if something’s happened or anything’s changed.

He sighs, forcefully loosening his jaw, “Who’s going out tonight?”

“Mm, I believe Miss Brown and Master Tim were discussing going together. Master Thomas is in bed, as is usual, though he did mention he’d be out early.. and I believe Madame Cassandra is staying in. She seems to have found a new project.”

Batman hums in confirmation. He wants to know what Cass had found interesting. More than that, he wants to know if Danyal was okay, Damian too.

“It seems it circles around our newest resident, though she hasn’t shown herself to him yet. Master Dick also seems to think the young sir is his duty as much as Master Damian had been.”

Batman feels his lips tug downwards as he grunts in response. Damian’s first year with them was… a regret. His own absence was devastating. He’d have to find some way to assure Dick that Danyal wasn’t his responsibility this time, that he could still be his own person. Perhaps he should encourage Dick to return to Blüdhaven. Affirm the family would be alright without him.

Batman sees Gotham’s cloud of smog come into view. The bay follows soon after, and the buildings next.

“I’m coming in now.”

“Very good sir.” Alfred answers, nodding in his peripheral before the call clicks off.

When the Batplane arrives to the cave, Alfred is nowhere to be seen. The other’s suits are missing as well, meaning they are already out for the night.

Batman doesn’t pause more than to look around, already heading to the Batcomputer with determined steps.

He enters his access codes, running through his security checks unconsciously, mind spinning on theories and clues.

He picks apart his and Talia’s interaction again and again, trying to pull everything he can from it and put it into his report file. Maybe if he can just read over it again, remember something else, maybe it will be enough to protect Danyal, maybe it will be enough to stop Ra’s, maybe it will be enough understand why Talia did this to h-

A gentle hand slides over his just as his finger goes to slam the enter button of the keyboard.

He looks over his shoulder, already recognizing the feeling of stitching against his suit.

Cass looks at him meaningfully. Her gentle hand shifts into a lean against his arm, the pressure a comfort. She stares up at the Batcomputer and reads through his writing piece by piece.

Bruce waits for her. He knows she struggles with so many words. Knows that she gained more from watching him type it than she will from reading an exact account but the details will be helpful anyways.

She nods to him, fingers tapping lightly against his arm as she thinks it over, scanning and rescanning the document.

Cass has been developing fidgets recently, small twitches of movement that don’t serve a purpose than to let her move.

Bruce wants to smile every time. He’s pretty sure they’re on purpose, but still.. it’s freedom for her.

She nudges him, reaching for a button across the keys. It flicks to a camera screen a second later.

The one in Danyal’s room.

Bruce feels a twinge of guilt at the disappointment Cass aims at him before they both refocus on the image.

The empty image.

Danyal is not in the room, and Bruce feels his eyebrows scrunch as he goes to pull up the other camera feeds to locate him, make sure he hasn’t been taken-

“Downstairs.” Cass says.

Batman gets a half turn around, checking the cave for a foreign presence, before Cass stops him again.

She points to the screen, drawing his attention to a bottom square.

Danyal stands in the hallway of the manor, staring at the portraits on the walls.

He feels a light tap on his shoulder in parting before Cass’s presence at his side disappears silently.

He stares up at the figure of his son standing in the hallway, mind still whirring about possibilities and clues and lies and secrets.

Danyal continues to stand in front of the portrait for another minute, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side.

He rips his eyes away from the portrait, turning down the hallway and ducking into the kitchen.

It’s empty when he gets there. Then again, the whole mansion had seemed empty. Aside from the ever constant, ever familiar feeling of eyes weighing down on him.

Danyal considers making himself food.

He considers jumping out of the window and seeing how far he could get.

He wonders if their cabinets have something he’d know and could do himself or if he’d be hopelessly lost.

He wonders how long it will take for the Demon’s Head to find him. Wonders what he’ll do when he does. Wonders if his-

He stops himself short.

“May I offer you some tea and snacks, young sir?”

Danyal turns slightly to face the old butler-Alfred- who’d entered behind him and nods.

Can he even say no?

Alfred gestures to a chair set up by the built in breakfast nook.

He sits. Even as the domesticity of it all throttles his heart in his chest. The way they must eat together every morning, appear together in every photo, smiling. A family portrait. Batman’s family. Batman got to keep his. But Danny’s is tra-

Danyal breathes purposefully, staring down at his hands, clenching them tighter.

Suddenly a hand reaches across his vision, pressing a button on an ancient looking miniature TV sitting just tucked into the kitchen corner.

It flickers to life on some random news channel, low mindless chatter softening the air.

Danyal feels his shoulders lower slightly, just barely, as the silences retreats. He glances up, expecting to find Alfred there staring at him, questioning him, why he’s acting like this, why he-

Alfred’s back is to him. The man busy at the stove with the tea kettle.

“I hope you like lemon ginger tea,” the man says, getting a small jar from a cupboard, “It’s been quite a bit since I’ve had the opportunity to make some.”

Danyal doesn’t quite trust it, still watching the man warily. He doesn’t understand why they would welcome him into their house, Batman or no, he was a threat to them. He was nothing but a threat.

“How about something to eat?”

Danyal watches the man move over to the fridge.

Something moves in his peripheral and his eyes jump to the side.

Narrowed eyes comb over the fancy china case against the wall. But he can’t see anything odd. The glass is clear, refracted reflection shining back him over the china. A dark phone sitting on the ledge. Dark wood pressed against the wall. He doesn’t know what he saw.

Alfred sets a small plate down in front of him with a light clatter, immediately turning back as the tea kettle begins to screech.

The movement makes a small carrot tumble off, rolling across the counter to Danyal.

He stares at it.

He breathes in, out, in out, in out in out too fast. Too fast-

A finger rolls to a stop in front of him and he can only stare at it as strong arms grip and pull him back, keeping him restrained.

Granite counters blend until they are stone floors.

He can’t look away from it. Confusion bleeds in with denial and regret and bloodthirsty stubbornness.

“Look at me, boy.”

Danny’s head is jerked back by his hair, forcing his eyes up to his instructor.

The man glares down at him.

“I have taught warriors better than you by a thousand, and you dare to try to escape under my hand?”

Danny tries to grin, barely managing a crude sneer, coppery blood in his teeth, “You should have kept a better eye on me, you fucking nutcase.”

His eyelid flicks closed automatically as cold gunmetal rests against it.

“Say that again.”

Danny swallows his regret, in for a penny in for a pound. He juts his chin up, forcing the man to follow the movement with his gun.

“What, were you dropped as a bab-” His open eye strains to see his instructor’s thumb press down the hammer of the gun. A warning.

He can feel his hands shake under the assassins hold. His throat burns.

“You scared of a chil-?” He barely has time to register the hand moving before the butt of the gun slams into his nose with a sickening crack.

Pain floods his face. He gets half a shout out before his chin is grabbed by unforgiving hands.

He stares into the man’s cold eyes.

Danny says nothing. Too focused on trying to breathe when his nose is filling with blood and his mouth is clamped nearly shut.

“Better.”

He resists the urge to spit in the man’s face as he steps back, straightening and waving a hand to the assassins. Even without their hands on him he can feel their presence looming behind him.

Danny drops his head, curling in on himself as much as he can, trying to ignore the feeling of blood as it slides down his face.

His eyes are left to stagnate on the finger thrown to the ground in front of him.

Pale skin stands stark against dark floors, contrasted by blood and dirt marring it. He can see the calluses and small scars.

He doesn’t understand.

He might.

He doesn’t want to.

“You are not the only one I can punish to get my point across, boy.”

He looks closer at the finger. At the nicks of careless knives and tools, of a hand that had cradled- no- please no-

“The oaf was very insistent it be him.”

Danny snaps his head up, fear striking through his chest, “No! Please-“ he catches himself, “Please don’t hurt them! They don’t- Hurt me, just me! They don’t deserve it, they didn’t do anything-!”

Sharp eyes stab into him. Fury behind them.

“Hurt me, Master Shrike, just me. Please.”

There’s a pause as the man continues to stare down at him before he lifts one lip in a sneer, “Do you think you command me, child?”

Danny freezes, “I don’t- I- No, Master. I don’t.”

“Then why,” Shrike near growls, “Do you beg me? Why do you plead like you have a right to ask for anything?”

“I don’t-” 'I don’t understand,' he starts to say but he’s cut off by Shrike’s boot hitting his face. He’s learned by now when not to dodge. He can’t give them another reason to hurt his family.

A second kick lands.

“You will be quiet!”

Danny waits for a beat, then slowly pulls himself up from the floor, not lifting his eyes.

He can still see his father’s finger on the floor.

“You do not command me. You are a tool! A weapon in the Demon’s hand! I choose to act, to punish or break you! You do not act, do not speak until you are to be used!”

Danyal stays silent.

He wants to scream, to fight back, they train him and they train him but he can’t fight back because if he does- his eyes flick to the bloodied finger.

He can let them. For his family, he can let them call him a weapon, can let them say he has no will. He can do this one thing.

He’s not giving up, he tells himself. But for his family’s safety, he can let them think he is. Just this once.

Danny stops, eyes shutting for just a second as he bends into a kneel, holding his hands up in front of him.

There’s a pause, cruel satisfaction radiating off the man in front of him.

Danyal licks his lips, steeling himself, “I am ready for my lesson,” Danny forces the words out, “Master Shrike.”

He doesn’t bother to look up and see the man’s sneer.

“Good.”

He sees the kick coming.

He still doesn’t move.

He stays still.

The world moves around him. Voices. Muttering. The sound of dishes, water being poured.

There’s a carrot.. orange and bright in front of him.

His heart is beating too fast. His eyes sting.

Calm down. Control it. Control it. Stop, stop-

A tea cup clatters in front of him.

“Sir Danyal, are you quite alright?” He hears someone ask. Alfred. It’s Alfred. Batman’s butler. He’s not-

He tries to speak, ‘I’m fine’ he tries to say. But his throat constricts. He simply nods, staring down at the carrot.

A freaking carrot.

It’s ridiculous.

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s. Fine.

Danyal takes a deep breath. He breathes out. Silently.

He does it again.

He holds it until his heart slows down, stops stuttering from beat to beat.

He breathes out.

He reaches for the tea, ignoring the eyes on him-always watching him- ignoring the way his hands shake.

He drinks the tea. Let’s it burn his throat and distract him.

He breathes.

Alfred does not turn to look at him. Staying busy at the sink with dishes that already look clean.

He is thankful.

He breathes.

Low murmurs fill impenetrable silence. Danyal drags his eyes over to the small TV.

His breath stops.

A banner of words crawls across the bottom of the screen.

‘DalvCo factories shutting down after mass destruction.’

He tries to tear his eyes away.

‘Four buildings exploded just after midnight on Saturday in downtown Chicago, Elmerton, and Red Lake. 12 workers dead. Police have not caught the perpetrators.’

And they won’t.

Danyal can recognize a message.

He knows what it means. Who is sending it.

He tries not to let it show how his mind begins spinning. Churning out plans and strategies- If an attempt had cost his father a finger, what would they do to them now, because of Danyal?- he had to fix this.

He looks down to his shaking hands. He stops them. And the tea in his cup stills.

He stops. Pauses. He eyes Alfred still at the sink without looking up.

He places it just on the edge of the counter. Then turns away and lets go.

The cup falls.

It shatters against the floor. Danyal jumps up from his seat at the same time Alfred turns around.

“What’s happened?” He says, already hustling over with a towel. “Are you hurt?”

Danyal steps away and around him, towards the door.

He almost bumps into the display case until the reflection of light off the phone catches his eye. A small ballet sticker sits on the back of the case.

