#he has names for the seagulls that come the Morrigan too

[rogaire]

I love how Shay's looks does not match his personality at all.

[bloodycassian]

Enemies and Allies - Reader + Night court. the concept:

enemies forced together in alliance to save their courts. Politics, tension, "Once we're done here I will be the one to kill you." slow burn reader x an Illyrian? Not sure who yet

Part 1 of a possibly reoccurring fic.

You never liked dealing with other courts, but Rhysand and Tamlin were possibly the two worst high lords to deal with. Helion would have been up there too if he wasn't so damn charming. And Beron didn't even count, considering he was your uncle. He was annoying automatically. And a damned fool for not showing up to the funeral. Tamlin was a brute shoved into power much too early. You could tell just from the way he carried himself. No nobility, no grace. Just the brutal beast that lurked under his skin. The way he didn't bother leaving any flowers along the coast line was further proof of his childish ways.   Rhysand was the polar opposite. The epitome of arrogance, grace, poise and political power. All words and strategy, enough to make you double take every time he opened his mouth. Constantly on the lookout for hidden meaning or loopholes in his word choice. He made your heart race with stress.  His spymaster and general though, were like two neutral, yet menacing gargoyles on either side of him. They were unsettling, especially with the shadows that crept over the spy. You tried not to stare at those curling around his shoulders, or the dull siphons that laid on each of their hands. Or the wings.  The wings would have been the worst part if there weren't other winged generals at the funeral. Peregryns guarded their high lord, one at each side much like Rhysand. Only they radiated sunshine, and light and goodness. Still terrifyingly deadly, though. Their polished armor and ceremonial scepters glinting from the overcast skies.  "A funeral should be a celebration... of the life that was. Please, join us." Tarquin said, voice thick. His mate's lip quivered. The ocean crashed against the sand, scooping up the flowers left to honor his son. Your heart squeezed at the tone change in his voice. The way he struggled to hold himself together for his court.  Vivienne turned from the crowd, and Tarquin followed. Her dark hair moved like water over her thin frame. They held each other for a long moment while the Summer court guards ushered guests to the large open beach house. You hesitated, looking out towards the ocean as it roiled. The dark water churned, seagulls overhead made no sound as they passed.  "Its been a long time, Autumn." The sultry voice was enough to make your skin crawl. He had kept the nickname since he'd met you. And in the two hundred years since. He did not forget such a remarkable introduction. Especially of someone who had your kind of power in an opposing court.  His eyes flashed with amusement when you turned, plastering on a charming smile. "I would have preferred longer, but the Cauldron works in strange ways sometimes." You retorted, and began walking away from him, grinding your teeth when he followed with ease.  He laughed and nodded. "Indeed it does, with the passing of Tarquin's only child." the not question was leading, looking to see if you knew anything of the murder. Anger spread though you at the subtle accusation. You couldnt let it show.  You had to keep your calm. Or he would surely suspect something of you. You could practically see the accusation scene play out when Night court invaded Autumn on Summer's behalf. Claiming that Autumn had killed the boy. "A parent should never outlive their own child." You said mournfully. You knew from experience how it ruined families after such a loss.  When you snuck a glance at his face, you could have swore you saw pain there. A longing that you didnt understand coming from him. It almost made you feel bad for him. You jolted yourself, forcing your mind to focus upon on your steps in the sand.  He paused for just a second before opening the bungalow door for you, inviting you to the wake. All courts dressed in mute tones of their colors, not one dared to raise their voice above the hushed murmurs. Rhysand gave a nod to his two generals in the corner, standing like statues. "I'll be seeing you then, Autumn." His eyes met yours and you swore you saw something linger there.  Before you could tell him to knock it off with the nickname, he was weaving his way across the room to the two Illyrians. Stopping every so often to give grim smiles to the families of Summer Court. His actions seemed genuine in nature. You dared not reach out a mental hand to him though, knowing you might not return with it intact.  + "And what of Night court?" Beron's slurred words were familiar. The old man had been wasting away in his own filth for years. After the Lady of Autumn disappeared, he had nothing left to keep him in line. His sons - Eris namely- made the important decisions in the court, but he still acted as ruler. The figurehead for important events and nothing more.  He had also become obsessed with the innate abilities of all the other high lords. Constantly comparing his own lingering power with the others. In two hundred years, his body had seemed to begin to wither. Directly after your birth, some said. And cursed you for their ruler's demise. After the shame of being one of the few courts to refuse to help win the war, Beron had given up completely. Still power hungry, but no longer driven.  "Night court seems to be fine. Not shaken by the murders." You surmised as best you could after your short interaction with the High Lord.  "Was it's high Lady there?" He asked with a grunt of a laugh. He was always undermining the role, laughing whenever you mentioned seeing the lady of Night. "She was not. I believe she was taking care of the babe, as the two generals were there." He shook his head, his gray hair falling in his face. "As a female should." You fought not to cringe or bite back at him. Even if he was your uncle, Beron would be a fantastic target if there was, in fact a murderer loose in Prythian. You shooed the tratirous thought away.  "Tarquin and Vivienne send their regards." You said, hoping he would allow you to take your leave. You glanced around to the cavernous space that encapsulated the dark throne room. The banners on the wall seemed lacking in color. Years of dust likely growing on them. The cracked stone floor showed its age as well, moss growing in the corners. He refused to let anyone touch up the dim room after his wife had gone.  Echoing steps sounded behind you. You turned on your heel calmly, but gripped your sword. Ready to defend your High Lord if needed.  Your mouth fell open at the sight of The Morrigan striding down the long hall. Eris on her heels behind her. She was a beacon of light among the dull ancient stone walls. Eris had a wicked grin on, eyes locked on his father.  +  "The Queens have been killed." She announced, no wavering in her tone. Your stomach hit the floor. Beron said nothing, didnt show any reaction in the slightest. As if he already knew. "And they sent you so I could be assured the court of Nightmares isnt lying?"  "They sent me because I saw to their end personally." Eris even glanced at her with the tone she used. She leveled a look at Beron.  He waved a hand, as if the Night court commander hadn't just announced that the biggest enemies to Prythian were dead."Cut off the head of the snake and more appear." He coughed after the shrug, his breathing labored. Eris hid a pained look that you knew all too well. The denial of his father's life coming to an end in front of him. You could have balked at him for the outright insult but kept your mouth shut. "High Lord.." you began, wanting to consult him on the weight of the situation. He glared at you, that familiar piercing stare that told you to stop whatever you were doing. As a child, that stare was enough to make you behave. You didn't dare think of what more than a stare Eris had to go through during his childhood.  Eris' jaw clenched before he began "Father, the Queens no longer pose a threat. This would be the perfect op-"  "Enough, boy!" Beron's voice echoed in the hall. Your cousin's face went red with shame. Fear settled in your stomach. If Beron  had no plan for moving forces to the continent to stablaise, there would be a power struggle. Even you knew that. "You assume I dont have a plan. We can discuss this when there are no wandering eyes or ears present." His tone was softer, but still laced with that High Lord's authority.  Mor's eyes could have killed them if she had the ability.  She snorted, and turned on a heel to leave. Her footsteps echoing in the long hall. "The Night Court's whore, going back to where she belongs." Beron mused to himself. She stopped dead in her tracks. Eris' face went pale when she turned. Your palms went sweaty at her eyes, like two daggers looking at him. She held up a hand. Light flashed, and suddenly there was a razor thin spear flying through the air.  You ran at The Morrigan before you knew what you were doing. Your hands were a flurry of movement as you tried to keep her down. Eris just watched, unable to move as he watched death race for his father.  