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helionweek · 4 years ago

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ACOTAR Fic: as the heart grows bolder | Helion x Lady of Autumn

Summary: How Helion and the Lady of Autumn fall in love, despite everything.

Word Count: 4,305

A/N: Just in time for @helionweek, here's my take on how Helion and the Lady of Autumn fell in love... and what happened after. I've named the Lady of Autumn Cybele, after the Anatolian goddess of the harvest. Other than that, prepare your tissues and I hope you enjoy. 🧡 This fic is also available on AO3. If you'd like sneak peeks at upcoming fics, please follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane.

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“You look terrified.”

Cybele practically launches into the air at the sound of the voice behind her. Before she turns around, she summons a bit of fire into her palm. Even though tonight is the Equinox Ball, ostensibly a celebration, she’s still in the Autumn Court. Nobody can be too careful.

But the male she sees isn’t a member of the Autumn Court. His skin is a rich dark brown and his thick black hair is arranged in twists, tied back into a queue. Instead of their usual courtly attire, he wears a short tunic that reveals his well-muscled form and which makes the jackets and breeches and boots of this court feel stuffy. His amber eyes are lined with kohl, and a gold armlet, shaped like a snake, winds its way around his bicep.

Lucky snake, Cybele thinks, then realizes, mortified, that she’s said the words out loud. She can feel herself flushing the same burgundy as her dress, and picks up her skirts, ready to flee.

“My advisors would likely agree with your assessment,” he says, flashing her a bright smile that almost blinds her to the small crown on his head, the fact of his station.

She sinks into a deep curtsey, thankful to be able to hide her face.

“I apologize, my lord.”

He extends his hand into her field of vision, his fingers scarred from swordplay, and when she takes it, she feels… well, Cybele feels a thousand things she’s never felt before, all in an instant, and she tries to muffle her gasp at the whirlwind that stirs inside of her at the lightest touch from his handsome stranger.

“I’m known as the Prince of the Colossi in the Day Court, but I’d much prefer if you’d call me Helion. And if you’d tell me why it is you look so frightened. I personally believe that boredom is the only acceptable emotion at a fete like this, but I promised my father I’d attend in his stead, so I’m practicing my courtly smile. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Helion smiles at her, and that expression is noticeably dimmer than the first he’d unleashed, which had been bright as a star. Cybele rises from her curtsey, but does not let go of his hand.

“It’s an excellent smile for court,” she says. “One hardly has any idea what you’re thinking.”

She’d hoped he would accept her dodge of his question but instead he waits with a preternatural stillness, until she answers, trying her best to keep all emotion from her voice.

“My engagement is to be announced imminently and my parents are terrified I’ll make one wrong move and end the alliance. My sisters said they would fetch me just before Beron began his speech.”

“You’re the High Lord’s intended?” Something flashes in her eye, and perhaps it’s his beauty or his wit, but Cybele thinks it resembles what she herself feels, beholding him.

She nods. She does not recount the humiliation of their meeting, when she and her sisters were paraded before Beron in their finest gowns, and then stripped to their undergarments while he scrutinized their bodies, asked them about their lives in a pointed manner that nonetheless uncovered nothing truly interesting about any of them: not Phoebe’s determined nature, or Thalia’s fierce intelligence. She herself had felt dull and frightened and childish and had thought she would surely not pass muster, but the messenger had arrived three days later with Beron’s offer, a bride price lower than what her parents had anticipated. Her shame had burned acid in her throat during the negotiations, even as she’d tried to convince herself that many couples had horrible first meetings that became strong and loving marriages. Even if the High Lord has been dismissive in all subsequent conversations. She is centuries younger than he is, after all. Perhaps it will simply take him some time to get used to her, the way she’s told that Phoebe and Thalia whined and wept when she first appeared in this world.

“You’re far too lovely to be Beron’s wife,” he says, his eyes sweeping from her eyes to the rest of her body. This scrutiny is so different from Beron’s, and it makes her dress feel too tight. There’s a light in Helion’s eyes that makes her think she might like herself a little better through his eyes.

“I’m not his wife yet.”

She instantly regrets those words. She’d meant them in the matter-of-fact sense, an echo of her parents’ worry that the wedding and the subsequent alliance with the High Lord will be called off. But that’s not how it sounds when she speaks. Her voice falls into a lilt, as if she is glad of this fact, her liminal state.

Helion’s fingers tighten on hers. If he pulls her toward him, it is with the slightest pressure, but she knows that if she’s caught, she will not say that she went toward him willingly, close enough that she feels his breath on his cheeks.

There is a charge in the air between them, pulling her closer to him. Any closer and he’ll leave his scent on her. Beron might notice, but she could always say they’d danced together, brushed up against each other in the crowd.

She takes one more step forward, and he angles his head toward hers, and her lips are on his.

She’s never done anything this reckless, this wanton. For the last twenty years, as far as she can recall, Cybele has been good.

But even if she were not to be imminently engaged, there is nothing proper about this kiss, his tongue already on the seam of her lips, his fingers in her coiffure, his sandaled foot against her stockinged ankle. There’s nothing good about the way Cybele’s mouth opens to him, the insistence of her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

Helion’s fingers have begun to run down her back, and then they dip lower, as if he’s trying to find her body under her clothes, and Cybele knows, she’s been told for years, that she needs to push him away, to scream, but instead she wants to unfasten each clasp and button until she’s bare in front of him.

Just as she’s summoned her wits enough to ask what has caused her to throw herself at this unknown if charming prince, she’s blinded by a bright white light, and Helion is across the alcove.

The scent of him, the scent of their desire, has disappeared.

Your sisters are coming, he whispers, and she does not ask how he knows this. Gossip is its own power, and she knows that there are already stories about Beron’s young bride, even if the match isn’t official yet. Might never be, if he realizes what just happened in this alcove.

And maybe that would be for the best, Cybele thinks, smiling a hesitant little smile at Helion, which she covers as soon as Phoebe and Thalia appear, their movements quick and urgent. As if they dread this too.

Already, Cybele feels a creeping certainty that only Helion can summon that storm of emotions in her, the mix of comfort and desire she’s never felt before. That Beron will never change towards her.

Still, she follows her sisters as they lead her across the ball, where the High Lord of Autumn beckons.

The next time she sees Helion, she is six months married to Beron, her belly already rounded with their first child. A miracle, the courtiers of Autumn say, that she would conceive so quickly. A blessing on the union.

Cybele knows by now that it is unwise to disagree.

Frankly, Helion has had enough of this fucking war with Hybern, but nevertheless he’s in the thick of Autumn Court territory, following the screams and terror that echo in his mind. Cybele is in danger.

It’s not the first time he’s heard her distress in his mind. There are the humiliations and hurts that Beron visits on her, which make Helion furious. The birth of her third son was dangerous and he thought, for hours, that she’d died. Over the years since their first meeting, he has rarely contacted her through that link between their minds, but he reached out after hours of silence, relieved beyond expression when she’d answered, I’m still alive, Prince.