His hand moves before he can think and slips it into his pocket. He looks at Alfred.

“It’s no trouble, Young Danyal,” Alfred says as he crouches over where Danyal had been sitting, “I’ll clean this up and get you more. You can help me prepare for breakfast-“

Danyal considers knocking him out, so he can’t stop him, or alert anyone, but a body is more suspicious. Instead he paints his face with fear and steps out of the room as quick as he can.

He turns down the hallway, trying to remember where he’d walked from the cave.

Mere hours ago.

He goes the opposite direction, following a halls as far to the outer edges of the mansion as he can, typing in Vlad’s number with nervous hands as he goes.

He makes a final turn before he opens a window, glances backwards, and jumps out.

He lands in a roll, already running. His finger presses call and he listens to the phone ringing as he runs.

Once. Twice. He swipes branches out of his way. Three times. Four. Five. Six.

‘We’re sorry the number-‘

Danyal hangs up and presses again.

He doesn’t stop running.

He just has to protect them. He has to warn Vlad. Warn whoever he can. Tell someone.

It rings again. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Six- ‘We’re sorr-‘

Danyal presses it again and runs faster.

If he can get caught by the League maybe Ra’s will overlook it. Maybe he can still protect them. He can fix this. Please just let him fix this.

‘We’re s-‘

He tries again.

And Danyal continues rushing through the woods, wishing his feet would carry him faster, further, higher-

The sound of his steps pounds in his ears. The phantom feeling of eyes on his back.

He slams his finger down on Vlad’s number again, letting the dial tone drown his heartbeat out.

Once. Twice. Three times, Frick! Vlad pick up! Four- the speakerphone clicks.

“Vlad!”

There’s barely a pause, “DANNY!?”

Danny nearly trips, his heart stuttering dangerously, hopefully.

“Dani?…” He says, then jolts to his senses and continues running, a glance thrown behind him, “Dani, how do you have Vlad’s phone, are you okay? Have you been to Amity?”

“Danny, where the hell are you!? I’ve been looking all over for-“

“Dani, you have to listen okay, there’s dangerous people after me- after us-“ Danyal jumps another log, scaling a small stone wall, “You can’t fight them, you have to run, they’ve got my family, Tuck, Sam-“

“Danny wait no listen to me-!”

“You can’t fight them! You can’t, okay!?” Danny scans his eyes back and forth frantically as he runs, mind spinning, calculating how he’s going to get out, away, controlling his heart rate as much as he can, “You have to promise me! Just find Vlad, get out of Amity. Warn him- I couldn’t - my parents- you have to-“

“Danny, listen to me!” Dani yells, stopping him in his tracks.

“Your parents are out, Danny,” She says, voice rushed, but his ears barely hear it. “They escaped, they called us weeks ago to start looking for you- Danny, they’re out.”

She goes quiet. Waiting for Danny.

His parents were-

Danny draws in a deep breath, standing stock still in the middle of the trees, stolen phone still pressed to his ear.

He couldn’t believe it.. they were-

Something clangs against a tree behind him and Danyal whips around ready to-

His head blossoms with pain.

Everything goes dark.

This is included in my one-shot collection(for now) on Ao3, under same name. The collection is Things that Could Exist by Snaileer.

Part 3: https://www.tumblr.com/snaileer/760212137159294976/call-to-my-bedside-3?source=share

Tags:

@thecrystallabyrinth @isnt-that-grape @riverdancingwerewolves @mimblizzy @chaos-deimos-et-eris @miraculousandmore2 @mys-tia @jitteryjuttury @moonlight-opal @nerdypaintbrush @thedragonqueen1998 @luminanightfall @cowarddragon @cyrwrites @kamireadsmcu

[kourota]

"And the cats. Are you ready to meet them?"

"Sock and Mewsic, right?"

my piece for the lovebug collab event in the Creative Chaos discord server! my partner Rory (@ethereal-catharsis) and I decided to work with familial love, so they wrote this super fluffy and amazing aizawa-centric fic [ link to fic ] and I illustrated a scene from it!

[nestastits]

Everytime someone tells me about the “chemistry” in the neris dance scene I side eye. Like your “fav girl” Nesta was faking how she felt/how she acted while dancing with eris so Rhys’s plan would work and she managed to gaslight 70% of her fans along with eris 💀

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XXII

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds /

There was something about the music that was making Lucien’s head ache. The string instruments were off-kilter, an odd mix of sounds, the drums pounding to the beat of his heart. The blood in his veins seemed to be moving slower than normal, the room was spinning. 

Eyes clenched shut, Lucien placed a hand on his temple, the mask permanently stuck to his brow in the way. The cold metal bit into the skin of his palm, sharp as any knife’s blade. His breath caught in his throat, the air around him seemed stale. 

He had forgotten. 

There was a warning shiver that crawled up his spine as he attempted to remove the mask from its place, the binding magic painfully familiar. His golden eye clicked before it whirred softly and he cast a careful glance around the throne room. 

There was a crowd assembled in the large space, sparkling chandeliers casting all the faeries in a strange light. Had he not known better, he would have assumed they all possessed fangs. Viper like smiles flashed, canines sharp enough to draw blood pressed against rose red lips. 

Lucien easily spotted members of the Spring Court, their own masks glittering, looking like starlight. He could not recognise any of their faces, their features mixed together until he frowned from the effort. 

There was no starlight Under the Mountain, Lucien remembered, nothing but darkness. 

A sigh was pulled from his lips and Lucien rubbed a broad hand on his chest, stopping just above his ribs, the fabric of his jacket cheap enough to scratch at his skin. Leaning back into his seat, he let his fingers trace the carved black stone of the arm rest. He much preferred the maple thrones of the Autumn Court, they were far more comfortable, familiar despite the decades that had passed. 

A laugh shattered the illusion that Lucien was sitting alone.

Like the point of a sword dragging sharply against marble, Amarantha laughed again and he winced at the nearness of the sound. 

Lucien was going to throw up, he felt the burning in his throat as he realised how close he was to the wretched female, so unbelievably close. He was so nervous, he could not even find it within himself to be embarrassed by the whimper that he made as a response to noticing that he and Amarantha were on a dais overlooking the 

crowd. 

They were sitting on twin thrones, snakes carved into the stone of the legs. This was everything like the Court of Nightmares was in his imagination, there was nothing worse than being trapped prisoner beneath a mountain. Lucien shuddered, knowing exactly whose place he was in.

Where was Tamlin? 

The thought was jarring, enough so that Lucien felt his jaw clench in anxiety. He bit his tongue to keep himself from asking the question out loud, tasting the sharp iron of blood. 

Amarantha laughed once more, a chorus of giggles and cackles rising from the assembled crowd. The sound echoed in Lucien’s mind as the attendees split a clear path in the middle of the floor. 

The Attor had entered the space and the creature slinked its way towards its queen. Wings flared as it flashed a wicked smile in Lucien’s direction, the grey flesh around its mouth pulled taut. 

The Attor was not alone. 

Claws gripped a cloaked figure, golden curls shone bright as sunlight beneath brown fabric. A girl — a human — was being dragged towards the raised platform. She was looking down, eyes following the pattern of the marble beneath her slippered feet. 

Lucien felt as panic choked him, as he lunged from his seat only to fall onto his knees. Something sparked within his chest, a thunderous snap urging him to move. 

“My mate,” he said softly, like it was a prayer. No one could have heard, and yet the girl looked up.

Brown eyes, the rich colour of a fawn’s coat, met his across the throne room. A shining thread gleamed to life, shooting towards the girl like a star, from Lucien’s heart to hers. His golden eye was the only witness to such magic before it disappeared. He was instantly pulled towards her, was ready to crawl on his hands and knees to get to her. 

Amarantha gripped his shoulder tightly, her sharp nails cut through the fabric of his shirt, split skin. Lucien spared her only a moment’s glance before he twisted his head to look sharply at the Attor, at the girl who was thrown in a careless heap to the ground. 

Elain Archeron, Lady of Roses. 

The thought washed over him like a wave crashing against a rocky shore. 

Lucien would have known her, their bond strong enough to sharpen his senses into remembering. 

The Attor pulled at her hood to reveal rounded ears, cheeks pale with fear, eyes wide as she openly stared at Lucien. 

“Elain,” he called out, but there was no recognition in that lovely gaze. As though he were a stone thrown into a lake, he felt himself sinking. 

Falling. 

Lucien jolted awake with his mate’s name still on his tongue. 

He was clutching the pillow beneath his head tightly, knuckles white. It was dark, perhaps very late in the night considering there were only embers in the fireplace. Cool, fresh air filtered into the small space and he distantly remembered leaving one of the arched windows open. 

For a moment, Lucien had forgotten where he was. He rubbed at his eyes, regaining a sense of his surroundings. His golden eye clicked into place and he froze, all the muscles in his body tense when he noticed the empty side of the bed.

Elain was gone, but her scent was everywhere. 

Jasmine and green grass, so out of place within the Autumn Court. It lingered on his skin, on his clothes, and Lucien realised she must have been holding onto him as they slept. 

Lucien’s hand reached out involuntarily to pat at the wrinkled sheets. The fabric was still warm, a phantom imprint of her head still on the fluffy pillows. He breathed in deeply, mind a whirl as he wondered where she might be. 

Or who might have taken her. 

Lucien lurched into a sitting position, breath caught in his chest as his head snapped towards the open windows. 

“Elain,” he whispered softly, an unspoken well of emotions as he uttered her name into the silence. 

She had pulled one of the comfortable armchairs right up to the sill. Her chin was in her hands, her full lips turned down slightly in the corners. Not exactly a frown, but she seemed lost in thought, pensive. She was looking up towards the sky, searching for something she had yet to find. 

“You can’t see the moon,” she said, voice clear as river water. “Through the trees, I mean.” Elain turned to face him and Lucien felt his cheeks warm, a blush rising to the tips of his pointed ears. 

A couple of days had passed, and they not yet spoken about the kiss they had shared. There was no awkwardness between them, no feelings of regret that he could feel from her end of the bond. If anything, their friendship was stronger, the bridge between their souls thrumming just beneath his rib cage. 

“You alright?” Lucien asked, voice quiet, hoping that she would answer honestly. 

Elain sighed, her shoulders dropping in defeat. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. She played with the end of her braid, a nervous edge to the gesture. 

Lucien said nothing, simply waited for her to continue. 

Elain sighed once more, placed a hand onto her forehead. “I’ve been having these dreams,” she mumbled. He could tell from the anxiety that leaked into her tone that there was more to it all than she was currently choosing to share. “They’re very strange dreams, Lucien.” 

He tried to calm her steadily rising panic through the bond, keeping his voice soft as he addressed her. “Nightmares?” 

Elain shook her head, a few stray curls fell from her braid with the movement. “Visions,” she whispered, the word barely a hissed breath falling from behind gritted teeth. 

Lucien’s blood ran cold at his memories of her from the war, the shell of a person that she had become while lost in images of the future. “Don’t worry,” he attempted to reassure her, but Elain’s eyes were wide with fear. He was glad she had spoken quietly, suddenly paranoid that someone might be listening. “We’ll figure it out, Elain, don’t worry.” 

“I don’t understand them,” Elain muttered, more to herself than to him. She looked like a withered flower, as though thinking about what she saw was enough to seep life from her. 

Lucien wanted her to close the window. He weaved a simple spell around them, to ensure that no one could hear what else they might have said. The sounds of nature fell silent, unnerving to his ears even though it was of his own doing. “Come back to bed,” he offered, wondering why no one had taken it upon themselves in the Night Court to teach her, to help her when it came to her abilities. 

