Chapter Text
"Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it." Donna Tartt
After over five hundred years Azriel should have been used to it.
The stench of fear.
The metallic, tangy smell of blood.
The cries and pleas for mercy.
And, maybe, he was used to it in some twisted way that left him shaking and throwing up afterward.
It was a routine by now. Leave them tied up for hours or days, let the anxiety and fear build. Come in. Ask questions.
Get. The. Answers.
By any means necessary.
Sometimes it was bloody, messy, and disturbing. Sometimes it was easier.
There were days he’d only needed to flash the Truth-Teller and the truth would find its way towards him.
But there were many, many days when he’d have to use the dagger to get the information.
All that for the Night Court.
For Velaris.
For his brother—his High Lord.
And he’d never trade his life for anything else. Truly.
He could handle it.
After all, he always had.
Thwarting a small-time rebellion attempt in Hewn City was just another Tuesday for him. The male cried and begged for mercy as soon as Truth-Teller touched his skin—Azriel hadn’t even asked any questions yet.
There was no blood on his hands—that had to be scrubbed away before he would go to the River House, smile and laugh and have a good time, celebrating the Winter Solstice with his family. And he wouldn’t even have to pretend that everything was fine. It just was.
It wasn’t the blood and the suffering he inflicted that bothered him. It was how very little remorse he felt that made him think of himself as a monster sometimes. It wasn’t regret that kept him up at night—it was the fact that he so often didn’t feel it.
Was it normal to feel so little?
Had he used to feel more?
Was he broken?
Was he less ?
Was he a good male?
He wanted to be, but he felt like he didn’t exactly fit the description.
Did it bother him?
It probably should. And yet, he felt content.
He retched again, bending over the toilet.
He really shouldn’t feel content. He’d done horrible things.
But he was fine .
And that fact alone made him sick to his stomach.
That awareness.
He heaved again, spitting bile into the toilet.
He rested his head on his arms, folded over the toilet seat. He had to get up and meet his family at the River House soon. They would exchange gifts, and best wishes. He would hold Nyx and laugh at his restless, excited babbling, he would reply to Nesta’s sarcasm with his own, and watch Cassian throw his head back in laughter at their antics. He would bat away Feyre’s attempts at piling a second helping of her birthday cake onto his plate. He would drink Rhys’ good wine, hidden in the cellar with Mor, even though they all knew they didn’t have to hide. They would laugh when Rhys inevitably found them, and instead of reprimanding them for sneaking into his personal stash, he’d join them. Elain would be sweet and lovely like she had always been, curt and polite, not a hair out of place.
He had wanted that— her —for a while. He had been furious when Rhys interfered after last Winter Solstice. But the more time he spent with the female, the more he’d realised she wasn’t what he wanted. Not what he needed.
And she most definitely did not need him .
He wasn’t good enough for her.
And he was okay with that.
He was okay with it all.
He was fine with everything.
And it bothered him.
He wanted more. He wanted to feel something.
He coughed one last time and waited for his breaths to even out before standing up. A momentary wave of dizziness hit him and he braced himself against the wall.
Right, he hadn’t eaten yet.
Only thrown up his guts and whatever remained from last night’s dinner.
Maybe he won’t fight Feyre trying to mother him so hard today.
He swayed slightly as he made his way out of the bathroom and straight into Eris Vanserra. He was so deep in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the overwhelming smell of petrichor—that first autumnal downpour over summer-heated earth—that filled his nostrils whenever Eris was around.
Well, shit.
He’d let his guard down. He’d forgotten that the Autumn princeling was visiting.
A Spymaster should never forget any information.
Especially if it involved a guest under his roof. A guest he was meant to deliver to the Inner Circle’s little Solstice gathering.
Azriel cringed internally. He trusted Rhysand implicitly, but implying Eris was as close as family to keep up appearances didn’t sit well with him.
And he most certainly wasn’t getting the male any gifts.
