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historiaxvanserra · 2 months

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These Violent Delights | Chapter Two

Summary: A High Lords meeting goes awry and you find yourself thrust into the foxes den.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (brief mentions of Azriel x reader)

Word Count: 6.4k

Chapter 1 of These Violent Delights on my Masterlist

The Hewn City’s state rooms are ugly, you think as you stalk the emissary of the Night Court through the winding, narrow corridors of Hewn City. The palatial chambers had been carved into the dark stone of the mountain by the Gods of old; and the high, domed ceilings are held in place by onyx pillars decorated with twisted carvings of beasts and fornicating demi-gods that line the Gothic archways.

Lurid, ill-fated omens, you think.

Harbingers of your undoing.

The emissary appointed with escorting you is adorned in ceremonial robes; a fine damask tunic in a deep indigo silk that is almost iridescent in the artificial light. You fall into step with him as he approaches a set of gilded iron gates. Two armored sentries fall into rank as you cross the threshold of the council chambers and you offer a courteous nod to the sentry as he meets your eye.

The antechamber of The Moonstone Palace is plunged in a suffocating blue-darkness with only the silvers of silver faelight, like artificial stars, to light the faces of the High Lords. The atmosphere is oppressive and the smell of hemlock and moonflowers stain the stagnant air. For a few moments, while you’re lost in thought, the world is silent and still. Feigning peace. But there is no peace. Not here, where the eyes of every High Lord in Prythian are upon you.

Hewn City is a dark mirage. A metropolis of hedonistic desire and vulgar frivolity

It is here in the dark that you find yourself adrift; lost somewhere to the sea of time. You abandon yourself to the tide of memory. The happy recollections of your childhood; to the thought of home. Someplace far from here, where the sunlight touches your skin and the smell of salt from the coast becomes tangled in your unbound hair. Somewhere, in the recesses of your mind, where you know your mothers love and your fathers face is something more than a mere memory.

It occurs to you that this is a home that never existed.

Home had always been burning; the acrid smell of woodsmoke beckons you like a funeral pyre and your salt-cracked lips chafe and bleed in the wake of blistering winds from the violent sea. And that’s the thing about mothers, you and she exist as some wretched mirror or one another; as hatred and guilt.

You’ve been thinking of your mother a lot as of late; something in your dreams, the echoing of a coming storm. A fine line between love and hate. It is something strange and prophetic that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably from your body.

In a flurry of movement against the black you are brought back to the present as you take your place amongst the ranks of the Inner Circle.

The silhouettes of the other High Lords, that had been flickering wildly against the dark stone of the mountain, cease to move. Cease to be, as shadows envelop the room, melting into the darkness as Rhysand glides into the room his violet eyes glinting in the dark. His eyes shine with a cold violence that draws you from thought and the visions of a home long forgotten turn to ashes in your trembling hands. He’s dressed all in black and violet, his tan skin looks pallid in the low light. By his side Feyre’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in starlight against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch the scent of chamomile and moondust in the air.

It smells like Nyx you think, smiling lightly to yourself at the thought of your nephew.

A tremor of dark power ripples through the air and you feel the shift in the atmosphere when shield after shield locks into place around each High Lord and his retinue of courtiers. The shield that Rhysand had already placed around the Inner Circle; made stronger in response. Night magic glitters in the air like stardust and you swear you can taste it on your tongue. That same cold rage and an essence of icy violence fortifies you against the hostility in the room and you school your expression to remain neutral when you seek out a pair of strange amber eyes in the crowd.

A gentle warmth burns though your chest and your eyes scan the crowd.

Eris Vanserra moves like a predator; resolute and obstinate. Amber eyes burn like fire glow in the dim light and each of his long strides are punctuated by the echo of boot clad feet on the marble. In this light, his face is almost ethereal. Unearthly even. Set in a painfully neutral expression as he slinks through the halls of the city below the mountains of Velaris. Eris Vanserra burns bright against the other Lords of Pryhtian; his copper hair, like burnished gold in the dim lights, and his eyes. Those fucking eyes. Haunting and evocative as he meets your gaze with a feline smirk.

It is a wicked, false thing, that glitters with malice.

He watches you with a wrathful sort of reverence. He is so very lovely, even in the pallid light. Even as his father and brothers flank his sides like a pack of hungry foxes; hungry and baying for blood.

You watch him carefully as Eris takes his seat at the foot of the large black table, he’s careful to make a show of the way he languidly reclines in his chair, rolling his shoulders back and angling his hips in such a way that the whole room is displayed to him at once.

It’s almost voyeuristic in nature.