“I was doing so well,” Elain said to him, tears bright as silver shining along her eyes. “I hadn’t seen any since the war, it’s been years.” There was frustration in her statement, the legs of the chair scratched along the stone floor as she stood abruptly. 

“Elain,” Lucien began, licking his lips as he watched her. “Magic doesn’t work like that, you need to use whatever power you have or it consumes you.” She stood as still as a predator, listening carefully to his every word. It gave him the courage to continue, to at least warn her how dangerous her actions were. “Magic needs release and suppressing it only makes things worse.” 

Elain looked just about ready to break down into sobs. “I didn’t know,” she mumbled, fingers working the fabric of her night gown. 

“That’s alright,” Lucien said quietly, putting out his hand towards her. He was struggling not to blame the Inner Circle for their silent disregard of her abilities, of the sheer amount of power they chose to forget that she possessed. “Like I said, we’ll figure it out.” 

Elain eyed him, but she no longer looked so devastated. She inched towards him, slowly but surely. “I have no clue what the visions could mean, none at all.” 

Once she laced her fingers with his, Lucien flashed her a small smile. “Maybe I can help you work them out, I am known to be quite clever.” 

When Elain returned his smile, sitting on the mattress beside him, Lucien’s relief was overwhelming. She told him about how she had had no visions, no whisper of any other magic emerging. She had wrongly assumed that along with the destruction of the cauldron, her abilities had disappeared. 

By the time Elain was finished revealing the many details of her dreams, they were lying down beneath the covers. Facing each other, close enough their noses were nearly touching, Elain continued to express how worried she was. 

“The bones worry me the most,” she murmured. “What else could they mean but death?” 

Lucien nearly flinched as he considered her visions. He also had no idea what they could mean, but even he could not argue with her observation. “We’ll search the library, I’m sure we can find some answers there, maybe even a book on deciphering dreams.” 

Elain hummed in agreement, and although she still seemed worried, there seemed to be a huge weight lifted from her shoulders. She fell silent, her eyes fluttering shut, and Lucien assumed it was time for them to sleep. 

Elain moved closer to him, their legs a tangled mess beneath the sheets. “What were you dreaming about?” Her question had him snapping his eyes open, he traced the curve of her jaw with his eyes as he shrugged. 

“Amarantha,” he answered, knowing she would recognise the name. He hoped she would not ask for more information, he was still not used to speaking about all that had occurred Under the Mountain. 

Nails sharp as any blade. 

Unbearable pain shooting through his head. 

Blood on the marble floors. 

Lucien was pulled back to the present as he heard the animalistic snarl that fell from Elain’s pretty mouth. Almost as though she knew exactly what awful place his mind had taken him to. 

Eyes locked, Elain reached out hesitantly. Lucien noticed a slight shaking to her hand and he held his breath, waiting, anticipating her touch. 

Elain’s hand hovered in the space between them. He was usually more aware, careful of his scar and his eye, keeping them covered beneath the curtain of his hair or turned away from those around him.

Lucien had forgotten himself, had fallen onto the pillows unthinkingly. Elain could see him perfectly. 

There was a pause, a moment in time where the world seemed to stop its spinning.

Lucien dipped his chin in a silent nod, giving Elain the permission she was seeking. With gentle fingers, she traced the scar where it began, just above his brow. He heard the soft way Elain’s breath caught in her throat, felt as horror at what had been done to him slowly leak down the bond. 

“I would have liked to see her death,” Elain mumbled, the promise of violence in her tone. She moved even closer to him, each of her breaths ragged. 

Lucien said nothing, could hardly stand the look of absolute rage falling over her features. Beneath it all, he saw that she cared, and it frightened him unlike anything else.

Lucien let his eyes flutter shut, Elain’s soft touch an anchor. 

Everyone always thought it was best to ignore the scar, to divert their eyes as quickly as possible. They would look away from him, perhaps in an attempt to be polite. 

Lucien could not bear it, had wanted to shout that the scar was there to stay, that they should look at him. 

Look at me. 

Elain continued to map out the features of his face, to stroke at his split auburn brow before she inched towards his eyelid. The skin there was so thin, it was surprising that the healers and Dawn had been able to save it all, and she softened her touch even more. 

Light as a feather, her thumb brushed his eyelashes. 

Elain did not stop, did not even pause as she pressed her palm to his cheek. The most brutal of his scars, the one everyone flinched away from.  Faeries, with their ability to heal hardly ever had any marks that lasted the test of time. He had only ever seen a few permanent marks — the ones on his brothers’ backs. Everything else would fade, return to how it once was, unless the wound had been particularly harsh. 

Elain though, had a human heart, and as Lucien had come to learn, humans were creatures that could embrace change and thrive. 

Elain finally stopped once she had traced the smaller scar that cut across his lips. She pressed a gentle kiss there, nothing but a sweet brush of their mouths. 

Lucien shifted, pulled her close so that he might kiss her again. She smiled against him, threading her fingers into his hair. His hand was on her waist, and they were kissing, his tongue past the seam of her lips. 

Elain was not as shy this time, falling onto his chest when Lucien laid down onto his back. She gasped when he dragged his teeth along her full bottom lip, returning the kiss as she cupped his face with both her hands. 

Lucien let her decide what she wanted to do next, and was surprised at the way she moved against him. He ran his hands from her waist, up her back, and towards her hip, urging her to do as she pleased. 

Elain took her time, kissing him sweetly on the mouth one last time. Then she kissed his cheek, lips like silk. Finally, she kissed his eyebrow, pulling away to gauge his expression. 

Even in the dark, Lucien could see that she was blushing. He smiled up at her, and she seemed to realise that she was leaning on him with all of her weight.

Elain breathed a small laugh, falling onto her side of the bed. He heard her giggle into the pillows as she turned to face the opposite direction. She pressed her back against him, and Lucien threw an arm over her, waiting to see if she would ask him to move. 

Elain simply relaxed into his hold. “Good night, Lucien,” she said softly.

“Good night,” Lucien murmured, falling asleep as he thought about the gentle way Elain had traced his scar with her fingers. 

[illyrian-dreamer]

Conditions of entry

Eris x Reader

Summary: Eris seeks you out late a night, but you have some conditions to his entry, SMUT! 🌶️ 🌶️ 🌶️

Possessive, jealous Eris. Look– it’s just filth.

Warnings: Smut (18+, minors DNI)

Word count: 2,286

AN:  I said in a previous post that writing for Eris scared me, but @missaddamsworld encouraged me to give it a crack. This one’s for you lovely, hope I’ve done him justice ;)

--------

Eris scoffed, his expression pure male arrogance. “You were never anything special, sweetheart.”

Bullshit. You didn’t try to hide your scowl, your arms folding across your chest as a small smirk formed on your face. That was complete and utter bullshit. Your ongoing rendezvous with the to-be High Lord had never been more than feral, heated sex, but you knew just as well as he did that desire had quickly turned to need, and to say it wasn’t special was an ignorant lie.

“Is that so,” you toyed, flashing your teeth without a care of how Eris might respond. You wanted him heated, wanted him angry. “Perhaps I’ll seek one of the many suitors lining up at my door then, I’m sure they would be honoured for even a taste of me, and would consider themselves lucky to share my bed.”

And that was exactly what you were fighting over. Eris had once again sought you after an evening at the opera. You had allowed him in on one condition – to stay until morning.

Eris’s expression was cold, but his eyes burned an autumn flame. “Go ahead. May they indulge on my scent on you, may they enjoy the taste of my cum in your cunt.”

You face dropped at the filth of his words, and you had to swallow to recover from your shock. “Fuck you,” you spat.

��Only in your dreams, sweetheart.”

You glowered at the male before you, his eyebrow arching in triumphant defeat. You had shown your cards before him, folded them the moment you showed just how much he hurt you.

“You’re a selfish, arrogant bastard,” you sneered before turning your heel to storm off. But a quick hand caught your wrists – both of them. Before you knew it, Eris was snarling down at you, his ginger strands falling in front of his face as he fumed down at you with a feral expression.

“Say. that. Again,” he dared.

You looked back at him in disgust. “I said–“

Hot lips crashed over yours before you could get another word out. Eris was dominant, angry and anxious – all of which you could tell through the force of the kiss, his tongue demanding entry. You let out a sound of surprise, his tongue taking the opportunity to slip over yours as he walked you over, pressing you up against the wall, your hands still caged in his.

Eris pulled away, his eyes swirling with flecks of ambers as they danced between yours. “I won’t be told what to do” he spat, his eyebrow quirking as he licked his lips, eyeing your own.

Your chest heaved in frustration and flush. “I am not for your disposal,” you fought back, pushing against the hold on your wrists, still pinned above you. Eris was unmoved.

“But you’re so delicious” he teased, leaning into the part where your jaw meets your neck and kissing – sucking.

You blinked away the stars, the haze that came with your arousal as he worked you in that spot he knew so well. You had to focus.

“If only I felt an inch for what you feel for me,” you lied.

A small yelp left your lips as Eris sunk his teeth to the nape of your neck, the spot he was kissing now replaced with a sensual, animalistic bite. You couldn't help the throb of your insides at the instinct that was quickly taking over.

Eris now chuckled into your skin, removing his teeth as he levelled a look at you, his face inches from your own.

“Hmm,” he hummed, moving so fast then you didn't have a chance to stop him. Both hands were now held in one of his pinned above you, the other hand making its way up the side of your thigh, slinking up at a sultry rate while stopping to pinch the flesh of your love handles.

“So if I were to run my fingers along your slit, I wouldn’t find you soaked to your core?”

You huffed at the male as he smirked back, his hand inching ever so closely to your middle, the fabric of your skirts bunched at his arm. You were sure he could feel the heat radiating from you.

“You’re insufferably arrogant,” you bit back, a whimper then escaping you and Eris’s hand found your core. Long fingers rubbed up and down your slit, cupping you from beneath at jolts of electricity fired through you. It took all the strength you had to not throw your head back and moan.

Eris wore a grin of male arrogance, chuckling to himself as he knew he had struck home. “My my, Y/N. Your body makes a liar out of you.”

You cursed at him in return, your eyebrows pulling in a longing, feral need. One of Eris’s fingers teased your entrance, your body aching for him to stretch you by any means. You were desperate, undone already – and he knew it.

Eris pressed his lips over yours again, your head pushed against the wall as he slipped two fingers inside you, You moaned into his mouth, tongues darting and dancing as you both fought for control. He began to move his fingers, curling them inwards and using his thumb to stimulate your clit. You were ashamed to know how soon you would finish.

“Look at your pretty, flushed face,” Eris teased, his expression smug as he drank in your pleasure. His eyes darkened then, like a low ember as his voice came out cold. “I did not like seeing you with that other male tonight,” he practically growled, continuing to work his fingers inside you.

You tried to collect your thoughts, to retort in this state. “And what of you? Who was that pretty blonde wrapped around your arm?”

Eris snarled at your defiance, withdrawing his fingers quickly as you were left staring at each other, neither of you willing to back down.

You cocked an eyebrow. “Is she another one of your play things? Is she also ‘nothing special’?”

Eris’s face was now full of rage, his eyes glowing as he dared you to continue. You took the bait.

“I wonder if she knows you seek me out after you fuck her? What’s wrong Eris, can’t seem to get any satisfaction?”

His lips curled in a heated hatred as another snarl left him, a strong hand was now around your throat, pressing ever so slightly. A warning. “You shut your mouth.”