“Delicate stomach, Shadowsinger?” Eris crooned. Azriel didn’t deign to address the quip with an answer. He gave Eris a flat look instead.
“Ah, I see. Horrible thing, remorse ,” the male said slowly, levelling Azriel with a knowing look.
Azriel blinked, still refusing to answer.
Remorse, huh? Sometimes he wished for it.
Eris lifted one well-manicured eyebrow. “In any other circumstance you’d have me pinned to the ground, knife at my throat. Are you going soft in your old age?”
Eris’ nose made a satisfying crunch when it was met with Azriel’s balled fist.
***
“Where’s Eris?” Rhys asked by way of greeting when Azriel shadow-walked straight into the living room. He was keyed into the wards.
He cursed that privilege more often than not, walking in on his High Lord and Lady in various states of undress when he’d shown up with his Spymaster records.
“Walking,” he replied with a smirk. Eris wasn’t visiting Night Court for any particularly pressing matter other than Winter Solstice, Azriel wasn’t even completely sure whether he was actually invited or just, in a truly Eris way, wormed his way in and invited himself. Azriel suspected that the male began treating his visits like holidays away from his father’s abuse, since Cassian had found out how the male is being treated back in his home court. No one seemed to mind him being here, so Azriel was once again fine with it. If only another accommodation was offered to the male. Maybe the Townhouse? Or the Moonstone Palace?
“Do I want to know?”
Azriel only shook his head and clapped his brother on the shoulder before plucking rosy-cheeked Nyx from his arms and kissing the top of his head.
The toddler giggled and squealed with glee as one of Azriel’s shadows wrapped itself between his chubby fingers.
A door down the hall opened and shut with force.
Eris appeared in the living room, hair windswept and cheeks flushed, no sign of his recently bleeding nose in sight. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “Apologies for my tardiness, I was not expecting to have to throw myself out of the window on the edge of the mountain and hope I won’t hit the ground before I could winnow.” He threw Azriel a dirty look.
“It’s a real shame you didn’t,” Cassian drawled. “Hit the ground that is.” He winced when Nesta smacked him upside the head.
“Nicely done,” Rhys chuckled, impressed and Eris smirked—infuriating.
“You could have taken the stairs,” Azriel said flatly.
“And waste precious moments away from delicious food and wine, and lovely company?” Eris drawled, bowing when Elain walked into the room, she blushed and scurried away to sit by the fire. “I’ll take my chances.”
Cassian made a gagging noise that Eris pointedly ignored, claiming a seat in the armchair by Lucien’s side. He accepted the glass of wine Feyre handed him, and there was no sign of the calculating glint in his eyes that Azriel got so accustomed to when he smiled in thanks.
He looked almost… genuine.
He looked like he wanted to be there. Amongst the people that wouldn’t have hesitated to plunge a dagger into his back just a year before.
It didn’t sit well with Azriel.
Azriel watched Eris recline in his armchair with regal ease. He couldn’t wrap his head around how the male just looked like he belonged everywhere he went.
Cassian was snoring on the sofa across the room with Nesta tucked against his side.
Feyre and Rhysand were long gone, and Azriel was calculating whether he could fly himself home before he heard something he didn’t want to hear. Again .
How much wine did he drink?
His head was pleasantly empty, and his movements deliciously sluggish.
He could probably still fly.
“If you are thinking about escaping, do me a Solstice favour and take me with you,” Eris muttered, his tone bored.
“Give me one reason not to leave you here,” Azriel sighed.
“Well, for one, I haven’t actually done anything particularly cruel recently to warrant such cruelty in return, as being left alone here with two mated couples who have no shame.”
Azriel felt like he should leave him here just for the sake of it, but he was feeling generous this Winter Solstice.
“Fine,” he said.
“I’ll winnow us to the edge of the wards,” Eris offered.
They left in silence.
