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constantsins · 1 day ago

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The male’s copper–red head lolled to the side and his skin was so pale, blue veins were visible. Another wet breath. His heartbeat was sluggish and labored.

“Don’t you fucking die. Do you hear me?” Azriel gritted his teeth at his unexpected panic, even as the words passed over his lips.

He landed before a tent bearing the green livery of Autumn’s general. The male in his arms was frigid, his pouting lips thinned in pain.

WIP Wednesday | Nocturne |

Azriel x Eris

I plan to start posting this one in the fall, hopefully in time for Eris Week. It takes place post-canon, but the first chapter is a series of canon scenes with Azriel and Eris, set as flashbacks. It starts with the infamous, "Tie me to a tree, Rhys" scene.

I'm nodding my head towards @mistandmemories who over nine months ago reminded me that Eris was mortally wounded in the Northern Flank battle. Brilliant, big-brained, iconic connection to make. Here is the opening scene (written in January) of Nocturne, my Arranged Marriage AU/ Eris in the Hewn City fic.

. . . .

The Mortal Lands, Second War on Hybern

this amber light whittled down by another war is all that pins my hand to your chest —Ocean Vuong

If the world was to end in fire, Azriel would not sit idly by. A thousand Illyrian warriors had been struck from the sky, their ashes falling to scorched earth like snow. The Shadowsinger led his legion through the fray of arrows and smoke.

Unexplained terror pulled him northward, towards the crested treeline. Another urgent tug at his shadows, his ribs. It tore at the fabric of his world. “I’m going in.”

“No,” Rhysand snapped.

Azriel spread his wings, the sunlight stark on raw half-healed flesh. “Chain me to a tree, Rhys. Go ahead.” He began checking the buckles on his weapons. “I’ll rip it out of the ground and fly with it on my damned back.”

Violet eyes traveled from the spymaster to the Night Court's decimated aerial forces. Any chance of victory was waning.

Rhysand spoke low. “Lead the remaining Illyrians on the northern flank. I need eyes on Autumn and Spring.” Beneath the guilt and fear lacing his voice was a calculated edge and the tinge of desperation.

Azriel shot upward before his High Lord could reconsider. His wings beat hard, carrying him toward the scrambling forces. Everything hurt. The newly fused skin was too sensitive in the midday sun; the tender, scarred membrane and torn tendons strained. His head pulsed with the pressure of the shadows’ voices.

“Get into formation.” Azriel barked out over his shoulder. The winged legion moved as a single organism, even as Hybern’s arrows bounced off his cobalt light-shield.

Beron’s burnt orange livery became visible within minutes, the banners snapping in the wind like ruddy flames against a gray feathered sky.

Their two-pronged attack was a classic Illyrian strategy. Half of Azriel’s forces would hold the line, landing in a gap between Autumn and Spring’s defenses. The other half remained hovering above, picking off Hybernians with quick Siphon flashes or dipping into the fray wielding short swords.

Azriel reinforced his own shields and lifting his Illyrian blade, roared above the din, “Qulu nafsin zaikatul maut.”

The winged warriors at his back unsheathed their blades and repeated the ancient battle cry, this time in the common tongue of Prythian. “Every soul shall taste death.”

Every Illyrian was born for war. It was their worth, their calling, and purpose. And each one was prepared to die on this field.

Steel sliced through flesh and bone. Time passed in the killing rhythm of thrust, parry, shield. It became a second heartbeat. His boots sank into blood and earth. Azriel ran his blade through the soft flesh of a soldier’s armpit, expertly aiming for the armor gap. Red bloomed down the male’s chest piece.

Barely more than a youngling, the Hybern soldier cried out, “braithim uaim momháthair.” The shades whispered a translation: “I miss my mother.”

Disgust and sadness rose with bile. Azriel ripped his blade from the soldier’s side, and in a downward arc, offered him a clean death.

He tried to ignore his wrenching ribs and pushed his blade into another soldier, then turned. A flash of red.

Eris Vanserra, general of the Autumn Court and first prince of Autumn, threw himself at a Hybernian general. Blood flowed freely down the pale column of the male’s throat. Azriel could smell it from where he stood. He hated it.

The shadows swooped low, moving at a frantic speed. yalla, yalla, mughaniy. They pleaded haste in their many voices, feminine and haunting.

Azriel didn’t stop to consider why the shadows were preoccupied by this male, or to question the terror burning bright in his chest.

Even injured, Autumn’s general was fierce– a true warrior. He moved like flames set across water, with grace and speed. If war was a brutal dance, Eris Vanserra was swept up in its song.

A second Hybernian came swinging at the prince’s blind spot. This one wore the armor of a general.

Azriel acted out of pure instinct. Flying on half-healed wings, he landed behind the first Hybernian and sliced across his throat. Warm blood splattered his face; he tasted its iron on his lips.

Without another thought, Azriel turned and rammed his sword forward to impaled the Hybern general’s throat. Both were dead within seconds.