That summons a storm within you; a violent, lonely, sort of thing, that washes over him with the force of a raging tempest down the scarcely accepted bond and his eyes, glittering and amber in the dying light, finding yours again. For a moment, Eris Vanserra sees himself through your eyes; for the first time in centuries he doesn’t hate the man staring back at him.

By his side Eris’ mother’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in fireglow against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch her dark glassy eyes and she smiles softly at you. There is a deep sorrow there, in the depths of The Lady of Autumn's eyes, that feel kindred to you.

A shared pain, perhaps.

Turning as Rhysand and Feyre push further into the darkness of the antechamber, you are drawn from thought once more.

The rest of The Night Court look like some savage celestial army as they enter on a night-kissed breeze. Cassian and Nesta look like warriors hardened by war and ruin, all dressed in black and faces coloured with cold caution. They’re followed by the Shadowsinger, who is shrouded in dark wisps of shadow and his skin glows golden against the dark. His face is set in an unreadable expression, though, when your eyes meet a flash of recognition flashes in those hazel eyes.

Rhysand stops dead in his tracks when he regards the High Lord of Autumn.

Beron Vanserra; cruel and tyrannical, keens when he notes the flash of surprise in Rhysand’s violet gaze. His eyes simmer with a dim fire as his eyes land on you. Beron’s teeth are like crow-picked bones as he offers you a feral smile.

“We weren’t expecting you, Beron.” Feyre’s voice is distant and cold as she speaks to the High Lord and his sons.

Rhysand rises to his feet from his throne, waving his hand to the attendants, “Fetch the High Lord and his Lady a seat.”

The attendant presents Beron with a chair and he settles between Helion and the Lady of Autumn, neither Helion nor the lady seem to acknowledge each other but you can feel the shift in their demeanors as Beron’s ire sparks in his eyes. He doesn’t even spare The Lady of Autumn a glance before he moves on to inspecting his fellow High Lords.

You pay Beron no heed and instead your eyes find the Lady of Autumn as she settles into her seat beside her husband and eldest son. The Lady of Autumn is like one of Feyre’s paintings; arresting and darkly beautiful. Her romantic eyes are shaded in the colors of sunset; a warm amber that looks almost golden in the low light and her dark auburn hair glitters in the dying fireglow and her eyes-- so rich that you get lost in their glassy depths. Those haunting eyes. They’re Eris’ eyes you realize as they meet yours. Though she doesn’t linger long she gives you a soft smile before returning her gaze to her long slender fingers that twitch in her lap. They’re adorned with many gold rings and crystals that she wears like armor to fortify her against the hostile atmosphere.

You see something of yourself in her you think, looking down to your own attire. An opulent and finely boned corset, cinched so tight, that even breathing feels like a luxury and the heavy black damask that covers you in swathes of pleated fabric acts as barrier between yourself and the many eyes in the room that trail over you without care or warning.

“Nor was I expecting to be here,” Beron drawls, “But alas, it seems we have business to discuss.” Beron’s fire rages dangerously against the black. Torrid and angry, his face unflinching and cruel as he turns his gaze upon Rhysand. Something treacherous passes between the two High Lords at that moment and something in your chest begins to stir like a storm inside of you.

A warning of a coming storm.

“Rumor claims that your allegiances are elsewhere, these days.” It is your voice that counters and Beron croons. The High Lord of Autumn assesses you keenly, his gaze shifting-- from the darkness of your eyes-- down. To the sulk of your lips. Further still to the exposed slope of your shoulders and coming to rest on your chest, where the swell of your breasts spills over the corseted bodice of your gown. His eyes darken luridly as his eyes meet yours again. Beron Vanserra scrutinizes every minute detail of your dark armor; every errant hair, every nervous twitch of your jaw, every flutter of your dark lashes.

It’s disarming the smile that spreads across his handsome face and his eyes shine with a maniacal sort of joy that sparks a wave of fury that runs through you like water-- and you swear you can feel Eris’ own fiery rage in answer.

“And what would you know of my allegiances, girl?” The false smile he offered is soon replaced with a deep loathing in Beron’s eyes that practically burns through you.

In a way, it feels strangely comforting to feel his ire.

To feel anything at all that isn’t paralyzing dread or hirearth for a home to which you will never return.

Helion waves a scar-flecked hand in front of him, “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”

The High Lord of Day glows with the radiance of the golden sun and he looks at you with such a strange mixture of boredom and curiosity that almost seems like reverence. He doesn’t dare look at The Autumn Lady in her seat though you notice the careful glances she makes towards him in those spaces between the seconds when no one is paying much heed.

“I know you met with rhe Prince of Rask.” you say and all the idle chatter in the room dies at once. “And he’s working with the Koschei, isn’t he?”