Eris wrapped a strong arm around Azriel’s waist, pulling him against his broad chest and before he could protest, Eris winnowed them towards the House of Wind without a word.
Azriel’s breath hitched at the set of the other male’s jaw, at the intent in his amber eyes.Eris Vanserra really was rather pretty.
Not like Elain was pretty, with her soft smiles and delicate features.
No, Eris Vanserra was pretty like the edge of the Truth-Teller, he was pretty like drops of blood against the whiteness of the snow. He was pretty like a wildfire.
As beautiful as he was dangerous.
And he was most definitely hiding something.
Azriel let himself be swept in a rush of Eris’ magic, he stiffened and gasped as cold flames enveloped his body before plunging them both into nothingness and depositing them above the House of Wind.
He reigned in his mind—it was just the way Eris winnowed. The flames were not real.
He was safe.
Or, as safe as he could be with Eris clinging to him, waiting, trusting that Azriel will flap his wings and bring them safely down as they materialised above the House of Wind.
“ Come on , Shadowsinger,” Eris gritted out, fists clenched in the fabric of Azriel’s shirt.
Azriel snapped from his reverie and spread his wings. Without thinking, he wrapped his arm around Eris, pulling his close, letting him know he was safe.
It was in his nature.
Shadowsinger: the monster, the torturer and the protector.
Eris gasped when they touched the ground, he stumbled, his grip on Azriel tightening. He was flushed, his breathing shallow. His eyes were wild .
He cleared his throat, looking away as he unclenched his fingers from the fabric of Azriel’s clothes and smoothed the creases with care. Nimble fingers trembling ever so slightly as they brushed just over Azriel’s heart. “Too much wine,” he whispered, as if to himself and turned away, making his way into the house.
“You’re hiding something,” Azriel muttered. “And I’ll find out what.”
Eris’ back stiffened, and despite the frost outside, the air smelled like a burning forest. Sweet, dangerous and destructive. Sickening and intoxicating. “What will you do? Torture me?”
“If I have to,” Azriel said and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. But it made him feel alive, it made him want to do something to Eris.
Something dangerous.
Eris turned back to look at him, his eyes burning like the fire in his veins.
Azriel crossed the distance between them in a few strides. His scarred fingers wrapped around Eris’ throat and squeezed .
The way his eyes widened, the way his breath hitched.
It was delicious .
The air burned and crackled with smoke and fire. Eris’ scent. Danger and need.
Azriel was drunk on it, wine long forgotten.
Azriel squeezed again, relishing in Eris’ gasps as he backed him against the wall. His shadows made quick work of wrapping around the other’s male’s hands, binding them behind his back, holding Eris in place.
Eris’ breath stuttered again and he trembled.
Azriel grabbed those long, red locks and angled Eris’ head. His hair was just as soft as it looked.
Just like he imagined.
He licked, long and leisurely along the length of Eris’ throat, loving how he trembled, how he whimpered like he was ashamed of the sounds he made.
Delicious.
“S–stop. Not like this, Shadowsinger. Please.” Eris’ voice was small—not the confident timbre Azriel was used to. His eyes downcast, his bottom lip quivering and Azriel flinched.
Not like this.
Shadows scurried away and Aziel’s hand released the male’s throat.
Not like this.
Monster.
Torturer.
“I thought you—
“I did,” Eris said. “But not like that. I was not supposed to like that. Not after— Never mind.” He walked away without another word.
And Azriel just stood there, eyes glued to the doorway where Eris disappeared a moment ago.
Fuck.
Eris left the next day.
Without a word to Azriel.
It wasn’t as if he owed him anything, but Azriel couldn’t shake the feeling that he did.
Logically, Azriel should be the one apologising. But he didn’t know how to. He didn’t do that very often.
He didn’t have a tendency to apologise for hurting someone when it was his job.
He didn’t have to apologise to his brothers, they would just brawl and fight it out. Amren would just scoff and walk away. Mor wouldn’t want him to grovel.
