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roselensedeyes · 9 months

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Of tea and dreams

Hello everyone!

I hope August has been treating you well :) I'm sharing with you another elriel fic, this time we meet a special character...

You can find it on AO3 here.

CW: explicit language, NSFW

Word count: 5k

Enjoy!

Elain Archeron took a sip of her tea, frowning when she found it still too hot to drink. She placed it down on its plate. She again admired how finely it was made, the white porcelain delicately decorated with vines and irises. She wondered how much it must have cost, to afford such a marvelous tea set.

Her memories of her childhood, when her mother had still been alive and her family bathed in her father’s riches, were blurry. She had flashes of certain events, balls thrown in her or her sisters’ honor. What she could recall distinctly, however, was how she felt in those moments. She could remember feeling happy when she tended to her garden, her beautiful flowers could have passed for a painting her younger sister Feyre painted. She recalled attending balls with her sisters and their mother, watching her older sister Nesta dance with such mastery that made it seem easy. She could remember giggling with her friends when the guy she liked noticed her and told her she was pretty.

And then their wealth was taken away with vanished ships and her father’s broken leg.

Even though she wasn’t living in poverty anymore, Elain couldn’t shake off the memories of those years, the hunger and the cold. After Feyre had welcomed her and Nesta in her and her mate, the High Lord of the Night Court, Rhysand’s manor, she had begun to learn how to grow vegetables and fruit, as well as to bake and even a little cooking. She was terrified of waking up and realizing it had all been a dream, and she was still living in that freezing cottage, with little food and even less money.

Elain was reflecting on that as she was sipping her tea with Bethane, the elder Fae whose garden she tended to. Bethane had fast become her friend in the months since she first started helping her, despite their differences. The first being their age.

Yet that had not mattered, not at all, when they had much more things in common, like their passion for flowers, sweets, and tea. That they were both seers had helped them become even closer.

After being thrown into the Cauldron, it was revealed that Elain was a seer, had the ability to see the present as well as the future. Initially, she’d refused to acknowledge the truth, but soon realized that her power was needed for the ongoing war. So she’d sucked it up, and did as she was asked. After the war was over, though, she’d ignored the brief and confusing visions she’d at times get, and tried to live the normal life she always dreamed of having.

“You’re quiet today, Elain,” Bethane observed, her dark eyebrows slightly raised. Bethane was supposedly an elderly citizen, yet you couldn’t tell from her appearance. Her honeyed-colored skin was smooth, no wrinkles in sight, while her chestnut brown hair barely had any gray in it.

“I’m only tired. I couldn’t fall asleep last night,” Elain admitted.

“Did someone keep you company?” Bethane subtly asked, her eyes turning inquisitive.

Elain blushed deeply. Even after two years of living among the Fae, she still hadn’t gotten used to some of their customs, or quirks. Like their nonchalance regarding sex. Elain was no virgin, yet still she found she couldn’t discuss sex as freely as the Fae and her sisters did. She knew everyone thought her a prude, but she could still remember the teachings her mother and grandmother had instilled in her, and she couldn’t ignore them. For so long she had believed her discipline would ensure she’d find a good man who would protect her and make sure she’d live a happy life. Now, although she knew it wasn’t the truth, she found herself unable to break free from those teachings.

“Ah, well… No.” She paused, trying to find the right words. “I was thinking about someone, though.”

Bethane threw her a curious look. “Do tell.”

Elain felt her cheeks get even warmer. “Well, I’m afraid it’s not a story you will like. He broke my heart,” she said, quietly.

A protective look shone on Bethane’s face. “What fool would dare do that to you?” She asked, before adding, “Apart from your human man. Are you still thinking about him?” She sounded offended.

Elain gave a small chuckle. “No, I’m not. Someone else, a Fae male, did. Pathetic, isn’t it,” She admitted with a self-deprecating laugh.

Bethane shook her head fiercely. “You’re not, stop that. He’s a fool, he has no idea who he let go.” She reached forward and grabbed her hand. “Don’t wallow in self-pity, dear. You’re beautiful, but more than that you’re smart, and you’re kind. If a male can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve you.”

Elain’s heart squeezed at her kind words. She’d always been called beautiful, since she was a child. She’d never been told her other qualities were more important than that, though.

She smiled gratefully at Bethane, inclining her head.

“Anyway, if you want a good male then you should go out with my son,” Bethane continued. Elain huffed out a laugh. The older female had been trying to set the two up since their first meeting. Too bad Elain had set her eyes on a hazel-eyed male, who, apparently, did not share her feelings.