Beron opens his mouth and you brace yourself for the torrid flames of his wrath. You see the violent delight dance across Beron’s eyes and Rhysand just holds his stare. Hold it with a face like icy death. And beneath the surface you see untempered wrath as it ripples beneath his carefully curated mask. A sharp pain in your chest has you seeking out Eris at his father’s side. His face is the picture of cataclysmic rage; writhing and burning in those eyes.

To anyone else Eris Vanserra is the image of infernal rage. A righteous son to a wronged father. But to you-- all his fear comes home to you.

A warning fire.

“Never mind, we can discuss the happy news of your heir’s birth another time,” Beron smiles again at Rhysand and Feyre. It is Feyre who regards him with a snarling fury at the mention of the son she had almost died to bring into the world.

She would give her life again if only to protect him from the clutches of a tyrant like Beron. Of that you were certain.

“I believe we have business to discuss?” Beron questions again when no one responds to his taunt.

All the eyes in the room turn to you when you loose a laugh, “I didn’t realize we were in the business of discussing plans with our enemies.”

Eris Vanserra looks as though he might just vault over the table and silence you himself. His eyes smoulder in the dark and the scathing look he sends your way is enough to make you weak in the knees.

“Make no mistake girl,” Beron muses, his eyes sparking with feral delight, “I am not your enemy,”

“You are advised to keep it that way.”

In that moment you are bereft of every thought and sound in your mind as the room stills.

Rhysand and Feyre falter and look between you and The High Lord of Autumn-- and his heir.

Your mate.

Eris himself remains poised, his fingers wrapped around the arm of the chair, the wood straining under his cruel grip until his knuckles turn as pale as the sea foam that swirls atop the Sidra.

It is the Shadowsinger who rises from his seat in response, “Threaten her again, old man-- I dare you.” Azriel’s voice wraps round you like cold death and you can’t help but stare impassively as he places his body between yours and Beron. The flicker of flame is smothered by Azriel’s darkness.

Beron sits in his chair without so much as a word. Though you see the taunt in his eyes as he looks at you again. Azriel’s imposing figure still stands over you, a scarred hand that strokes languid circles into the skin of your shoulder. The bond in your chest hums violently.

“Call off your dog, Rhysand.” Eris’ voice is dangerously low as he eyes Azriel.

Rhys shrugs, smiling faintly “Very well,” he muses.

Azriel takes his seat beside you, though his scarred fingers remain fixed on the arm of your chair.

“Tell me, Azriel?” Eris laughs coldly, his voice devoid of any humor and he opens his mouth to speak, “Does it pain you knowing that both of your brothers have been given a sister as a mate?”

“And yet the Mother still deems you unworthy of a Mate -- desitined to pity fuck the spare sister.” Eris muses with a lilt of his voice when he realizes he has the upperhand.

A twinge of heat in your chest from the bond makes your scowl deepen.

Azriel blinks at first, his face twisting in rage before rising to his feet once more, barrelling over the table with an inhuman growl. Azriel grips Eris by the lapels of his emerald tunic. Coming together in flashes of flame and smoke as they struggle against one another. Eris swings a leg over Azriel’s thigh bringing them both tumbling to the floor, while the other High Lords watch on with varying degrees of amusement and frustration on their faces.

Your face heats under the scrutiny. Unable to move or speak-- your stormy facade rendered useless as the tears begin to well in your eyes.

You are a storm-- but in the face of their wrath there is naught you can do but watch and abide.

Rhysands commanding voice cuts through Azriel’s cursing and Eris’ insults. The room falls silent as the males pull away from one another. Azriel’s nose is bloodied and his hair falls around his face in messy strands. Eris’ lip is split, spilling crimson along the column of his throat. You trace the line of scarlet as the droplets stain the neckline of his white shirt. You can hear his heartbeat as it flutters wildly. His eyes meet yours and a look of resignation and shame crosses them for a moment; obscuring the perfect amber of his gaze.

Azriel wipes his blood on his leathers; wears it like armor as he turns to Eris “Something to remember me by.”

Azriel spits the words like venom at Eris whose face radiates with a dark and fiery wrath.

Feyre looks between the two males and then to you; her face softens then as she regards you. Your hands shaking wildly, and a heartbeat like an echoing war drum, the bond in your chest singing a mournful song as it rages inside you.

You look utterly devastated.

She’s not used to seeing that kind of defeat on the face of her elder sister; the sister who had weathered so much, always headstrong and ardent, who had suffered every injustice with a straight face-- she hadn’t quite prepared herself for the type of sorrow that realization would bring with it.

Taking in the scene unfolding before you-- the descent into violence and the blood that pools like rubies at Eris Vanserra’s feet you loose a shaky breath. “Enough--enough” You wave your hands between Azriel and Eris.

The males both take a tentative step away from one another and further from you.