Now, though, Cybele is sure that her death is imminent, and Helion urges his pegasus onwards until he reaches the ocean, the cliffs on the edge of her parents’ estate. Beron had sent her there, ostensibly to keep her safe, though he’d kept their three sons with him, heavily guarded in the center of their army.

Cybele, in her yellow dress, looks to him like the midday sun, and he swoops her onto his steed in a fluid motion, savoring the feeling of this female in his arms at last, the scent of her. The way her wide eyes behold him, and a smile blooms on her face in spite of her terror, the anguish that rises from her.

Then he sees the blood on her face, her gown, and in an instant he descends to the cliffs to destroy the snarling monsters who harmed her.

Normally Helion does not particularly relish killing, but now he finds a fierce joy in rending their snarling mouths from their faces, in removing their claws, in turning them from living beings to a collection of limbs and gore.

Far above, his pegasus circles the sky, and for now, Cybele is safe.

When he’s finished, he works a spell to clean himself, so that there’s no trace of the monsters when he sees her again.

“You’re safe,” he says, when he returns to the pegasus, his arms around her waist, a natural instinct when riding the air. If she pulls away, he thinks, then he will know that he was wrong at the ball all those years ago, that what he’d thought was a fated love was actually youthful adrenaline, a heady byproduct of fear.

Instead, Cybele collapses against him and begins to weep.

“My sisters are dead,” she sobs. The story leaves her in jagged bursts, the attack on her parents’ estate, her sister’s delay of the soldiers and their monsters, the screams torn from them even as she ran.

“They were all that is good in this world.” Her hands are fists, rubbing at her eyes. “And now this war has destroyed them, and for what?”

Helion braces himself for what she will say next. If she says that the human should remain enslaved, he will leave her at the ruined estate. Even this female, even in the storm of her mourning, with the monsters’ blood still sticky on her skin.

If he’s honest, he hopes that Cybele will reveal herself a monster in her own right. It would make a certain portion of his life much easier, if that first meeting were only an accident of misplaced fear and desire.

“I don’t understand why, with all our powers, we insist on enslaving humans,” she continues, and he sighs, equal parts comforted and tormented. “All this misery over something so self-evident. They may be weaker than we are, but surely they deserve freedom as much as we do. Perhaps more, for all our kind have made them suffer.”

“It’s a shame your husband does not consult you,” he says, knowing it’s not the moment to needle her, but unable to resist after all the sessions he’s spent trying to convince Beron, along with the intractable High Lords of Spring and Summer. His father is ostensibly still High Lord, but he’s allowed Helion free reign in these meetings, which is nearly unheard of for a still-young prince.

“I do not want to speak about my husband.” Her voice is remote and he cannot hear anything but her sadness.

“I am sorry.”

“It is my sisters who deserve your pity. They saved me, and for what?”

He takes a breath, unsure of what to say, knowing that the implications will be far-reaching. And yet he cannot say nothing, not when she sounds as if she no longer wants to live.

“I do not want to imagine a world in which you do not exist, lady.”

She stills, leaning against him, and he waits until she speaks, soaking in her warmth, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla that clings to her, as if in defiance of the blood spilled on her body.

“Take me to Goldengrove,” she says, finally, and his pegasus follows her command.

The estate is in ruins when they arrive, blasted by powerful spells. Before they reach the ground, Helion can smell burned flesh and spilled blood. Hybern soldiers and their creatures swarm the ground.

Then Cybele raises her hands and the world is consumed by fire.

“Hybern ensured there were no survivors,” is all she says as the flames eat up the remnants of her childhood home, the bodies of the monsters who destroyed it.

When the fire is doused, they fly away. Cybele does not provide a destination, and Helion does not want to take her to her husband.

Instead he takes her to his palace at the Colossi, in the mountain desert of the Day Court, and Cybele does not object.

Their affair does not begin that night. When he asks his servants to prepare a bath for her, he is tempted to knock on her door. But Helion knows the barbaric rituals that the Autumn Court clings to. He wants to be better than her husband.

Today he saved her from monsters, he thinks, opening one of the old epic poems he keeps at his bedside, which seem to him like the stuff of fiction. He reads until deep into the night, when he knows Cybele is sleeping, and then surrenders to his own bed alone.

He does not intend to spend the next day with her. After all, the war still rages. But when she appears at his breakfast table, wearing one of the draped dresses of his court, he cannot refuse her shy request for a tour. He shows her the grounds, takes his favorite pegasus to the grandest of his libraries, where he notes with satisfaction that her awe at the maze of books and scrolls is real. Finally he flies her to the top of a sand dune, where they overlook the desert and the mountains, watching the sun set far beyond them, turning the sky a luscious mix of orange and fuschia and violet. Sometimes this kind of beauty provokes tears, and he expects Cybele to loose her grief in this place where no one but him will hear it, but instead there is only wonder on her face.

In his realm, the air turns cool when the sun disappears, and he’s not sure whether she leans into his arms for warmth or if she seeks another comfort from him.

That night, there is a knock on his door, and he sweeps Cybele into his arms before she’s placed both feet over the threshold.

It is a week before they leave his suite again, a month before he returns her to the Autumn Court, the happiest of his life.

At that time, he thinks he’ll be contented with each scrap she offers him, each kiss he can place upon her body. That eventually his thirst for her will be slaked one day. In this, for perhaps the first time in his life, Helion is wrong.

For two centuries, they were so careful. After each meeting, Helion would remove their scents from each other, and Cybele would heal the marks left by their lovemaking. He’d spend himself outside her body except when she was pregnant with Beron’s sons.

She bears three more males over those hundred years, which the courtiers say signifies Beron’s strength and potency, the particular blessing of the Mother. No other High Lord can boast of six sons, and as a result, Beron brings them to most council meetings and diplomatic functions, dressed in ridiculous finery and prone to fussing. To keep them still, Cybele takes to bribing them with sugary treats and creatures spun from her own magic.

The usual tortuous drudgery of her life in the Autumn Court continues. The Forest House is so unlike her parents’ estate, underground and dark. Perhaps that is why she longs for the Day Court, for Helion’s palace, for the sun on her skin.

At some point, she began to imagine what it would be like, to live freely in the Day Court with Helion. How alive she would feel, the everyday weight of dread and worry and fear lifted from her. She does not mind the disgrace she would encounter, would gladly avoid everyone in the Autumn Court for the rest of her days.

The problem was always her sons. Beron had warped them in his image and they grow crueller by the day. Cybele did not think they would leave with her willingly. And yet. For all the scorn they heaped on her in public, they came to her in their darkest moments, after beatings or castigations or nightmares real or conjured in their sleep, and she soothed them just as she did when they were helpless babes who fit so snugly in the curve of her elbow. For so long, she could not abandon them to Beron’s cruelty.