Now it was your turn to laugh. You knew it was true, Eris had sought you out at all hours of the night, sometimes when traces of his affair with another female were still fresh. You knew you were the only one that could satisfy him, and he you.

So you played the card right into his hand. “Make me,” you said.

Eris ripped your from the wall, pulling you to the bed and bending your over by the waist. He worked quickly to pull of your dress, and after a moment you felt his hardness poking at your entrance, one strong hand holding your in place at your shoulder.

He leaned over you, pulling close to whisper in your ear as he ran his cock over your entrance again and again. “You. Are. Mine,” he growled, shoving the head of him in as you let out a yelp. This is how it had always been between you two, feral, rough lust-filled sex. Tonight was no exception.

“Gods Eris!” you cried out, his cock opening you more as he pushed inside as his hand gripped at the fleshy part of your waist, working your body into him and he started to thrust.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he gritted, slapping sounds now filling the room as he barely gave you time to acclimate for his size. “Take my fucking cock.”

You moaned at his words, the utter filth that left your mouths during sex was a crime in itself. “Fuck Eris, slow down,” you complained, even though it was an utter lie.

“I’ll fuck you how I please,” he bit back, groaning as his entire length now slid in and out, his hips hitting your rear at every thrust.

A strong hand laced through the roots of your hair, pulling on them to bring you up against his bear chest. The breadth of him swallowed you as he pulled you flush against him, his spare hand now finding your lower stomach and pressing against it, sending new jolts of pleasure.

“See sweetheart, see how well you take it? You were made for me.” The pull on your hair left then, instead Eris forced your chin to dip back, a feral, dominating kiss covering your mouth as he continued to fuck you. You moaned, one hand reaching to lace in his own auburn hair, the other clutching at your breast as they bounced with the movement of sex.

Eris withdrew from you suddenly, and you could have cried from the emptiness. He spun you, roughly, throwing you onto the mattress and pulling you to the edge of the bed by your thighs. He spread your legs wide, using them to guide your body as he entered you as a quickly as he had left, causing you to gasp.

He didn't wait to resume his pace, his cock stretching and filling you over and over as your writhed beneath him. Eris stared at you, his expression serious, possessive, like he could never get enough.

“You feel so good,” you breathed, unable to help the thought that played over and over in your head. Large hands groped at your breasts, kneading your flesh as he pounded away.

“That’s right, doll. and I’m the only male that can make you feel this way.”

You didn't reply, your eyes rolling, lost in your own sensual bliss as the curve to his shaft worked the perfect angle again and again.

A strong hand gripped your face then, forcing you to look at him. “Eyes on me sweetheart.” he growled, beads of sweat rolling down his handsome face as he bared his teeth. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me I’m the only one that can make you feel this good.”

You knew better than to fight him on it. “You’re the only one, Eris,” you practically yelled, earning a roar from him as his pace quickened from thrusts to ruts, your bodies burning together in desperate friction.

“Ugh, oh Eris, I’m close!” you yelled in warning.

“Of course you are. Come for me, and scream my name when you do.”

You didn't care about folding for this male, he had a hold on you that no one else did. Ripples of pleasure exploded from you as you climaxed, your tunnel contracting around his shaft, muscle against muscle as you tightened and he continued to push deep into you. You threw your head back, moaning his name so loud you could have woken the entire corridor.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” Eris coached, his hands gripping your thighs and breast as he continued to thrust. You twitched and writhed as wave after wave continued to come, your moans turning to soft whimpers as you slowly came down from you high.

You looked at at Eris through heavy lids, the wet sounds of your groins slapping together filling the room. His eyebrows were pulled, his face full of concentration as he stared lustfully down at you. You knew that face – he was close.

He pulled out of you then, his cock glistening with your juices as he pumped his shaft with his hand. You knew what he wanted, and you wanted it too. Sitting up, you moved his hand out of the way as your ran a tongue along him, before close your mouth over the tip and sucked. Eris threw his head back, a grunt escaping him as his hand intertwined with the roots of your hair, guiding your head as he started to fuck your mouth.

You took all of him deep into your throat as his sounds of pleasure made you squirm.

“Ugh, take my fucking cock in your throat, that’s the way.” Strong hands worked you over him again and again, and you felt him swell and stiffen further.

Eris pulled you in deep, freezing on the spot as he exploded straight into your throat with a roar. He rutted against your face, cuming twice, three times, four times as he groaned at each release. You swallowed around him, swirling your tongue as he melted in pleasure.

He began to soften, withdrawing from your mouth as he stared down at you, a look mixed with affection and triumph as he stroked your face. His touch was gentle, and while you weren’t used to it, it felt right. “Such a good girl. My good girl,” he smirked at you, before pulling you under your arms and throwing you further into the bed.

Eris climbed over you, hovering above as he soaked in the sight of your naked body before crashing his lips over yours. You pulled at his neck, desperate to fill his frame against you, and to your surprise, he allowed it.

He tipped to the side, pulling you with him as he pulled you thigh over his waist, holding you to him from your lower back. You stared at each other, hair damp with sweat and sex. He tucked yours behind your ear gently.

“What are you doing?” you asked quietly, the intimacy setting your heart aflame.

“I’m staying the night,” he answered simply, before pulling you into his lips again.

The fire in your heart steadied, a wild blaze dimming into something safe, calm, satisfied – but never dull.

--------

Comment to join the general ACOTAR tag list ✨

Tag list:@kennedy-brooke @cosmic-whispers @jazmin2211 @psychobookaholic

[deathberi]

[theladyofbloodshed]

Neris Week - Day 4 - Love

High Lord Meeting from Eris’ POV (aka the first time he sees Nesta) - Majority of the text is word-for-word from ACOWAR including all of the events, but switched to Eris' POV rather than Feyre's.

There was just enough time to glimpse the polished, marble floor and the deep-cushioned oak chairs arranged in a circle that his father would recoil at. Delegates from Winter, Day, and Night had already assembled alongside Thesan’s number. They were gathered around the gem of the chamber; a reflection pool with pink and gold water lilies floating upon the dark water. The atmosphere was tense enough to be cut with a knife. Eris spotted Mor, thin-lipped and pale, refusing to glance their way as he filed in behind his parents. The Night Court had their hackles raised though they were not the only court which had stiffened at the arrival of Autumn. It was to be expected for a court in a state of perpetual decay.

They had come as allies, not enemies. Apparently. Hostility seeped from those gathered but Beron merely gave a brief glance to the high lords. Eris noticed his mother’s shoulders stiffen as her head swept through the room. No Lucien. That was the only reason why she had petitioned and begged to be allowed to attend the meeting. All of those nights pleading and needling at her husband, promising to behave and do whatever he wanted, for a son who was not here.

His brothers sneered which ruffled the feathers of the Peregryns and had one of the Summer Court princes baring his teeth in warning.

‘Enough,’ murmured Eris, pulling them back into line since Beron wasn’t about to do it. He needed today to go well. Needed to prove to the Night Court he was worth aligning with. He had heard rumours of the mortal sisters forced into the Cauldron; one had been blessed with foresight, the other was more complex. The world had shuddered when that one came out. Eris imagined something grotesque and wicked, warped by the might of the Cauldron.

Beron paused halfway through the room, surveying it again with his keen, brown eyes. Disgust had his top lip curling.

Rhysand stood. ‘It’s no surprise that you’re tardy, given that your own sons were too slow to catch my mate. I suppose it runs in the family. Mate—and High Lady.’

The female levelled a flat, bored stare in their direction. Eris met it with an amused, if not bland smile. He had known the instant that Feyre Archeron had crossed into his court thanks to his smoke hounds. It would have been too easy to drag her before his father. No, Eris had his eyes on a bigger prize. He could feel the burn of Cassian’s eyes on him. Eris deigned a glance at the Illyrian general and inclined his head in invitation, subtly patting his stomach. It was always too easy to push the general’s temper. To see how she’d react, Eris turned his amber eyes to Morrigan. A blank stare was his only response.  Her white-hot anger writhed beneath the surface, but it had been her own blood who had driven the nails in, not him.

Thesan, as host, began once they had all seated. ‘Rhysand, you have called this meeting. Pushed us to gather sooner than we intended. Now would be the time to explain what is so urgent.’

Rhys blinked—slowly. ‘Surely the invading armies landing on our shores explain enough.’

‘So you have called us to do what, exactly?’ Helion challenged, bracing his forearms on his muscled, gleaming thighs. ‘Raise a unified army?’

Unification? Beron would rather see all of Prythian turn to ash than stand alongside the Day Court.

‘Among other things,’ Rhys said mildly. ‘We—'

Like a crack of lightning, vicious as a spring storm, Tamlin winnowed into the chamber itself. Now this meeting would be interesting, Eris thought. Never one for opulence, Tamlin did not bother with the landing balcony, or the escorts. He did not have an entourage. He had never needed one to assert his dominance; the size was enough and the brute force.

Absolute silence. Absolute stillness. Shields locked into place. He felt the soft hum of his father’s covering all of them. Tamlin was not to be underestimated. They'd chased naga from the border only to run them into Tamlin's claws where they were shredded like ribbons. Eris did not want to be on the receiving end of those. His clothes were too expensive.

Eris skimmed his eyes over the Night Court, tantalised with anticipation of the expected maelstrom headed their way. Rhysand appeared bored but Eris could see the tightness behind his expression, just as he used to wear when carrying out another of Amarantha’s more savage punishments. The ever-dramatic Morrigan made a show of her disgust, but it was the female beside her that Eris was more interested in. The cold caution on her face made her look as though she was made of ice, but there was a flame in her heart that flared. Eris felt his own chest go tight at the sight of her, the breath catching in his lungs on an inhale. Pale gold hair was drawn into a neat coronet to highlight the sharp planes of her elegant face. There was no mistaking the relationship to the high lady of the Night Court, but while the latter was more restless and freer, the sister seemed steadier. There was a sophistication to her; a trained stillness that ought to come from holding court. Her grey eyes flicked towards him, noticing the attention. For all the steady calm she displayed, those eyes churned like storm clouds barrelling his way. She was the riptide waiting to drown its victim and Eris would be happy to step into her path.

Thesan rose, his captain remaining seated beside him—albeit with a hand on his sword. ‘We were not expecting you, Tamlin.’ Thesan gestured with a slender hand toward his cringing attendants. ‘Fetch the High Lord a chair.’

He was more used to sleeping on floors as a beast, Eris thought. Tamlin did not tear his gaze from his runaway bride. His smile turned subdued—yet somehow more unnerving. More vicious. Eris knew the male well enough; enough to know that he could shred his enemies quicker than any spell could be cast. He wore his usual green tunic—no crown, no adornments.

Beron drawled, ‘I will admit, Tamlin, that I am surprised to see you here. Rumour claims your allegiance now lies elsewhere.’

He was feeling brave because Tamlin’s gaze had not moved from Feyre Archeron. It landed on her ring finger then the tattoo beneath the glittering, pale blue sleeve of her gown. Then it rose—right to that crown on her pretty, little head. Rhysand’s play thing, all dolled up for the show.

The attendants hauled over a chair—setting it between Autumn and Day. Alastar was smart enough not to physically recoil as Tamlin’s arm brushed against his own as he took the seat.

Helion waved a scar-flecked hand. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’

Although Thesan cleared his throat, no one looked toward him.

‘It would seem congratulations are in order.’ Tamlin’s words were flat—flat and yet as sharp as his claws, currently hidden beneath his golden skin.

Rhysand only held his once-companion’s stare. Held it with a face like ice, and yet utter rage roiled beneath it. Cataclysmic rage, surging and writhing. This would be a fun day, Eris thought. Perhaps there was a bet to see who was most likely to draw first blood. His money was on the holier-than-thou Night Court who were always above any restrictions.