He didn’t have to apologise to Feyre because she wouldn’t let him. Nesta would wave him off. Elain would just say everything was fine.
But Eris was different.
And Azriel could not understand in what way, because he was sorry. Even if he didn’t know why. He didn’t know how to be.
It was clear what they were about to do. It was what Azriel did. He was not gentle. He was not sweet.
He could have been. He would have been. If it was Elain…
But Eris…
He was not fragile, he was not delicate.
He was dangerous and deadly. And so was Azriel.
They should fuck like they fought. Breathless, furious and impossible. Fast and dark. Maybe a little painful.
***
It was time.
The moment to take over.
It was now or never.
Well, now it would be, since his father’s blade pressed against his throat, blood steadily trickling down the collar of his new forest-green shirt. It felt like this time the High Lord of the Autumn Court wasn’t playing.
Eris didn’t let himself think about never.
He’d become too comfortable. Too reckless.
He didn’t notice he was followed all the way to the Night Court.
Frankly, he should have been expecting it. His father never trusted him. And even less so since he was taken by Koshei, rescued by the Shadowsinger of the Night Court.
Shadowsinger who’d left his own brother behind to rescue him.
The torture after that had felt endless.
He hadn’t remembered where the pain started and where it ended, as it blended into his existence, sickening, destructive and addictive. It had taken over his being, it clouded his senses until he hadn’t felt it anymore.
Until he’d felt nothing at all.
“Do you want me gone so badly that you would associate yourself with the Night Court scum and whores?” Beron gritted, hand wrapped around Eris’ long hair pulling his head back, pushing the knife deeper against his skin.
It hurt, how Beron pulled his hair. It hurt to be humiliated. Hurt to be beaten and on his knees in front of his father.
It hurt to see his three brothers, cowering behind Beron.
It hurt to see Calix look away. He was the only one that had known where Eris was.
“Answer me!” Beron screamed, heat and spit rained against Eris’ face.
Shadows, shadows, I know you’re here. I know you’re watching, Singer.
Come, Night, just as you promised, he thought into the nothingness after he dropped his mental shields.
“ Yes,” he said quietly, through a wheezing breath, eyes focused on his father. “I do.” He summoned his flames. Whatever was left of them after the faebane knife dug into his throat. The heat swirled and burned but he didn’t care anymore.
It was one or the other. Eris or Beron.
And if it wasn’t him, he’d rather it was neither.
He’d take them both out if he couldn’t come out on top.
Constant pain would be over.
No more humiliation.
He’d either rule or be dead.
Eris watched the flames with bleary eyes. They were beautiful, they turned from red and hot to blue and scorching. Hotter than anything he’d ever seen.
His brothers screamed and ran.
Cowards.
The maelstrom of fire spun and spun and consumed everything. The heat was unbreakable, beautiful and dizzying. His flames, his power, his destiny.
The throne room collapsed around them, the fire destroying everything it touched.
“You dare—” Beron screamed and his own flames flared to life.
Red and hot and deadly. Just like Beron.
Eris laughed. He laughed until tears welled in his eyes, until he didn’t know if he was laughing or crying, or begging, or screaming.
But he was stronger.
And he had allies.
They had come.
Eris couldn’t see him, but he knew.
He would always know when the Shadowsinger was nearby. He could sense him, smell him, feel him.
He wished he could touch him.
But he just kept wailing, like madness.
***
Come, Night, just as you promised.
The shadows sang in his ear, urgent, trembling. Now , they begged. Fireling needs you. The Court needs you. Your m—
He silenced them, as he turned on his heel and shadow walked straight into Rhys’ study.
“It’s time,” Rhys said without looking at him. “It’s time to make good on our promise.”
“I’m coming with you,” Azriel said and Rhys nodded. Cassian was next through the door, surely called in by Rhys and Lucien was hot on his heels.
Rhys winnowed them into the entrance hall.