Until the day when Beron made each of them strike her in front of the court, for some offense Cybele still cannot recall. On her face were the bruises left by their hands and knuckles, deep and throbbing.

She knew the power he wielded and yet she will never forget the looks they gave her, the contempt in their eyes as they struck her, as if she were beneath their notice. She who had carried them inside her body, lulled them with the beat of her own heart when they were barely anything at all.

So Cybele waited until Beron leaves for Hybern on a diplomatic mission, a foolish errand that would amount to nothing, and then she called Helion to her, begged him to take her away. He arrived in the Autumn Court with his chariot and his pegasi, and though they met in the forest outside her palace-prison, she did not stray so far from the windows of the Forest House that her departure could not be witnessed.

For the next three months, she pretended that this was her new life: the nights in Helion’s bed, barely sleeping for the hunger she felt towards him, laughing with him, studying the history of the Day Court and little by little being able to understand the particulars of his day. The first time she was able to advise him, and he took her counsel, it felt to Cybele as if a star had been born inside her.

She has never taken the contraceptive potions at Beron’s insistence, and she did not start with Helion, either, in fact she stopped every precaution against a child. She wanted something to bind her irrevocably to this life, so that she could never return to the Autumn Court.

Then Beron arrived.

The High Lord of Autumn arrived in a cloud of fire and grabbed Cybele before she could run from the breakfast table. Helion ran for her but she had already passed through a rip in the world

Cybele expected the beating, but not the threat, the promise that Beron would destroy Helion, level the Prince of the Colossi and the whole of the Day Court, if she ever returned to him. While he struck her, he outlined his plan, and it is not just the pain, not just her anguish, that tells Cybele he will carry it out until nothing remains, until Helion exists only in her memory.

I am giving you up, she tells him in her mind, through that thread that binds them, and cannot bring herself to explain.

Two weeks later, the scent of her pregnancy rises from her body. Cybele is alone in her darkened bedroom, now far from the husband who, after beating her bloody, now refuses to touch her, and she wraps her arms around herself, cradling the new life taking root inside her.

For hours she lies awake, and though at first she thinks of the baby, perhaps the last child she will bear, her thoughts circle and return to Helion’s smile, the feeling of his fingers on her skin, the clever remarks that make her laugh gloriously ugly. She thinks of how he will continue, ruling over his principality and expanding his libraries, how he will one day rule the Day Court, find another person to love, simply exist, happy and safe in his bright realm.

The thought of it is almost enough.

Somehow they survive forty-nine years Under the Mountain and Helion does not once speak to Cybele. It is no great feat of avoidance on his part. She barely lifts her head, even when Amarantha orders them to witness some new horror.

For forty-nine years, Helion survives on the bitterness of three revelations: that he had not the strength to save the Day Court, and that he could not save Cybele. Only one of them is a new thought, but both fuel him through those dark years, where he cannot see the sun, when his aged father is slaughtered and his people are ripped apart and libraries burn and his pegasi are slaughtered and all he can do is try to behave in Amarantha’s murderous court.

But when Tamlin and the remainder of his court are brought Under the Mountain, Helion finds Cybele weeping in an untrafficked corridor, and the sound rends his heart.

Although he knows he is not welcome, he settles himself on the floor, so close that he can feel the warmth of her skin. Closer than he’s been for nearly three centuries, and though he’s tried to wipe her away with other pleasing company, he has never been able to erase the recollection or the reality of this female.

“She has Lucien,” Cybele whispers when she notices him, wiping away her tears on her sleeve.

“I thought mothers weren’t supposed to have favorite sons,” he says, because he can’t help it, even under these circumstances, even when they’re the first words they’ve spoken in hundreds of years, he will always try to provoke her into laughter when she is distressed.

“He’s--”

Before she can say more, her head falls into her hands, bowed with defeat or terror, and Helion knows that they are all damned, that Prythian as he knows it is forever gone, and so he reaches for her. Let her reject him one last time.

Instead, she leans into him, her cheek against his shoulder, the remnants of her tears slipping between them.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she says, and he should let her go back to her husband, but he pulls her closer, kisses the crown of her head.

She turns her head and kisses his mouth, hard and needy, so different from the Cybele he imagines, who was always sweet and a little uncertain, even after he’d declared his love a hundred times. Now she kisses him as if she knows it will be the last time, and Helion does not push her away, only reaches for her skirts, lifts them up and traces the length of her legs until he reaches the cleft between them, rouses a moan that makes him harder than perhaps he’s ever been in a life that now seems too long for all the things it hasn’t contained.

Her hands work frantically on his garments, too, and soon they are rutting on the floor, not caring that only a thin and hasty shield keeps them from total exposure, the attack of the attor or the censure of Beron.

He touches her until she’s almost screaming, and then he enters her, and it is almost worth it, all this suffering, for the moment he’s sheathed inside her, that exquisite fit, the way she moans.

After, he holds her close to him for as long as he dares, then pulls down her dress, works the spell to remove his scent from her.

When he finds her in the same corridor the next day, she is not weeping, and this time, he builds his shield thick.

Until Prythian itself burns down around them, there is this, at least.

There is, of course, the possibility that Beron will die. Cybele thinks often of this future. She imagines the morning he will be discovered, stiff and silent, in his bed, all the chains on her unbroken.

Sometimes she fantasizes about unleashing her fire on Beron. Running him through with a sword. Concocting some untraceable poison that levels him in seconds. Sometimes it is only a moment of fantasy, but sometimes Cybele thinks the plan through, sharpens it inside her mind until it could shred the High Lord of Autumn into ribbons.

She knows the stories about Helion, the fame and renown that’s only grown every year, the way he is now known reverently as Spell Cleaver, for his vast knowledge and the depths of his power. She knows, too, of the males and females he’s bedded, the legends of his parties and his orgies. The way he only grows more handsome, while she fades into the shadows, clutching at the last remnants of safety. He has found another life, she thinks, in this peace that eddies around them, uncertain but lingering.

Still, when she imagines her first moments after Beron’s death, she is always running, as fast as her weak body will carry her, and eventually, Helion appears.

Cybele should know better than this fantasy, but still, in her mind, he always opens his arms to her. He always says, finally.

#helion week

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helionweek · 4 years ago

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Helion Week Day 6: Pride

Helion and Mor have a heart to heart about what it means to love during their night together

Slightly NSFW at the beginning Mentions of sex, but nothing super graphic. Mentions of homophobia and biphobia.

As always, this is entirely unedited because I like the spice of making grammatical mistakes.

Okay, let me explain a thing. There have been a lot of bad takes in this fandom about LGBT rep, and since the two most prominently LGBTQ characters in the series are both bisexual (Helion might be pan, there is an argument to be made), the members of the Sexy Bi Brigade (of which I am the treasurer) have had to bear the brunt of these bad takes. It has sucked since ACOWAR. It has sucked a LOT. And a lot of this is due to the fact that SJM meant well, but was really fucking awkward in putting this storyline together.