‘We can discuss the matter at hand later.’

Tamlin said calmly, ‘Don’t stop on my account.’

‘I’m not in the business of discussing our plans with enemies.’

A pissing contest between the high lords then, that was what it was to be.

‘No,’ Tamlin said with equal ease, ‘you’re just in the business of fucking them.’

Eris pressed his lips together to fight back a grin. Tamlin had never been one for subtlety. Despite the mounting tension, Eris found it all highly amusing. These fragile males and their egos.  Tamlin had spent years in war bands; his words could be crass and brutal.

‘Seems a far less destructive alternative to war,’ replied Rhysand.

‘And yet here you are, having started it in the first place.’

Claws began to slide from Tamlin’s knuckles. Eris measured the space between himself and his mother – how quickly he could winnow her away if Tamlin leapt across the pool to rip out Rhysand’s throat. He wasn’t the only one calculating the space. Kallias had drifted a hand over to the arm of his new wife’s chair.

‘If you hadn’t stolen my bride away in the night, Rhysand, I would not have been forced to take such drastic measures to get her back.’

Feyre said quietly, ‘The sun was shining when I left you.’

This was better intel than any of their spies had managed. Perhaps they should make these meetings a regular thing.

Kallias asked, ‘Why are you here, Tamlin?’

Tamlin’s claw dug into the wood, puncturing deep even as his voice remained mild. ‘I bartered access to my lands to get back the woman I love from a sadist who plays with minds as if they are toys. I meant to fight Hybern—to find a way around the bargain I made with the king once she was back. Only Rhysand and his cabal had turned her into one of them. And she delighted in ripping open my territory for Hybern to invade. All for a petty grudge— either her own or her … master’s.’

‘You don’t get to rewrite the narrative,’ she breathed, colour dotting her cheeks. ‘You don’t get to spin this to your advantage.’

Tamlin only angled his head at Rhysand, a cruel glimmer that Eris was familiar with lightened his green eyes. ‘When you fuck her, have you ever noticed that little noise she makes right before she climaxes?’

A bit of a low blow, sharing bedroom habits. This was a war between two egotistical males, he supposed. Eris had no doubt that his father would be grinning.

It was the shadowsinger’s cold, deep voice that spoke. ‘Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.’

Surprise flashed in Tamlin’s eyes—then vanished. Vanished, swallowed by pure fury as he realised what that obscene tattoo coating her hand was for. ‘It was not enough to sit at my side, was it?’. A hateful smile curled his lips. ‘You once asked me if you’d be my High Lady, and when I said no …’ A low laugh. ‘Perhaps I underestimated you. Why serve in my court, when you could rule in his? They peddle tales of defending our land and peace. And yet she came to my lands and laid them bare for Hybern. She took my High Priestess and warped her mind—after she shattered her bones for spite. And if you are asking yourself what happened to that human girl who went Under the Mountain to save us … Look to the male sitting beside her. Ask what he stands to gain—what they stand to gain from this war, or lack of it. Would we fight Hybern, only to find ourselves with a Queen and King of Prythian? She’s proved her ambition—and you saw how he was more than happy to serve Amarantha to remain unscathed.’

An impassioned speech, but Tamlin had never been a wordsmith. A razor-sharp claw through Rhysand’s skull was a better avenue for his rage.

Rhys let out a dark laugh. ‘Well played, Tamlin. You’re learning.’

Ire contorted Tamlin’s face at the condescension. But he faced Kallias. ‘You asked why I’m here? I might ask the same of you.’ He jerked his chin at the High Lord of Winter, at Viviane—the few other members of their retinue who had remained silent. ‘You mean to tell me that after Under the Mountain, you can stomach working with him?’ A finger was flung in Rhysand’s direction.

He supposed Tamlin had a fair point. They had all been at the mercy of Rhysand’s tyranny for fifty years and he had certainly delighted in selecting members of the Autumn Court to enact his punishments on as if that might have bothered Beron. He cared little for his people, only saw them as possessions himself.

‘We came here to decide that for ourselves.’ The soft, silvery glow that had been emitting from the Lady of the Winter Court had dimmed somewhat under Morrigan’s scrutiny. Eris knew there was a bond there. An old one, rarely used, but strong. Did Morrigan know how many children died under Rhysand’s command? How much Winter Court blood soaked her cousin’s hands.

Rhysand said softly to them, to everyone, ‘I had no involvement in that. None.’

Kallias’s eyes flared like blue flame. ‘You stood beside her throne while the order was given.’

Eris remembered that day. It was near the end – although there had been no signs that the end was near. The guilt and horror had threatened to drown him. Worse was the relief that it was not their children. Not Autumn Court children. Another court would pay the debt for rebellion. Another court would bleed.

‘I tried to stop it.’

‘Tell that to the parents of the two dozen younglings she butchered,’ Kallias said, voice as cold as the season he owned. ‘That you tried.’

‘There is not one day that passes when I don’t remember it,’ he said to Kallias, to Viviane. To their companions. ‘Not one day.’

‘Remembering,’ Kallias said, ‘doesn’t bring them back, does it?’

‘No,’ Rhys said plainly. ‘No, it doesn’t. And I am now fighting to make sure it never happens again.’

Noble. Noble to say when he was stood on the winning side until the tide changed – as did his allegiance. It wasn’t his court which bled. It wasn’t the Night Court who prayed to the Mother that their children would be safe.

Viviane glanced between the two high lords. ‘I was not present Under the Mountain. But I would hear, High Lord, how you tried to—stop her.’ Pain tightened her face. She, too, had been unable to prevent it while she guarded her small slice of the territory. It was a miracle, really, she had survived unscathed without Amarantha – or Rhysand – finding her.

His father snorted, unable to suppress his comment. ‘Finally speechless, Rhysand?’

‘I believe you,’ said Feyre.

‘Says the woman,’ Beron countered, ‘who gave an innocent girl’s name in her stead—for Amarantha to butcher as well.’

That one had given Eris nightmares. The damn mortal female had locked eyes with him as she begged one of the fae to help. It still happened sometimes, even now. He’d wake in a cold sweat after dreaming he was back in that place with a young woman crying and begging for her life even as she bled out across the obsidian floor.

‘When your people rebelled… She was furious. She wanted you dead, Kallias.’ Viviane’s face drained of colour at Rhysand’s words. He went on, ‘I… convinced her that it would serve little purpose.’

‘Who knew,’ Beron mused, ‘that a cock could be so persuasive?’

That was too far, even Eris could acknowledge that. He did not fancy his father’s odds with the Night Court staring him down. He had no love for his father, but his mother didn’t deserve to be hurt in the crossfire.

‘Father.’ Eris’s voice was low with warning.

But Rhysand went on to Kallias, ‘She backed off the idea of killing you. Your rebels were dead—I convinced her it was enough. I thought it was the end of it.’ His breathing hitched slightly. ‘I only found out when you did. I think she viewed my defence of you as a warning sign—she didn’t tell me any of it. And she kept me … confined. I tried to break into the minds of the soldiers she sent, but her damper on my power was too strong to hold them—and it was already done. She … she sent a daemati with them. To …’ He faltered. Rhysand swallowed. ‘I think she wanted you to suspect me. To keep us from ever allying against her.’

How convenient for Amarantha – and Rhysand – that there was another daemati in play all that time. One who had never stepped out of the shadows. Eris picked at his nails, bored by the tale being spun.

‘Where did she confine you?’ The question came from Viviane, her arms wrapped around her middle.

‘Her bedroom.’

‘Stories and words,’ Tamlin said, lounging in his chair. ‘Is there any proof?’

‘Proof—’ Cassian snarled, half rising in his seat, wings starting to flare because he could never quite manage those emotions.

‘No,’ Rhysand cut in as Morrigan blocked Cassian with an arm, forcing him to sit like an obedient hound. Rhysand added to Kallias, ‘But I swear it—upon my mate’s life.’

Tamlin rolled his eyes. Eris was not convinced either. He had seen enough schemes, enough masks, to know when one was not truly honest. It wasn’t Eris that Rhysand was trying to persuade. Whatever Kallias read in his face, his words, it was believed. He pinned Tamlin with a hard, blue stare as he asked again, ‘Why are you here, Tamlin?’

A muscle flickered in Tamlin’s jaw. ‘I am here to help you fight against Hybern.’

‘Bullshit,’ Cassian muttered. If the Illyrian learned to hold his tongue, amongst manners, he might not be as uncouth.

‘You will forgive us,’ Thesan interrupted gracefully, ‘if we are doubtful. And hesitant to share any plans.’

‘Even when I have information on Hybern’s movements?’

Silence. Tarquin, across the pool, watched and listened. For one young and inexperienced, it was the best option. Maybe they’d battle it out amongst themselves and he and Tarquin could rule a new Prythian.

Another sharp-toothed smile was offered by Tamlin. ‘Why do you think I invited them to the house? Into my lands? I once told you I would fight against tyranny, against that sort of evil. Did you think you were enough to turn me from that?’ His teeth shone white as bone at Feyre. ‘It was so easy for you to call me a monster, despite all I did for you, for your family.’ A sneer towards the beautiful sister, who was frowning with distaste. ‘Yet you witnessed all that he did Under the Mountain, and still spread your legs for him. Fitting, I suppose. He whored for Amarantha for decades. Why shouldn’t you be his whore in return?’

‘Watch your mouth,’ Mor snapped.

Tamlin ignored her wholly and waved a hand toward Rhysand’s wings. ‘I sometimes forget— what you are. Have the masks come off now, or is this another ploy?’

‘You’re beginning to become tedious, Tamlin,’ Helion said, propping his head on a hand. The low timbre of his voice had Beron stiffening. ‘Take your lovers’ spat elsewhere and let the rest of us discuss this war.’

‘You’d be all too happy for war, considering how well you made out in the last one.’

‘No one says war can’t be lucrative,’ Helion countered.

‘Enough,’ Kallias said. ‘We have our opinions on how the conflict with Hybern should be dealt with.’ Those glacial eyes hardened as he again took in Tamlin. ‘Are you here as an ally of Hybern or Prythian?’

The mocking, hateful gleam faded into granite resolve. ‘I stand against Hybern.’

‘Prove it,’ Helion goaded.

Tamlin lifted his hand, and a stack of papers appeared on the little table beside his chair. ‘Charts of armies, ammunition, caches of faebane … Everything carefully gleaned these months.’

That was priceless intel. Autumn was already exposed to Hybern sweeping in from Spring and Summer; they needed that information.

‘Noble as it sounds,’ Helion went on, ‘who is to say that information is correct—or that you aren’t Hybern’s agent, trying to mislead us?’

‘Who is to say that Rhysand and his cronies are not agents of Hybern, all of this a ruse to get you to yield without realizing it?’

The gorgeous female carved from marble murmured, ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘If we need to ally against Hybern,’ Thesan said, ‘you are doing a good job of convincing us not to band together, Tamlin.’

‘I am simply warning you that they might present the guise of honesty and friendship, but the fact remains that he warmed Amarantha’s bed for fifty years, and only worked against her when it seemed the tide was turning. I’m warning you that while he claims his own city was attacked by Hybern, they made off remarkably well—as if they’d been anticipating it. Don’t think he wouldn’t sacrifice a few buildings and lesser faeries to lure you into an alliance, into thinking you had a common enemy. Why is it that only the Night Court got word about the attack on Adriata—and were the only ones to arrive in time to play saviour?’

‘They received word,’ Varian cut in coolly, ‘because I warned them of it.’

