#this is a solstice fic like diehard is a christmas movie

[houseofhurricane]

games without frontiers

Summary: Azriel and Eris, in the Autumn Court at the winter solstice. But who has the knife?

Pairing: Azris

Word Count: 15,460

This fic is a gift, with so much love, for @iftheshoef1tz as part of the @acotargiftexchange​— though I have to say, who thought it was a to write Azris for my favorite Azris writer in the fandom, who also happens to be a good friend and the person you talk about writing with? Kidding aside, this fic is so much less than what you deserve, but I hope you enjoy it anyway 🧡

Thank you to @poisonivy206 for the beta! All mistakes, as always, are my own.

You can read this fic on Archive of Our Own.

“I need eyes in the Autumn Court,” Rhys says, a few weeks before the winter solstice.

Azriel had come to give his report on the latest dealings in the continent—bleak, as they have been for months—but Rhys had spoken as soon as he’d crossed the threshold.

Outside, snow falls thick on the gardens of the river estate, and Azriel considers the situation, his first recommendations, trying to keep his own guilt from his posture. He’s spent years trying to get his spies into the Autumn Court, but something has changed since the battles with Hybern that have made entry all but impossible. The corpses left after his latest attempt make regular appearances in his nightmares.

“You know how tightly they’re warded,” he says finally, flexing his hands. The shadows writhe at his elbow.

“I thought we could send Gwyn for their solstice celebration.” Rhys’ voice is too light, as if he wants Azriel to think he’s considering only the twelve days of excessive, fussy revels for which the Autumn Court is known.

Though Rhys must know what it would mean to send her, why Azriel’s Siphons flash cobalt as soon as the words are spoken. That he would never send the priestess he rescued from Hybern into such a pit of vipers, no matter her success in the Blood Rite. He cannot allow it. Not after what they did to Mor. Not after what happened to the last spies.

The words are a trap.

Two years ago, Azriel never would have suspected this of Rhys. Even as spymaster of the Night Court, Azriel believed in Rhys’ general goodness. Then came the moment with Elain at solstice, Rhys’ censure. He began to think of the blood he’d spilled in the dungeons of the Hewn City, the Court of Nightmares left to fester in the dark. The monsters howling beneath all of it. Everything a swirl of dark inside his mind, so that when the war came, Azriel was happy to throw himself into it, to think of nothing but strategy and steel and blood until something like clarity returned.

“Eris can’t give us what we need?” he asks, trying to evade the pull of this new mission. In spite of everything, the winter solstice has always been special to them, the Court of Dreams, a few days when everything else fell away and they were simply a family.

“He says he’s being watched.” 

Rhys isn’t lying, exactly, but he’s concealing something. Which means what’s happening at the Autumn Court is vital for reasons Rhys doesn’t yet want to reveal.

Or, of course, he’s newly concerned about the possibility that Eris could turn on them. In spite of the information he’s managed to pass to Rhys, there’s always the danger that Beron or Koschei could bring him over to their side.

Though, even considering the disaster of such a betrayal, Azriel wouldn’t mind putting his dagger through the column of the Heir of Autumn’s pale throat. Even if, now, that dagger isn’t Truth-Teller. His aim is still impeccable.

“What do you need, brother?” He sees Rhys’ eyes widen slightly at the phrase, knows he understands the weight of it. Azriel has never been like Cassian, comfortable with spoken affection or touch. But in spite of everything, he would still die for Rhys, his friend and High Lord, the person who first rescued him from darkness.

“I need you in the Autumn Court, then,” Rhys says, and there’s no light in those violet eyes, only grim determination. He’s not sure if he has ever seen that look on Rhys’ face before, even when the fight against Hybern looked most hopeless.

So Azriel does not think about the implications, about his place in the Night Court, about a solstice ruined. Instead, he nods, accepts his fate.

Read the rest on AO3.