#Casting kallax on ye

[creepyscritches]

Yaaay my new shelves arrive today and I might actually get all my yarn put away. The art cabineting....2!

Come to my home if you need any fucking art supplies. Anyone who asks for something is led by the hand into my in-home Michael's and receives a deranged tour thru the trenches. I contained the traditional art supplies....I WILL subdue the yarn

[fieldofdaisiies]

azriel x eris | 2,6k words | warnings: mentions of abuse | masterlist

“Can you do that for me? Eris, please.” Her long, cold fingers curl around her son’s warm hand. A few faint scars adorn the back of her own hands, her knuckles white from how tightly she is holding onto him. Her calluses from all the work in the garden she used to do and all the knitting for her sons brush his skin.

Imala’s chest rises with a breath that feels too heavy, her shoulders drooping with each one that follows. “Just a few of them for either of them.”

Eris slowly bows his head, his auburn gaze focused on his mother’s eyes, his face, though, unreadable, emotionless. He lets his eyes run over her face, her sunken cheeks. 

The Autumn Court heir got most of his looks from his mother – the red hair, the shape of his eyes, though, the colour differs from hers. While his mother’s orbs are russet, just like he remembers Lucien‘s eyes to be, his own are amber. The same colour as Zen‘s eyes. As Kallax’s eyes. 

But most of his facial features, the sharp edges, the clean cuts, the slimness, are from his mother. He inherited them from her. Thank the Cauldron, he did – Eris couldn’t live with seeing a similar version of his father whenever he looks into the mirror.

“Promise me, you will—”

Eris kisses her forehead. “Yes, mother, I promise. I will put the flowers on their graves, a few for either of them.” His hand rests on her shoulder, and he can feel her bones against his palm. The hollowness of her face is something that has unnerved him for a while, her sunken cheeks, the dark circles beneath her empty eyes. She needs to eat – she needs to eat more. And she needs to rest. She is getting weak and he can’t let this happen. He needs his mother to be strong. She needs to fight. Only until he can rescue her. Get her out of this place. Change things for good. Make her feel alive again. But she needs to fight now. Be strong now. He knows she is strong, has always been, but she can’t give up now. 

The Autumn Court prince carefully takes the flowers from his mother’s hand, gently, carefully, to not break off the heads, and tucks them into the pocket on the inside of his jacket.

Beron’s mustn’t find out about it. The High Lord doesn’t forbid it, but he also doesn’t like it when they put flowers on Eris‘ late brothers‘ graves. He finds it a waste of time. Useless. They are dead, why still put flowers on their graves?

Eris doesn’t know if Beron also misses them. He thinks so. Or rather, he hopes so. They were his sons after all. 

“Will you say a few words to them as well? Just—”

“Isn’t dinner ready yet, or what are you two doing here? Scheming and planning?“

Beron’s demeanour seems tense, his broad shoulders squared, thick brows bunched, lips slightly pursed. His eyes pierce holes into their bodies when he scans his family members. 

Beron is truly warped by fear. Since the day Lucien was born he hasn’t given Imala his full trust, but he is also starting to mistrust Eris, the closeness between his eldest and mother always having been a thorn in his side. He doesn’t like it. Has never liked it. 

The High Lord lets his eyes run over both of them again, something – suspicion or fear – glinting in his eyes.

“We were just talking.” Imala steps away from her son, her hand not leaving his, though. “Dinner is already on the table.” Her tone is cautious, but steadfast. Over the years – the centuries – spent in this cruel place, with a lethal male at her side, she has learned how to talk to him. There is no use for showing fear, for trepidation. He would ignore it anyway. Or make use of it to his benefit.

The High Lord only grunts in response, strutting past them with long steps and then into the dining hall of the Forest House, leaving a cool chill behind in the corridor. Even the sconces on the walls flicker. 

Beron claims his seat at the end of the table and stretches out his long legs, palms placed flat on the table, and then he waits. To be served.

The big chandelier casts a light upon him that almost makes him seem like a god – the stress is on almost, but not even the light of the chandelier can hide the fact that a male with a wretched soul sits beneath it.

Eris has always found it silly, even as a child. He always liked the sparkly chandelier, loved how the light broke and reflected in the crystals, but he never saw what Beron saw in it. Why he needed the light to fall upon exactly from this angle. Why Beron wanted to be illuminated beneath it. Why he wanted to have the light on his side. A power display and nothing else, Eris had concluded back then. Ridiculous.

