Chapter Text
Azriel stalked through the halls of yet another pleasure hall, searching aimlessly for an easy fuck. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t bring some fae or faerie home from a tavern easily enough, it was just that tonight he didn’t feel like talking much.
Or grinning occasionally.
Or putting in effort at all.
All of which were necessary to bring someone back to his apartment who would actually be worth his time - a little chatty, a little bratty, and definitely kinky. Preferably someone with a high pain tolerance and a tendency towards masochism.
So it was here that Azriel found himself, something deep within him unsettled at the thought of ending yet another one of his miserable days in the throes of pleasure with someone who couldn’t give less of a damn about him. Even though he was a war hero, a member of the Inner Circle, and royal-ish in Velaris, no one was giving him a second glance as he stalked the halls. Past occupied rooms, doors open or closed, through hallways echoing with the sounds of pleasure, even into common areas with couches full of lovers, no one gave the Shadowsinger another glance.
The familiarity of the feeling hit something low within Azriel as he gritted his teeth and winnowed out of the establishment. His feet hit cobblestones in the seedy alleyway behind a tavern nearby - yet another place to find someone who may be interested in what he was willing to offer tonight.
But it was empty.
It was a cold night.
And it was raining hard.
His leathers were soaked in moments, his shoes puddling with moisture as rain rolled off his broad shoulders, down his chest, and fell from his legs towards the ground.
The only place he’d feel more uncomfortable in was probably the fucking Forest House.
The absurdity of that notion had him chuckling lowly and darkly as he disappeared once again into shadow, this time finding himself above the winnowing across from the House of Wind’s balcony. He hoped to be able to get a glass of whiskey from the cellars without running across or overhearing Nesta and Cassian.
Again.
His feet were moving silently across the marble, his shadows disapparating his mist and cedar scent as he moved through the House. In order to remain unbothered, he left his wings wet - not bothering to shake the water off of them as he dripped rainwater throughout the eldest Archeron sister’s home.
There would be hell to pay for that later, he thought as he filled a glass tumbler with a finger of whiskey.
It warmed him to his core, but something about it left him unsettled. Something about it was too good. Too to his tastes.
Azriel threw the rest back and didn’t let himself enjoy it, and spent the night with his fist around his cock, begging to feel anything other than dissatisfaction and annoyance at how his night had ended yet again.
Eris was in agony. Unbridled, sheer agony.
Beron was angry, which never fared well for the heir apparent to the Autumn Court.
The skin of Eris’s hands and forearms sweltered and melted, the scent overwhelming even the guards in the hallways outside of the makeshift torture chamber.
Beron was losing trade deals within Prythian left and right, following a deal he made with Rath that favored the continent over his own.
That meant he was losing money.
And he was very displeased by that.
Kallias had just sent word that their inter-court trade routes were to halt operations in the meantime while the Winter Court and its advisors reviewed how Beron’s actions with Rath would affect their future dealings. Beron, unsurprisingly, found this offensive and deliberate.
But Beron could not attack Kallias without inciting war.
So he turned his wrath inwards, not towards himself of course, and surprisingly not towards his wife. He had ordered Eris to his preferred chamber of torture, deep beneath the Forest House. It was surrounded by feet of cold, unforgiving stone and was utterly impenetrable. The only way in - or out - was through the heavy iron gates that stood watched and guarded all day, every day.
Rain or shine, it did not matter - for there were no suns or gods in that chamber. There was only Beron, pain, and the truths one told to make the fire cease.
Eris had known what was coming for him the second he got the missive from his father’s guard.
He had prepared himself on the dignified stroll he took to the chamber.
Hell, he had even leaned against the stone altar casually, as if he were allowed to be inconvenienced by the promise of his own agony.
And when Beron arrived, he noticed that insolence. Noticed, and punished him for it.
There were no words.
Eris didn’t do so much as scream.
He didn’t whimper or cry, whine or sob.
He simply retreated deep within himself as the flames ripped him apart, knowing his pain was nothing but an ample distraction for his twisted father, and let his mind quiet out somewhere far from the chamber he was being held in.
Somewhere where the wind was crisp year round, and the temperature was only comfortable for a few weeks every year. For an Autumn court fae, Eris had always preferred the summer. Tarquin was kind enough, and that irritated the living hell out of Eris. So he had never pursued anything more than a strategic alliance with the High Lord of Summer, and had kept his dreams of visiting Adriata far from his mind.
Lest of course, Rhysand went digging only to find that Eris would very much like to be knee deep in Summer’s warm waters.
However, this summer dream of crisp winds wasn’t like those of their neighbors to the west. This was something of a rarity, some sort of beauty Eris had only known to be found in harsh places.
If he were to think of it a bit too hard, he would feel a kinship with places like that.
His nails were melting.
The wind blew again through the trees, and brought him back to the clearing he was standing in in his mind. There were trees, great pine trees. Evergreens, he thought to himself as he turned and took it all in.
There were birds singing their music and letting it waft through the boughs.
There were rocky cliffs in the distance that overlooked a choppy, cold and dark sea.
And there was a cabin with smoke drifting out of a small chimney - a woman with dark hair humming as she baked something in the kitchen, deep within.
Somewhere in the distance, guards were retching at the smell emanating from the chamber he sat in.
The woman turned to him, smiled as his mother would have if she were allowed to be gentle, and ushered him inside.
His skin was bubbling.
She sat him down at the dining table.
She handed him a cup of tea.
Maybe that was why his hands were so hot.
Here, in this world, his hands were hot from the mug of tea made with care, not from the hatred of his own father.
Here, he could hear footsteps that he’d heard countless times before, though no one else seemed to notice them. He could smell the scent of a fae he could recognize but never name.
A gate creaked open as someone left the chamber where Eris panted hot breaths tainted by silent tears, relieved but overwhelmed with pain.
A door snicked shut behind someone as they entered the living room and dining area where Eris sat happily.
His eyes drifted shut.
“Eris?” a voice asked, floating into his mind from somewhere nearby.
It was tainted with love, and the sweetness made him feel sick to his stomach.
Made him feel acutely aware of how undeserving of softness he was.
Maybe it was the woman.
Or a guard from outside the chamber.
Maybe it was his youngest, most beloved brother, who never looked him in the eye on the rare occasion they were at the same event.
Or maybe it was him.
Eris never found out, for darkness claimed him before he even felt the urge to feel curious.