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Azriel landed on the balcony of the Moonstone Palace, grunting under the weight of the body in his arms, his shadows skittering away from him in search of Rhysand. He’d called to his brother the moment they got away from the lake, sending out a warning.
His mind raced, fear clouding him like he hadn’t in al ong time.
Cassian, Cassian, Cassian, He thought frantically as he hurried inside, replaying the scene by the lake a dozen times in his head, kicking himself for not doing better, not stopping her.
She took Cassian, and was doing gods-knew-what to him in vengeance for her imagined slights. But Rhys would find him, he had to. Azriel couldn’t think what would happen if he didn’t.
“Mor!” Azriel shouted, when one of his shadows told him that she was in the palace. He hauled his feet forward, struggling with the weight of the unconscious Autumn Court male in his arms. Normally the weight would have been nothing, but after winnowing so far he was drained.
Gods, Cassian. And the girls—the Valkyries, stuck in The Rite at this very moment, terrified, possibly hurt, maybe even dead already…
No, he couldn’t think about that. He wouldn’t. They were strong and smart. They could do it. Gwyn and Nesta and Emerie would make it out, and Cassian… Azriel had left him behind. Damn it to the depths, he’d left his brother behind. He’d taken Eris and fled, not realizing until it was too late that his brother wasn’t following. But he’d had to do it, right? He’d had to; there was no other choice. If he’d stayed, he’d be under the Crown’s control too.
Rhys will find him. He’ll find him. He’ll find him, Azriel repeated to himself frantically, as he carried Eris through the echoing Moonstone palace.
The male had been in a fugue state when Azriel grabbed hold of him and took off into the air, but somewhere between the winnowing and the flight his eyes had closed, and his head was now hanging back limply, his crimson hair sheened with sweat.
The male looked awful—or, even more awful than usual—his skin had a grayish tinge to it and there were dark circles under his eyes.
Don’t fucking die on me, Azriel thought angrily as he pushed through the door to the dining room, and saw Mor hurrying towards him.
“Is he dead?” Mor asked sharply, her eyes flashing with the usual disdain she carried when it came to the Autumn Court Heir.
“Not yet,” Azriel grunted, laying Eris down on the table. Upon closer look, his clothes were dirty and wrinkled, the ends of his sleeves frayed and a small tear in his tunic. Like he’d been wearing them for days.
“I’ve called Madja,” Mor said, but before the words had totally left her mouth, Azriel felt Rhysand’s power rippling through the palace. His brother burst through the door with death in his eyes. Madja was hurrying behind him.
“Is he—”
“He’s not dead,” Azriel said flatly.
“Cassian?”
“No word,” Azriel shook his head, fighting down the sick twisting in his gut.
Cassian, Cassian, Cassian…
Madja got to work, checking Eris’s eyes, listening to his heart.
“Where’s she taking him? Where would they go?”
Azriel shook his head.
“I don’t know, I don’t know what the point was, I don’t know… she wants to hurt Nesta, she might kill—she might kill Cassian do it. But otherwise…”
Azriel turned up his hands, feeling helpless. He hated feeling helpless.
“He’s fine, physically,” Madja said, “Likely his mind has simply shut down to recover.”
“He’s the best person who can tell us where Briallyn would head,” Mor said briskly, her voice strained with fear as she paced.
Azriel met Rhysand’s gaze.
“Do it,” He said.
***
Eris was standing in a cove of trees, a wall of fog surrounding him, blurring the orange and red leaves that hung around him. He felt a nudge under his hand, and looked down to the head of his favorite hound—Equinox—-who was standing at attention.
The dog looked up to him, it’s tongue lolling with eager breaths.
Eris frowned. What was he doing here? Equinox should be at home. Safe. He shouldn’t be here… but here was… where? Where was here?
It smelled like Autumn—-the chill in the air and the scent of crumbling leaves and the loam and distant wood fires. But that wasn’t right. Eris didn’t feel right. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Love,” A voice said, and Eris looked down at the hound by his side. She was looking up at him with sharp yellow eyes. But it was his mother’s voice. Why was it his mother’s voice? The dog was talking; that didn’t make any sense.
“You have to come back, love. It’ll be alright.”
Eris felt a shiver down his spine like a phantom touch, like someone was whispering in his ear. Skin and sweat and breath and bile.
“Wake up, dear. Come now, wake up.”
His shoulders arched, trying to shake off the touch, trying to free himself. There was a clamp around his neck, he couldn’t breathe, someone was pressing a knife to his skull, he was screaming but his mouth wouldn’t move; he couldn’t make a sound.