Sentries immediately load food onto Beron’s plate, while Eris and Imala claim their seats on either side of him, sentries also tending to their plates, keeping their heads low, gazes never meeting those of the Autumn Court nobility. According to Autumn's standards, this wouldn’t be proper. 

Cabbage, beans, eggs, potatoes, meat (deer, fresh from the Autumn Court‘s forest, caught only a few hours ago). A gravy tops off the dishes already on the plate, everything neatly decorated. No sentry would dare to spill something, scared of the aftermath.

Eris mashes his potatoes and shoves them into the gravy – his favourite way to eat them and lastly mixes in the beans. When he was younger, he always looked for a way to distract himself while eating, to not have to listen to the deafening silence - so mixing his dishes, although you should never play with food, became his favourite thing to do during family dinners.

Beron’s gaze momentarily lingers on one of the females, he is leering and Eris is disgusted. Beron has never had a mistress as much as Eris knows, he saw no use in it, but that doesn’t stop him from looking at females like that. From leering. From looking at them like they are objects, only there for breeding.

Eris takes his first bite, eyes narrowed at his father who slowly turns his head to him. 

“Zen will be stationed at the border to Summer.”

Eris swallows thickly. “Do you think that is really necessary?”

Slowly, Beron’s eyes narrow, fork and the piece of meat on it long forgotten. The room chills, a shudder coursing through it that makes even the mice in their little nooks tremble. 

“Are you questioning my decisions, son? Are you questioning my ability to make decisions?” Beron’s voice drips with venom as he speaks with lethal calm, his sharp graze burning holes into Eris’ skin. His power manifests and slowly stretches out like a dark cloud. It is tangible in the air, and makes Eris’ chest feel very tight all of a sudden. 

“I‘m not questioning your—”

“It sounded a lot like it.” The High Lord’s voice is loud. So loud it makes Imala cringe. She closes her eyes, grinds her teeth, and grabs her own fork tighter. Her eyes are lowered to the plate in front of her, not able to watch the scene that unfolds in front of her. 

“Do you want Summer to march all over us? Led by no other than the brute from the Night Court. The brute who you allowed to fuck your future wife?”

Why does he always have to bring up Morrigan? Even after centuries. Eris is tired of it – so incredibly tired of it. Back then he felt ashamed, incredibly ashamed. She brought shame upon him by choosing Cassian to take her maidenhead. But now, now he feels indifferent about her. Nonchalant. About the whole situation with her. 

Though…he doesn’t feel indifferent about how Azriel thinks about her. Feels about her. The High Lord’s meeting—

“You allowed shame to fall upon our family, Eris.”

“I allowed nothing. Morrigan was spoiled before she even got here!” Now the heir raises his voice as well, fury simmering beneath his pale skin. He is so tired of it all. For the blame to always be on him. 

Publicly, Eris had claimed that Morrigan was sullied by a bastard-born lesser faerie to keep his image of the polished, cruel Autumn Court prince clean while in reality he had always known that Cassian had done both of them a favour.

Eris could have never bound Morrigan to him, could have never envisioned a life for her here. Cassian had saved her. Eris knew that he himself could have never allowed her to live here. Not this life. Not under Beron’s rule. It would have killed him.

“And yet you had nothing better to do than save her. Alert the pretty shadowsinger to come rescue her. And you waited. Hidden in the thicket to know she really gets picked up and won’t be left there to die.” Disdain graces the High Lord’s face and he shakes his head. “Pathetic.”

Eris says nothing. He only lowers his chin. And then draws in a deep breath.

“So,” Beron seethes. “Is that what you want? Them ruining us? Seizing our court?”

Eris shakes his head but it is not enough of an answer for his father.

“Answer me, son!” Spit flies from Beron’s mouth. “Is that what you want?” 

“No, father, of course not,” Eris answers. Slowly, his eyes lift, meeting Beron’s gaze.

“I thought so.” He finally brings the piece of meat to his mouth. “Always asking the same stupid questions as your mother.”

The High Lord chews loudly, the sound filling the room. Eris looks at his mother, but her gaze is cast downwards, bony shoulders slouched. Were Beron to use violence, his mother would step in, take the pain upon her. But Eris always makes sure it never comes to that, that he is always the one to take it. His mother should never ever again become subject to his father's anger. He will never allow that to happen again.

They eat in silence for the rest of the dinner, and have never talked much during these family gatherings. There is nothing to talk about - no happy chit-chat other families have. He often lets himself think about the Night Court, if Lucien has found a family there. A proper one. One he never had here. The thought once again sends a pang of hurt right to the heir‘s heart - he misses Lucien and yearns for what they could have had.

