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historiaxvanserra · 2 months

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These Violent Delights | Chapter Two

Summary: A High Lords meeting goes awry and you find yourself thrust into the foxes den.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (brief mentions of Azriel x reader)

Word Count: 6.4k

Chapter 1 of These Violent Delights on my Masterlist

The Hewn City’s state rooms are ugly, you think as you stalk the emissary of the Night Court through the winding, narrow corridors of Hewn City. The palatial chambers had been carved into the dark stone of the mountain by the Gods of old; and the high, domed ceilings are held in place by onyx pillars decorated with twisted carvings of beasts and fornicating demi-gods that line the Gothic archways.

Lurid, ill-fated omens, you think.

Harbingers of your undoing.

The emissary appointed with escorting you is adorned in ceremonial robes; a fine damask tunic in a deep indigo silk that is almost iridescent in the artificial light. You fall into step with him as he approaches a set of gilded iron gates. Two armored sentries fall into rank as you cross the threshold of the council chambers and you offer a courteous nod to the sentry as he meets your eye.

The antechamber of The Moonstone Palace is plunged in a suffocating blue-darkness with only the silvers of silver faelight, like artificial stars, to light the faces of the High Lords. The atmosphere is oppressive and the smell of hemlock and moonflowers stain the stagnant air. For a few moments, while you’re lost in thought, the world is silent and still. Feigning peace. But there is no peace. Not here, where the eyes of every High Lord in Prythian are upon you.

Hewn City is a dark mirage. A metropolis of hedonistic desire and vulgar frivolity

It is here in the dark that you find yourself adrift; lost somewhere to the sea of time. You abandon yourself to the tide of memory. The happy recollections of your childhood; to the thought of home. Someplace far from here, where the sunlight touches your skin and the smell of salt from the coast becomes tangled in your unbound hair. Somewhere, in the recesses of your mind, where you know your mothers love and your fathers face is something more than a mere memory.

It occurs to you that this is a home that never existed.

Home had always been burning; the acrid smell of woodsmoke beckons you like a funeral pyre and your salt-cracked lips chafe and bleed in the wake of blistering winds from the violent sea. And that’s the thing about mothers, you and she exist as some wretched mirror or one another; as hatred and guilt.

You’ve been thinking of your mother a lot as of late; something in your dreams, the echoing of a coming storm. A fine line between love and hate. It is something strange and prophetic that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably from your body.

In a flurry of movement against the black you are brought back to the present as you take your place amongst the ranks of the Inner Circle.

The silhouettes of the other High Lords, that had been flickering wildly against the dark stone of the mountain, cease to move. Cease to be, as shadows envelop the room, melting into the darkness as Rhysand glides into the room his violet eyes glinting in the dark. His eyes shine with a cold violence that draws you from thought and the visions of a home long forgotten turn to ashes in your trembling hands. He’s dressed all in black and violet, his tan skin looks pallid in the low light. By his side Feyre’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in starlight against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch the scent of chamomile and moondust in the air.

It smells like Nyx you think, smiling lightly to yourself at the thought of your nephew.

A tremor of dark power ripples through the air and you feel the shift in the atmosphere when shield after shield locks into place around each High Lord and his retinue of courtiers. The shield that Rhysand had already placed around the Inner Circle; made stronger in response. Night magic glitters in the air like stardust and you swear you can taste it on your tongue. That same cold rage and an essence of icy violence fortifies you against the hostility in the room and you school your expression to remain neutral when you seek out a pair of strange amber eyes in the crowd.

A gentle warmth burns though your chest and your eyes scan the crowd.

Eris Vanserra moves like a predator; resolute and obstinate. Amber eyes burn like fire glow in the dim light and each of his long strides are punctuated by the echo of boot clad feet on the marble. In this light, his face is almost ethereal. Unearthly even. Set in a painfully neutral expression as he slinks through the halls of the city below the mountains of Velaris. Eris Vanserra burns bright against the other Lords of Pryhtian; his copper hair, like burnished gold in the dim lights, and his eyes. Those fucking eyes. Haunting and evocative as he meets your gaze with a feline smirk.

It is a wicked, false thing, that glitters with malice.

He watches you with a wrathful sort of reverence. He is so very lovely, even in the pallid light. Even as his father and brothers flank his sides like a pack of hungry foxes; hungry and baying for blood.

You watch him carefully as Eris takes his seat at the foot of the large black table, he’s careful to make a show of the way he languidly reclines in his chair, rolling his shoulders back and angling his hips in such a way that the whole room is displayed to him at once.

It’s almost voyeuristic in nature.

That summons a storm within you; a violent, lonely, sort of thing, that washes over him with the force of a raging tempest down the scarcely accepted bond and his eyes, glittering and amber in the dying light, finding yours again. For a moment, Eris Vanserra sees himself through your eyes; for the first time in centuries he doesn’t hate the man staring back at him.

By his side Eris’ mother’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in fireglow against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch her dark glassy eyes and she smiles softly at you. There is a deep sorrow there, in the depths of The Lady of Autumn's eyes, that feel kindred to you.

A shared pain, perhaps.

Turning as Rhysand and Feyre push further into the darkness of the antechamber, you are drawn from thought once more.

The rest of The Night Court look like some savage celestial army as they enter on a night-kissed breeze. Cassian and Nesta look like warriors hardened by war and ruin, all dressed in black and faces coloured with cold caution. They’re followed by the Shadowsinger, who is shrouded in dark wisps of shadow and his skin glows golden against the dark. His face is set in an unreadable expression, though, when your eyes meet a flash of recognition flashes in those hazel eyes.

Rhysand stops dead in his tracks when he regards the High Lord of Autumn.

Beron Vanserra; cruel and tyrannical, keens when he notes the flash of surprise in Rhysand’s violet gaze. His eyes simmer with a dim fire as his eyes land on you. Beron’s teeth are like crow-picked bones as he offers you a feral smile.

“We weren’t expecting you, Beron.” Feyre’s voice is distant and cold as she speaks to the High Lord and his sons.

Rhysand rises to his feet from his throne, waving his hand to the attendants, “Fetch the High Lord and his Lady a seat.”

The attendant presents Beron with a chair and he settles between Helion and the Lady of Autumn, neither Helion nor the lady seem to acknowledge each other but you can feel the shift in their demeanors as Beron’s ire sparks in his eyes. He doesn’t even spare The Lady of Autumn a glance before he moves on to inspecting his fellow High Lords.

You pay Beron no heed and instead your eyes find the Lady of Autumn as she settles into her seat beside her husband and eldest son. The Lady of Autumn is like one of Feyre’s paintings; arresting and darkly beautiful. Her romantic eyes are shaded in the colors of sunset; a warm amber that looks almost golden in the low light and her dark auburn hair glitters in the dying fireglow and her eyes-- so rich that you get lost in their glassy depths. Those haunting eyes. They’re Eris’ eyes you realize as they meet yours. Though she doesn’t linger long she gives you a soft smile before returning her gaze to her long slender fingers that twitch in her lap. They’re adorned with many gold rings and crystals that she wears like armor to fortify her against the hostile atmosphere.