An interesting development. Now, what business would a prince of the Summer Court have with the Night Court? Especially as Eris had heard a whisper on the wind that blood rubies had been sent north. Tarquin whipped his head to his cousin, brows high with surprise.

‘Perhaps you’re working with them, too,’ Tamlin said to the Prince of Adriata. ‘You’re next in line, after all.’

‘You’re insane,’ breathed Feyre to Tamlin as Varian bared his teeth. ‘Do you hear what you’re saying?’ A trembling finger pointed towards her sister. ‘Hybern turned my sisters into Fae—after your bitch of a priestess sold them out!’

It was true then, the rumour carried on wings. Two mortal women went into the Cauldron and a pair of high fae emerged, one beautiful, one terrible. Eris surveyed the female again. Her spiked ears were hidden amongst the soft threads of her hair. She was more than high fae. He could not explain it. Her eyes were different; a never-ending grey that spelled the end of worlds. The elegance of her face would not be out of place in an ancient tale. It was one that could spark wars; a face that males would die for. Her attention flickered to him again, eyeing him warily like a predator deciding whether he was worth the chase.

‘Perhaps Ianthe’s mind was already in Rhysand’s thrall. And what a tragedy to remain young and beautiful. You’re a good actress—I’m sure the trait runs in the family.’

The female, Nesta, let out a low laugh. Hatred simmered in her expression. ‘If you want someone to blame for all of this,’ she said to Tamlin, ‘perhaps you should first look in the mirror.’

Tamlin snarled at her. Cassian snarled right back, ‘Watch it.’

Oh. The brute had set his sights on this one then. She was too good for a bastard like him. Tamlin looked between the pair —his gaze lingering on Cassian’s wings, tucked in behind him. Snorted. ‘Seems like other preferences run in the Archeron family, too.’

Surely this beauty wouldn’t truly sully herself with a male like Cassian? He had no love for Illyrians but surely a shadow singing one was better than the average, grunting one.

‘What do you want? An apology? For me to crawl back into your bed and play nice, little wife?’

‘Why should I want spoiled goods returned to me?’ Tamlin growled, ‘The moment you let him fuck you like an—’

One heartbeat, the poisoned words were spewing from his mouth—where fangs lengthened. Then they stopped. Tamlin’s mouth simply stopped emitting sounds. He shut his mouth, opened it—tried again. No sound, not even a snarl, came out. There was no smile on Rhysand’s face, not a glint of that irreverent amusement as he rested his head against the back of his chair.

‘The gasping-fish look is a good one for you, Tamlin.’

The others, who had been watching with disdain and amusement and boredom, now turned to Rhysand. Now possessed a shadow of fear in their eyes as they realized who and what, exactly, sat amongst them.

‘If you want proof that we are not scheming with Hybern, consider the fact that it would be far less time-consuming to slice into your minds and make you do my bidding.’

Only his damn father was stupid enough to scoff and draw attention to themselves. Eris angled his chair, ensuring he would take a blow from Rhysand rather than his mother.

‘Yet here I am,’ Rhysand went on, not deigning to give Beron a glance of acknowledgment. ‘Here we all are.’

Absolute silence. Then Tarquin, silent and watchful, cleared his throat. ‘Despite Varian’s unsanctioned warning…’ A glare at his cousin, who didn’t so much as look sorry about it, ‘You were the only ones who came to help. The only ones. And yet you asked for nothing in return. Why?’

Rhys’s voice was a bit hoarse as he asked, ‘Isn’t that what friends do?’ A subtle, quiet offer.

‘I rescind the blood rubies. Let there be no debts between us.’

How terribly boring.

‘Don’t expect Amren to return hers,’ Cassian muttered. ‘She’s grown attached to it.’

Rhysand turned to Tamlin. Were they enemies or allies now? Eris couldn’t tell. He doubted they would never see eye to eye again. Rhysand dipped his head. ‘I believe you. That you will fight for Prythian. War is upon us. I have no interest in wasting energy arguing amongst ourselves.’

Beron said, ‘You may be inclined to believe him, Rhysand, but as someone who shares a border with his court, I am not so easily swayed.’ A wry look. ‘Perhaps my errant son can clarify. Pray, where is he?’

Beside him, his mother sat straighter in her seat, hope lifting her. Just one glimpse of Lucien. That was all she wanted. All she ever asked for. I just want to see my son while he still lives.

The curt reply from Feyre was, ‘Helping to guard our city.’

Although his brother could wield a blade as good as any, Lucien had spent his patrols charming females, singing to their mothers or slipping away from their fathers. His life in Spring had been no different. But, perhaps, if a mate had been created by the Cauldron for him, Lucien might have turned over a new leaf. Eris snorted and surveyed Nesta, who stared back at him with steel in her face. He liked this one. He fancied testing her mettle.

‘Pity you didn’t bring the other sister. I hear our little brother’s mate is quite the beauty.’

Mor replied smoothly, ‘You still certainly like to hear yourself talk, Eris. Good to know some things don’t change over the centuries.’

An unnecessary jab from a female who still clung to the past like a shield so she never had to face the truth. Eris’s mouth curled into a smile at the words, the careful game of pretending that they had not seen each other in years still in play. ‘Good to know that after five hundred years, you still dress like a slut.’

The wood shattered beneath him. His head met the floor with an agonising intimacy as scarred hands wrapped around his throat. A wall of blue was in his blurred vision as the Night Court’s shadowsinger unleased his wrath on Eris.

A knee pressed into Eris’s gut. It was the silence that unnerved Eris most. Not wholly the shadowsinger but the entire room had fell into quiet.

His vision began blotting as he choked for breath. A blur of orange met the blue shield but could not manage against the writhing shadows.

Azriel stopped.

The high lady was there, a hand against the shield. Eris gasped for air as those scarred hands loosened. She extended a hand to him, but the rest of the room was revulsed. Mor, the female that Azriel wished was his, had gone pale and shaky. Eris hid his gloat.

‘Come sit beside me,’ the high lady crooned like Azriel was nothing more than a child.  

The shadowsinger leaned in towards Eris as he sucked in breaths. His voice was low enough for only for Eris to catch it. ‘Your father will be interested to know about your alliance with us. Yours and your mother’s.’

He wouldn’t. Azriel wouldn’t implicate his mother in a plot that had nothing to do with her. The shadows around them lightened to sunshine but Eris was sick to his core. It wasn’t only his life on the line by gambling with the Night Court. His mother would be an unwilling pawn in their blackmail. Lucien’s life balanced against hers.

Beron struck—only for his fire to bounce off a hard barrier.

A smug look was plastered on Feyre’s face. ‘That’s twice now we’ve handed you your asses. I’d think you’d be sick of the humiliation.’

Helion laughed at the comment. As Eris expected, Mor had recoiled from Azriel. She looked as if she’d like nothing better than to be away from this room, from him.

Feyre took a deliberately slow walk to the table to fill a glass of wine for the feral one. ‘They are my family,’ she said, handing Azriel the wine. She met Eris’ gaze. ‘I don’t care if we are allies in this war. If you insult my friend again, I won’t stop him the next time.’

With his mother’s neck at the mercy of the Night Court, Eris straightened the lapels of his jacket. ‘Apologies, Morrigan.’

Thesan rubbed his temples. ‘This does not bode well.’

But Helion smirked at his retinue, crossing an ankle over a knee and flashing those powerful, sleek thighs. ‘Looks like you owe me ten gold marks.’

Helion waved a hand, and the stacks of papers Tamlin had compiled drifted over to him on a phantom wind. With a snap of his fingers—scar-flecked from swordplay—other stacks appeared before every chair in the room. ‘Replicas,’ he said without looking up as he leafed through the documents. A handy trick—for a male whose trove was not in gold, but in knowledge. No one made any move to touch the papers. Helion clicked his tongue. ‘If all of this is true,’ he announced, Tamlin snarling at the haughty tone, ‘then I’d suggest two things: first, destroying Hybern’s caches of faebane. We won’t last long if they’ve made them into so many versatile weapons. It’s worth the risk to destroy them.’

Kallias arched a brow. ‘How would you suggest we do that?’

‘We’ll handle it,’ Tarquin offered. Varian nodded. ‘We owe them for Adriata.’

Thesan said, ‘There is no need.’ The High Lord of Dawn folded his hands in his lap. ‘A master tinkerer of mine has been waiting for the past several hours. I would like for her to now join us.’

Before anyone could reply, a High Fae female appeared at the edge of the circle. She bowed quickly, displaying her light brown skin and long, silken black hair. She wore clothes similar to Thesan’s, but her sleeves had been rolled up to the forearms, the tunic unbuttoned to her chest to show a golden hand. It clicked and whirred quietly, drawing the eye of every immortal in the room as she faced her High Lord. Thesan smiled in warm welcome.

‘My Lord.’

Thesan gestured to the female standing tall before the assembled group. ‘Nuan is one of my most skilled craftspeople.’

Rhysand leaned back in his seat, brows rising with recognition at the name, and jerked his chin towards them. ‘You might know her as the person responsible for granting your … errant son, as you called him, the ability to use his left eye after Amarantha removed it.’

Nuan nodded once in confirmation, her lips pressing into a thin line as she took in the Autumn Court delegate. They weren’t the ones who caused it, Eris thought bitterly. That had been Tamlin sending his emissary into the lion’s den and expecting Lucien not to argue back. His little brother had never learnt to tame his tongue in matters of love or war.

‘And what has this to do with the faebane?’ Helion demanded.

Nuan turned, her dark hair slipping over a shoulder as she studied Helion. And did not seem impressed. ‘Because I found a solution for it.’

Thesan waved a hand. ‘We heard rumours of faebane being used in this war—used in the attack on your city, Rhysand. We thought to look into the issue before it became a deadly weakness for all of us.’ He nodded to Nuan. ‘Beyond her unparalleled tinkering, she is a skilled alchemist.’

Nuan crossed her arms, the sun glinting off her metal hand. ‘Thanks to samples attained after the attack in Velaris, I was able to create an … antidote, of sorts.’

‘How did you get those samples?’ Cassian demanded.

A flush crept over Nuan’s cheeks. ‘I—heard the rumours and assumed Lucien Vanserra would be residing there after … what happened.’ She still didn’t look at Tamlin, who remained silent and brooding. ‘I managed to contact him a few days ago—asked him to send samples. He did—and did not tell you,’ she added quickly to Rhysand, ‘because he did not want to raise your hopes. Not until I’d found a solution.’

Always so clever and ahead of the curve, that Lucien, the clever fox. He had kept Eris on his toes when they were younger. Their chess games would last for hours with only a handful of pieces even moved across the board.

Nuan went on, ‘The Mother has provided us with everything we need on this earth. So it has been a matter of finding what, exactly, she gave us in Prythian to combat a material from Hybern capable of wiping out our powers.’

Helion shifted with impatience, that glistening, white fabric slipping over his muscled chest. Thesan read that impatience, too, and said, ‘Nuan has been able to quickly create a powder for us to ingest in drink, food, however you please. It grants immunity from the faebane. I already have workers in three of my cities manufacturing as much of it as possible to hand out to our unified armies.’

Tarquin asked, ‘But what of physical objects made from faebane? They possessed gauntlets at the battle to smash through shields.’ He jerked his chin towards Rhysand. ‘And when they attacked your own city.’

‘Against that,’ Nuan said, ‘you only have your wits to protect you.’ She did not break Tarquin’s stare, and he straightened, as if surprised she did so. ‘The compound I’ve made will only protect you —your powers—from being rendered void by the faebane. Perhaps if you are pierced with a weapon tipped in faebane, having the compound in your system will negate its impact.’