A wet splatter, and Beron's chest was punctured by that golden spear. His mouth leaked blood, his eyes closing. Eris was rooted to the spot. Your body locked up, and Mor shoved you off of her with a grunt. She wasnt trying to win the fight, she could have obliterated you in a second if she was. You felt like you weren't in your body. She stood, wiping the blood from her face. You didnt remember hitting her that hard. Your mouth was dry, mind buzzing. Mor waved her hand again and the spear was gone.  "Have all the power you want, Eris. Our deal has been struck. Send your forces to Rask by next week." She scowled at the body on the throne. The male you had just wished death upon. The reality of it made everything fuzzy. Eris was still pale, his eyes not looking away from his father. "We will see you there." He said, voice weak. Distant.  You could only faintly hear Mor Winnow away. The roaring in your head was overwhelming. Your uncle dead on his throne. A hysterical laugh bubbled from Eris' chest. Only one, before you could catch his gaze and see the silent tears streaming down his cheeks. + "You killed the Queens and my father without consulting me first. I hardly think our deal was struck." Eris had been strange after his father's funeral. But for the first time since, you saw a glimpse of the old him. On the move to Rask, he had been that hollow shell he seemed like. Btu as soon as he laid eyes on Morrigan waiting at that tent, he seemed to put on more of a show.  Inside the tent seemed too small. It was enormous, but with everyone inside it was too hot. Too cramped. The sun beating down did not help. The two Illyrians in the corner leering at you and Eris was not helping either. "A deal's a deal young Lord. I suggest you choose your words more carefully next time." Rhys winked. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hold back your tone. "You murdered him. I am being blamed for not guarding him well enough." Your reputation in the court had fallen.  Several Royal court members had been rumoured of your position inside the court, if you should be banished because of the death. None of them knew what actually happened. You and Eris had agreed on a believable story though, whoever had murdered Tarquin's son also reached Beron the night of the funeral. "I did not murder him. My lovely cousin however, did." Rhys drawled with a cat-like grin. It made you see red. Azriel grinned behind him. Those creepy shadows of his seemed more transparent in the sun. Mor glanced to you, her eyes not betraying anything she felt of the kill. You were hoping she would show some remorse for the death. Heat roiled in your stomach at the lack of care.  "Dont act so upset, Autumn." Rhys waved a hand, and you felt those clawd mental hands whisk across your shields. You snarled at him, reaching for your sword. You knew you couldnt win, even on your best of days. That didnt stop you though. Eris placed a hand on your arm. The two Illyrians had their siphon shields glowing in front of their high lord instantly. Rhys laughed calmly despite the tension in the room.  "You did give Mor quite the cut however, and burn it seems. Call it revenge." He folded his hand on the desk, wiping away dirt that wasnt there. Azriel's siphons burned brighter. His wings tightened behind his back. Mor still showed nothing, only looking from her cousin to Eris. Tense, her shoulders and posture radiated the worry. The tension of the room. Eris' jaw locked. He pulled you, willing you to let it go. You weren't proud of the fight with Mor. You wanted Beron to have at least died in an honorable way. But in the recent years with him hardly leaving his seat at the throne or his room at the castle, it made the chance of him seeing battle again nearly impossible.  "Maybe I should have done more." You muttered, sheathing your sword. The shadowsinger stepped forward, chest pushed out. His lips pulled back in a snarl, "Do not-" He began, voice a low threatening growl. "Azriel." Rhys said calmly, voice like honey. You grinned at the Shadowed one.  Rhys sighed and waved his tattooed hand in the air. Wine glasses appeared on the table he sat at. "Let's begin the real discussion at hand." He said calmly, pouring a glass. You glanced to Eris. He hesitated, but strode forward, taking a glass and downing it. + Eris was nearly drunk by the time you helped him out of the tent. After the long hours of dribble and stale conversation about diving resources, you couldnt blame him for having a few extra glasses of wine. He tripped on the rug going out. You caught him, but noticed shadows lingering around his torso.  "Get. Off."  You hissed, Not looking back. The shadows lingered for just a moment, then skittered away. You heard something like a sigh come from one of them as you led your cousin to his tent.