You see something of yourself in her you think, looking down to your own attire. An opulent and finely boned corset, cinched so tight, that even breathing feels like a luxury and the heavy black damask that covers you in swathes of pleated fabric acts as barrier between yourself and the many eyes in the room that trail over you without care or warning.

“Nor was I expecting to be here,” Beron drawls, “But alas, it seems we have business to discuss.” Beron’s fire rages dangerously against the black. Torrid and angry, his face unflinching and cruel as he turns his gaze upon Rhysand. Something treacherous passes between the two High Lords at that moment and something in your chest begins to stir like a storm inside of you.

A warning of a coming storm.

“Rumor claims that your allegiances are elsewhere, these days.” It is your voice that counters and Beron croons. The High Lord of Autumn assesses you keenly, his gaze shifting-- from the darkness of your eyes-- down. To the sulk of your lips. Further still to the exposed slope of your shoulders and coming to rest on your chest, where the swell of your breasts spills over the corseted bodice of your gown. His eyes darken luridly as his eyes meet yours again. Beron Vanserra scrutinizes every minute detail of your dark armor; every errant hair, every nervous twitch of your jaw, every flutter of your dark lashes.

It’s disarming the smile that spreads across his handsome face and his eyes shine with a maniacal sort of joy that sparks a wave of fury that runs through you like water-- and you swear you can feel Eris’ own fiery rage in answer.

“And what would you know of my allegiances, girl?” The false smile he offered is soon replaced with a deep loathing in Beron’s eyes that practically burns through you.

In a way, it feels strangely comforting to feel his ire.

To feel anything at all that isn’t paralyzing dread or hirearth for a home to which you will never return.

Helion waves a scar-flecked hand in front of him, “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”

The High Lord of Day glows with the radiance of the golden sun and he looks at you with such a strange mixture of boredom and curiosity that almost seems like reverence. He doesn’t dare look at The Autumn Lady in her seat though you notice the careful glances she makes towards him in those spaces between the seconds when no one is paying much heed.

“I know you met with rhe Prince of Rask.” you say and all the idle chatter in the room dies at once. “And he’s working with the Koschei, isn’t he?”

Beron opens his mouth and you brace yourself for the torrid flames of his wrath. You see the violent delight dance across Beron’s eyes and Rhysand just holds his stare. Hold it with a face like icy death. And beneath the surface you see untempered wrath as it ripples beneath his carefully curated mask. A sharp pain in your chest has you seeking out Eris at his father’s side. His face is the picture of cataclysmic rage; writhing and burning in those eyes.

To anyone else Eris Vanserra is the image of infernal rage. A righteous son to a wronged father. But to you-- all his fear comes home to you.

A warning fire.

“Never mind, we can discuss the happy news of your heir’s birth another time,” Beron smiles again at Rhysand and Feyre. It is Feyre who regards him with a snarling fury at the mention of the son she had almost died to bring into the world.

She would give her life again if only to protect him from the clutches of a tyrant like Beron. Of that you were certain.

“I believe we have business to discuss?” Beron questions again when no one responds to his taunt.

All the eyes in the room turn to you when you loose a laugh, “I didn’t realize we were in the business of discussing plans with our enemies.”

Eris Vanserra looks as though he might just vault over the table and silence you himself. His eyes smoulder in the dark and the scathing look he sends your way is enough to make you weak in the knees.

“Make no mistake girl,” Beron muses, his eyes sparking with feral delight, “I am not your enemy,”

“You are advised to keep it that way.”

In that moment you are bereft of every thought and sound in your mind as the room stills.

Rhysand and Feyre falter and look between you and The High Lord of Autumn-- and his heir.

Your mate.

Eris himself remains poised, his fingers wrapped around the arm of the chair, the wood straining under his cruel grip until his knuckles turn as pale as the sea foam that swirls atop the Sidra.

It is the Shadowsinger who rises from his seat in response, “Threaten her again, old man-- I dare you.” Azriel’s voice wraps round you like cold death and you can’t help but stare impassively as he places his body between yours and Beron. The flicker of flame is smothered by Azriel’s darkness.

Beron sits in his chair without so much as a word. Though you see the taunt in his eyes as he looks at you again. Azriel’s imposing figure still stands over you, a scarred hand that strokes languid circles into the skin of your shoulder. The bond in your chest hums violently.

“Call off your dog, Rhysand.” Eris’ voice is dangerously low as he eyes Azriel.

Rhys shrugs, smiling faintly “Very well,” he muses.

Azriel takes his seat beside you, though his scarred fingers remain fixed on the arm of your chair.

“Tell me, Azriel?” Eris laughs coldly, his voice devoid of any humor and he opens his mouth to speak, “Does it pain you knowing that both of your brothers have been given a sister as a mate?”

“And yet the Mother still deems you unworthy of a Mate -- desitined to pity fuck the spare sister.” Eris muses with a lilt of his voice when he realizes he has the upperhand.

A twinge of heat in your chest from the bond makes your scowl deepen.

Azriel blinks at first, his face twisting in rage before rising to his feet once more, barrelling over the table with an inhuman growl. Azriel grips Eris by the lapels of his emerald tunic. Coming together in flashes of flame and smoke as they struggle against one another. Eris swings a leg over Azriel’s thigh bringing them both tumbling to the floor, while the other High Lords watch on with varying degrees of amusement and frustration on their faces.

Your face heats under the scrutiny. Unable to move or speak-- your stormy facade rendered useless as the tears begin to well in your eyes.

You are a storm-- but in the face of their wrath there is naught you can do but watch and abide.

Rhysands commanding voice cuts through Azriel’s cursing and Eris’ insults. The room falls silent as the males pull away from one another. Azriel’s nose is bloodied and his hair falls around his face in messy strands. Eris’ lip is split, spilling crimson along the column of his throat. You trace the line of scarlet as the droplets stain the neckline of his white shirt. You can hear his heartbeat as it flutters wildly. His eyes meet yours and a look of resignation and shame crosses them for a moment; obscuring the perfect amber of his gaze.

Azriel wipes his blood on his leathers; wears it like armor as he turns to Eris “Something to remember me by.”

Azriel spits the words like venom at Eris whose face radiates with a dark and fiery wrath.

Feyre looks between the two males and then to you; her face softens then as she regards you. Your hands shaking wildly, and a heartbeat like an echoing war drum, the bond in your chest singing a mournful song as it rages inside you.

You look utterly devastated.

She’s not used to seeing that kind of defeat on the face of her elder sister; the sister who had weathered so much, always headstrong and ardent, who had suffered every injustice with a straight face-- she hadn’t quite prepared herself for the type of sorrow that realization would bring with it.