Then they were right there and he still couldn’t make a sound. They were staring at him, eyes burning with hatred, two pairs of wings, fists clenched, those lights from their power blinding him.
Help me, help me, help me…
“You’re a dead male walking.”
Help me.
“I always knew you were a lying bastard, but this is low—”
Help me.
“Wake up dear; wake up—”
His hands were moving but it wasn’t him, his lips were touching but it wasn’t him, his voice was speaking but it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him.
Eris, wake up.
Eris jerked awake with a shout, his arms reaching out, flailing, like he was falling. His stomach lurched, he couldn’t breathe.
“Eris, you’re safe–Eris–”
Firm hands were on either of his arms, and his wandering eyes finally found the face that was hovering over him. Violet eyes, black hair. Rhysand. What was he—how—he shouldn’t be—
“You’re in the Night Court,” Rhysand said quickly, “You were captured. You’re free now. You’re safe.”
Eris’ eyes wandering around wildly, scanning the room he was in. His mind was screaming at him.
Danger, danger, danger… his men were in danger, she had them, she was going to kill them.
“M–my men–my soldiers,” He stammered out, his heart running a hundred miles per hour.
“She had them in th–the palace, she has…”
Oh gods, he remembered. He’d been hunting, they found him, he wanted to help them, he had to try.
Fool, His father’s voice sneered in his mind, Weak, pathetic fool. You should’ve left them to die.
When Eris finally lifted his eyes to meet Rhysand, he knew before the other male said a word. And he fought to keep his tears from falling as his chest clenched.
“I’m sorry,” Rhysand said quietly, “I checked the castle where you were held for any sign of them.”
Eris squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away, wanting to sink into the bed and disappear. He couldn’t do this—he couldn’t think straight, his mind was foggy and reeling. He could still feel it, the clamp around his mind, like he was in shackles in his own head. And the way she moved his body, like a puppeteer.
“Where is she?” His voice came out hoarse.
Weak, Beron’s voice returned, You look pathetic in front of him, you shame Autumn Court with your fragility. What kind of feeble mind could allow her to take over so easily?
Rhysand’s hands were in his pockets now, and he swallowed.
“Dead,” He said flatly, and Eris felt like he could finally take a breath.
“Y–your…the Illyrians. They were there…” Eris said, pulling himself to sit, feeling a chill down his spine. Phantom touch.
“They’re alright?” Eris looked up.
Rhysand nodded.
“Fine. She took him—Cassian—but… she was defeated.”
Eris felt a lurch of panic. She’d taken him? Oh gods.
“How long? What–d–how long has it been?”
“Only a day,” Rhysand answered, and Eris felt a breath of relief. His brow knit, his mind working quickly.
“Is was the Archeron girl, wasn’t it?” He breathed, looking up, “The sister.”
Rhysand’s mouth was thin.
“What matters is she’s gone,” Rhysand repeated, “You’re safe now.”
Eris let out a humorless scoff, and pushed himself to sit up fully, his muscles screaming at him. His movements were clumsy and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure how to control his own body anymore. Oh gods, he was going to be sick.
“Careful,” Rhysand warned, as Eris breathed through a wave of nausea. He’d be dead before he vomited in front of the High Lord of Night.
“You’ve been out for a full day.”
Eris panted, his hands planted on either side of him on the bed, holding his torso up as his head spun.
“I have to go,” He breathed, digging his nails into his palms to keep the nausea down.
“I wouldn’t—”
“I have to get back to m–to my father,” Eris grunted, swinging his legs off the bed.
It was then that he realized he was in different clothes—sleeping clothes—soft black pants and a loose black shirt. Ugh. Someone had changed him. Someone had touched him.
He squeezed his eyes shut again.
“You shouldn’t be on your feet,” Rhysand said.
“I ha—I have to get back,” Eris gritted out through clenched teeth, “The longer I stay, the harder this will be to explain.”
He glared up at Rhys, and the other male nodded. They both understood what would happen if Beron got suspicious.
“At least let me get you something to eat.”
Eris wanted anything but to put food in his mouth right now.
“Where are my clothes?” He said haggardly.
Rhysand flicked his hand, and a tunic and pants appeared on the bed next to him. Eris glanced down.
“ My clothes,” He repeated, and Rhysand’s brow furrowed just a smidge.
“I can get you whatever sort of clothing you want, if you give me a moment I can make the same—”
“I want my clothes,” Eris repeated, his fists clenching.