[writingwithryder]

At What Cost [Áine Tabris]

Áine Tabris had been asked to stay in the King’s court after the defeat of the Archdemon – Eamon had insisted, imploring that the famed, “Hero of Ferelden” would have pull in the politics of the recently Blighted country. In truth, she wanted to go home – to pick up the pieces of the life she left behind a year ago, and start anew; there was no life for her there, however, her fiancée was dead, half of the alienage sold into slavery or murdered for her actions against the Arl’s son and a nobleman’s vanity. Guilt seared through her veins – every person missing, lost to Tevinter slavers or dead, was someone that she didn’t save – couldn’t save, because for all the talk of Grey Warden influence and power she was still just a…

“Oi. Knife-ear!”

Yes. That. Blinking she turned from the window she had been staring out of, searching for the human who had accosted her. Finding the offender, a secondary cook, she stares at him, eyes defiant – she obviously knew who he was, the question now, did he recognize her, or did all “knife-ears” look the same to the shemlen. She was out of her now staple, thanks to the Orleasian Wardens, Warden Regalia in favor of soft cotton floral skirts and loose fitting shirts belted at her waist, only her mother’s boots remained of the Hero of Ferelden’s well-regarded garb. In truth, she didn’t realize just how much she had missed the simple fabrics until she came across them in the Market a week ago – sold by a dear friend from the Alienage, who she had paid ten sovereigns more than what was asked for the clothing; the look on the woman’s face was one that Áine would never forget.

“Don’t just stand there you stupid elf, the King will be by in a matter of minutes! Make yourself–”

Hearing enough, Áine turned on her heel, ignoring the shouts of the shemlen cook, who was near the color of puce at being ignored by who he was certain was just another elven servant. Feet on the window sill, she leapt to the roof, feet skidding against the brick until she had managed to shimmy her upper body onto the roof completely. On silent foot falls, she retraced the steps she had decidedly taken over the last two weeks, to the best view of the entire city, at least, in her opinion. The skyline at dusk was more beautiful than any of the many vistas she had been privy to during her sojourn – the yellows and oranges and golds and reds melting together against the shadowed buildings of the market district and the white sails of the ships leaving dock, billowing clouds of white against the ever changing sky. The din of the people in the streets below her only broken by the occasional caw of the black birds and seagulls who were her only companions.

It was nice. Quiet. Peaceful. Almost as if the Blight had never happened. It was never this quiet in the Alienage – there was always noise, always life, and yet the quiet suited Áine just fine. Peace was welcomed after the year of death and destruction and cries and pleas for help and salvation. Eyes closing, she breathed in the peace around her, let it fill her up, let her forget if just for a moment, what it took to get here, how many lives were lost for her to attain this kind of peace.

“I had asked the Hero of Ferelden to join us today.”

Eamon’s voice drifted up through the open windows of the castle, stirring Áine from her daydreams. She would never, ever be used to that title – it befit her as well as the fine silks of the nobility that Leliana had demanded she try, which she had traded in for soft cottons and small amounts of lace.

“Oh? She’s here? I – I haven’t seen her since the coronation.”

His voice, even now, pulled at her heartstrings, dredged up memories that she had worked so hard to hide away. Her body shifted, wanting nothing more than to forget those nights the two of them had spent curled by the fire. It stirred something in her – moved her to anger and sadness, longing panging deeply in her chest.

“She is like a ghost – none of the staff or Isolde ever get more than a glance at her, and then she’s gone. A trait I’m certain she’s had all her life.”

It had been clear to Áine since Eamon had caught the two of them in one of the back halls of his Denerim Estate before the Landsmeet how little he approved of his ward’s choice in companion. It incensed her, sure, but what truly made her angry was the fact that she had expected nothing less. He was no different than Vaughn, none of them were – not even the man she was certain she once loved.

“You can’t – you can’t say that, Eamon. She saved all of Thedas. She saved you. She saved your son. She saved your wife!”

It had been the first time since the Landsmeet that he had defended her. Alistair had been so angry with her after the Landsmeet, and she had avoided him, anger and sadness made her avoid him, right up until she begged him to save them both – for if he had loved her at all, surely he could do this.

“And it is good she learned her place! Can you imagine what the gentry would say if word got out that you…. Dallied with an elf?”