Taking in the scene unfolding before you-- the descent into violence and the blood that pools like rubies at Eris Vanserra’s feet you loose a shaky breath. “Enough--enough” You wave your hands between Azriel and Eris.

The males both take a tentative step away from one another and further from you.

“Who shares my bed is of little concern, I assure you, My Lord,” You insist firstly, setting your shoulders straight and facing them now with all the stormy determination you can feign in that moment, “from what I’ve heard you yourself have quite curious bedfellows.”

Beron sneers and scoffs from his seat at the foot of the table at the insult. A lie, at that. If anyone does share Eris Vanserra’s bed they are a mystery to you.

“Preferring the company of hounds - or so I am told.” Azriel adds.

And in truth you and Azriel haven’t so much as locked eyes since that night in Hewn City. After the mating bond between you and Eris had made its home in your chest you hadn’t been able to think about anyone or anything else.

Just him. And those amber eyes.

“We are here because once more someone is threatening the tenuous peace we have established here,” Helion nods his head thoughtfully and Thesan, who had remained silent throughout the whole ordeal looks at you with genuine encouragement and utters his agreement. Kallias and Vivianne remain silent and imposing on the other side of the table.

“It is our duty-- our privilege-- to ensure Prythian and its people are not ravaged by war again.” You look to Kallias then, unimpressed by the needless violence that had passed but somehow enamored by your words.

“Hyburn took so much from us-- from all of us.” You say, gesturing around the table and the High Lord’s faces are all shaded in sympathy and regret for all they had lost, “and Amarantha made slaves of you all.”

You cast a glance to your sister; who had fought and died for these great men and their courts. And to Rhysand who had subjected himself to being her plaything. Something like grief flashes in those violet eyes that sparks a storm in you.

“I will not be a slave again,” You vow and you notice then how all the High Lords seem rapt withal as you speak to them, and the storm inside you rages on, “to anyone.”

The tensions around the table seem to dissipate when Helion raises a chalice and smirks fondly at you and it seems that they see you as more than a bed warmer to a dark God or the mate of some High Lord’s heir. Talons scrape menacingly along your mental shields and Rhysand’s dark presence makes itself known to you. Bed warmer? Darling you are a storm-- everyone here knows it.

A force to be reckoned with.

The rest of the meeting seems to come to pass as intended, laborious hours of negotiating and political games as you come to terms with each High Lord in turn. By the time the moon hangs in the sky like cut quartz, almost all of the High Lords have already departed, leaving only The High Lord of Spring and The Autumn Court’s entourage.

“Where did you find this one, Rhysand?” Tamlin asks, his tone measured and light.

Rhysand looks between Feyre and you smiling lightly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I heard they found her in a Hyburn cell, after the war was over.” It is Beron Vanserra’s voice that cuts in, “what was left of her anyway.”

“Perhaps we should be asking where your loyalties lie?” It’s the middle Vanserra brother that speaks. His russet curls glow warm in the dim lights and his stare is cruel and malignant as he hones in on you.

“Hyburn whore” It’s whispered, accusatory, on an inhale of breath.

They way it is uttered with an air of repulsion and venom reminds you of those stories told in human villages; of woods women named ‘witch’ by those who do not understand.

People fear what they do not understand.

It seems that Fae are no different than mere mortals in that respect.

“You’d be wise to bite your tongue, brother.” Eris’s voice is a cold echo as all thought and sound eddies out of your mind. Flashes of black and gold as the visions come back to you; those days spent cowering in the darkness of your cell, your feral anger directed at any man who came too close-- all biting fury, canines and claws, and the screams they tore from your like the howling wind over a violent sea.

A fury spreads through you, taking root in the dark caverns of your chest, slowing your heartbeat to a dull aching thud as you lose yourself to it; give yourself over to the tempest of emotion that courses through you. You try to fight it as the first ebbs of that dangerous storm embrace you. Lest you surrender yourself to the tempest; let it open you up and pour out into the world in floods of ravaging power.

It brings forth a storm the likes of which the world has never seen; a thing of ugly rage.

You were born angry, your mother had told you once.

But rage is a learned thing. Your rage. It had been your mother’s first, before that it had her mothers, and her mother before her.

It is an inherited curse; a wicked and wretched thing.

It is a storm enough to drown in.

A howling wind whips around you and for a moment you are standing at a great precipice. From the cliff’s edge, peering down at a violent sea as it coils and breaks against the jagged cliff face of some distant shore, where the world looks as though it is dappled in fireglow, the smell of woodsmoke and bonfires wafts from inland. The sea-soaked wind is so palpable that you taste its salt-kiss on your lips with the ardent fervor of the most savage lover.

There is something sacred in salt, you think.

For a moment you consider what it would feel like; to plummet into the watery abyss. How the sunlight would look as it fractures and splinters on the water's violent surface.

How it might cascade into the murky green depths. A secret held between you and the sea.

“My Lady,” It is Eris’ voice, practically feral and dripping with an aching desperation as he all but vaults around the corner of the dark wood table, parting his brothers with a rehearsed type of brutality as he claws his way to you. His commanding aura draws you closer to him and his pale hand offers a strong and comforting weight on your arm as he takes your trembling palm in his rough hold.

“You’re bleeding,” Eris says, cupping your palm into a fist with his own, applying light pressure to the wound while he assesses it. Turning it over in his tentative grasp. Through your lashes you take a moment to assess him as he towers over you. He’s tall and much broader than you remember but he moves with an inhuman grace. His nose is long and straight and his jaw strong and regal. His amber eyes linger dangerously over the hand cupped in his own. You hadn’t even realized you had stood up. Nor had you registered the blood you had drawn from your own palms until you see the crescent moons, indented in the tender flesh, like a taunt as they stain Eris’ fingertips scarlet as he presses the fabric of his handkerchief to your grazed hand.

“It’s nothing, My Lord,” You say softly, your voice low and you feel his eyes burning into yours; it is a slow, searing ache that almost feels like a kiss. A fragile thing, full of reverence and a strange tenderness. A vein of hurt throbs through you, quickly soothed by the press of his palm to yours.

Eris Vanserra holds a power over you; commands you in a way that should feel unpleasant. The knowledge that you would give yourself over to him if only he asked.

“It is only a little blood.” The words live and die on tongue, they fizzle out just as soon as they are uttered before he is calling for Rhysand -- his voice is swallowed by the din and your heartbeat echoes like a wardrum in your ears and the sound of the violet sea breaks against you and you feel your body go lax.

You wait for the dull ache as your body meets the cool marble of the floor only it never comes; instead your weight is suspended in the embrace of Eris Vanserra’s arms, you vaguely hear your name from his lips before the world turns to darkness.

You feel like lull of his heartbeat as he brings you closer against his chest.

The smell of cedar and smoked bergamot follows you into the abyss.