“Who shares my bed is of little concern, I assure you, My Lord,” You insist firstly, setting your shoulders straight and facing them now with all the stormy determination you can feign in that moment, “from what I’ve heard you yourself have quite curious bedfellows.”

Beron sneers and scoffs from his seat at the foot of the table at the insult. A lie, at that. If anyone does share Eris Vanserra’s bed they are a mystery to you.

“Preferring the company of hounds - or so I am told.” Azriel adds.

And in truth you and Azriel haven’t so much as locked eyes since that night in Hewn City. After the mating bond between you and Eris had made its home in your chest you hadn’t been able to think about anyone or anything else.

Just him. And those amber eyes.

“We are here because once more someone is threatening the tenuous peace we have established here,” Helion nods his head thoughtfully and Thesan, who had remained silent throughout the whole ordeal looks at you with genuine encouragement and utters his agreement. Kallias and Vivianne remain silent and imposing on the other side of the table.

“It is our duty-- our privilege-- to ensure Prythian and its people are not ravaged by war again.” You look to Kallias then, unimpressed by the needless violence that had passed but somehow enamored by your words.

“Hyburn took so much from us-- from all of us.” You say, gesturing around the table and the High Lord’s faces are all shaded in sympathy and regret for all they had lost, “and Amarantha made slaves of you all.”

You cast a glance to your sister; who had fought and died for these great men and their courts. And to Rhysand who had subjected himself to being her plaything. Something like grief flashes in those violet eyes that sparks a storm in you.

“I will not be a slave again,” You vow and you notice then how all the High Lords seem rapt withal as you speak to them, and the storm inside you rages on, “to anyone.”

The tensions around the table seem to dissipate when Helion raises a chalice and smirks fondly at you and it seems that they see you as more than a bed warmer to a dark God or the mate of some High Lord’s heir. Talons scrape menacingly along your mental shields and Rhysand’s dark presence makes itself known to you. Bed warmer? Darling you are a storm-- everyone here knows it.

A force to be reckoned with.

The rest of the meeting seems to come to pass as intended, laborious hours of negotiating and political games as you come to terms with each High Lord in turn. By the time the moon hangs in the sky like cut quartz, almost all of the High Lords have already departed, leaving only The High Lord of Spring and The Autumn Court’s entourage.

“Where did you find this one, Rhysand?” Tamlin asks, his tone measured and light.

Rhysand looks between Feyre and you smiling lightly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I heard they found her in a Hyburn cell, after the war was over.” It is Beron Vanserra’s voice that cuts in, “what was left of her anyway.”

“Perhaps we should be asking where your loyalties lie?” It’s the middle Vanserra brother that speaks. His russet curls glow warm in the dim lights and his stare is cruel and malignant as he hones in on you.

“Hyburn whore” It’s whispered, accusatory, on an inhale of breath.

They way it is uttered with an air of repulsion and venom reminds you of those stories told in human villages; of woods women named ‘witch’ by those who do not understand.

People fear what they do not understand.

It seems that Fae are no different than mere mortals in that respect.

“You’d be wise to bite your tongue, brother.” Eris’s voice is a cold echo as all thought and sound eddies out of your mind. Flashes of black and gold as the visions come back to you; those days spent cowering in the darkness of your cell, your feral anger directed at any man who came too close-- all biting fury, canines and claws, and the screams they tore from your like the howling wind over a violent sea.

A fury spreads through you, taking root in the dark caverns of your chest, slowing your heartbeat to a dull aching thud as you lose yourself to it; give yourself over to the tempest of emotion that courses through you. You try to fight it as the first ebbs of that dangerous storm embrace you. Lest you surrender yourself to the tempest; let it open you up and pour out into the world in floods of ravaging power.

It brings forth a storm the likes of which the world has never seen; a thing of ugly rage.

You were born angry, your mother had told you once.

But rage is a learned thing. Your rage. It had been your mother’s first, before that it had her mothers, and her mother before her.

It is an inherited curse; a wicked and wretched thing.

It is a storm enough to drown in.

A howling wind whips around you and for a moment you are standing at a great precipice. From the cliff’s edge, peering down at a violent sea as it coils and breaks against the jagged cliff face of some distant shore, where the world looks as though it is dappled in fireglow, the smell of woodsmoke and bonfires wafts from inland. The sea-soaked wind is so palpable that you taste its salt-kiss on your lips with the ardent fervor of the most savage lover.

There is something sacred in salt, you think.

For a moment you consider what it would feel like; to plummet into the watery abyss. How the sunlight would look as it fractures and splinters on the water's violent surface.

How it might cascade into the murky green depths. A secret held between you and the sea.