Quiet fell. Beron said, ‘And we are supposed to trust you’—a look at Thesan, then at Nuan—'with this …substance we’re to blindly ingest.’

Eris’ toes curled in his shoes, bracing himself for whatever would spew from his father’s lips next. He did his best not to grimace.  

‘Would you rather face Hybern without any power?’ Thesan demanded. ‘My master alchemists and tinkerers are no fools.’

‘No,’ Beron said, frowning, ‘but where did she come from? Who are you?’

The others assembled weren’t old enough to remember little beyond the war five centuries ago. Beron’s memories ran deeper. The war had been brewing for a long time with small battles, ambushes and assassinations. He had only spoken of it a handful of times to Eris as though the words had fought their way to the surface. Beron had only been a boy of eleven years when his own father was betrayed and taken to the Continent. They only knew he had been murdered when the magic transferred to Beron. Then, his tar-dipped head was delivered to the boy high lord days later.

‘I am the daughter of two High Fae from Xian, who moved here to give their children a better life, if that is what you are demanding to know,’ Nuan answered tightly.

Helion demanded of Beron, ‘What does this have to do with anything?’

Beron shrugged. ‘If her family is from Xian—which I’ll have you remember fought for the Loyalists—then whose interests does she serve?’

Helion’s amber eyes flashed.

Thesan cut in sharply, ‘I will have you remember, Beron, that my own mother hailed from Xian. And a large majority of my court did as well. Be careful what you say.’

Before Beron could hiss a retort, Nuan said to the Lord of Autumn, her chin high, ‘I am a child of Prythian. I was born here, on this land, as your sons were.’

Beron’s face darkened. ‘Watch your tone, girl.’

‘She doesn’t have to watch anything,’ cut in Feyre Archeron. ‘Not when you fling that sort of horseshit at her. I will take your antidote.’

Foolish, he supposed, or a way to freeze them out from the antidote. The effects of the faebane were catastrophic. If the caches couldn’t be destroyed, the Autumn Court needed access to the antidote.

‘Father,’ murmured Eris. He was met with those hollow, chestnut eyes as Beron lifted a brow.

‘You have something to add?’

Eris didn’t flinch, but he chose his words very, very carefully. ‘I have seen the effects of faebane.’ He nodded toward Feyre Archeron, thinking of her bumbling through his court with her stolen powers stripped away. ‘It truly renders us unable to tap our power. If it’s wielded against us in war or beyond it—'

‘If it is, we shall face it. I will not risk my people or family in testing out a theory.’

‘It is no theory,’ Nuan said, that mechanical hand clicking and whirring as it curled into a fist. ‘I would not stand here unless it had been proved without a doubt.’

Conscious of the storm cloud grey eyes trailing over his face, a moment of rashness overwhelmed Eris’ sense. ‘I will take it.’

Beron’s gaze promised retaliation when they returned to their lands for speaking too boldly.

In that unflinchingly cold voice of his, Beron only said, ‘No, you will not. Though I’m sure your brothers will be sorry to hear it.’

Rhysand said simply, ‘Then don’t take it. I will. My entire court will, as will my armies.’ He gave a thankful nod to Nuan. Thesan did the same—in thanks and dismissal—and the master tinkerer bowed once more and left.

‘At least you have armies to give it to,’ Tamlin said mildly, breaking his roiling silence. ‘Though perhaps that was part of the plan. Disable my force while your own swept in. Or was it just to see my people suffer?’ The claws came out once more. ‘Surely you knew that when you turned my forces on me, it would leave my people defenceless against Hybern.’

The high lady had no words to offer.

‘You primed my court to fall,’ Tamlin said with venomous quiet. ‘And it did. Those villages you wanted so badly to help rebuild? They’re nothing more than cinders now. And while you’ve been making antidotes and casting yourselves as saviours, I’ve been piecing together my forces—regaining their trust, their numbers. Trying to gather my people in the East— where Hybern has not yet marched.’

Surprising Eris, that beautiful female beside Feyre said drily, ‘So you won’t be taking the antidote, then.’

Tamlin ignored her, even as his claws sank into the arm of his chair. Eris braced himself to move if needed. She was too gorgeous to see her neck shredded by the beast.

Thesan cleared his throat and said to Helion, ‘You said you had two suggestions based on the information you analysed.’

Helion shrugged, the sun catching in the embroidered gold thread of his tunic. ‘Indeed, though it seems Tamlin is already ahead of me. The Spring Court must be evacuated.’ His amber eyes darted between Tarquin and Beron. ‘Surely your northern neighbours will welcome them.’

Beron’s lip curled. ‘We do not have the resources for such a thing.’

‘Right,’ Viviane said, ‘because everyone’s too busy polishing every jewel in that trove of yours.’

No. Nobody was allowed in there. His father believed everybody to be a thief and would entrust none to the vault.

Beron threw her a glare that had Kallias tensing. ‘Wives were invited as a courtesy, not as consultants.’

Viviane’s sapphire eyes flared as if struck by lightning. ‘If this war goes poorly, we’ll be bleeding out right alongside you, so I think we damn well get a say in things.’

‘Hybern will do far worse things than kill you,’ Beron counted coolly. ‘A young, pretty thing like you especially.’

Kallias’s snarl rippled the water in the reflection pool, echoed by Mor’s own growl. Beron smiled a bit. ‘Only three of us were present for the last war.’ A nod to Rhys and Helion, whose face darkened. ‘One does not easily forget what Hybern and the Loyalists did to captured females in their war-camps. What they reserved for High Fae females who either fought for the humans or had families who did.’ He put a heavy hand on his wife’s too-thin arm. ‘Her two sisters bought her time to run when Hybern’s forces ambushed their lands. The two ladies did not walk out of that war-camp again.’

Any trace of colour drained from his mother’s face as she stared down at the reflection pool.

‘We will take your people,’ Tarquin cut in quietly to Tamlin. ‘Regardless of your involvement with Hybern… your people are innocent. There is plenty of room in my territory. We will take all of them, if need be.’

A curt nod was Tamlin’s only acknowledgment and gratitude.

Beron said, ‘So the Seasonal Courts are to become the charnel houses and hostels, while the Solar Courts remain pristine here in the North?’

‘Hybern has focused its efforts on the southern half,’ Rhysand said. ‘To be close to the wall—and human lands.’

At the mention of her previous home, Nesta’s face tightened. He saw the grief for the mortality that had been stolen from her.

Rhysand went on, ‘Why bother to go through the northern climes—through faerie territories on the continent, when you could claim the South and use it to go directly to the human lands of the continent?’

Thesan asked, ‘And you believe the human armies there will bow to Hybern?’

‘Its queens sold us out,’ Nesta said, voice hard. She lifted her chin, poised as a trained emissary. ‘For the gift of immortality, the human queens will allow Hybern in to sweep away any resistance. They might very well hand over control of their armies to him.’ She gave a sweeping glance to the courts assembled. ‘Where do the humans on our island go? We cannot evacuate them to the continent, and with the wall intact … Many might rather risk waiting than cross over the wall anyway.’

‘The fate of the humans below the wall,’ Beron cut in, ‘is none of our concern. Especially in a spit of land with no queen, no army.’

‘It is my concern,’ Feyre said. ‘Humans are nearly defenceless against our kind.’

‘So go waste your own soldiers defending them,’ Beron said, dismissal ringing out in his tone. ‘I will not send my own forces to protect chattel.’

A crackling of magic was felt in the airy room along with a deathly silence.

‘You’re a coward,’ breathed Feyre to the High Lord of Autumn.

Eris clenched his jaw, unable to believe her daring. It had to be ignorance to ever speak against him that way.

Beron just said, ‘The same could be claimed of you.’

‘I don’t need to explain myself to you.’

‘No, but perhaps to that girl’s family—but they’re dead, too, aren’t they? Butchered and burned to death in their own beds. Funny, that you should now seek to defend humans when you were all too happy to offer them up to save yourself.’

Blood and bones. The girl’s wet breathing. Her sobs as she lay broken on the dais. And a family home burnt to cinders.

‘As my lady said,’ Rhysand drawled, ‘she does not need to explain herself to you.’

Beron leaned back in his chair. ‘Then I suppose I don’t need to explain my motivations, either.’

Rhysand lifted a dark brow. ‘Your staggering generosity aside, will you be joining our forces?’

‘I have not yet decided.’

His own amber eyes pleaded with his father to see reason. If war came to their shores and Autumn didn’t take up arms, they’d stand alone in times of turmoil.

‘Armies take time to raise,’ Cassian said. ‘You don’t have the luxury of sitting on your ass. You need to rally your soldiers now.’

Beron only sneered. ‘I don’t take orders from the bastards of lesser fae whores.’

A wave of rage and disgust washed over many faces in the room. His father’s prejudices ran thick and oily through his blood.

Despite the burn in Nesta’s eyes, she said coolly, before any other had a chance to speak, ‘That bastard may wind up being the only person standing in the way of Hybern’s forces and your people.’

Hm. Maybe Eris hadn’t read the situation fully. She didn’t so much as look at the male but his gaze was trained on her like a moth to the flame, pride blazing in his hazel eyes.

’Get out if you’re not going to be helpful,’ clipped the high lady of the Night Court.

Beron ignored Eris’ stare that was a desperate plea for him to stop talking. ‘Did you know that while your mate was warming Amarantha’s bed, most of our people were locked beneath that mountain? Did you know that while he had his head between her legs, most of us were fighting to keep our families from becoming the nightly entertainment?’

Tarquin murmured, ‘That’s enough, Beron.’

Beron ignored him. ‘And now Rhysand wants to play hero. Amarantha’s Whore becomes Hybern’s Destroyer. But if it goes badly…’ A cruel, cold smile. ‘Will he get on his knees for Hybern? Or just spread his-’

Fire exploded out of Feyre. Raging, white-hot flame that blasted into Beron like a lance. The shield went up quick enough to shield his father, but Eris’ clothes smouldered. Beside him, he heard the sudden gasp of his mother as red, blistered skin covered her arm. He shot to his feet torn between burning the world to ash and taking his mother far from this place. Eris pulled her out of her chair and onto her knees so she could plunge her arm into the cold water of the reflection pool in the centre as gold and silver fish scattered from them. He was only vaguely aware of the battle raging between his father and Feyre Archeron or the yelling around them.

‘That was how you got through my wards,’ Tarquin murmured as the magic in the room ceased.

Beron was panting so hard he looked like he might spew fire, but Eris helped his mother back into her chair.

Helion rubbed his jaw as he sat down once more. ‘I wondered where it went—that little bit. So small—like a fish missing a single scale. But I still felt whenever something brushed against that empty spot.’ A smirk at Rhysand. ‘No wonder you made her High Lady.’

‘I made her High Lady because I love her. Her power was the last thing I considered.’

Helion asked Tamlin, ‘You knew of her powers?’

Tamlin was only watching the happy lovers, eyes glinting with hatred. ‘It was none of your business,’ was all Tamlin said to Helion. To all of them.

‘The power belongs to us. I think it is,’ Beron seethed.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Feyre, eyes landing on his mother clutching the angry red splatter of a burn on her moon-white skin.

Beron spat, ‘Don’t talk to her, you human filth.’

Rhysand shattered through Beron’s shield, his fire, his defenses. Shattered through them like a stone hurled into a window, and slammed his dark power into Beron so hard he rocked back in his seat. Then that seat disintegrated into black, sparkling dust beneath him. Leaving Beron to fall on his ass. Glittering ebony dust drifted away on a phantom wind, staining Beron’s crimson jacket, clinging like clumps of ash to his brown hair.