So I’m here to fix it. And by fix it, I mean go alllll the way back to that awkward scene where Helion and Mor use each other to numb their pain and we never get to see Mor interact meaningfully with another queer person before the painful coming out scene with Feyre happens. Which…I understand, for first person narrative reasons, but I would have liked to have had a mention that Helion also knows that Mor is queer and that he offered her some comfort. Anyways, I’m doing it myself. ENJOY.

Morrigan sighed as she rolled off of the male she had been enthusiastically riding moments before, her head falling back on the pillows. A fine layer of sweat coated her brow and she focused on trying to catch her breath, her heart slamming painfully against her ribs as she recovered from her orgasm. Her legs felt like jelly and she couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. The same couldn’t be said of her partner, who immediately rose from the bed and strode to the small table in the corner of the room, the fire illuminating the striking planes of his naked body. A collection of Thesan’s finest wines and liquors awaited the High Lord of Day, and he traced his fingers along each bottle carefully before selecting a brandy. He looked over his shoulder at her dispassionately, raising a glass to her in silent inquiry. She nodded—she could use a drink.

Helion padded back over to the bed and silently held out the snifter to her. She took it gratefully as the High Lord took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs near the fireplace.

She studied him for a moment, her chin propped in her hand. Gone were the exaggerated mannerisms and sultry looks from earlier in the evening. In their place was a quiet, almost detached pensiveness as he ignored the female he had just fucked within an inch of her life in favor of the flames crackling before him. How strange, Mor thought, that he could just detangle himself so quickly from the person who had been the object of his furious passion for the better part of an hour. Not that she was complaining. She had been looking for release and a distraction from the unease and stress of the shitshow that was the gathering of the High Lords of Prythian. She didn’t want affection, feigned or otherwise. She wanted to turn her mind off and come, and she had done that. Mission accomplished.

Still, the speed with which Helion had dropped the charming seducer act was a bit jarring to her. She peered at him closer, at the hunched shoulders and quiet fixation on the roaring fire in front of him, the flames illuminating his golden eyes in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. He wasn’t much older than she was, in truth, but in that moment, he looked ancient. And so very, very tired. A stab of sympathy coursed through Mor as she realized several things at once about the male in front of her.

“I’m sorry that the High Lady pried. She didn’t know,” she said quietly. Helion just shrugged, draining the rest of his drink. She didn’t think he would respond and that the heavy silence would simply envelop them like a shroud until one of them finally left the room and the memory of their encounter behind.

“That didn’t bother me,” he said simply, turning more fully towards her. “Seeing her is what breaks me, not speaking of times long past. The memories don’t hurt, not anymore. The reality of what she has become, of what he has done to her…that is what I cannot bear.” She wondered at the truth of such a raw sentiment, surprised that he would reveal such a thing to her, but that gentle sense that never failed her, that intangible power that cultivated truth and allowed it to dwell inside of her, settled in affirmation.

He smirked, as if he had read her mind. “You are truth, Morrigan. And I am knowledge. We are two sides of the same coin. There is no point in hiding one from the other.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she was. She knew what it meant to love someone you could not have, to watch them slip away from you while you were powerless to do anything about it. A memory of Andromache lying in her bed, her hair a wild tangle around her as she pulled Mor down for a kiss, drifted through her mind.

Don’t go there, she thought to herself, ruthlessly pushing the image away. Helion was watching her intently, his sharp golden eyes narrowed on her. The uncontrollable panic at the thought that he was somehow seeing through her, that he KNEW her secret, reared inside of her. So she did what she did best when she felt cornered.

“Why don’t you help her? Why leave her there, with that monster? If you love her-“

A snarl echoed in the room and for the briefest moment, Mor saw what Feyre had seen earlier that night when she had inelegantly asked the same question. Fury rippled across that handsome face for a split second, before giving way to a look of such anguish that Mor immediately regretted wounding him.

“I’m sorry,” she said instantly, and she was. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

His jaw worked for a moment as he struggled to get his emotions under control, and then he nodded, before turning his attention back to the flames.

The silence stretched out between them again and Mor considered the best way to just end the night without any more hurt feelings between them. She liked Helion, she always had. They had always been friendly and he was a good ally to the Night Court. Offending him after fucking his brains out had not been her finest diplomatic moment, but she didn’t quite know how to salvage the situation.

“I have a habit of not being able to save the people I love,” Helion said suddenly, jarring Mor from her thoughts, “so your scorn is not entirely unwarranted.”

Mor knew she shouldn’t ask. “Who else?”

The question echoed in the room, making the air feel somehow heavier. Mor winced internally. Why, oh why could she not just leave it? But something, perhaps that elusive gift of truth that none quite understood and that she herself could never truly grasp, compelled her to push him.

“My first love,” Helion said, rising suddenly and moving back towards the liquor. This time, he simply grabbed the bottle before padding back to the bed. He offered her the bottle, then shrugged as she declined. He settled on the end of the bed and took a long pull from the brandy. Thesan would weep to see his fine vintage treated so mundanely. The thought almost made her want to smile.

“Who was she?” Mor asked, shifting to sit up against the headboard.

“He,�� Helion corrected. He turned to look at her. “His name was Nikos. He was my first…everything, really. My first friend, my first lover, and my first failure.” A low, self-depreciating laugh and then another swig from the fine-cut crystal bottle.

There was that panic again, slithering along her skin, whispering that she wasn’t safe, that he KNEW and he was going to expose her---

“Tell me about him,” Mor choked out, willing herself to calm down, to focus on anything except that oily, suffocating feeling inside of her.

Helion studied her for a moment, his eyes clear of judgement. The only thing that she saw in those striking golden eyes was pain and remorse and…understanding.

“Truth and knowledge,” Helion reminded her gently. And then---“Nikos was the son of my father’s chief advisor. We grew up together, we were educated together, we were completely inseparable. He was a brilliant scholar of the arcane, his grasp on the principal properties of sympathetic magic was entirely unheard of for one so young, his work on elementals alone was---”Helion trailed off, realizing he was babbling.

“Anyway,” he said softly, before taking another long drink. “Things went bad between our fathers. When his father was banished from court, so was Nikos. He begged me to intervene, to find a position for him in the court, and I didn’t. My father was…unhappy that I had become entangled with another male before I had settled down and produced an heir, so he forbade me from seeing him again. I didn’t fight him on it, and Nikos vanished from my life as if he had never been there.”

“What happened to him?” Mor asked gently, her heart hurting for the male in front of her, so tormented by the ghosts of the past.