“My Lady,” It is Eris’ voice, practically feral and dripping with an aching desperation as he all but vaults around the corner of the dark wood table, parting his brothers with a rehearsed type of brutality as he claws his way to you. His commanding aura draws you closer to him and his pale hand offers a strong and comforting weight on your arm as he takes your trembling palm in his rough hold.

“You’re bleeding,” Eris says, cupping your palm into a fist with his own, applying light pressure to the wound while he assesses it. Turning it over in his tentative grasp. Through your lashes you take a moment to assess him as he towers over you. He’s tall and much broader than you remember but he moves with an inhuman grace. His nose is long and straight and his jaw strong and regal. His amber eyes linger dangerously over the hand cupped in his own. You hadn’t even realized you had stood up. Nor had you registered the blood you had drawn from your own palms until you see the crescent moons, indented in the tender flesh, like a taunt as they stain Eris’ fingertips scarlet as he presses the fabric of his handkerchief to your grazed hand.

“It’s nothing, My Lord,” You say softly, your voice low and you feel his eyes burning into yours; it is a slow, searing ache that almost feels like a kiss. A fragile thing, full of reverence and a strange tenderness. A vein of hurt throbs through you, quickly soothed by the press of his palm to yours.

Eris Vanserra holds a power over you; commands you in a way that should feel unpleasant. The knowledge that you would give yourself over to him if only he asked.

“It is only a little blood.” The words live and die on tongue, they fizzle out just as soon as they are uttered before he is calling for Rhysand -- his voice is swallowed by the din and your heartbeat echoes like a wardrum in your ears and the sound of the violet sea breaks against you and you feel your body go lax.

You wait for the dull ache as your body meets the cool marble of the floor only it never comes; instead your weight is suspended in the embrace of Eris Vanserra’s arms, you vaguely hear your name from his lips before the world turns to darkness.

You feel like lull of his heartbeat as he brings you closer against his chest.

The smell of cedar and smoked bergamot follows you into the abyss.

The room seems to come back to you like the tide; swiftly and cruelly as it materializes before you. It comes back in flashes of the dark; the oppressive pillars of dark marble that hold the domed, onyx ceiling in place, the silver fae lights like pallid stars and the visage of contorting demons and chimera’s like half formed ghosts.

“What happened?” You ask looking around the darkened council chambers; once filled with the idle chatter of courtiers and High Lord’s and their entourage now only the Inner Circle is gathered in the darkness contained between these walls.

And Eris.

He burns golden against the black.

“Well one thing is for certain,” It is Morrigan who stands over you, her shoes shine like rubies in the low light, “You know how to make a scene.” Her voice is light and jovial, laced with concern.

“You fainted,” Feyre says plainly as she sinks to her knees before you. It is then you feel Eris’ solid frame as he radiates warmth behind you, where you are propped against his chest. Your body feels foreign and unlike your own as you move, transferring your weight from his arms and into the arms of Feyre who helps you stand on uncertain feet.

“I’m sorry,” You say earnestly to both Rhysand and Feyre and turning to Eris again to mutter your thanks. He looks displeased at that. The distance between your body in his, the unfamiliarity you regard him with as if you hadn’t just allowed yourself to revel in the feel of his arms wrapped securely around you. “I’m sorry.”

“You should return to your father, My Lord.” You laugh humorlessly, using the hand that isn’t wrapped tightly around the lip of the chair to smooth a hand down the pleats of your gown reflexively.

A knock, resounding and resolute echoes through the chamber and the Inner Circle seem to bristle at the intrusion. Through the blanket of the dark a figure emerges; Keir stands tall with an air of arrogance about him as he steps into the antechamber. His hair is dark and graying and his face, though handsome, has begun to show signs of age. His eyes glitter menacingly as he finds you amongst the inner circle.

“My apologies for the intrusion, High Lord.” Keir says, his voice full of dark promise as a second figure steps from the shadow, “but it appears there is a rather urgent matter that has come to our attention.”

The rooms seems steeped in solemn silence as Beron Vanserra reveals himself through the din; dressed in fine merlot robes and embroidered with gold threads and leaves. He looks like Autumn personified. All fire and wrath as he stalks into the room.

“It appears you have been keeping secrets from me, Rhysand.” Rhys takes a step forward approaching Beron with little regard for the fury that burns behind his hazel eyes. The High Lord of Night laughs cruelly as Beron advances further into the room, seeking out his son, who reaches for you almost without thinking. His fingers flex around your forearm and push you further into Feyre as he steps in front of you both subtly.

Beron looks suspiciously between the three of you.

Beron smiles.

It is not a thing of fondness or affection-- It is dark and laden with malevolence. A whisper of amusement lights in his golden irises and Eris feels like a boy again; alone and afraid as the shadows of his fathers wrath descend upon him.