It had been five months since that almost kiss with Azriel, the Illyrian Fae who had stolen her heart and crushed it with just a few words. She’d never told Bethane that she had fallen for Rhysand’s Spymaster. He was renowned, not only in the Night Court, but in the rest of Prythian, too. She knew Bethane had heard of him at least, so she’d never revealed her infatuation. Hadn’t told her about that fateful Winter Solstice night, either.

“He’s quiet, like you, a bit aloof perhaps, but he will tr–” She was cut off by a loud whoosh, as heavy feet landed near the table.

Elain yelped, yet Bethane didn’t do anything but roll her eyes in an affectionate way. She raised from her chair and approached whoever had crushed their afternoon tea.

“You could have told me you were coming! You interrupted my tea and scared my guest,” Bethane scolded, even as she wrapped her arms around the much bigger figure.

The figure let out a masculine chuckle, and something about it sounded familiar to Elain. She inclined her head, confused, just as Bethane turned around, allowing Elain to get a clear view of the male.

“Elain, let me introduce you to my son, Azriel,” she said excitedly.

Elain sat frozen, her eyes wide as they took in Azriel. As her brain tried to make sense of the words. My son, Azriel. The woman she’d come to think of as her confidante, her friend, was Azriel’s mother. They murmured hellos, still too shocked to say anything more.

“We were just talking about you, Az,” Bethane went on, not noticing the tension between her son and Elain.

Elain mustered a shaky smile when the older woman turned toward her. Azriel, on his part, stood ramrod still, his eyes fixed on Elain. She wasn’t sure if he was even breathing.

His mother– his mother— tugged on his hand. “Come sit down with us.”

Elain slid her chair backward. “Oh, no, I can just leave. I don’t want to intrude on your time.” She made to leave, but Bethane waved a hand and signaled she should sit down.

“Nonsense. You were already here, you’re not the intruder.”

She glanced at Azriel, even as she sat back down and smiled at his mother.

Bethane waved a hand in the air, a calling, and sure enough a servant appeared. She asked him to pour a cup of tea for Azriel, ignoring his weak protests.

The older woman watched him until he took the smallest sip of his tea, to which she nodded, satisfied.

“I’m so happy you two finally met. You’re my two favorite people in all of Prythian,” Bethane exclaimed, elation clear in her voice.

Elain glanced at Azriel again, and found him already looking at her. He quickly looked away, setting his eyes on his mother. “I’m happy to see you again. I’m sorry I haven’t been around recently, I’ve been busy.”

“No one is ever too busy for their mother,” Bethane said in lieu of a reply. “But let’s not change the topic. Az, have I ever told you about the nice young woman who gives me a hand with my garden?”

Azriel’s scarred hand tightened on the teacup. “I think you mentioned it once or twice,” he said, eyes still fixed on his mother.

“Right, I think I did. Elain is the young woman. She’s incredible at what she does!” Bethane exclaimed.

“I know,” Azriel nodded, then seemed to think about what he said because he added, “From what you’ve told me and what I can see.” He threw her a quick glance, before refocusing on Bethane.

“She was just telling me about how a male rejected her. What a fool,” the older woman said, shaking her head in disbelief.

Azriel choked on his next sip. Then he started coughing. The dark-haired female reached over and gently patted him on the back, a concerned look on her face.

“Are you alright, dear?”

He nodded, his head moving so fast Elain feared he might break his neck. “It just went down the wrong pipe,” he explained, still coughing. He’d brought his hand against his mouth, unconsciously flexing his muscled arm. Elain stared at it appreciatively.

“Oh, thank god. Anyway, the guy is a real jerk, Elain. You will find better, I’m sure of it,” Bethane turned toward, nodding along with what she was saying.

Elain felt a blush make its way up her neck. This time she was the one who refused to look at him, though she could feel Azriel burning a hole through her. She needed a change of topic, immediately.

She glanced at the window. “Oh Mother. I’ve been here for a long time already. I promised my sister I would watch her baby tonight, so she and her husband can go on a much-needed date.”

Not a lie, not entirely. She had promised to babysit Nyx for a few hours, tomorrow night. The identity of her family, of who her sisters actually were, was another thing she’d kept from Bethane. Every time she’d introduce herself as Elain Archeron, people would make the connection to Feyre and Nesta and start treating her differently, almost like she was a famous singer or writer. She’d try to explain she didn’t need any special treatment, that she was just Elain, but they wouldn’t hear a word about it. Someone had even dared to bow to Elain’s greatest horror. So she hadn’t uttered a word about it to Bethane, only introducing herself as Elain the gardener, Elain the seer. She’d felt ashamed about lying to the elder female like that, but it was the price for her friendship. She’d paid it without a second thought.