He was feeling an all-too-familiar panic fluttering in his stomach. A feeling he had known since childhood, when he’d first faced his father’s anger and understood his place in the world. He had worked for centuries to make sure that he could control it, but just now… after his mind… after everything, he was struggling to get a handle on it, force it back down.
“...I don’t have them. I’m sorry my healer took them, likely burned them.”
Eris stared at him flatly. Then scoffed in annoyance, and stood, reaching to snatch up the clothes, but he stumbled when he put his weight on his legs, and reached a hand out to the bed to keep from falling. Rhys steadied him with a hand on his arm.
“Careful—”
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Eris jerked away from him, and Rhysand removed his hands.
Eris tried again, straightening up and taking deep breaths to keep the dizziness from his head.
“It’s understandable to experience after effects,” Rhysand said calmly, “You were under her control for most of a week.”
Eris shuddered, feeling the phantom touch.
“You have a place in this dump where I can change in private?” He asked with a forced nonchalance, clinging to his usual mask of cruel haughtiness, “Or is everyone in the Night Court exhibitionists.”
“Bath chamber is that door,” Rhysand gestured, expressionless.
When Eris returned, buttoning up the finely-made clothes, Rhysand was still waiting.
“I suppose you’re worried about what I’m going to tell my father,” Eris said flatly, trying to shrug into the new clothes and feel normal. He hated the feeling of them—the smooth fabric, the way it slid along his skin. Like his hands had slid along her body.
No. Eris squeezed his eyes shut. Not that. Not now.
“If you need help crafting an explanation…” Rhysand offered.
“No; it’s fine,” Eris said quickly, leaning over to lace up the boots that Rhysand had set out for him.
“I know how to handle him.”
“And you won’t say anything about our arrangement?”
“I’ll say what I need to say,” Eris returned flatly.
He knew what he would face—what his father would do to make sure his Court was secure. But he couldn’t think of that now; he’d face it when he had to, in the way he always did. He’d shut off his mind and endure the pain, and when his father was ready to believe him he would spin the story that he needed to spin. The version of events that wouldn’t end in his own execution.
“Eris, if you need to take time… you can take it. I’m sure a day—”
“I have to go,” Eris gritted out, standing up again. But it was too quick, his feet were clumsy; they weren’t his, he couldn’t control them.
“I need to know that your mind is settled enough to sell this,” Rhysand said when Eris held onto the bed for support again.
“You have to have it together when you go back there. To be thinking clearly. If Beron doesn’t believe you—”
“—I said I could fucking handle my father,” Eris snapped, blue spots dancing before his eyes. He glared at Rhysand, forcing his gaze to be angry and defiant; but what he saw looking back at him wasn’t what he expected.
There was something quietly sorrowful in there, something knowing.
Something like pity.
“Very well. But before you go I have to tell you something,” The other male said, dropping his eyes to the floor.
“What?” Eris snapped, wanting to leave, wanting to get out of this fucking Court and just breathe some Autumn air again.
“When you came back you were unconscious. Brial–she had taken Cassian. We needed to know where she’d go. We needed to know her plans.”
Rhysand was just staring at him now, and Eris waited, unsure what he was saying. The other male’s hands were in his pockets calmly, but his expression had that knowing pity on it.
“I’m sorry, but I had to go into your mind. To figure out where she’d take him.”
Eris felt a sick spinning in his gut. But he kept staring, his breaths sharp.
“...I saw what she did to you,” Rhysand said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Eris was just breathing, the cloying smell of floral perfume suddenly rising to his nose. Like it was on his skin. Like he had bathed in it. His shoulders shifted, feeling that phantom touch.
“...I don’t know what you’re talking about, “ He said flatly, standing and running a hand through his hair; it was disgusting. Gods, what he wouldn’t do for a bath. But there was no time; he had to get back to his father. Already he’d been gone over a week. Who knew what Beron might’ve done. He had to make sure his mother was alright.
“Look unless you have something useful to tell me, I’d like to be gone,” He said quickly, “Unless I’m now a prisoner of the Night Court.”
Eris raised an eyebrow in challenge, his jaw clenched.
Rhysand was still looking at him, though, and it wasn’t with annoyance or hate.
“You know I understand,” He said quietly.
Eris scoffed again, shaking his head, his anger rising like a wall of defense to the other feelings that were threatening to attack him.
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” Eris spat, “Wh–what, you understand? Sure, after you hunted through my mind without my permission, invaded my thoughts and took whatever the fuck you wanted.”