“You knew,” The High Lord of Autumn charges forward, tearing through Azriel and Cassian, as he raves. His voice is dangerously low and full of malice as he advances towards Eris. His eyes blaze against the dark as he casts his wicked gaze upon his eldest son.

“You knew,” He repeats frantically, “That whore is your mate, and you lied to me.”

Accusatory.

Without thought or care, Eris lunges forward and takes one long stride so that his body shields yours from Beron’s grasp as his fire burns vengeful and angry as it bands around Eris’s arms. The putrid smell of burned flesh brings bile rising in your throat and you feel Rhysand’s shields fortify around you and the rest of the Inner Circle in response.

You wait for someone to do something, but as is the nature of these things Rhysand is not permitted to interfere in the affairs of other courts. And whether he likes it or not, Eris is subject to his High Lord and father.

And as it stands he is a traitor to both.

Eris falls to his knees before you and you feel the bond die in your chest; his scream is something akin to dying. It sears through you, burning like fire until you feel like a phoenix rising from its own ashes as your body moves of its own volition.

“Stop, stop!” You plead with Beron advancing a pace towards him as you pull away from Feyre’s secure hold. Not even Cassian dares hold you back when you claw your way from the safety of his arms, “Please, he didn’t know.”

Beron pays you no heed as his wrath brings Eris to his knees.

“Please.” you beg, your voice aching and angry as you address the High Lord, ignoring the warnings of Azriel and Cassian, “He didn’t know.”

“W-we hid it from him.” Your lie desperately, your voice though strained comes out in violent waves of anger as Beron continues to inflict his fire upon Eris.

Your mate.

In a desperate bid to spare him you beg once more.

“Please, whatever you want, you can have it, I swear it.” And all the fire ceases.

Eris heaves a heavy breath and he collapses in a swath of burnished gold and emerald, strewn lazily against the marble. You sink to your knees beside him, his hands, though shaking, are firm against you as they grasp at the many layers of your skirts as he hoists himself up. Even on his knees he towers over you. His hair drapes like spidersilk over one side of his sculpted face as he peers down at you with dark amber eyes. Despite all the eyes in the room Eris brings a tentative hand to cup your cheek and all his remorse and grief flood down the bond that runs golden and brilliant from your body to his; as if to say no use hiding now, little fox.

Eris rises to his feet before his father who looks on with a mixture of feral delight and complete apathy as Eris’ pain subsides.

Keir retreats into the shadows and with him the air shifts; the room, once shaded in the smell of hemlock and moonflowers, is tainted with something more. Something darker. Earthy.

The smell of wildflowers; smoke-kissed juniper and foxglove, all undercut with the smell of salt and iron.

It occurs to you then that it is the smell of your mating bond.

Beron loses a dark laugh and approaches you slowly, like a predator circles its prey. Deliberate and calculating as he takes your chin in his bony fingers and commands you to look at him. His eyes are much darker than Eris’, so dark that they almost look black in this light and even in his age you admire their depths, haunting and arresting. Beron cuts an intimidating figure, you think as he flashes you a smile that is all Eris.

You sometimes forget how alike father and son are; though Eris is undoubtedly more striking; with his strange amber eyes and baring a broader physique than his father, with strong arms and shoulders and that beautiful copper hair which he had inherited from his mother.

“Anything I want?” Beron muses deathly quiet as he brings you closer to him, so close that the heat of his breath against your face causes chills to rise along the skin of your arms and neck.

“Anything, that is within my power to give.” You clarify, unwilling to be tricked into a more heinous bargain than you had prepared yourself for. Feyre protests loudly, calling your name, begging you to see reason though her pleas are useless against the thunder of your heart in your chest; like the sound of a storm rolling in from the sea.

Rhysand holds his wife by her forearms as she attempts to fight her way to your side.

A bargain offered of your own volition cannot be undone or unmade.

All that’s left to do is come to terms.

Beron smiles again, a saccharine smile that turns your stomach as his free hand cups your hip harshly, his brows rise in question and you realize how he’s looking right through you to his son who stands defeated behind you.

“And if I want you?” You swallow hard as his hand on your hip tightens to a bruising grip.

The High Lord of Night protests and a dark ripple of power separates you and Beron, you stumble backwards until you’re pressed up against the dark wood table as it cuts into the backs of your thighs. Beron laughs playfully and raises his hands in mock surrender to Rhysand. Keir smiles with a sense of sick satisfaction as Beron nods for Eris to join him.

Eris joins his father on the side of the room and Beron inspects him in carefully; scrutinizes every furrow of his brow or the tick of his jaw as charred flesh gives way to pale unblemished skin.