Bethane’s eyes lit up at the mention of Nyx, even though she obviously didn’t know that was her sister’s baby’s name. No, Bethane thought he was called Matthew.

“Then you should go. Hopefully one day I will get to meet him,” said the elderly female. A strange light danced in her eyes, something that made Elain’s arms break out in goosebumps. It didn’t sound like a wish, but… more like a promise.

Elain gracefully got up from her chair, and nodded at Bethane. “Thank you again for the tea. I’ll come by in two weeks to assess the lilies, and we’ll decide what to do with it.” The other female replied affirmatively, and Elain headed toward the door. Bethane’s voice stopped her.

“Let Azriel fly you, dear. The sun is about to set, I don’t want you walking alone in the dark.”

Elain scrambled for something to say. “But–But he’s just arrived, don’t you want to spend time with your son?”

Bethane waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about that. He’ll come by tomorrow, isn’t that right, Az?” Her question was more of a statement, one Azriel couldn’t escape from.

He seemed to realize that, too, as he nodded slowly, glaring at his mother, who glared right back. Elain observed the silent exchange between mother and son, and yearned for that connection. Her mother had never liked her, that she knew, but she still wished for that kind of relationship. She turned her head to the side, to hide from the pain the sight gave her.

Until someone brushed her finger. She looked up, startled, and found Azriel staring at her, gently yet grimly. She wondered if he knew he was the male who had broken her heart and then stomped on it, or if he’d even forgotten the whole exchange.

He’d started coming to the family dinners again, always sitting as far away from her as possible. She knew it was intentional at first— she avoided him like the plague, too— yet now she wondered if throughout the months it had become an instinct. Her heart squeezed painfully again.

“Can I?” He asked softly, gesturing toward the sky.

Elain nodded, not trusting her voice. He attempted a smile, and took her in his arms. Within seconds, they were up in the air.

The view was spectacular, the hues of the sky so beautiful they seemed like they were painted. She could hear children laugh in the distance, the music sounding from pubs that opened early. Yet as Elain’s arms circled Azriel’s neck, all her mind could focus on was that she was in his arms again, for the first time in what felt like years. She could hear his heart beating, fast, which she attributed to the flight. She didn’t have wings, couldn’t shapeshift like her younger sister Feyre, but she reckoned it must take some strength and concentration. She wondered if he could hear her own heart beating fast, wondered if he knew why it was beating as though it was poised to explode.

They landed at the town house, where Elain currently lived. She spent most of her time at the river house with Feyre and Rhysand, to help them with baby Nyx when they were too exhausted, or help with the food, but Rhysand had generously given her the town house when she’d told them she was looking for her own place. She had moved in six weeks after Nyx was born, and it was slowly becoming her home.

Azriel placed her delicately on the foyer, and took a step back. He cleared his throat, making Elain look up at him. “Thank you.”

Elain’s face must have shown her confusion because he hurried to clarify, “For my mother. For helping her.”

“Oh, there’s no need to thank me,” Elain waved a hand in the air. “You know I like gardening.”

“I’m not– you’ve been doing a lot more than that. In the past few months, I’ve seen my mother happier than ever. Now I know it’s thanks to you.” A strange light shone in his beautiful hazel eyes.

“I’m— I didn’t do anything special. It’s— just tea,” she said, softly.

Azriel shook his head. “No, it’s not. Thank you,” he repeated.

Elain smiled slightly. Silence fell between them, and just when Elain thought he was leaving, he spoke again. “I’m sorry.” It was nothing more than a whisper. She wouldn’t have heard him if it wasn’t for her Fae hearing.

“What for?”

He took a step closer, so close she could feel his body heat. Her breath caught in her throat. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “For what happened on Solstice.”

A buzzing sound ringed in her ears. She froze, and he took the opportunity to slide even closer. His scarred hand landed on her waist. Azriel’s eyes locked on her own.

“I never should have lied to you.” Elain could feel her heart breaking again at his words. Why was he doing this to her?

“It’s fine,” she said, attempting to break free of his hold. His hand tightened on her waist, not enough to hurt her, but tight enough that she wouldn’t be able to leave.

“It’s not fine. I made you believe I had no feelings for you, told you kissing you was a mistake. But it’s not. It could never be,” Azriel said, pronouncing the words clearly, not allowing her to misunderstand what he was saying.

Elain was sure her heart had stopped beating. She couldn’t breathe properly, her hands shaking so bad she had to clench them in a fist.

“I should have never said those things to you, I should have never listened to— Elain, please,” he begged, as his hand went up to her cheek, never lifting his touch. “Believe me when I say how ashamed I am. How sorry I am. It was all lies.”