Helion shuddered, then turned to look at the flames once more. “He died in poverty, killed by some sneering lordling over a perceived slight. He died alone, and in disgrace, and I did nothing to help him because I did not want others to know---about us, about me. I was so worried about my father’s disapproval, about his anger that I wasn’t what he wanted me to be that I just…let the male I love fade into oblivion and I did NOTHING to help him because I was ashamed.”

“Helion—”

“It is in the past,” he said, his small smile not reaching his eyes. He rose and picked up his discarded chiton, wrapping it around his body and working to fasten the sun-shaped broach that held it together. “I have moved on and accepted the ending of that story. I failed Nikos, as I have failed…her.”

“Why tell me this?” Mor asked.

A beat passed, and then another.

“I knew Andromache,” Helion said instead, his voice soft, as if he were speaking to a wounded animal. Mor felt her breath leave her body. “We were friends, of a kind. I helped a bit with the humans, early in the war. Before…well, before. I have known who she was to you for a very, very long time. And I wanted you to know that I knew, because I understand what you’re running from. And I understand why.”

She had to leave. She couldn’t deal with this, couldn’t have this conversation. She threw the sheet back and swung her legs over the side of the bed…and simply froze, unable to move. She wanted to leave, she did. But her heart was pounding in her chest, sweat slicking her palms, her mind screaming at her that she had to run before he said anything else, before she had to think about Andromache and what she had found and what she had lost and why it was her fault.

“Morrigan,” Helion said softly, coming to kneel next to the bed. He made no move to touch her, but Morrigan could feel the comforting heat radiating from his body. Tears stung at her eyes, one or two escaping the corners as she tried to calm herself. “You are safe.”

Something cracked inside of Mor at the words, all of the pain and fear and hurt pushing past the slight break in her defenses.

A keening sound worked its way out of her and she broke.

Mor couldn’t have said how long she cried. It could have been a few moments, or a few hours. She couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stem the tide of grief that swept through her, her body shuddering with the force of her sobs. She thought of Andromache, beautiful and brave and gone. She thought of her parents, of her horrible father and his sneering disapproval of her. She thought of her found family, steadfast Rhysand who had always been her home, and Feyre, the sister she never knew she needed. Amren, Cassian, Vivianne…their faces flashed in her mind, and she cried harder, gratitude and love and joy mingling with her pain to aid the emotional release that she couldn’t stop.

She also thought of Azriel. Good, strong Azriel. Her friend. Her nightmare.

Dread pooled inside of her as her tears finally subsided. She was picking at her nails, a terrible habit that she had been scolded for since she was a youngling. She closed her eyes. Azriel’s face, that solemn, handsome face, appeared in her mind. Unable to bear it, her eyes flew open again. She inhaled shakily, then exhaled, trying to regain her composure.

She turned to Helion., still kneeling next to her. He was regarding her with compassion, his knowing gaze heavy with sympathy and…understanding. The impulse to lash out rose again in Mor, and she struggled to contain it.

“He’s in love with me. I don’t know how to make him stop,” she said instead, before she could stop herself.

Helion didn’t ask who “he” was. He already seemed to know. Everyone seemed to know, Mor thought dully. Everywhere she went, there were the prying questions and insinuations about the Shadowsinger and the Morrigan. Truth and Death. Light and Dark. It had been easier to bear in the beginning, but lately…Mor couldn’t talk about Azriel, about what he longed for her to give him, without feeling like she was suffocating.

“Mor,” he said, then paused, seeming to deliberate his next words. “His love is not your responsibility.”

“It is,” she whispered, trembling. “I should tell him…what I am.”

“And what is that?” Helion asked sharply, his eyes flashing. “A kind friend? An excellent courtier and diplomat? A good, brave female, who feels things so deeply that she carries the pain of the world inside of her to keep others from hurting? Because that, Mor, is what you are.”

“I’m not any of those things.”

“You are,” Helion insisted, more gently this time. “How you define yourself, how you feel about what it is you want, WHO it is that you want…that’s up to you. That’s not up to Rhysand, or your father, or the Shadowsinger.”

“Azriel deserves better,” Mor said, staring at her hands.

Helion tilted his head, considering her. “Azriel is not a youngling to be coddled. His expectations are not your burden to bear. We are not ghosts, Morrigan. We do not exist in half-turns to be this or that for people who do not understand us, or blank slates upon which they can project their own desires. We are who we are and we love who we love, and we do not owe ANYONE an explanation for it. But know this, Morrigan. Who you want to be is your choice. No one can take that from you. I promise. And if they try…well, you know where to find me.”

Mor smiled tentatively at his last words, too moved to say anything else. She reached for Helion’s hand instead. He tensed for a moment, before allowing it.

“Truth and knowledge,” she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. He smiled at her, before rising and adjusting his chiton.

“What is it that you fear, High Lord?” Mor asked as he began to turn from her.

Helion paused. He considered for a moment.

“I want to have a family,” he said finally, so softly that she almost didn’t hear him. “And I am afraid that no one will have me. ‘The Great Whore of Prythian’ is what they call me. It’s hard to imagine anyone believing I could be a good husband or father. I’m not even sure if I believe I’m capable of it.”

His truth. Hard and painful and heartbreaking. The sense inside of her balked, stirring.

Helion smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “Goodnight, Mor. If you ever need anything-“

“You are. Capable, I mean. Of having a family, of being a good husband and father. And you will be.” Truth laced every word. Emotion flashed in the High Lord’s eyes, which he quickly lowered as he inclined his head to her.

“Thank you, Morrigan,” he said, his voice breaking just a bit. He cleared his throat. A moment of silence and then--

“Tell Rhysand that if he ever feels the old familiar urge to top from the bottom, he’s welcome in my court. He can bring his High Lady if he wants. The more, the merrier,” Helion purred as he made for the door.

Mor made a face. “Really, Helion?”

Helion winked. “Goodnight, Truth Speaker.”

And then he was gone.

Mor sighed, then flopped back onto the bed. Panic and fear still stirred inside of her, whispering that she had to protect herself, had to hide…but it was muted, mingled with relief that although Helion did not assign a label to it, did not call it out for what it was…he knew about that part of her that she was so afraid to show to the world. And she felt a little less alone, now.

She still couldn’t bring herself to think about Andromache, or Azriel. The day had been too long, too brutal for her to relax enough to do that without hurting herself more.

Instead, she imagined a world where she could be all the things that Helion promised that she was, a world where she chose who she wanted to be and who she wanted to be with, no expectations weighing her down.

What a lovely place that would be, indeed.

***

Five Years Later

Mor sighed, pulling at the uncomfortable straps of her dress to ease the pressure across her chest. The dress was too tight, she had known it was too tight, but it was far too beautiful a creation to pass up and she hadn’t had the time to have it altered before the ceremony. It was a soft golden color, iridescent and made of a soft golden color that complimented the gold of her own hair, but the color didn’t wash her out. It was perfect for the occasion and Mor was willing to brave the discomfort of the tight material for the sake of looking absolutely stunning. Or so she had thought, before she realized how uncomfortable it would truly be.