The room seems to come back to you like the tide; swiftly and cruelly as it materializes before you. It comes back in flashes of the dark; the oppressive pillars of dark marble that hold the domed, onyx ceiling in place, the silver fae lights like pallid stars and the visage of contorting demons and chimera’s like half formed ghosts.

“What happened?” You ask looking around the darkened council chambers; once filled with the idle chatter of courtiers and High Lord’s and their entourage now only the Inner Circle is gathered in the darkness contained between these walls.

And Eris.

He burns golden against the black.

“Well one thing is for certain,” It is Morrigan who stands over you, her shoes shine like rubies in the low light, “You know how to make a scene.” Her voice is light and jovial, laced with concern.

“You fainted,” Feyre says plainly as she sinks to her knees before you. It is then you feel Eris’ solid frame as he radiates warmth behind you, where you are propped against his chest. Your body feels foreign and unlike your own as you move, transferring your weight from his arms and into the arms of Feyre who helps you stand on uncertain feet.

“I’m sorry,” You say earnestly to both Rhysand and Feyre and turning to Eris again to mutter your thanks. He looks displeased at that. The distance between your body in his, the unfamiliarity you regard him with as if you hadn’t just allowed yourself to revel in the feel of his arms wrapped securely around you. “I’m sorry.”

“You should return to your father, My Lord.” You laugh humorlessly, using the hand that isn’t wrapped tightly around the lip of the chair to smooth a hand down the pleats of your gown reflexively.

A knock, resounding and resolute echoes through the chamber and the Inner Circle seem to bristle at the intrusion. Through the blanket of the dark a figure emerges; Keir stands tall with an air of arrogance about him as he steps into the antechamber. His hair is dark and graying and his face, though handsome, has begun to show signs of age. His eyes glitter menacingly as he finds you amongst the inner circle.

“My apologies for the intrusion, High Lord.” Keir says, his voice full of dark promise as a second figure steps from the shadow, “but it appears there is a rather urgent matter that has come to our attention.”

The rooms seems steeped in solemn silence as Beron Vanserra reveals himself through the din; dressed in fine merlot robes and embroidered with gold threads and leaves. He looks like Autumn personified. All fire and wrath as he stalks into the room.

“It appears you have been keeping secrets from me, Rhysand.” Rhys takes a step forward approaching Beron with little regard for the fury that burns behind his hazel eyes. The High Lord of Night laughs cruelly as Beron advances further into the room, seeking out his son, who reaches for you almost without thinking. His fingers flex around your forearm and push you further into Feyre as he steps in front of you both subtly.

Beron looks suspiciously between the three of you.

Beron smiles.

It is not a thing of fondness or affection-- It is dark and laden with malevolence. A whisper of amusement lights in his golden irises and Eris feels like a boy again; alone and afraid as the shadows of his fathers wrath descend upon him.

“You knew,” The High Lord of Autumn charges forward, tearing through Azriel and Cassian, as he raves. His voice is dangerously low and full of malice as he advances towards Eris. His eyes blaze against the dark as he casts his wicked gaze upon his eldest son.

“You knew,” He repeats frantically, “That whore is your mate, and you lied to me.”

Accusatory.

Without thought or care, Eris lunges forward and takes one long stride so that his body shields yours from Beron’s grasp as his fire burns vengeful and angry as it bands around Eris’s arms. The putrid smell of burned flesh brings bile rising in your throat and you feel Rhysand’s shields fortify around you and the rest of the Inner Circle in response.

You wait for someone to do something, but as is the nature of these things Rhysand is not permitted to interfere in the affairs of other courts. And whether he likes it or not, Eris is subject to his High Lord and father.

And as it stands he is a traitor to both.

Eris falls to his knees before you and you feel the bond die in your chest; his scream is something akin to dying. It sears through you, burning like fire until you feel like a phoenix rising from its own ashes as your body moves of its own volition.

“Stop, stop!” You plead with Beron advancing a pace towards him as you pull away from Feyre’s secure hold. Not even Cassian dares hold you back when you claw your way from the safety of his arms, “Please, he didn’t know.”

Beron pays you no heed as his wrath brings Eris to his knees.

“Please.” you beg, your voice aching and angry as you address the High Lord, ignoring the warnings of Azriel and Cassian, “He didn’t know.”

“W-we hid it from him.” Your lie desperately, your voice though strained comes out in violent waves of anger as Beron continues to inflict his fire upon Eris.

Your mate.

In a desperate bid to spare him you beg once more.

“Please, whatever you want, you can have it, I swear it.” And all the fire ceases.

Eris heaves a heavy breath and he collapses in a swath of burnished gold and emerald, strewn lazily against the marble. You sink to your knees beside him, his hands, though shaking, are firm against you as they grasp at the many layers of your skirts as he hoists himself up. Even on his knees he towers over you. His hair drapes like spidersilk over one side of his sculpted face as he peers down at you with dark amber eyes. Despite all the eyes in the room Eris brings a tentative hand to cup your cheek and all his remorse and grief flood down the bond that runs golden and brilliant from your body to his; as if to say no use hiding now, little fox.

Eris rises to his feet before his father who looks on with a mixture of feral delight and complete apathy as Eris’ pain subsides.

Keir retreats into the shadows and with him the air shifts; the room, once shaded in the smell of hemlock and moonflowers, is tainted with something more. Something darker. Earthy.

The smell of wildflowers; smoke-kissed juniper and foxglove, all undercut with the smell of salt and iron.

It occurs to you then that it is the smell of your mating bond.

Beron loses a dark laugh and approaches you slowly, like a predator circles its prey. Deliberate and calculating as he takes your chin in his bony fingers and commands you to look at him. His eyes are much darker than Eris’, so dark that they almost look black in this light and even in his age you admire their depths, haunting and arresting. Beron cuts an intimidating figure, you think as he flashes you a smile that is all Eris.

You sometimes forget how alike father and son are; though Eris is undoubtedly more striking; with his strange amber eyes and baring a broader physique than his father, with strong arms and shoulders and that beautiful copper hair which he had inherited from his mother.

“Anything I want?” Beron muses deathly quiet as he brings you closer to him, so close that the heat of his breath against your face causes chills to rise along the skin of your arms and neck.

“Anything, that is within my power to give.” You clarify, unwilling to be tricked into a more heinous bargain than you had prepared yourself for. Feyre protests loudly, calling your name, begging you to see reason though her pleas are useless against the thunder of your heart in your chest; like the sound of a storm rolling in from the sea.

Rhysand holds his wife by her forearms as she attempts to fight her way to your side.

A bargain offered of your own volition cannot be undone or unmade.

All that’s left to do is come to terms.

Beron smiles again, a saccharine smile that turns your stomach as his free hand cups your hip harshly, his brows rise in question and you realize how he’s looking right through you to his son who stands defeated behind you.

“And if I want you?” You swallow hard as his hand on your hip tightens to a bruising grip.