Elain shook her head, and made to take a step back. This time, he let her go. “I– I’m– I don’t know what to say,” she murmured. She looked him in the eyes again, and although she could read honesty in them, she was still unsure.

Taking a deep breath, Elain said, “I don’t know what to believe. Five months ago you broke my heart, and now you’re saying it was a lie? Why? Why would you do that to me? Why would you tell me now?”

Elain Archeron was known for being quiet, kind, mellow, a people pleaser. Yet in that moment, all she could feel was hot fury sizzling in her veins. How dare he? Azriel’s eyes widened.

“Was it a joke to you? Was I a joke to you? What even is the truth?” She was almost yelling, yet unshed tears blurred her sight. She refused to let them out, refused to let him see how badly he still hurt her.

Yet Azriel didn’t back down like she thought he would, didn’t retreat. No, he moved toward her again, slowly backing her against the wall. Until she could do nothing but look him in the eye, the ire in hers complementing the determination in his.

“The truth is I’m irrevocably in love with you. For almost my entire life I thought I knew what that word meant, but it turns out I had no idea. At night I find myself having to restrain myself from coming here, from kissing you like I should have five months ago. At the family dinners, I have to sit as far from you as possible because I don’t trust that I won’t take you in my arms and fly us to a faraway place, where no one can find us.

“The truth is, I find myself yearning to spend my days with you. I want to listen to you talk about your garden, your visions, I want to know all about you. I want to help Nuala and Cerridwen train you. But most importantly, I want to give all of myself, all that I am to you.

“When my mother said I broke your heart… I know I did, and at the time I thought staying away from you was the better choice for you, but hearing it— it almost felt like someone stabbed me.” Azriel’s voice broke, and his eyes were veiled with tears. “Elain, please believe me when I say you showed me what being in love truly feels like. Even if you can’t find it in yourself to forgive me, I want to thank you for this gift.”

Elain was crying, freely, unashamedly. Growing up, she’d been courted by many men, many times. They would read poetry to her, bring her flowers, some would even sing. No one had poured their heart out like Azriel just had.

Azriel raised his hand and carefully wiped the tears from her eyes, her cheeks. She closed her eyelids. The feeling of his touch sent shivers down her spine, a gasp escaping her mouth. Azriel’s glance immediately fell to her lips, his eyes darkening. She shivered again.

Elain leaned forward. “I don’t want to talk now. But you owe me a kiss.” And with that, she sealed her lips over his.

Azriel let out a deep moan. It was the push she needed to open her mouth, her tongue meeting his. He groaned, one of his hands slid to the back of her head, the other fell to the small of her back. She pressed her front against his, and the friction between his broad, muscled chest and her breasts made her moan. He took that as an invitation, his hand sliding down to her leg. He lifted her up, carried her to the bedroom, laid her down on the bed.

Elain looked up at Azriel, the heat in his eyes matching her own. She took him in, her gaze following his big arms, his toned legs, the thick hardness that was visible through his shorts. She instinctively squeezed her legs shut. His eyes flashed at the sight.

Yet he didn’t come on the bed. “Are you sure?” He asked her, his voice rough, deep.

“Yes, please,” she begged him. “We will talk. Later,” she promised. Azriel seemed to study her, but eventually nodded and followed her on the bed. She smiled against her lips, which quickly turned into another moan.

He brought his mouth down to her breasts, while his hand found her wetness. He groaned, the vibrations sending her another wave of pleasure. She gripped his hair until he raised his head. His dilated pupils made it impossible to see the color of his eyes. He was flushed, pleasure and desire clear on his face. She kissed him again as he pushed a finger inside her. They both moaned at the feeling, and he broke the kiss. Azriel left peppermint kisses on her neck, her chest, her stomach, until he reached that sweet spot between her thighs.

Elain leaned back into the sheets as he kissed her, again and again, until she was writhing in pleasure. Until she screamed his name and collapsed in the bed. He was immediately there, kissing her softly on the mouth. She barely managed to kiss him back, her legs shaking. “I need you inside me,” she whispered against his lips. He sucked in a breath. She smiled.

She got up to her knees and gently pulled him down. Azriel’s eyes flared, understanding what she meant to do. She climbed over him, her hand reaching behind her to grab his hardness. Elain placed it near her entrance and, staring him straight in the eyes, slid down on it.

It was pure ecstasy. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back as she started moving slowly, Azriel’s hands on her waist guiding her. The room was filled by their moans and short breaths, the sound of their bodies joined together, Elain’s whispered pleas for more, more, more.

She collapsed on top of him just as he came, inside her, filling her.