“It wasn’t my goal to—”
“Yeah it never is. You Night Court bastards always have a good excuse. Do whatever you want and call it the greater good.”
Eris knew he was being risky, insulting a High Lord like this, but he felt raw and exposed and frail. Like everyone could see his skin, smell the choking perfume.
Rhysand didn’t react. He was calm, and unbothered by Eris’ disrespectful tone. Looking at him with such empathy that it made Eris want to beat the shit out of him.
“I just need…”
“Yes, you need to know that I can keep my shit together. And I can. I’m fine,” Eris said flatly, forcing the words to sound indifferent, “I’ve bedded dozens of females in my time, I don’t care about one more.”
Rhysand couldn’t seem to help the sharp sigh that left his lips.
“You didn’t bed her, Eris,” He said tiredly, “She was controlling you, she forced—”
“It doesn’t make a difference to me,” Eris dismissed harshly, “She was my enemy the moment she took my men. I was the one stupid enough to get captured by her. It’s war. That’s what enemies do.”
“It’s not your fault, Eris, you were trying to help them—”
“Look, maybe you couldn’t take it like a male and get over it,” Eris sneered, “But I don’t care if some old crone used me to get off. Clearly no one else found her becoming enough to bed her. It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s dead now, like all my enemies before her.”
Eris’ breaths were sharp and angry, and he was standing mere inches from Rhysand. The High Lord could punch his daylights out if he wanted to, blast him to smithereens with his power. And part of Eris wished he would.
He’d take that over what he was feeling now:
The shiver of her wrinkled hands, the feeling of her body under him, when he couldn’t control what he was doing, when he kissed her without wanting to. It had been like a nightmare; his limbs moved without his permission, words against his will. The moment he’d been dragged into that castle he felt the Crown taking over his thoughts, bending him to its purpose.
He’d been helpless.
And when the bitter, wrinkled old queen had come to him at night, she’d made him dance for her like a puppet, making him pleasure her and forcing sweet nothings from his mouth—words he only ever shared with dear lovers, which had been few and far between in his life.
The whole time he’d been screaming, banging at the bars of his mental cage, desperate to escape the nightmare of her touch, of his body moving like it did not belong to him. But he was helpless. Trapped. Caged. No longer a person, but a thing.
He didn’t think he’d ever escape that feeling.
And he knew it was a lie—that he didn’t care, that she was dead and it was over.
Rhysand seemed to know it, too. Because he just continued to look at Eris.
Gods, he wanted to punch the male.
“Okay, Eris,” Rhysand said finally, his eyes resigned. He nodded with a twisting mouth.
“You tell your father what you need to. And please report back as soon as possible.”
Eris still stood glaring, unwilling to let his guard down.
Rhysand backed away, defeated, summoning a coat and handing it to Eris.
“Azriel is waiting in the parlor. But you’ll have to land in winter. I’m afraid he can’t winnow you directly into your own court after… well, you know.”
Eris took the coat and nodded crisply.
“And since it’s going to be common knowledge soon enough,” Rhysand said, his voice still heavy, “You should know that my son was born yesterday. A healthy boy.”
Eris blinked. He suddenly realized that Rhysand looked haggard, his clothes not pristine and his eyes rounded by dark circles. He hadn’t noticed at first. Then things had not been easy for the High Lady of Night. Interesting. And interesting that Rhysand would trust Eris with this information, when he had just flung insults at the other male. When Rhysand had seen who-knew-what inside Eris’ mind. Did he still think him trustworthy? Did he still have faith in him after his mistakes?
Eris just nodded crisply.
“Good,” He said, “Prythian will need strong leaders.”
Rhys gave a soft half-smile,
“Yes it will,” He said, gazing at Eris unflinchingly, “And strong allies.”
They faced off for a moment more, before Eris nodded, heading for the door with the coat slung over his arm.
“And Eris?” Rhysand said.
Eris turned back, guarded.
“...be careful.”
The violet of his eyes shimmering with knowing. Like perhaps he understood what Eris was heading into, what his paranoid father would do to him, in hopes of getting the truth. Eris felt a surge of nausea again.
Help me, Help me, He wanted to beg.
But there was no help. Not until Beron was dead and Autumn was free from his tyranny.
Eris could not rest. Could not hide. Could not crumble to pieces and pull his hair out and scream like he wanted to.
He had to be strong.
He was Eris Vanserra. Heir to the Autumn Court.
And he would survive.