The Forest House was hot. Suffocating. The smoke and the fire in the air were sickening.
Azriel’s skin crawled with memories. His scarred hands shook.
He needs you, Singer. The soft melody of his shadows rang in the space between his thought and hearing, floating in the invisible, silent space that no one but him could enter. Don’t be scared, Singer. He would never hurt you.
Yes, yes, he would. Azriel just knew it. His shadows seemed to disagree.
Burnt flesh and wood and flames and fear assaulted Azriel’s nose as he followed his shadows into the throne room.
It was chaos.
It was terrible.
It was awe-inspiring.
Beautiful.
Eris was on his knees, bleeding and hurt. Eyes downcast, chest heaving. Beron stood above him, the hand wrapped in his son’s hair seemed to be the only thing holding him upright as the younger male shook on the ground.
The impenetrable flames enveloped them both.
Blue against red, hot and scorching. Deadly and beautiful.
The room around them collapsed in on itself, held together by magic alone.
Not yet, his shadow whispered before sliding away and right into the fray.
“No!” Azriel’s hand shot out, as if he could catch it.
Safe. He wouldn’ hurt you, Singer. Wouldn’t hurt us.
“What now?” Cassian asked, eyes wide as he watched the display of Autumn Court power that shook the foundations of the Forest House.
The beauty of the danger was terrifying.
It was genuine and alarming.
Eris looked up as if sensing him, his wild, golden eyes fixed on him. And then Azriel realised that he wasn’t shaking in fear. He was laughing , maniacal and terrible.
He knew.
He knew that the Autumn Court would have a new High Lord before the day’s end, even if it wasn’t Eris.
Eris threw his head back, his laughter now audible through the horrible sound of flames and destruction.
Azriel watched his shadows wrap themselves around the Autumn Heir’s throat, he watched his eyes darken with fury, he watched his lips curl into a cruel smile.
That was the end.
The blue flames flared, burned hotter, and turned more deadly. They spun faster, enveloping Beron, cutting him off, smouldering the red fire. Suffocating his father’s attack. He was strong.
He was invincible.
And he wasn’t looking at his father, he wasn’t looking at the male thrashing and screaming and cursing as the cobalt fire burned closer and closer and more deadly.
Azriel’s siphons gleamed, the same shade of danger and he couldn’t look away.
“Do it, Shadowsinger,” Eris snarled. A thin trickle of blood leaked out of his nose. Azriel didn’t think. He knew what to do. It was as if they were alone in the room, in the middle of the blazing fray. Just Eris and him.
He threw the Truth-Teller.
They all watched it embed itself in Beron’s throat. They all watched him choke and spit the blood. They all watched him heave and sputter.
They all watched him reach for the dagger strapped to his belt and threw it before Rhys snapped his fingers and he turned into bloody mist.
Eris knelt before them, splattered with whatever was left of his father.
He was glowing. He was golden. He was the High Lord.
He collapsed in the pool of his own blood and Azriel’s heart stopped for a moment.
He choked on his next breath, his legs buckled before he scrambled towards Eris.
Rhys was by his side in a heartbeat, turning Eris over.
He was barely conscious, still smiling, still maniacal. A little insane, covered in blood and beautiful.
“Ashwood,” he croaked and his eyes rolled back. “High Lord for half a minute, definitely some kind of record,” he managed and coughed. His blood splattered Azriel’s cheek as he looked down, noticing the dagger Beron managed to throw before being misted.
“Hold on, Eris,” Rhys groaned, pulling the dagger out. Azriel sprung to action, covering the wound with his hands. Blood poured between his fingers as he pressed.
He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t let go of Eris.
Something in his chest ached. Something he didn’t know could hurt.
Rhys looked at him, eyes wide. Cassian gasped. Lucien pushed him out of the way.
“He’ll be fine,” Lucien said.
Azriel couldn’t speak. He could only nod.
He’ll be fine.
He’ll be fine.