Azriel took her in his arms and laid them down on the bed. He stroked her hair as he kissed every inch of her face, murmuring sweet nothings. She smiled in pure bliss, nuzzling his hands, the feeling of being in his strong arms lulling her to sleep.

Elain awoke a couple of minutes later to a warm, wet cloth cleaning her. She caught Azriel’s eyes and they both smiled at the other.

“Go back to sleep, love. I’ll be back soon,” he said quietly. Elain did as he said.

Hours later, as they cuddled in bed, Azriel began speaking.

He told her of his childhood, of the torture he was subjected to at the hands of his half-brothers.

They both cried at that, Azriel pressing his face against her breasts as Elain cradled him like she did with Nyx. Then it was her turn, she told him of growing up believing she was nothing more than a pretty face to be sold to the highest bidder. She told him how Graysen was the first choice she’d made for herself, and how she’d believed for months after he humiliated her, that maybe her mother and Nesta were right, that she couldn’t make her own choices. Nuala and Cerridwen had made her see the truth.

They talked some more, until finally he told her about his mother.

“Mine wasn’t a lucky guess,” Azriel admitted. “The more you talked about your visions, the more I realized what you were. I recognized the look on your face you’d get when a vision came to you– it was the same one I’d see on my mother’s face. I went to talk to her, told her about you, and she confirmed my guess.”

Elain listened as he recounted his boyhood with Bethane– when he was allowed to see her– and how they’d caught up on the lost moments after he’d escaped his father’s house.

Azriel confessed what had stopped him from kissing her on Solstice. She’d felt anger toward Rhysand, but she couldn’t fault him, not entirely. For Azriel and their future children, should they have them, she would do anything. No, she couldn’t blame him at all.

They talked until the night sky turned into early dawn, when they fell asleep, hugging each other as though they might disappear, as though this was all a dream.

Two weeks later, Elain was again at Bethane’s manor. Rosehall, she found out it was called.

She’d spent two hours in the garden trying to find out why the lilies were dying, and then trying to fix it when she detected the issue. Bethane, Azriel’s mother, had not been home when she’d arrived, but left instructions to proceed with the work.

She’d come home an hour later, leaving Elain to her work. Elain was anxious to talk to her friend, but she was not about to do a sloppy job.

Now they were seated in the tearoom that oversaw the blooming garden, in the same positions as last time. This time, Bethane wore a different look on her face. Her features were sharper, controlled.

Elain opened her mouth, wanting to ask her how her weeks had gone, if she’d gotten more visitors, yet what came out was, “You knew.” It wasn’t an accusation, it was a fact. A truth she only realized now, sitting in front of the older female.

Bethane took a sip of her tea, even though Elain knew it was too hot. Azriel’s mother leaned back in her chair. “You have to be more specific, dear. What do you think I knew?”

Elain narrowed her brown eyes. “You knew who I was. You knew who my sister is, you knew I knew your son, and you knew he was the guy who rejected me. What I don’t know is when you figured it out. Was it when I told you I’m a seer, and you remembered Azriel coming to you about a once-human-now-Fae female, with a power similar to yours?” She challenged.

Bethane’s features remained the same, not at all concerned by the words. “It wasn’t hard to guess. There’s not many once-human-now-Fae females around. Actually, I think there’s only three. And I’d heard from other villagers that one of those three, who happened to be the sister of our High Lady, was a gardener. Imagine my surprise when you appeared on my front porch.”

Elain ignored that other piece of truth. “But why? Why did you not tell me you knew who I was? Was it… Was it a joke?” There was pain in her voice, just as a wounded look glinted in her deer-like eyes.

“No, dear. It wasn’t like that. When you showed up at my door, you had this expectant look on your face… It was clear to me you feared I’d treat you differently, that I wouldn’t allow you to do any work. You needed to escape from reality, and that’s what I chose to be for you.” She leaned forward and grabbed Elain’s hands, drawing invisible circles with her fingers. “I had a vision, months before your first visit. I saw my son, Azriel, smiling in pure contentment. He was standing near a bed, his arm encircling someone’s petite shoulders. You were half-sitting on the bed, a tired yet elated look on your face. You were holding a small, bundled cloth— a baby. Yours and Azriel’s baby. I didn’t know you back then, but from that frame alone I could see, I could feel how happy you made him. I only helped you come closer.” Bethane explained, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Elain sat frozen, her hand to her mouth. She knew her own eyes mirrored the older female’s, her sight blurry. Her mind kept replaying the words pronounced by Bethane. She didn’t know when the vision would take place, or if it would even prove true– there had been cases, Bethane had explained to her one afternoon, where the visions had proven a missed possibility, a what-if scenario only known to seers— yet something told her it would. In a few years, yes… but it would.