‘Don’t ever speak to my mate like that again.’

Ah, so the Night Court could enact violence for those they loved, but not the Autumn Court. As always.

Beron shot to his feet, not bothering to brush off the dust, and declared to no one in particular, ‘This meeting is over. I hope Hybern butchers you all.’

But Nesta rose from her chair, that beautiful pillar of steel. ‘This meeting is not over.’

Even Beron paused at her tone. It was rare for him to listen to a female in any matter, especially not a once-mortal one, but there was something ancient and other worldly in her tone like the lure of a siren. Eris sized up the space between them. If his father reacted, sought retribution for his wife on the sister of the high lady, Eris would have a split second to send his own fire against his father’s to shield her. She stood taller than he expected, almost reaching his chin, and as beautiful and devastating as a storm.

‘You are all there is,’ she said to Beron, to all of us. ‘You are all that there is between Hybern and the end of everything that is good and decent.’ She settled her stare on Beron, unflinching and fierce. He’d like that spirit. Or scorn her for her lack of manners. It was like flipping a coin each day to know which Beron would greet him in the morning.

‘You fought against Hybern in the last war. Why do you refuse to do so now?’

Beron did not deign to answer. But he did not leave. Eris subtly motioned his brothers to sit and listen to her. If she could command their father here, she was a female worth listening to. Nesta marked the gesture—hesitated. As if realizing she indeed held their complete attention. That every word mattered. And it did matter. Eris wanted to hear everything she had to say. He gave her a small nod of encouragement, the corners of his mouth turning up at their interaction.

‘You may hate us. I don’t care if you do. But I do care if you let innocents suffer and die. At least stand for them. Your people. For Hybern will make an example of them. Of all of us.’

‘And you know this how?’ Beron sneered.

‘I went into the Cauldron,’ Nesta said flatly. ‘It showed me his heart. He will bring down the wall, and butcher those on either side of it.’ Nesta’s face revealed nothing. And no one dared contradict her. She looked to Kallias and Viviane. ‘I am sorry for the loss of those children. The loss of one is abhorrent. But beneath the wall, I witnessed children—entire families—starve to death.’ She jerked her chin at her sister. ‘Were it not for my sister … I would be among them. Too long. For too long have humans beneath the wall suffered and died while you in Prythian thrived. Not during that—queen’s reign.’ She recoiled, as if hating to even speak Amarantha’s name. ‘But long before. If you fight for anything—fight now, to protect those you forgot. Let them know they’re not forgotten. Just this once.’

Thesan cleared his throat. ‘While a noble sentiment, the details of the Treaty did not demand we provide for our human neighbours. They were to be left alone. So we obeyed.’

Nesta remained standing. ‘The past is the past. What I care about is the road ahead. What I care about is making sure no children—Fae or human—are harmed. You have been entrusted with protecting this land.’ She scanned the faces around her, imploring, begging. ‘How can you not fight for it?’ She looked to the Autumn delegate as her voice ebbed away. Eris was mesmerised by her. If he was high lord, they would already be marching to war with banners of crimson streaming behind them bearing Nesta’s alluring face on them. A champion of the quietest voices.

Beron only said, ‘I shall consider it.’

The look on his father’s face was the signal to leave. They hadn’t packed to stay. He wouldn’t ever leave his court overnight. Eris’ heart was tangled by duty and desire. An alliance with the Night Court meant more opportunities for his path to cross with Nesta Archeron. His people’s blood would water the earth if it meant he could ride into war beside her. He dipped his red head low, eyes meeting her simmering gaze as he winnowed away.  

[mettywiththenotes]

"I think we're gonna have a POV switch next chapter" and it's like 5 all at the same time lmao

[the-darkestminds]

May The Shadows Carry You Home

READ ON AO3

Commissioned art at the end of the piece! (credit: asheskart)

Eris Week Day 6: AU/Retellings. Azris.

Word Count: 900

A/N: No preview because it's so short. A huge thank you to @jules-writes-stories for being so wonderful and beta reading this for me! 🫶

Tag List: @erisweekofficial @jules-writes-stories @chunkypossum @acourtofladydeath @talibunny30 @fieldofdaisiies @zenkindoflove @secret-third-thing @ninthcircleofprythian @mistandmemories @neciebee @brunetterebel010

[wool-string]

[crocdocz]

$1000,000 for whoever kills them first

[daughterofzeus-the-novel]

I know I'm slow but I have 2.7k more words on other docs (Prologue and Start of First Chapter)

I will update my word count every two weeks or so to keep me motivated

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XXX

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds / @lady-of-tearshed / @what-about-elvenis / @gameafoot /

The sky was a vicious blue, bright and cloudless. The smell of blooming flowers was in the air, strong enough to choke. Elain had to raise a pale hand to cover her eyes, blocking the unforgiving sun. A gentle wind blew, kissing her cheeks. The grass was cool beneath her bare feet, dew drops making the edges of her pink skirts damp. 

Elain glanced down, tilting her head when she noticed that it almost looked like blood. It stained the elegant fabric, ruining it. She frowned as she straightened the wrinkles, her brows pinched. Red rose petals were littered between the emerald blades of grass, a perfect path that she chose to follow. 

Elain walked with steady steps, unnerved by the silence in the open space. There were no singing birds, no buzzing bees, no trickling streams. A shiver danced along her spine as she continued forward, the scarlet petals shifting until they whirled together like a rushing river. 

It looked like hair, she observed. She tracked the length of it, searching. Her mind moved slowly, her thoughts disconnected from what she saw. 

Empty eyes stared upwards, unblinking amber gemstones. 

Elain woke up with a gasp. Her body moved involuntarily, shooting upwards despite the numbness she felt in her limbs. Someone quickly created more distance between them, and Elain twisted her neck so she could face whoever it was. 

“Vassa?” She said, voice a strained rasp. She had forgotten to refer to her using a title. Elain cleared her throat, wishing she could have a sip of water. She let her vision adjust to the night, pretty hair the colour of a copper coin flashed as the other woman nodded. 

The cursed queen breathed a relieved sigh, tension leaving her shoulders as she slumped into a more comfortable position. “Elain?” At the tilt of a chin she received in response, Vassa ran a hand over her face roughly. “You weren’t waking up,” she declared, her accent similar to the one in cities that had bordered the wall. 

Koschei. 

The death god’s name echoed in Elain’s mind. If Vassa was with her, his involvement was the only explanation she could think of. 

Elain took a shaking breath. “That happens sometimes,” she mumbled, letting her fingers dig into the soft earth in an attempt to ground herself. She checked her surroundings to decide what she might do next, hoping that she recognised where she was. 

The moon was high, and stars glittered tauntingly against the endless dark. Elain was left with the impression that they were laughing at her misery. She could tell that she was near water, perhaps past the forest’s edge and a bit farther than the clearing she found herself in. The air was damp, a humid fog clinging to the trees and creating a rather uncomfortable atmosphere. 

Elain was certain that she was no longer in any of the seasonal courts of Prythian, and although she might have been in one of the solar ones, she determined it was quite unlikely. There was something distinctly ancient about the forest, leafless branches reaching up towards the sky like hands made of bone. The wood of each tree was a ghostly white, a stark contrast to the dirt covering the map of roots beneath the surface. 

There was magic thrumming all around her, Elain knew, but it was unlike her own. There was something about it that briefly reminded her of Nesta. She frowned, concern replacing all other emotions. She wondered if she was in the Middle, keeping in mind the stories Feyre had told her. 

“Had a good night’s sleep?”  

The question rocked Elain, snapping her out of her own thoughts. She had not noticed that there was someone else there, but the familiar voice was enough to make anger rush through her veins. 

Elain faced Lethe, scowling as she saw how beautiful the other female still looked despite the ordeal they had endured. Her dress was left in perfect condition, no tears in the expensive fabric. She had unpinned her hair, and it fell in an icy sheet to her waist, not a single knot between the strands. Embers sparked to life in her eyes as she raised an unimpressed brow. 

“You’re here.” Elain said without thinking, stating the obvious. For a moment, she was glad to have someone she knew with her, but she was quickly reminded that the two of them did not exactly get along.  

“I’d rather be dead,” Lethe declared with a sniff. The words hung between them, sharpened by the silence. 

“That can easily be arranged,” Vassa offered, but was promptly ignored. 

Elain kept looking at Lethe, their gazes locked, when a horrifying realisation dawned on her. “No one knows,” she muttered, heartbeat thunderous in her ears. Panic gripped her like a claw and she tried to pull at the mating bond with no success. While she thought it was probably the distance, a million awful scenarios came to mind. 

Lucien. 

Elain grabbed at the curls against her scalp, tugging to stop herself from whimpering. If Beron would go so far as to harm Eris, she had a hard time believing he would have second thoughts about doing the same to her mate. 

“No one knows,” Lethe confirmed, sounding exhausted. 

“Fuck,” Elain mumbled under her breath, the foul language slipping from her tongue easily. “What about Eris?” 

Lethe straightened, a commanding air to her at the mention of her friend. “What about him?” When Elain remained quiet, the other woman shook her head. “There’s nothing to be done for him.” 

Elain felt the events leading up to that moment crash down on her like a wave. With no outlet for her frustration, she heard her own voice raise accusingly. “Some friend you are,” she spat, the anger making her brave. “We should have helped him, he’s hurt–”

“Hurt?” Lethe snarled, interrupting the rest of Elain’s sentence. “You think he’s hurt?” 

Elain winced at the aggressive tone. “I think–”

Lethe laughed, the sound grating like a blade against marble. “You think Eris is hurt?” When Elain remained silent, she waved a hand, the nails on each finger filed to a dangerous point. “I think you’re stupid,” the Autumn noble snarled. 

Vassa made a soft sound, a gentle warning. Lethe continued as though she had not heard, teeth bared threateningly. “Eris is dead, and I’m stuck here with the foolish little human girl he felt responsible for.”  

“I’m not human,” Elain corrected, a finality to the statement. It was the first time she had said the words out loud, acceptance sneaking up on her as steady as the rising sun. Where grief once would have been, confidence in herself only remained. “I’m not human,” she repeated, “and Eris isn’t dead. He can’t be.” 

Elain refused to consider it. There was something constant about the Autumn heir, like the unchanging seasonal court he had been born in, timeless.

All the fight seemed to leak from Lethe, her shoulders curling inward as she bent her legs to her chest. “No one could have survived that.” She rested her chin against her knees, looking very young, voice breaking like glass as she spoke. “You wouldn’t have recognised the dagger, but it’s made entirely of gold and tipped with ash.”

“The ash is enough to kill him?” Elain asked, her question wavering. She felt a burning behind her eyes, and she blinked to keep her tears at bay. 

Lethe sighed, but there was no judgement in the sound. “Our teachers in the Forest House told us that the High Lord slaughtered his father with that weapon and forced himself onto the throne.” She paused, using her sleeve to wipe at her cheeks. “Ash wood is like a poison without a cure for the fae.” 

Elain closed her eyes, clenching them shut to cut herself off from the rest of the world. There was a sharp ringing in her ears, like the aftermath of a bell’s toll. It took all of her willpower not to break down into wretched sobs. 

A gentle hand rested on Elain’s back, a comfort as she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. 

“Everything is going to be fine,” Vassa lied. The human queen rubbed at the spot between Elain’s shoulder blades, staying close even as her nerves settled. 

“Hope is for those who don’t know any better,” Lethe offered, no matter how unwelcome the opinion was.  

“Lucien is going to come for us.” Elain said softly, putting her wish into the universe and hoping against all odds that it would become a reality.