Beron claps a hand over his son's shoulder and offers his half-hearted explanation.

Filling his ear with poison.

“Your mate has deceived you, my son; she is yours by right,” Beron preens like an over-satisfied cat, offering a wave of his hand as he gestures to you, “Is she not?”

Eris swallows thickly and through the bond you can feel his wrath as it burns silent and deadly through you. His fire burns ferocious and wild. Dark and untamed. It ignites a similar storm in the pit of your stomach as Eris regards you with feigned malice much to the appeasement of his father.

His gaze, once soft and vulnerable, is cold and predatory as he takes his time to trail over the swell of your chest and the curve of your hips like a hungry animal.

“She is,” His voice is sharp-edged as he nods impassively to his father, the glimpses of his true self now little more than a trick in the light as he adorns his facade like a suit or armor to spare him his father’s fire.

“You mean to claim her?” Eris questions pointedly. Eris’ eyes move around the room with a careful, almost pensive, precision.

He can’t pretend that he doesn’t want it. Some primal, territorial part of him wants it more than anything. It’s animalistic and carnal.

Wholly perverse.

He wants you, terribly; he aches for you in a way that he has never ached for anything.

And you want him.

But not like this.

Not as a pretty pawn to bring him to heel.

“She will do well in Autumn,” Beron says in lieu of an answer.

Rhysand and Feyre stand firm against the hostility in the room even as Beron approaches them once more. “An alliance between our two most ancient and noble courts,” Beron says in a celebratory manner, his arms outstretched in a show of arrogance, “made strong by the oaths that you will swear to my son and my court.”

“Very well, High Lord.” You acquiesce and Beron smiles as his words hit their mark

You swear that Eris could burn the city to ash then and something in him cools then under your watchful gaze; it burns blue under the surface and you can see it tempering to a cold unmoving stare cast in his father’s direction.

It’s grotesque, the anger that runs hot in his veins that sears its kiss into the place where your body and his are joined.

You seethe. A raging tempest that comes off of you in violent waves of temper that threaten to swallow the room whole. And Beron Vanserra with it. It is almost enough to bring you to your knees before him as your skin burns under his rising fury.

Your eyes meet the strange amber eyes of Eris Vanserra at his father’s side and you think then, that you will happily suffer his fire if burning always feels so profound.

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #eris x reader #eris vanserra #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #pro eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris fic #eris headcanons #eris vandaddy

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acourtofcouture · 3 years

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An Insider’s Guide to A Court of Thorns and Roses: the Night Court Mountain Palace and the Gates to the Hewn City, 2/?

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bestmelle · 7 years

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Unlikely Meeting II

Hey lovelies! I hope you all had a great week!

I just started an intership this week, as I'm on my semester break now. It's pretty exhausting, but on the bright side I have time to sit down on my desk to write at night, as I don't have to study 24-7.

So here goes the second part of Unlikely Meeting. I decided I like this title better than The Heirs. But it's the same fic!

Part I Part III

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Part II

Today was the day. Today she was going to do it.

She'd been thinking about and planning this for weeks.

Tara was going to go to the Court of Nightmares - no matter what her parents said.

As the daughter to the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court she'd been raised very sheltered in Velaris – the city of starlight. Of course she'd been trained to fight and use her numerous magical talents, but she'd never actually been in danger. There had never been a threat and her parents were loved and respected by everyone – in Velaris as well as the rest of Prythian – since they had fought in the War against Hybern a century ago. Almost single-handedly holding the lines for five days until the troops of the other courts had arrived to fight with them.

Tara had read all the stories about the war, about her parents’ love story, about the Inner circle. She loved the description of their heroism, the romance and the loyalty. Their story always sounded like a great adventure. And Tara wanted to live her own.

It wasn't that she disliked living in Velaris, or the way she'd grown up, or anything else about her family. Not at all. It was just... boring somehow.

Nothing ever happened. And even though she knew that that was a good thing, and that her parents had fought very hard for that peace... it was boring.

The same people would greet her in the streets every day, at the cafe she liked to eat or around the rainbow. And all of them respected her, but not because of who she was, but because of who her parents were.

Of course she loved her parents, but Tara felt like she hadn't yet figured out where she belonged or what her purpose was. Sometimes at night, in the dark, she felt like she'd always stand in her parents' shadow, like she'd never be able to compare to them. Even when she'd be High Lady one day (if her parent's didn't have more children), people would only know or respect her because of their great deeds, not because of her. And she hated herself for feeling that way, felt like she was ungrateful and didn't deserve her parents' love. Because she knew they'd do anything for her, anything to make her happy.

But the problem was that she didn't even know herself; didn’t know what would make her happy. She didn't know what she wanted.

And that was why she would take this trip. Alone.