“You can’t blame an old female for wanting to ensure she gets grandchildren, can you?” Elain laughed at Bethane’s attempt to make the room lighter, a few tears escaping. Happy tears. “No, I really can’t.” She shook her head. “Well, then I guess you will be happy to hear that Azriel and I have been spending more time together.”

The older female’s features now split open in a huge smile. “Did he apologize?” Elain blushed. “He did, he sure did.” Flashes of the creative ways he’d come up with to apologize to her danced in her mind, but she quickly waved them away. It was not the time.

“Thank you, Bethane. For everything you did, for me, your son, us. Being your friend has been an honor, my saving grace in these dark months.”

Bethane blinked rapidly. “Thank you, for everything,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

They drank their tea in silence, enjoying the warm weather. At some point, Azriel joined them. He took a quick look at their tear-stricken faces and watery eyes and went still. “Is everything alright?” He asked them, worried.

The two females looked at each other and smiled. “Yes, it couldn’t be better.”

#elriel #elriel fic #elriel fanfic #elain archeron #azriel #feyre archeron #rhysand #nyx #azriel's mom #rosehall #acotar #i forgot about lucien #sorry

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ofduskanddreams · 9 months

Text

This Lovely Enigma

For @catboyjamesbond. The prompt: Royalty AU Azris, Eris is king and needs a consort. Azriel is the one who catches his eye.

Azris ✦ Rated M ✦ 2.5k words (yeah ik) ✦ on AO3

"The Ruler shall take a consort within a year of their coronation lest they forfeit the title to the Heir. The Crown is too heavy a burden to bear alone."

Eris knows that particular stipulation so well that he sees it in his dreams and behind his eyelids whenever he blinks.

His crown hits the ornately carved walnut throne with a dull thud as Eris looks to the paned glass dome of the ceiling above the dais in the empty throne room and groans.

A wry laugh echoes from his left, “Ah, let me guess: woe is me, I am but a king facing the truly arduous task of choosing a partner from a selection of the most competent and beautiful of my subjects.”

Callan has been Eris’s most loyal guard for nearly a decade. Eris would never allow such flippant sarcasm in public or from any other member of his staff, but Callan is the closest thing he has to a friend, not counting Eris’s brothers.

“I just don’t understand why my ancestors felt that such a useless clause would be one of the few immovable laws. Why do I need a consort in order to keep the title that is rightfully mine? I’ve been perfectly fine on my own so far,” Eris allows a granule of petulance to lace his words.

Cal just smiles and softly shakes his head. It’s unsettling to witness because that gesture is identical to one his mother often makes.

“There’s nothing that can be done to change it, you know that. It’s been six months since your father’s passing—stars smile gently on his soul even though he was a right bastard—and now that the mourning period is coming to a close you know you can’t afford to waste another minute. This way you are giving yourself a little time to get to know them at least.”

“If I meet them today,” Eris points out, tracing the vines carved into the throne’s arm with a ringed finger.

Knowing it’s better to voice his feelings than quash them, Eris sighs and begrudgingly continues the thought, “What if I can’t stand any of the people I meet today? Aren’t they all the children of the gentry? I don’t care about liking them, but I need to be able to tolerate them. You know how I hate sycophants, and that’s all they’re going to be—hoping that they can woo their way into the royal family and a better title.”

“Defeatism does not suit you, dear.” Serafina Vanserra, the Queen Mother, approaches the throne at an elegant glide.

Eris rises and descends the three steps of the dais. “And black did not suit you, Mother. It’s wonderful to see you in color again.”

She’s donned a wine-red gown for the occasion, the rich color making her fair skin appear lit from within. The black they’d been wearing always made her look sickly pale. This, Eris thinks, is a very welcome change.

Her lightly painted lips tug up in a smirk. “Flattery, while always welcome, will not divert my attention, Eris. Try having a little more faith in humanity. Giving up before the race has begun is the quickest way to ensure defeat.”

“I know,” Eris agrees. She’s right, of course, she is. He knows that he frequently walks the line between realism and pessimism and, while such an attitude guarantees that he is always prepared for worst-case scenarios and puts secondary measures in place for every plan, it is not an ideal outlook for the day ahead of him.

His mother raises a brow, waiting.

“I promise to try,” Eris tells her. “I wouldn’t have bothered setting up this whole affair if I did not intend to make an attempt. It would have been far more efficient to simply select a name from a list but, believe it or not, my heart is not made of stone.”

“I know that, darling.” Her hand is soft and warm, the touch to his cheek a brief allowance of the affection that they’d been denied for so many years. “But it’s my hope that you will permit others to learn this as well.”

The ‘now that he’s gone’ hangs unspoken in the air between them.