Eris’s face was streaked with ash and blood; his amber eyes were clouded in pain. He swayed as the Shadowsinger pulled him into the cobalt ring of light. The shades blanketed the Autumn Fae, taking inventory and hissing at the blood leaking down his silver chest piece.

As much as he hated it, the lying snake of a prince had allied himself with the Night Court, had worked behind his father’s back to rally troops against Hybern. Eris kept his word and Azriel’s honor demanded he not let the fireling die in the mud. Not today.

There was a screeching roar and his shades whispered of Night-dark talons and a massive black maw tearing Hybernians apart. Its feathered and golden Day counterpart had joined the fray. Helion and Rhys had shifted to their Beast forms in a final stand.

It was now or never. Azriel barked out an order to his lieutenant, then lifted Eris’s limp form and took off towards the Autumn camp. The male’s copper-red head lolled to the side and his skin was so pale, blue veins were visible. Another wet breath. His heartbeat was sluggish and labored.

“Don’t you fucking die. Do you hear me?” Azriel gritted his teeth at his unexpected panic, even as the words passed over his lips.

He landed before a tent bearing the green livery of Autumn’s general. The male in his arms was frigid, his pouting lips thinned in pain.

“Eris, I swear to the Mother. I’ll go to Hel and drag you back.” Azriel whispered into a pointed ear.

He snapped open the tent’s flap and rolled his eyes at the large pallet covered in pelts. Only a spoiled prince would bring a mountain of bedding into a warzone. His shadows fussed, winding through Eris’s blood-matted hair.

There was a fluttering from behind. The Illyrian turned to see a High Fae male in brassy Autumn armor. Green eyes glittered in the lantern light. The male’s beauty was undeniable--golden tan skin, high cheekbones, and a lush mouth. He gasped at the sight of Eris and rushed forward.

“Get your general a healer,” the spymaster spat out. Something mean and sharp tore its claws into his gut. It coiled low and nested. This soldier who barged into Eris’s tent acted like he belonged there.

“I am his healer.” The male met the Shadowsinger’s gaze with trembling courage. Few were so bold. “L-lay him on the pallet. And remove his armor.” He spoke like he was trying on a role, but Azriel was impressed when he moved with confidence along the edges of the enclosure to gather supplies.

Azriel lay Eris down as gently as able and loosened the buckles at the male’s sides. Shadows hovered as he ripped off the metal chest piece. The blood pooling beneath the armor was concerning, but the gash on his neck was slowly healing. He moved to the tunic, but it was fully saturated and sticking to the flat, muscled torso. With a frustrated growl, the Illyrian tore it away, continuing to shuck the leather chausses down the male’s limp form. Boots were tossed with a thunk into the corner.

In his frenzy, he’d not registered that he was undressing Eris fucking Vanserra. He hated this male for his arrogance and duplicity, for how he’d left Mor in his woods to bleed out centuries ago.

The Shadowsinger stared down at the lithe form, the flat planes of his stomach that led to slightly rounded hips. Azriel could admit only to himself that the male possessed a wild and powerful beauty.

Gods, this war truly had taken its toll if he was ogling a half-dead son of Autumn. Sunlight and the din of battle streamed into the tent as several sentries entered with a basin, linens, and bandages.

The healer slowly wiped the vicious wound. “I can take it from here, Shadowsinger.”

Still unconscious, Eris moaned low, and Azriel growled at the sound, his shadows darting forward. The healer’s head shot up at this, his mouth set in an unimpressed line. He continued to clean Eris’s bloodied skin, then with a quick wrist flick, the pink, cloudy water cleared. He submerged his hand and steam rose as the male poured a packet of herbs into the tub.

Without looking up, he murmured, “He’ll live. Won’t even scar thanks to your haste”

“Good. Wouldn’t want your princeling maimed on my watch.” Azriel stomped towards the tent flap. His voice came out sharp, even to his own ears.

Outside, he inhaled the acrid air. Smoke and death hung above, but that was to be expected. What he hadn’t counted on was his body’s reaction to the Autumn male lying atop a pile of pillows. That Night’s spymaster had been half-holding his breath to avoid inhaling the scent of warm spice and earthy musk.

He tucked his wings back and hissed in pain as a half-healed suture tore.

Fuck Eris Vanserra, with his long, pretty throat and bratty hips, his amber eyes smoky with pain, and his graceful warrior’s speed.

It did not matter that the male had come through this time, had acted with honor. The Autumn prince was a viper in wait. And when he struck, Azriel would be ready.

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#jULES MY HEART CANNOT TAKE IT #eris #eris vanserra #azriel #azriel acotar #jules–writes–stories #i know eris is fine #he survived the war and he’s still our beautiful princeling #azris #azris supremacy #azris fic #bUT GODS I GET NERVOUS EVERYTIME I READ HE’S BEEN HURTED DKDJDKDJDKDJ #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #I CAN’T HELP IT ª

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