She tugged at the straps again.

“Will you stop that,” the female sitting next to her hissed. “You’re going to break them and then what will we do?”

Mor grinned. “Show Prythian’s finest what they’re missing?”

Emerie leveled a baleful glance at her. Mor grinned wider.

Deciding she wasn’t in the mood to bicker, Emerie primly went back to reading her program. Only mildly disappointed, Mor studied the profile of the female sitting beside her. Her rich, golden-brown skin shone in the sunlight making Mor’s heart race just a little. The light illuminated the heavy fall of her thick, black curls around her heart-shaped face, and the full, sooty lashes that framed the eyes that Mor loved best in the world. Emerie noticed her regard, as evidenced by the striking wings that twitched just a little as she tried to concentrate on what she was reading.

Emerie. Her friend. Her lover. Her wife.

Had Mor ever been so happy? She wondered dimly. She didn’t think so. She’d been alive for over 500 years, and she had never, ever felt joy like this.

“I love you,” she said quietly, unable to help herself. Emerie’s eyes flew to hers. Something soft and profound lurked in them, an answer to a question that Mor had been asking all of her life.

“And I love you,” Emerie said, reaching up to touch Mor’s cheek. Mor leaned into the touch, closing her eyes for just a moment as she inhaled her wife’s clean, crisp scent. “What brought this on?”

Mor shrugged, snagging Emerie’s hand and bringing the palm to her lips. “I just felt like saying it.”

Before Emerie could respond, the faelights flickered several times, letting the audience know that the ceremony was about to begin.

The first stirrings of music began, a beautiful, haunting melody that had always been one of Mor’s favorite love songs. She squeezed Emerie’s hand gently, feeling a pulse of love as her wife squeezed back.

And then their attention turned to the person coming up the aisle.

The former Lady of Autumn was striking, and Mor felt shock rocket through her as she beheld the transformation that had occurred in the previously withdrawn creature that had lived most of her life in the oppressive crosshairs of Beron Vanserra.

This female was someone else entirely.

Her rich, auburn hair fell down her back in large, loose curls. Her pale skin was illuminated by the bright sunlight, the delicate beauty of her pink heart-shaped mouth and rosy cheeks heralding her good health and happiness. Those russet eyes, so large and extraordinary, were shining with joy. She had filled out significantly since that first, awful meeting five years earlier and Mor felt a fierce pride for the lady’s resilience and recovery.

She was wearing a diaphanous golden gown that swept along behind her, the cut and fit achingly precise and finely tailored. Mor resisted the urge to tug on her own dress again. Emerie was right—she would probably break the straps and end up tits-out in the middle of a mating ceremony.

“She’s going on the list,” Emerie whispered to Mor, who had to conceal a giggle.

The “list” was the fantasy wishlist that they teased each other about. It included the most beautiful females in Prythian, the ones that Mor and Emerie would like to invite into bed with them. It wasn’t something they seriously considered (at least not right now), but it was fun to add and subtract from the list and tease each other about it.

But yes, Mor agreed. The (former) Lady of Autumn was definitely going on the list.

And then all teasing stopped as the lady in question reached the throne at the end of the aisle—and the male who sat upon it.

Helion Spell-Cleaver, the High Lord of Day, was as still as a statue upon his throne as his mate approached him, then kneeled before him on the ceremonial altar that had been placed there just for this purpose. He was dressed in resplendent white robes, his crown sitting high upon his head. Mor felt her heart squeeze as she realized that he was trying desperately not to cry. His jaw worked as he tried to get his emotions under control.

A hand fell upon the High Lord’s shoulder, offering him comfort. Lucien.

The Prince of Day stood next to his father’s throne, his lips quirked up as he beheld his mother, who had risen and was now facing her little family.

Helion rose and turned to the priestess who was standing nearby, signaling for her to begin the ceremony.

And so, after centuries apart, The High Lord of Day and his lady were reunited.

The priestess had barely finished the final act of the ceremony before Helion was leaning in and kissing his mate with enthusiasm. Behind him, Lucien cringed and Mor resisted the urge to snort. Lucien was notoriously prim about his parents, and Mor enjoyed nothing more than seeing him squirm whenever someone teased him about it.

Lucien gestured to someone sitting in the front row. Elain. The middle Archeron swept forward gracefully, decked out in Day Court finery and looking achingly beautiful. She took her mate’s hand and leaned into him as his parents turned to greet the crowd as the High Lord and Lady of the Day Court.

As Helion and his lady ambled down the aisle, stopped by courtiers and High Lords wishing them well, Mor’s eyes met his. She nodded once, her hand still clasped tightly around her wife’s. Helion beamed at her, and returned the acknowledgement.

Truth and knowledge, indeed.

#helion week

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helionweek · 4 years ago

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Helion Week: Day 4

Dadcanons

Helion: When does a joke turn into a dad joke?

Lucien: I’m not doing this.

Helion: …

Lucien: FINE. When does a joke turn into a dad joke.

Helion: When it becomes apparent 😆😆😆

Lucien: BYE

-Helion loves embarrassing his adult son. He missed the childhood milestones, but he’ll be damned if he misses out on the joy of upsetting his child just by existing.

-They bicker constantly, about the dumbest shit imaginable. Lucien is fastidious about absolutely everything and Helion is freewheeling. They argue about “quiet hours.” They argue about the dress code of the Day Court, which Helion argues is intended to keep everyone from passing out in the sweltering heat, an argument that Lucien eventually loses when he swoons in the middle of the street while wearing approximately five layers of clothing. And they bicker about Eris, who gives Helion the creeps and who Lucien disingenuously calls “a harmless teddy bear” for the purposes of trying to get his dad to let his guard down and get the full Eris Vanserra obnoxious villain treatment. Helion has yet to fall for this. Lucien will keep trying.

-Despite their arguing, Helion and Lucien form an unbreakable bond. They are similar in more ways than people think, and they are passionate about many of the same things. They both love books and learning. They are both devoted to their people and doing right by them. And they both deeply love the Lady of Autumn.

-When Helion makes a big production about fighting Beron, Lucien quietly asks him not to fight. When Helion jokes that Lucien would get a crack at being High Lord, Lucien doesn’t laugh and tells him that he will take a father who loves him over a crown any day.

-Lucien and Helion have dinner with the Inner Circle of the Night Court. The wine is flowing and Helion is being Helion and Lucien finally gets exasperated and asks if there’s anyone at the table that his dad hasn’t fucked. Only Amren raises her hand, but then puts it down when Helion reminds her of Summer Solstice two centuries back. Lucien is mortified.

-Despite all of this, father and son are inseparable. Helion consults Lucien constantly, using his intelligence and insight to help make the Day Court better. Lucien relies on his father’s wisdom and faith in him to help him regain his own self-confidence. And they both rely on each other to combat the loneliness that they had to live with for so long before they found each other.