The High Lord of Night protests and a dark ripple of power separates you and Beron, you stumble backwards until you’re pressed up against the dark wood table as it cuts into the backs of your thighs. Beron laughs playfully and raises his hands in mock surrender to Rhysand. Keir smiles with a sense of sick satisfaction as Beron nods for Eris to join him.

Eris joins his father on the side of the room and Beron inspects him in carefully; scrutinizes every furrow of his brow or the tick of his jaw as charred flesh gives way to pale unblemished skin.

Beron claps a hand over his son's shoulder and offers his half-hearted explanation.

Filling his ear with poison.

“Your mate has deceived you, my son; she is yours by right,” Beron preens like an over-satisfied cat, offering a wave of his hand as he gestures to you, “Is she not?”

Eris swallows thickly and through the bond you can feel his wrath as it burns silent and deadly through you. His fire burns ferocious and wild. Dark and untamed. It ignites a similar storm in the pit of your stomach as Eris regards you with feigned malice much to the appeasement of his father.

His gaze, once soft and vulnerable, is cold and predatory as he takes his time to trail over the swell of your chest and the curve of your hips like a hungry animal.

“She is,” His voice is sharp-edged as he nods impassively to his father, the glimpses of his true self now little more than a trick in the light as he adorns his facade like a suit or armor to spare him his father’s fire.

“You mean to claim her?” Eris questions pointedly. Eris’ eyes move around the room with a careful, almost pensive, precision.

He can’t pretend that he doesn’t want it. Some primal, territorial part of him wants it more than anything. It’s animalistic and carnal.

Wholly perverse.

He wants you, terribly; he aches for you in a way that he has never ached for anything.

And you want him.

But not like this.

Not as a pretty pawn to bring him to heel.

“She will do well in Autumn,” Beron says in lieu of an answer.

Rhysand and Feyre stand firm against the hostility in the room even as Beron approaches them once more. “An alliance between our two most ancient and noble courts,” Beron says in a celebratory manner, his arms outstretched in a show of arrogance, “made strong by the oaths that you will swear to my son and my court.”

“Very well, High Lord.” You acquiesce and Beron smiles as his words hit their mark

You swear that Eris could burn the city to ash then and something in him cools then under your watchful gaze; it burns blue under the surface and you can see it tempering to a cold unmoving stare cast in his father’s direction.

It’s grotesque, the anger that runs hot in his veins that sears its kiss into the place where your body and his are joined.

You seethe. A raging tempest that comes off of you in violent waves of temper that threaten to swallow the room whole. And Beron Vanserra with it. It is almost enough to bring you to your knees before him as your skin burns under his rising fury.

Your eyes meet the strange amber eyes of Eris Vanserra at his father’s side and you think then, that you will happily suffer his fire if burning always feels so profound.

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #eris x reader #eris vanserra #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #pro eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris fic #eris headcanons #eris vandaddy

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youareunbearable · 6 months

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Its late and im tired so please excuse if this doesn't make sense but lately, I've been thinking about Angry Aredhel must have been

Like realistically, when has this woman made a single decision about her future for herself, and in the few times when she did, when did it not end in tragedy

She must have been so angry, so frustrated and wrathful at her lot in life. She was meant for other things, greater thing! She was a disciple of Orome, the Maiden in White, one of the best hunters in his group along with her cousin.

Yet here she is, caged and trapped like a pretty little canary in a wire house. Stolen from her purpose because of her eldest brother's blind loyalty, her father's stubborn pride, her second oldest brother's blinding grief, and her baby brother's terminal bravery. She's across an ocean, escaped one cage for another by her tormentor and abuser posing as a husband.

The bastard won't even name their child.

She must have be so angry, stuck in that endless darkness, the forest must be such a familiar landscape but so different, twisted and wrong like looking into a warped mirror.

Shes grieving outside her "home" one night, having managed to convince the trees to part their branches just enough that she can glimpse a star or two so she can bask in the starlight. Its been a year since the birth of her son, and nothing has changed. Eol won't look at the boy, and she can feel herself drifting. Without the ability to see the passage of time, without the Light of the Trees or with the Sun and Moon chasing each other across the sky, things are blending together and she feels adrift.

At least when they crossed they ice, they were able to watch the stars move across the endless dark.

The starlight warms her skin, as weak and distant as it is, so she basks. With her eyes closed and face tilted up she feels like a lizard in the mid day sun. Behind her, she hears a noise, a twig being deliberately stepped upon. Aredhel whips around, raising her glowing lichen lamp, wondering if its her husband or one of his servants come to take her back. She feels a little feral at the idea of being dragged away from the pitiful starlight.

A wolf, with a pelt as crisp and clean as the snow dusting Himring's mountain top, slinks into the soft glow. Its fur takes on an almost sickly colour in the green luminescence. The wolf settles at the edge of the light, resting on its haunches as it observes her.

Aredhel thinks she's beautiful, for it is a female wolf. Even in the weak lamplight the beast's silver eyes seem to glow on their own, piercing her very fea and enticing her to come forward, to come closer. There is a power within the she wolf, one Aredhel craves.

The white beast introduces herself as a member of Orome's hunt, and Aredhel believes it, for the she wolf looks like the perfect hunter. The wolf asks her what she, as a fellow hunter, is doing out so far away from her kin and cub.

Momentarily surprised by the ability to speak, for not even Huan can speak so freely, Aredhel responses. She shares her desire for light, her frustration with her "husband," and how she wants a different life for her son. She never wanted this, and she wishes she had the ability to take control of her own fate.

The wolf is sympathetic to her plights, and offers to help her free herself and her child.

"You do have the ability to change your own fate, young one. Asking for help is something no one else could have done for you."

So Aredhel leads the wolf back to Eol's house. They walk through the entry way, both hunters are silent as the dawn as they go. Aredhel heads towards the master bedroom, but hesitates at the door. She can see Eol on his side of their bed, snoring lightly as he does. She hesitates, seeing a vision of what will happen once he realizes she's gone. Fire, doom and death follows her, poison and a flash of fang would flicker in him before he strikes her down for disobedience, for stealing away the son he won't even name.

The wolf nudges her aside, ghosting past her into the room. Aredhel's throat closes up and she slinks away, heading towards Lomion's nursery. She leaves to go strap her sleeping infant son to her chest, then grabs some supplies from the kitchen in a bag. Not even hearing a mouse skittering in the walls, let alone her wolf companion, she steels her nerves to check the master bedroom one more time.

As she passes her bedroom, she can see through a crack in the door and her breath freezes. Standing over the now corpse of her husband, maw dripping red from the freshly torn out throat, the white wolf looms. Aredhel stares transfixed, she can almost taste the blood between her own teeth, feel the rush of the kill, ache of her gums as tendons and tissue would rub against them. The wolf turns to look at her, silver eyes wild, white fur stained with her kill. Aredhel feels the air return to her lungs, she feels lighter and free, a little giggle slips past her lips and the wolf peels back its lips and bares its dripping fangs in a smile.