He is longing for a family. For love. Not only from a wife – or in his case, a husband. Something the Autumn Court standards would never allow. But also love from his family. He knows his mother loves him, but it is hard for her to let it show. To let it show openly. She never shows many emotions, her heart frozen by the endless years spent in the Autumn Court, under the control of Beron. 

Her soul is empty, probably nothing but an endless void, due to being separated from the male she truly loves. 

His mother told her eldest everything. Eris knows the story. He had found his mother the day Lucien left. He found her in pieces, broken, shattered, crying, and she had told him everything.

Eris was in shock. Had been for a long time. But he held her in his arms. For hours. Until their tears mingled, the pain about Lucien being gone never easing. Not until this day. 

Little Lucien - his little Lucien and until this day Eris can still hear his voice when he asked him a question that broke his heart for the very first time. Lucien was barely four years old then, tugging on the leg of Eris‘ breeches, looking up at him with his big russet eyes. “Big brother Eris, why does father hate me?”

He had no answer for him. He only scooped him up in his arms, and held him tightly.

Eris clears his throat, knowing he has zoned out once again. He reaches for his glass and takes a sip of the sweet wine. Then another.

“It wasn’t my intention. I never meant to fall for him. To create feelings for him. But he was there. And he was good. And warm. He made my heart feel warm, Eris,” - that’s what his mother told him back then, tears wetting her face. 

He didn’t understand it back then. How it was possible. She had barely known Helion and had no intention of falling for him and yet she did.

Now, Eris has a better understanding of her situation. Falling for someone you don’t plan on having feelings for. Every thought is going to this person. Your heart beats faster when someone only mentions their name. 

There is a person – a male – in his life now that…

He is abruptly fetched back to reality. Movement outside the Forest House, in the thicket, covered by bushes and trees in all colours autumn has to offer, makes him turn his head toward the window. 

His eyes immediately catch on the shadowy figure. Azriel. The best spymaster? – Eris doubts that, having caught said Night Court male already twice in the past year.

The heir rests his fork against his lips, slowly chewing, eyes narrowing. He observes and for a moment it feels like his eyes lock with Azriel’s, his heart slamming to a halt.

“What are you looking at?” Beron snarls, his fork clattering on the plate.

“Nothing,” Eris answers quickly and whips his head into his father’s direction. 

He can’t let Beton catch Azriel, knowing he would do unspeakable things to him. And he can’t allow that. 

“Why are you looking at the window then? What are you looking for?” Beron’s gaze is as sharp as knife, piercing into his flesh.

“I think one of the hounds broke loose.” An easy lie.

“Then catch it.” Beron gives him a dismissive look.

Eris takes his last bite, tabs his mouth clean with a serviette, smoothes out his trousers and then rises to his feet. Sentries immediately usher to his place, gathering his plate and glass, and cleaning up his spot on the table.

But the moment Eris turns, it happens. One of red Gerberas slips out of its place inside his jacket, slowly sailing down to the stone ground before Eris can reach for it.

His breath catches and so does his mother’s.

Beron raises a brow, a gleeful expression adorning his face. The light of the chandelier perfectly casts light upon his sharp cheekbones.

“For a secret lover?” the High Lord asks, resting his fork against his plate. Slowly.

“Or is it what I think it is?” His tone makes Eris uncomfortable, the way in which his father speaks is so low, so slow, so unnerving with a small hint of gleeful amusement. 

Eris stays calm. But he reaches for the flower, picks it up and tucks it back into his jacket.

“It is what you think it is,” he eventually replies, expression cold, indifferent.

A disappointed laugh parts Beron’s lips, and he shakes his head. In a disdainful tone he says, “You know why they are dead.”

Eris says nothing, only grinds his teeth harder. Of course, he knows it. The memories have been haunting him day and night since their death. Have caused him sleepless nights for centuries. How Tamlin killed his brothers. How Jesminda was killed right in front of their eyes. Lucien’s wail. All of it. 

“And yet you still care about the little fox.”

He does. Because that day he did not only lose two brothers at the hands of the High Lord of the Spring Court. No. He also lost his youngest brother. His favourite one. The one he swore to protect until he failed him. Something he will never forgive himself for.

When he doesn’t answer again, Beron smacks the flat of his palm onto the table, rattling not only the cuttlery but also all the glasses and plates.

Imale sucks in shuddering breath.

“You‘re dismissed, son.” He waves him off, like Eris is no more than a servant to him. Someone unimportant. Not his first-born son. “Get out of my sight!”

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