#helion week

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helionweek · 4 years ago

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helion week, day 4: dadcanons

@helionweek

their relationship is awkward at first, which is understandable. and lucien, having suffered so much, has trouble trusting him. he is reluctant whereas helion wishes to be as close to his son as he could possibly be — and to make that happen as fast possible, too.

initially, helion plans to win lucien over by trying to impress him, showing him the libraries no one but the day court usually has access too, offering him the very best food his court has to offer, giving him the best rooms in the best wing of the palace. until some day, when lucien is still not warming up to him, helion realises that’s not at all what he is seeking. he doesn’t care about riches and pretty things — though helion must admit he’s got a sense of style he couldn’t have inherited from anyone but him — but instead craves something more personal and deep, just like helion himself. and so helion sits next to his son in the warm midday sun and tells him about his mother, how he met her, when he fell in love with her (which was when he met her), how he lost her. and finally lucien looks at him and really sees him.

#helion week

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helionweek · 4 years ago

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Better Than Words: Helion Spell-Cleaver

#helionweek prompt: what if he's actually Sellyn Drake? // @helionweek

The High Lord of the Day Court opened his eyes to a room full of sunlight. Hardly anyone in his court owned curtains, he found. Who would want to spend a single moment shrouded in darkness? No - that was Night Court behavior.

His bedroom in the Day Court palace was nothing short of opulent. Gold accents glittered around the room, adorning every fixture and woven into every fabric. The chandelier hanging from his ceiling caught the morning light in its crystals and refracted into rainbows that danced around the room. Each piece of decor complimented each other, with nothing too outlandish. Though he did indeed appreciate Rhysand’s townhouse, when he was finally invited to visit… perhaps he would have to adapt his “less is more” lifestyle.

Unlikely.

Helion enjoyed his mornings, though they were too close to dawn for his liking; his favorite time of day was well after he left his elegant bedroom. Early afternoon, when the sun was at its brightest and casting a golden hue over his entire court, was when the High Lord was most at peace.

Helion rolled out of bed and headed for his personal bathing chambers, already looking forward to wearing his fluffy, white bathrobe that replaced his usual daytime attire. After a steaming hot bath and fresh fruit for breakfast, it was time for Helion Spell-Cleaver to start his day.

Helion strolled into his office inside his personal residence with a casual grace, murmuring a polite good morning to his staff as he passed them in the corridors. While it was common for him to address his staff directly, there were still those who blushed and turned pink when talking to the High Lord. Helion, while flattered, always politely ignored it for their sake. As flirtatious as he was known to be, he was committed to providing a harassment-free work environment. He headed for his desk chair - though, it should be described as a throne. He crossed one tanned, muscled leg over the other and began to sort through the documents on his desk as Marian, his oldest secretary, came bustling into the room. Marian was always a secret favorite of his - a short, plump female, her no-nonsense attitude was a good match for his playful personality. “Good morning, High Lord,” Marian began, her morning report well-rehearsed. “You will find your correspondence sorted on your desk. You have a meeting this evening with the animal healer regarding your pegasus’ annual appointment. After that, you have tea with your, erm, more personal acquaintance. I made sure that one was left off of your official itinerary for the day.” Helion raised his eyebrow with a smirk, leaning back on his throne. “Ah, Marian, you have always been too good to me. Thank you. I will let you know if I require any more assistance.” Marian gave the High Lord a knowing smile before heading out the door. As always, there were two piles of mail waiting for him. One was addressed to "Helion Spell-Cleaver, High Lord and Savior". That pile was decorated with gilded paper and envelopes. Letters filled with requests from his people, updates from other lands, and the occasional suggestion. That wasn’t the pile Helion sifted through first, however. There was a second pile, discreetly hidden in his desk drawer by Marian, bewitched to hide the name of who it was truly addressed to. He pulled out the thick pile of letters and propped his feet up on his desk in front of him. He took one look at the handwriting in the first letter, and let out a low chuckle. This ought to be good.

Dear Ms. Drake, I wanted to thank whatever higher power ever put a pen in your capable hands. My mate and I spent the entire weekend reenacting your latest novel… with successful results. That thing the love interest did at the end of the eighth chapter? Hell, thank whoever taught you that, too. I would never ever admit this, but I even took a look at some of your books myself. My mate would kill me if she ever knew I brought her copies anywhere near the bath, but what’s a male to do when his conditioner is setting in? Read some Sellyn Drake, of course. My mate and her best friends are constantly swapping your novels between the three of them. On the most serious note I can muster, I wanted to thank you for empowering these females to own their sexuality in a way males have for centuries. You are truly a gift from the Mother. Actually, I think even the Mother would enjoy these. So you are a gift TO the Mother. If you ever need some real life inspiration, come to the Night Court. My mate and I will be happy to oblige. Your humble reader, Prince of Bastards

Helion could barely contain his booming laughter. If only Cassian was as good at pseudonyms as Sellyn Drake was. The thought of knocking on the Price of Bastards’ front door and seeing the look on his face was almost enough for Helion to reveal himself then and there. But instead, Helion picked up his pen, and began to write.

Dearest Prince of Bastards, No one is more flattered than I that you and your lovely mate have been thinking of me in the bedroom.

It wasn’t long before Helion was crumpling the piece of parchment. He rarely answered his fan mail, opting to leave his readers wanting more. This time, he would deliver - in a big way. “Marian,” he called. “Can you schedule a meeting with Prythian Publishers? It’s urgent.”

########

Cassian grumbled as the sun began to peek through the bedroom curtains in the House of Wind. He’d barely slept last night, with Nesta tossing and turning next to him for what seemed like hours. He wouldn’t complain, though. He knew how excited she was for today. He watched as Nesta sprang out of bed before her eyes were fully open, scrambling to tug on her thick wool socks and boots. Before he could say good morning to his mate, she flung the bedroom door open and clattered down the stairs. Cassian chuckled to himself as he followed her down the hallway, albeit slightly slower, stretching his wings as he went. By the time he reached the dining room, Nesta was back from the mailbox, pouring over their deliveries. She had flung aside any packages that were too small or too large, looking for one in particular, Cassian knew. She finally found the one she needed, gasping as she tore into it with all of the enthusiasm of a child on Winter Solstice morning. Cassian leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest as he watched Nesta marvel at the newest Sellyn Drake novel. Her, Gwyn, and Emerie had all pre-ordered their own copies, vowing to avoid each other for a few days lest any of them accidentally spoil any good parts for each other. Cassian fully expected Nesta to run upstairs and lock herself in the study until she finished the book. At least Cassian knew the House would make sure she ate, since she wouldn’t be stopping for meals any time soon. He’d be lucky if he got her to sleep. He secretly hoped she’d be done with it by the end of the week, so he could read it over the weekend. Not that he’d ever admit it to her. Nesta hugged the book to her chest, inhaling deeply as she breathed in the new book smell she loved so much. Cassian tried to hide his amusement as she thumbed through the pages and flipped the book over. As she read the back cover, her eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped. Cassian watched as the tips of her pointed ears turned pink, and then a violent shade of red. He began to wonder if she’d stopped breathing. “If the description on the back is causing this reaction, I can only imagine the smut you’ll find on the inside,” Cassian teased. Nesta’s head snapped up as her wide eyes met his, her mouth still hanging open. She suddenly held out the book to Cassian, shaking her head in disbelief. Cassian took the book from her and turned it over, curious as to what could put his mate at a loss for words. His own face threatened to turn pink at what he found there.