Aredhel leaves the house, fleeing on foot and all the while she can hear the wolf following her, keeping pace and shadowing her in the darkness, and at some points, ahead of her, leading her out of the woods. Running like this, oh she hasn't done this in years!. The wind snapping at her hair, branches and leaves kissing her cheeks and arms, the rush of a completed hunt with another one ahead of her feels like her first real breath in a long time. It feels like days later, and seconds, heartbeats, when she can see the treeline, dawn's hazy reddish glow peaking through the trees.

Aredhel gives a joyful cry and runs faster. That laughter bubbling up inside of her finally bursts past her lips once she breaks the treeline. The sun on her skin is warm and bright and all she wants to do is laugh and cry and scream until her throat is raw and her tears run dry. But she has to keep moving, she has Lomion still with her, and she is too close to the woods to feel truly safe yet. She walks north, and east, not really knowing where she's heading but knowing that she'll cross into her cousins' land soon. As she walks, she soon realizes that she hasn't seen or heard from her she wolf in a while. Stopping, Aredhel turns to look back, but no where can she see that brilliant white coat, or any tracks that look like wolf paws. She squint, looking back at the distant treeline and sees nothing but shadow. She mourns for her companion, wishing she could have wished her well or at least thanked her for her help. She wonders if Orome set the wolf to free her, not wanting to see one of his hunters in chains.

Its about mid morning when she comes across some of her cousins men, and they're horrified. They ask if she's ok, of she's hurt, they take her to a nearby stream even though she insists she's fine, that she wants to see her cousins.

When she sees her reflection she's scared for a moment. All she can see it blood, dried and crusted down her throat, staining her lips and chin. There is red all along the collar of her white dress, her sleeves, but her hands are clean, and so is her son still asleep strapped across her chest. She looks into her reflection, not yet comprehending. Silver eyes that seem so familiar stare back above the red, above the proof of her freedom.

She bares her bloody teeth in smile.

#Aredhel #silm #silmarillion #Maeglin #i think it would hot if Aredhel pulled a finrod and ripped out eols throat #with her bare teeth like Yes Please Queen Slay lmao #Celegorm is so proud when he finds out like Lmao Still Got It Cuz!!!!! and a bonus new free nephew!!!!#Curufin is disgusted he is related to these ppl but also is supportive of Aredhel going ape shit like she deserves #she chipped some of her teeth on thr bite so like the loving cousin he is curufin makes her mithril fangs #maedhros screams into his hands when he finds out but is also proud. so is fingon! thats his Baby Sister!!!#Lomion grows up Normal and Loved and Nolo adores him and is glad to have a sensible heir for when #fingon inevitability leaves them to marry Maedhros. whenever they get around to it.

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keatsonthebeach · 9 months

Text

Midnight Sea

who knows the way of water

gentle brook lounging lazy between idle trees

languid lake

soft

silent

still

kissing halo’d moon

tempestuous ocean

savage gift

splitting lands

between souls

dreaming

adrift

reaching

yet never being

together

hearts sail through night

by starlight

a shore

a cove

a beacon

lover return

hasten home

from the midnight sea

artist -Edward Mason Eggleston

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theywhowriteandknowthings · 5 months

Note

OHmg Vi, your Spotify Wrapped idea is so good!!!! Could I get number 8 for Din, pretty please?? 😍💖🥰

For my Spotify Wrapped Ask Game Levitating Dua Lipa – Din Djarin I got you, moonlight, you're my starlight, I need you all night, come on, dance with me

Drabble 700~ Words [Unproofed sue me]

Warnings: food prep, otherwise it's just a fluffy drabble, nothing to really warn for.

Din watches you dance around the kitchen, humming a tune he doesn’t recognise as you go. You’ve never been one for domesticity but settling into life with Din and Grogu on Nevarro was something else. He wants to reach out and brush the skin of your arms with his fingertips. He wants to breathe in your scent as he folds around you.

But he knows better than to interrupt you when you're focused like this.

You’re hard at work on something for the seasonal festival in town. You’re not entirely sure what is being celebrated, but you know it involves the whole settlement and lots of food. So here you are, trading a blaster and thermal detonators for a spatula and a whisk. Somehow, you’re able to make it work.

“Mesh’la, are you sure I can’t help?”

You look over your shoulder to see Din, visor set at an angle as he tilts his head questioningly at you. Your heart flutters at the sight, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to the way small actions like a head tilt make you feel.

It should feel ridiculous, but it doesn’t. It feels special, like he’s giving you something precious even if he can’t give you his face.

He’s leaning on the wall behind you, arms folded across his chest. You still can’t get over how small he looks in the confines of the house here. He looks so at home on the Gauntlet, the large, angular lines of the ship a perfect compliment to his shining Beskar.

But here, amongst the earthen walls and simple furnishings, he looks almost out of place.

“I’m sure, plus, when have you ever baked in your life?”

Din grunts in response, turning away as he undoubtedly blushes under his helmet.

You smirk to yourself in triumph as you continue to waltz around the small kitchen, occasionally shooing Din out of the way as you grab spices and herbs from the racks on either side of him.

Once the dish is in the oven you sigh, wiping your brow with the back of your hand as you turn to face Din once more.

“So, we have some time before we need to pick Grogu up from classes,” you purr as you stalk over to him, shedding your apron on the kitchen table.

“What do you have in mind?” Din’s voice drops an octave through his modulator, and you lay your palms across the cool span of his breastplate. The Beskar is firm, unyielding under your touch, unlike the Mandalorian warrior within, who would move mountains just to see you smile.

“Dance with me.”

“But there’s no music Mesh’la,” Din argues, but he lets his hands fall to your hips nonetheless. He pushes off from the wall and steers you both into the middle of the kitchen. He sways back and forth, and you follow his lead as you step in perfect time to a silent melody.

“I don’t need music when I’m with you,” you say as you loop your arms around his neck, fingertips toying with the fabric of his cape as you sway together.

“You say the sweetest things.”

Din’s voice is low as he continues to lead you through an improvised rhythm. He brings one gloved hand up to your own and pulls back, motioning for you to spin. You follow wordlessly as he twirls you around with his thick fingers before pulling you back, flush against his chest. You giggle as a giddy rush floods through your veins.

“You inspire every one of them.”

There’s silence for some time as you hold one another like this, your arms folded over his as they wrap around your waist. You continue to sway but there’s a calm, rocking motion to it now, like you’re adrift on the sea.

Moments like these are rare. Between raising a force sensitive child, bounty hunting, and the ever-present dangers in the galaxy, you both kept busy. But to be here, in Din’s arms, doing something as uncomplicated as cooking and dancing in your home, together.

It feels like Levitating.

Thank you again @againstacecilia for playing! I hope you liked it!

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thistleation · 4 months

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Beyond our Space and Starlight - Chapter 5: Respites

It was 1 year, 4 months, and 11 days since they lost Shannon.