“I hope so too,” Eris replies. It’s the best he can do while remaining honest.

Hope, an ember banked for years upon years has, against every odd, retained its glow. Eris might even go as far as to say that, since his father’s death, the ember has sparked a flame.

✦ ✦ ✦

Azriel tries his best to hold still while his mother fusses with his jacket collar, but he’s restless.

“There,” Zahra smiles proudly as she steps to the side so he can view his reflection in the long mirror.

He scarcely recognizes the man staring back at him. His typically unruly hair is swept back off his forehead and tamed by something that smells faintly sweet. The clothes he’s wearing are finer than anything he’s owned before. The jacket is sapphire blue, laced up the back in gold—the same gold laces that begin at his wrists and end at his forearms.

He’d thought the process of donning the garment ridiculously complicated, but Azriel can’t help thinking that the effect might be worth the effort. He looks… elegant? Everything is tighter than he’s used to. The jacket clings to the curve of his waist, and the breadth of his shoulders. The trousers are impossibly soft and fit like a second skin. His boots are supple black leather and buffed to a shine.

It’s not just the clothes though. What really makes his reflection so foreign is the tint on his lips and cheeks, making it appear like he’s slightly flushed; it’s the hint of kohl smudged into his lashes and bringing a new brightness to his eyes.

“My beautiful boy, my Azriel. Look at you,” his mother murmurs and the rosiness of his cheeks darkens at the sheer pride in her voice.

“Thank you,” for this, for everything. The emotional rasp of his words embarrasses him.

It’s a public secret that Azriel is Lord Blackwell’s bastard despite his father’s begrudging formal claim. He’s certain that, had the decision been left to his father alone, he would have turned them out on the street. It had only been his paternal grandmother, to whom his mother was and is chief caregiver, threatening to change her will and cut him off that made the lord claim Azriel as his own.

Sometimes, less often now than when he was young, Azriel wonders if life may have been better had they been forced to fend for themselves. It’s a notion he quickly shakes off. Who’s to say what could have happened? It was pointless to dwell upon.

“I’ve raised you for this, there’s no need to be anxious.” She takes his fidgeting hands in her own, thumbs tracing arcs over the pale web of scars.

“I know,” Azriel assures her, dropping her hands with a squeeze to pull on his gloves. Knowing that he is thoroughly prepared has no effect on how he feels though.

Only a fool wouldn’t be nervous before being presented as a potential consort to the king.

Azriel has caught glimpses of the then-prince now-king over the years, but there’s one memory that stands above all the rest:

He was five and hiding from his brothers. Azriel had wandered into the stable as he often did and climbed the rickety ladder into the hayloft.

Unlike all those previous afternoons spent up there, however, the hayloft was already occupied. A red-haired boy was sitting on his heels on the far side, his hand outstretched to something in the hay.

“What are you doing?” Azriel asked as he approached.

The boy startled, his honey-colored eyes narrowing at Azriel. “Who are you?”

“My name is Azriel. Who are you?”

“You don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?”

The boy had laughed then and beckoned him over to come see.

One of the barn cats had given birth to a litter of kittens. Azriel forgot all about his brothers as they passed the afternoon watching the kittens stumble around each other as their mother took turns licking them down.

It was only after the boy left that Azriel realized he’d never been told his name.

The next time he saw the boy, a few months later, he was crossing the west courtyard with his mother.

“Bow!” She hissed at him, dropping into a graceful curtsey as the boy and two guards walked past them. Azriel bent at the waist, waiting for his mother to rise before straightening his spine.

“Who was that, Mother?”

She looked at him, astonished. “That was Prince Eris. One day he will be our king.”

“Oh.”

It’s childish but, as Azriel makes his way down to the carriage his grandmother has arranged to take him to the palace, he can’t help wondering if Eris will remember him. If, maybe, he will look at Azriel and be reminded of golden dust motes and the sweet smell of hay just as Azriel is whenever he sees the king.

He chides himself for being foolish as the carriage trundles through the city streets. He cannot afford to let something as asinine as sentiment distract him. This is his only opportunity to secure a better life for his mother, and he refuses to jeopardize it because of one afternoon a lifetime ago, even if that afternoon is one of the best he’s ever had.

✦ ✦ ✦

Eris smiles politely as the next prospect is introduced. The firstborn of Lord Arminta has an education overseen by a herd of tutors and an admittedly impressive number of instruments they play proficiently. They’re beautiful in the way a painting is beautiful—attention grabbing and pleasing to the eye—but Eris carries out a brief conversation with them as he has with everyone else who has been escorted through the throne room doors and feels nothing.