Courtship of Dreams: One Illyrian’s Fantasy #1 Prythian Publishers Bestselling Author Sellyn Drake is back with a dreamy romance set in the heart of the Night Court. Young Prince Cassius must fight to keep his female’s affections when a bright, bold High Lord threatens to steal her away. Will Cassius get his mate back, or give into his heart’s desires and share his love with the High Lord of his dreams? *Available in hardcover and paperback

Cauldron boil him.

————————

Was this yesterday's prompt? Yes. Did I post it today anyway? Also yes. I hope everyone enjoyed!!

Read on AO3

Tag List: @thegreyj // @live-the-fangirl-life // @heartofwildfires // @swankii-art-teacher

#helion week

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helionweek · 4 years ago

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Helion Week: Day 3--The Autumn Flame

Did y'all really think I wasn't going to contribute to this, the most holy of days of Helion Week?

PLEASE.

Enjoy!

He meets her in the evening.

He’s young and restless, and his father has charged him with attending one of the interminable, self-congratulatory Equinox balls that High Lord Beron is fond of throwing each year.

Insufferable cunt, Helion thinks as he raises his glass and smiles at Beron, who is swanning about and silently demanding tribute from the courtiers surrounding him.

He’s counting the minutes until he can leave this horrible place. The Forest House is chilly and dark, and it’s full of scheming cutthroats who would as soon stab Helion in the back as associate with rabble from a solar court. He doesn’t know how his friend Rhysand tolerates these people, but Helion supposes he ought to learn how to deal with them sooner rather than later.

He makes polite conversation here and there, inquiring after the health of this lady and congratulating that lord on claiming his title. Just a little while longer, he thinks, edging towards the exit of the ballroom. He’s almost there, almost free to return to his home and the pleasures that await him after he hangs up the visage of the dutiful High Lord’s son.

He doesn’t watch where he’s going, so eager is he to get out of that

They collide. She gasps at the impact, her red curls flying about her face as she tries to steady herself. He instinctively reaches out to help her, his big hands gently grasping at her elbow to help her regain her balance.

Her eyes are beautiful, he thinks dazedly as he takes her in.

She smiles at him, a shy and tentative thing.

He is changed. He is lost. He is hers.

***

He saves her in the night.

He is drinking expensive wine with friends, lovers, and other people he has never met before in his life. It’s a break in this interminable war, this senseless bloodletting that turns his stomach and makes it hard for him to rise each day with the sun he used to love so much.

Something burns in the back of his mind, something that calls to him and tells him he must go, he must RUN. Quickly now, Lord of Light, you must go now.

He leaves those friends and lovers and strangers and follows that thing chanting inside him frantically.

It leads him into the wilderness, to a place he’s never been, but it feels like he’s been here a thousand times.

He hears the braying and hissing of the beasts before he ever sees them. They’re crowded at the edge of a ravine, their snarling and snapping grating and intolerable. He scents something on the breeze, something familiar and foreign all at once. Something that isn’t his, and yet it’s always been his. Rage that he doesn’t understand fills his body, preparing him to fight.

Then he sees her. That wild red hair. Those impossibly wide eyes, filled with panic and fear and grief. She reaches for him instinctively, too close and somehow too far away.

A moment passes, then another. The beasts prepare to strike.

Helion explodes.

He doesn’t remember, after. He’s covered in blood and gore and that thing inside of him is still chanting, still clawing at him to make sure she’s safe, make sure she’s happy, make sure she’s HIS.

He collapses in her arms, exhausted. She runs her hands over him frantically, checking for injuries. He’s not hurt, just grateful that he got to her in time. He buries his face in her hair and breathes.

The chanting finally stops. This is peace.

***

She leaves him in the morning.

Her eyes are full of tears. He scoffs, disbelieving.

They’ve left each other before. It never lasts. They always come back together, the moth and the flame.

She tells him that she loves him, that she has loved him from the moment she first saw him.

Something sinks inside of him.

She tells him that her children need her. That she wants to give her marriage another chance.

He laughs at her. She doesn’t crack a smile.

And then he’s on his knees before her, his crown in his hand.

Don’t go, he begs. I’ll do anything, I’ll be whatever you need. Don’t leave me.

She does, of course.

She’s sobbing like she’s dying and even now, even as she draws and quarters his heart, all he can do is think about comforting her, making her smile, making her love him again.

Don’t leave me. Don’t go.

He says it over and over again.

The silence in the empty room is deafening.

***

He learns of the birth of her seventh son in the afternoon.

The sun is blistering, beating down on him. The announcement falls from numb fingers.

There is only one thing that he’s ever wanted, and she’s given it to the insufferable cunt.

He wishes he had never met her. He hates himself for thinking it.

He wants to hurt her the way that she has hurt him, but he won’t. He’s not capable of it, as much as he wishes that he were.

All he can offer her is indifference. Mocking, perhaps, but there is never any heat in it. He has loved her too well, for too long to be cruel to her.

He wants to hate the child, but he can’t. The boy is part of her, and that makes him precious. Helion hates himself for the sentiment. Helion resolves to avoid him the same way he avoids his hateful brothers.

Lucien, he thinks with a sneer. Tears burn at his eyes. He refuses to let them fall.

Gods, he wishes that it was his son.

***

She comes to him in the evening.

It’s quiet in his palace. His heart is empty, as it always is after he runs out of energy to keep up the façade of irreverent charmer and powerful Sun King.

He is tired. He is lost.

She finds him.

He scents her before he sees her. He aches at the scent of roasting chestnuts and his eyes burn at the sharp tang of bonfires. He turns to her. He wants to whisper a curse. He says her name like a prayer, instead.

She is beautiful, as she has always been, even when the darkness around her dimmed that fire that he loved so much.

There is joy and hope in her face. She is smiling, as she has not smiled in centuries. Tears stream down her face as she opens her arms to him.

He wants to deny her. His foolish, stupid heart says otherwise.

He falls to his knees before her.

Don’t go, he begs. I’ll do anything, I’ll be whatever you need. Don’t leave me.

Her hand runs through his hair.

Never, she says. I love you. I am yours, and you are mine.

At long last, he knows it to be true.

#helion week #💔

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helionweek · 4 years ago

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