Some days were better, some days it still felt like they were just stumbling on without her, adrift in space, coasting purely on momentum, mission to mission, with her shadows all around.

She was still so present in the people around her, in Beatrice herself, in the things she did, the things she didn’t, the things she couldn’t…

Beatrice and her sisters were in a clearing on an arid relay moon in what was only theoretically still Protectorate space. They’d just met up with Mary and, to their surprise, Ava as well. She’d gotten a haircut in the two months since they’d last seen her, a cute little chin-length thing she wore half-up, half-down, but everything about her presence was still unmistakable.

Beatrice was already going over the odds of a confrontation — not great with her riderless, it would depend on what Mary would do — but that was just how her mind worked, how she was trained. It seemed unlikely this would devolve into an outright battle — for now at least…

“I cannot believe you’re working with these people, Mary! What the fuck?!” Ava was still very much upset with the situation.

“Language!”

“Don’t you fucking start with me Lilith!”

“Ava,” Mary tried again, a placating hand between them, “Put your gun away first, same to the rest of y’all.”

There was a pause as everyone looked at each other. Beatrice was the only other person with a gun out, being riderless at the moment, Camila and Lilith had both summoned their blades.

Beatrice was the first to put her weapon away, followed by Ava — who’s expression still made her displeasure very clear — then Camila, with Lilith only reluctantly dismissing her two-handed longsword when it was obvious she was the only one left and everyone was waiting on her.

“Thank you.” Mary enunciated the words clearly, “Now how about you all tell me what’s going on and how you all know each other?”

CONT on Ao3

#warrior nun #fic: BoSaS #warrior nun fanfic #avalilitrice #ava x beatrice x lilith #avatrice #this was tough #but i needed to finish this #i hope you'd have liked it #i hope you'd have been proud

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aroaessidhe · 5 months

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Aro & Ace Books: F/nonbinary ships

Baker Thief - adult sff - aro bi bigender MC / demisexual woman MC

The Many Half-Lived Lives of Sam Sylvester - YA paranormal - nonbinary acespec MC

Adrift in Starlight - adult scifi romance - asexual woman MC

She Who Became The Sun - Adult historical - nonbinary ace-spec-coded MC

The Mariah Mission - YA contemporary - nonbinary ace love interest

Fire Becomes Her - YA historical fantasy - demidemi MC, nonbinary ace love interest (qpr)

Two Dark Moons - YA fantasy - arospec girl MC / nonbinary MC (qpr-ish)

The Thread That Binds - NA fantasy - agender greyace MC (has both an agender qpr, and a female love interest)

The Unbalancing - Adult fantasy - nonbinary demisexual MC

#aspec books / aspec database / tumblr masterpost

#aspec books #The Many Half-Lived Lives of Sam Sylvester #baker thief #adrift in starlight #fire becomes her #two dark moons #the thread that binds #asexual books

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meredoubt · 5 months

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The next time we get a Vega and Warden's Bizarre Adventure update, it better start with an act of just unspeakable public violence

I want Vega to be, idk. blowing up dams that are secretly on leylines and are thus magical shackles to the Sovreigns' jail cells. Something.

It would make it much funnier if he's doing real plot shit, and yet it hasn't been remarked upon by any other characters. Like, it will make the wolves planning their no doubt ugly double wedding much funnier if this has been happening in the background.

Like when was the last time we got any update on the demon prison break? Does the public even know? Is the department actively on fire, at this exact second, when we've got three distinct actors trying to free the Sovreigns, thus literally killing anything and everything that isn't a demon? What have the Asset, Starlight and Avior found out about the Meridian and how to save it? Is anyone actually looking for Regulus, who is basically a known freed serial killer? Is there any public or government response to anything that has happened post Inversion? Like. What is happening in the wider world. How bad is it? Because it feels very adrift. Hush is the most interesting we've gotten, but without context of the world he's arrived in, it's not hitting as hard as I'd like

I want Vega to blow something up

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #don't get me started on the Seers. like be fr.

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phoenixdaneko · 1 year

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New poll time with new title ideas thanks to the lovely @yakamashi-ao3

Tagging a few of my friends who saw the other poll (or reacted to my ramble post about the titles) so you can vote on this one! Chapter 1 will probably come out tomorrow as I plan to let this poll run for a while. In the meantime I'll work on Chapter 2!

@ghosts-are-dead @archangel-fucking-judas @glitzybunny @aboutchicken298 @duhsty1

#Yakamashi <3 #nix makes polls #nix rambles #nix speaks #nix's late night rambles #Hope I'm not bothering anyone by tagging y'all!!!#Judas <3 #Glitzy <3 #Ghosts <3 #Chicken <3 #Duhsty <3

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greedcoded · 21 days

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Nevermore to Grace the Night

hew hew finally publishing the first chap of my self-insert ghoul x dew x oc fanfic! i'll be cross-posting it (for now, until I get tired of it) on here and ao3!

I: The Piercing Radiant Moon

WC: 1762

Warnings: none applicable yet!

AO3 or under the cut!

Hell wasn't all roiling lakes of lava and skies of fire; sometimes, it was an eerie void beyond the stars, hiding the worst creatures within.

One minute, a ghoul was adrift in that endless void, caught on that hairline edge between wakefulness and unconsciousness—the next, a tug. A feeling of being called elsewhere, topside, and a purple mist, glittering with galaxies, nebulae, and starlight surrounded them.

A minute later, they unceremoniously awakened in a small chamber, sitting naked and lit by candlelight in a summoning circle. That same mist surrounded them, the stars and vapor clinging to their skin, trying to sink back into their skin as if it belonged there.

Their eyes darted around, taking in their surroundings as their chest rose and fell rapidly. There was one human who caught their eye right off the bat, clad in blue robes and skeletal face paint, holding a large tome - probably the one who summoned them - and a taller, stocky ghoul beside him. Others were milling about in the shadows, but they didn’t catch the ghoul’s eye as inherently dangerous.

The human with the book moved toward the circle, crouching in front of it just outside the glowing chalk. He didn’t appear to have any…harmful intent. He even smiled, reaching a hand out towards them, like they were a feral animal he was trying to calm.

The ghoul hissed and quintessence crackled reflexively within them; lilac and indigo clouds of stardust and mist swirled in a volatile cloud around them. With their ears pinned flat against their head and their tail thrashing behind them, they did look feral.

The man backed up a little but didn’t appear frightened by their display- and in his place came the ghoul. He was beautiful, by any meaning of the word. Looked like a picture-perfect quintessence ghoul if they had to guess. Soft, deep purple-colored fuzzy skin, short black hair, and a couple of rings adorning his hands. He crouched down as well and sat in front of the ghoul, tail twitching in anticipation behind him.

“Hello, my name is Aether. You’ve been summoned to Earth by the leader of the Church of Satan. He’s the human who has the blue robes on; his name is Papa Emeritus the Fourth, but he prefers his ghouls just call him Copia.” Aether spoke to the new ghoul in their native tongue of Infernal, not wanting to catch them off guard by jumping to English immediately. His voice was soft and accented, yet tired, under it all.