As they go to join the other dozen prospects already milling about the refreshment tables, Eris leans over to ask his mother, “How many more are there?”

“You’re about halfway through.”

Eris swallows his groan, kings aren’t allowed. Callan’s posted by the doors and Eris looks at him with a subtle nod, signifying that he should send the next one in.

A hush falls over the room as the doors swing open to reveal what may just be the most striking person Eris has ever seen. Familiarity nags at him but he can’t recall why.

“Azriel Blackwell, he is the son of Lord Blackwell,” his mother supplies as she’s done for all the others.

Azriel.

Somehow he knows that name, but he’s too distracted by the sight of his present to wonder about the past. Sharp hazel eyes watch him from a face that would not have been out of place on one of the statues in the sculpture gallery. This is a man who has been crafted by a mastered and magnanimous hand. His clothes are well-tailored, hinting at the power of lean muscles and showcasing elegantly proportioned limbs.

The way he moves, grace belying strength, reminds Eris of a mountain lion, and yet those lovely eyes betray him. He’s not as confident as he is pretending to be, but Eris can hardly fault him for that.

Before the thought is fully formed, Eris stands as Azriel stops before the dais. He’s remained seated for the others but something is urging him to go to him so he does.

Azriel’s eyes widen before they drop to the floor, and he quickly folds into a bow.

Eris doesn’t stop until he’s only an arm’s length away. “Rise,” he bids. His voice is softer than intended.

Azriel does, but his eyes remain fixed on Eris’s boots. Eris is only an inch or two taller than him which is a nice change.

“Have we met before?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Once, when we were children.” Azriel’s voice is rich and smooth, and Eris grins a little because he finds it pleasing.

“Azriel,” Eris ponders aloud. It’s a beautiful name, unusual too. So why can’t he… “Kittens in the hayloft.”

Finally, Azriel looks up at him and there’s a questioning intensity in his gaze that sends a thrill up Eris’s spine. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Eris’s smile widens, and he dares to hope it’s that expression which causes a soft grin to spread on Azriel’s face.

“By the stars,” Eris muses, scarcely resisting the urge to trace the curve of Azriel’s lower lip with his thumb, to press and see if that mouth would open to him.

“Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” Azriel inquires carefully.

“Far from it.” It’s just that his memory of a small scrawny boy with dirt on his forehead and a scraped knee poking through a hole in his trousers is difficult to reconcile with the person who stands before him now. “You’re rather exquisite, you know.”

This time, Eris allows himself an indulgence. He brushes a dark curl off Azriel’s forehead where it had fallen out of place with his bow.

Whether Azriel’s beautiful blush is the result of the compliment or Eris’s touch, Eris doesn’t care—either is a delightful prospect.

“Your Majesty is too kind,” Azriel says, dipping his head as if it will conceal the color on his golden brown cheeks.

“I assure you I am no such thing,” Eris huffs a laugh. “But if you fear my words are contrived, allow me to press upon you the sincerity of my confession over tea?”

“Tea, Your Majesty?” Azriel looks confused and Eris thinks it’s rather adorable.

“Yes.” Eris glances over his shoulder, giving his mother a pointed look which is met with a pleased grin. “I’m very curious to learn more about you, Azriel. If you’ll do me the honor of joining me?” On impulse, Eris holds out his hand.

“The honor is mine, Your Majesty. I find myself plagued by a similar curiosity.” There’s a hint of a smirk in Azriel’s polite smile, an edge of something that Eris cannot wait to unearth.

Azriel takes his hand but, to Eris’s dismay, he’s wearing gloves. That won’t do. Eris needs this man’s skin beneath his fingers. He takes Azriel’s wrist in one hand and tugs off the glove with the other, bowing to press a lingering kiss to his scarred knuckles.

Eris’s thumb trails over the ridges and divots. When he glances up at Azriel, he’s surprised to see the man’s eyes wide in horror. That won’t do either.

Of course, Eris had anticipated that he’d worn the gloves for a reason, but he didn’t care about how the scars felt though he was curious to know how they got there and knew he wouldn’t like the eventual answer.

Holding Azriel’s gaze, Eris lifts his hand to his lips this time. “Beautiful,” he says, then kisses the word into the scarred skin.

Azriel inhales sharply; the sound wavering a little even as the tense set of his shoulders vanishes.

Not yet willing to release this lovely enigma named Azriel, Eris tucks his hand into the crook of his elbow. “Shall we get that tea, then?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Azriel says, fingers flexing on Eris’s arm.

Oh yes, I intend to be.

“The pleasure,” Eris lets some of the hunger stirring in his gut fill his gaze, “is all mine, Azriel.”

✦ ✦ ✦

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