His last words were hushed and disgust filled – and Áine had heard enough. Crossing over to the other side of the roof, she slipped into the back garden, determined to head back to the Alienage, she paused, perhaps the Market District. She couldn’t face her people yet. Not when they called her “hero” undeservedly. As she gracefully descended the roof, hands gently grappling sills until her feet were once again against the soft Ferelden ground, when her body unceremoniously crumpled to the ground. Emotions that she had so conservatively kept in check since the day of the Landsmeet seemed to at once burst from her body, exhausting her and breaking her in a way that she hadn’t felt since Duncan had taken her from Denerim what seemed like a lifetime ago. She commanded her body to rise, to stop sobbing like a child, to move before a guard or a former companion saw her in such a state.

“Áine?”

Her body now shot up, not of her own accord but of his and shivers ran down her spine involuntarily. Bringing an arm up, she wiped the tears from her face and pulled on the mask that she had become so good at donning.

“Your Majesty?”

She bowed, polite and cordial refusing, however, to meet his gaze. Eyes dancing among the butterfly bushes that she so loved, those just blooming in the early springtime. She knew if she looked into his eyes, whatever resolve she had managed to build in the last fortnight would be destroyed.

“You – you don’t have to do that, Áine, I’m not–”

His words broke off, voice conflicted and broken and so very reminiscent of the man she had come to love. Not the person who had broken her heart in front of their traveling companions, not the king who was certain to take a human wife and forget her as easily as all shemlen did the elves they bedded as little more than whores.

“I haven’t seen you since the coronation, Áine – I – everyone has missed your presence.”

Her eyes refused to leave the bright orange flowers, imagining the butterflies that would soon dance among their petals and fill the dreary gardens with life that they so much needed. She willed her legs to move, to leave, for not it was as if he was speaking to a wounded animal, she begged her body, pleaded with whatever gods were listening and finally, she was moving, fast, tears blurring her vision as she sprinted for a crack in the wall she was certain was there. She didn’t want this; she never wanted this, she wanted her Alistair, the young, naïve boy who she had given her whole heart to, and if he saw her now, and begged her to stay, she wasn’t sure she’d have the power to leave his side.

“Áine, please.”

His hand was as warm as she remembered as it wrapped itself around her wrist, words pleading her to stay as he pulled her into his chest, towards him and she found herself forced to look upon him for the first time since the top of Fort Drakon, when she took the time to memorize every detail, for if Morrigan’s ritual had failed, she wanted her last memory to be of him. And in his eyes was all she feared – pity, regret and even worse, love.

“Did Eamon find you a wife yet?”

The words were unbidden and spite filled, and yet she did not stop them, anger at the love and pity she had found buried in his vision. He was the one who ended it, he had no right to regret it, or pity her for it was his fault she was as a wounded animal and love – what right had he to love? What right did he have to love her after all he did to her? And her words continued, spilled out viciously and without restraint, as if him hating her would make their parting easier.

“One that fulfills the political machinations I’m sure he has planned. I’m sure she’s a pretty shemlen thing. Maker forbid you wait too long – or the gentry be made to think that you actually loved the knife ear you took to bed all those months while defending Ferelden.”

His brow furrowed at the venom in her words, and Áine found herself forced to blink away the tears from her eyes. Damn this man, damn his gentle look and soft eyes and how she longed to kiss his lips one more time.

“Áine, you know that isn’t fair.”

A laugh pealed from her throat, when had things ever been fair for her? For her people? And he dared declare her the villain of their conversation.

“Do you think that because I am poor, obscure, plain and little that I am soulless and heartless?”

Eamon now appeared in the doorway, apparent in search for the new king, but now for the show that Áine was certain he helped in its unfolding. His gaze and smug look make her rip her hand from Alistair’s grasp.

“I have as much soul as you, - and full as much heart! And if the Maker had granted be the life of a human, I should have made it has hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you!”

There was nothing now to stop the tears, anger and sadness both drew them out and without further word she disappeared just as the fairy queen for which she was named.