They relaxed a bit, tail curling around their ankle as they tilted their head at Aether. “Why am I here? What purpose was my summoning for?”

Aether sighed, a slightly pained expression on his face as he looked back at Copia. The man shook his head and elicited a sigh from Aether.

“That explanation will come at…another time. Soon though, I promise. For now, you can know that your purpose is to serve Papa as a part of his group of ghouls in the band Ghost, performing his music around the world and spreading our Dark Lord’s message. But, I think other things are more important. Such as giving you a name.”

He stood up and held a hand out to the ghoul in a mirror image of the way Copia had, but they didn’t immediately take it. Their gaze flickered between his outstretched hand and his face, which was sympathetic and kind as he looked back at them.

Am I really doing this?

They took his hand after a moment of consideration, standing on shaky legs, the stone floor scraping against their paws as they wobbled a little.

“Papa? What do you think this little one should be named?” Aether’s calloused hand dropped theirs once they were standing, and he crossed the room to Copia.

“Their skin and hair- you took notice of the patterns across them, yes? They look like constellations glowing against a twilight sky.” Copia’s eyes sparkled a little as he looked over the ghoul, seemingly taking in every single detail he could. He looked oddly excited to be around a newly summoned hellbeast.

Aether nodded his agreement, looking them over a few times. “I agree. They do look like constellations,” he acknowledged. “What about…Cygnus? It’s one of the most notable summertime constellations, and I think it fits them perfectly for the time.”

Copia tapped his chin and thought it over for a moment before finding the name appropriate. “Yes, I think that fits perfectly. Welcome to the Ministry, dear Cygnus.” He walked toward them, beaming as he opened his arms to them.

The ghoul - no, their name was Cygnus now, they had a name! - hesitated. They cleared their throat, finding their voice after a moment, making themself remember to use English and not Infernal. This wasn’t the Pit anymore.

“Thank you, Papa. I… hope you made the right choice by summoning me,” Cygnus’s voice came out quieter than they even thought it would be. A cautious wave of quintessence hit them when Aether's tail brushed against their leg, allowing them to relax just a bit more. They tilted their head at him, but he just winked and looked away.

I've never known ghouls to be kind like tha

Copia clasped his hands together, still smiling at them. “I didn't choose, my ghoul; Our Dark Lord below chooses which ghouls to send to Earth. And He never makes a mistake choosing who to send topside.”

“Now, Aether will take you down to the ghoul’s den and get you cleaned up, along with introducing you to the pack and showing you to your room,” he paused and smiled at Aether. “You’re in good hands, I promise. Don't hesitate to come find me if you ever need anything, eh?”

With that, Aether did exactly what Copia said. There were some clothes nearby in the summoning room, so he deftly helped them get dressed so they wouldn't be exposed on the walk to the den, and he apologized profusely for the way the clothes were ill-fitting.

As Aether led Cygnus through the Abbey, he made small talk, pointing out little things he thought were interesting as they passed them. “Oh! And that painting is of Papa Emeritus III, lovingly named Terzo. He came before Copia, and before Terzo were his brothers Secondo and Primo.”

His voice was wistful as they stopped to look up at the painting, eyes misty as he reminisced.

“He's the one who named me, fun fact. Some church members don't think us ghouls should have names, but he wanted to give us names to humanize us, just a little.” Aether looked back at Cygnus and elbowed them gently in the side “I think he woulda liked you. All the Emeritus brothers have had a soft spot for quintessence ghouls like us.”

Cygnus looked up at the painting as he spoke, their dusty violet cheeks turning a darker shade when he said the previous pope would have liked them.

“Can you tell me about them? The other brothers, I mean,” they added quickly. “They sound interesting…to me. I never heard much about the Emeritus line down in the Pit. Was more focused on surviving than socializing...”

The other ghoul's eyes lit up, his tail wagging slightly behind him. “I'd love to! Let's keep walking though, we're almost to the den and you're a little stinky, my dear. We can talk once I get you in the bath.”

Cygnus’s tail twitched as they made an unamused face, looking away from Aether and following close to his side as he led them to the den.

Eventually, the two came upon a large wooden door, words inscribed in gold lettering of Infernal in the middle. Ghoul Den. “Aaand here we are! Not much pizzazz on the outside, but I promise it will feel like home to you soon enough.” Aether pushed the door open and revealed a comfortable central room, with various couches and armchairs scattered about. The room showed obvious signs of being lived in, with bookshelves and tables covered in knick-knacks and personal belongings over the room and walls. Plus, a few hastily painted scorch marks and claw gouges, but they didn't question that. Ghouls will be ghouls.

On one of the couches sat a ghoulette, a cloud of white hair floating around her as she engrossed herself in something on her lap.

“Oh, you’re still up ‘Lus?” Aether asked as the two of them walked up to the couch. She perked up, hair floating through the air as she looked at the two ghouls who had entered. Cygnus slid behind Aether again, not sure if they wanted to be seen by another ghoul. Air ghouls could be two-faced beings of chaos in Hell.

“What’s it look like? Cirrus was helping Sunshine settle last I checked, but I have no idea if they’re awake. I wasn’t tired so..” she said as she gestured down to her lap, where an intricate cross-stitch project was underway.

Aether peered over her shoulder to look at her lap. “Well, I happen to have a surprise behind me~” he sing-songed, moving to the side to reveal a wide-eyed Cygnus to her.

Cumulus’s face broke out in a grin, and she was up in an instant. “New ghoul! Finally, I was wondering what took that old man so long to summon you!” Cygnus was surprised by her enthusiasm and welcoming personality, Are they all like this? they thought.

The ghoulette took their hands in hers and squeezed them. “I’m Cumulus, one of the air ghouls here. We’ve all been dying to have our other ghoul home all day, and here you are! Sunshine will want to meet you soon, too, since you were summoned right after her,” the ghoulette babbled, so bubbly and excited for an air ghoul.

Aether waved a hand in front of Cumulus’s face to get her attention, “Cumulus, I know you're excited, but let's give them some space, yeah? You can talk more if you help me get them cleaned and properly dressed.”

Cumulus dropped Cygnus’s hands in an instant, a sheepish smile on her face as she rubbed the back of her neck. “My bad, my bad. I'm always excited about new summons. But! I will be happy to help get them cleaned up.”

I like her, Cygnus thought as Cumulus and Aether led them to the communal bathroom to clean the void from them. She’s not a predator like the ones I saw back home.

I wonder if they're all like this? It's so nice and warm and…so familiar.

#cygnus.writing #the band ghost #ghost bc #dewdrop ghoul #nameless ghouls #aether ghoul #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #cumulus ghoulette #cygnus tag #short and sweet i guess? ive been keeping chaps to 1-2k min for now #NMTGTN tag

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