Of course she'd been to the Court of Nightmares before. When she'd been little, and her parents had dealings there that they had to take care of, they would all go together. They would stay at the moonstone palace on top of the Hewn City and from there her parents would go down into the palace to hold court. She'd been allowed to go with them a few times. The last time she'd been there one and a half years ago on her sixteenth birthday, when she'd been officially named a member of her parents' Inner Circle and therefore was a higher rank than any Lord or Lady in the Hewn City - which none of them had liked, of course, but they had to deal with it.

This time her visit would be different.

She wasn't even planning on going to the palace, she just wanted to explore the Hewn City. Without her parents or her parents' friends watching over her. She didn't need to be watched anymore, she was old enough. She could do this by herself.

The city was supposed to be beautiful and she had heard about some of the stores there were, that she'd really like to see...

Not that she actually planned on buying anything, but maybe it would be more interesting than always staying in Velaris, where everything was always the same. Where she knew every alley with every stray cat. Maybe she'd finally have her adventure.

So when her parents were both busy with something and Uncle Cassian and Aunt Mor were also gone from their town house, Tara took off. She didn't fly out of the city but immediately winnowed to the mountain range surrounding the Hewn City. Maybe her father would be able to detect her magic but that was at least less likely not to be seen by anyone while she left flying. She just hoped that her father was too busy at the moment to notice.

She arrived close enough to the gate that lead into the mountain that she could fly the rest of the way. She, as her father, was able to summon the Illyrian wings whenever she pleased, but of late she hadn't had very many chances to fly so she felt out of practice and flying for a long time was very exhausting. Though she loved flying, winnowing was simply a lot more convenient.

Except for the wings and her eyes she had inherited very little of her father’s looks. Tara looked almost exactly like her mother. The same hair color, the same face, and even the same height. She had also inherited most of her mother's magic as well as her talent and love for painting. Her attitude on the other hand was almost exactly like her father's - according to the Inner Circle at least. Not that any of them minded, though, considering how they all adored the High Lord.

Tara was shaken from her thoughts by the gate coming into view. It was magnificent. She couldn't help but feel that way every single time she saw it.

Suddenly she felt her throat closing up. She tried to swallow but her mouth had gone completely dry.

Come on, she told herself, don't chicken out now. Stop being a baby. You've been here before, there's nothing to be scared of and everything is going to be fine. By the time anyone could notice you're gone you'll be back home.

She kept thinking encouraging thoughts to herself while she landed and walked up the gate. The guards there, clad in light grey to fade into the stone behind them, completely ignored her. So they recognized her. Tara wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

On the one hand no one would dare lay a hand on her, because of who she was (and the fact that all these people were scared of her parents), but on the other hand someone might tell the High Lord that his daughter had been spotted here...

Stop!, she told herself again. Everything is going to be fine! What's the worst thing that could happen anyway?

Well that would probably be a very angry father...

Tara hated disappointing her parents, but this was worth it. She had to do something by herself for once. And it wasn't as if she was afraid of the High Lord.

And what was Rhys's problem anyway? Her mother had started hunting by herself, alone in a cold and dangerous forest, whenever she'd been three years younger than Tara was now. And it wasn't as if she were in actual danger here, sooo...

Everything would be fine!

If she just believed in that enough it would come true. By thinking badly about this she'd just conjure problems. So she would stay positive.

By now she'd left the light from the gate behind and the sounds of a bustling city came closer. Her excitement grew and soon her worries were completely forgotten.

When she stepped out of the dark of the hallway into the light of the Fae lights, that were illuminating a busy market place, Tara could barely contain her squeal of excitement. There were just so many people here:

High Fae as well as a lot of different kinds of Lesser Faeries, and none of them even looked her way. She sighed. That was such a nice feeling - blending in and not being noticed. Just to be one of them, and not the center of all attention. Sometimes she wondered how her parents dealt with it all.

Even though everyone knew you and even though everyone was nice to you, it was very lonely to be a High Lord's child. Especially one without siblings. She wished she had a sister or brother to play with. All the other children always stayed away from her, they either were to shy - or too afraid of her powers. Of course she'd been trained, but the other children still noticed that she was different, more powerful.

Often she just wished she were like all the other children – normal.

Tara loved her parents, but sometimes she wished they were someone else, and not the High Lady and High Lord of the Night Court. Not the two most powerful Fae in Prythian’s history.

Tara also often wondered if she'd ever be able to find a mate, someone who could understand this burden... Her father had had to wait for five hundred years to find his equal, how long would she have to wait? Would she ever find someone who understood her the way her parents understood each other?

Shaking her head Tara tried to refocus on the market, on the feeling of freedom she'd felt only a moment ago. To get away from those darker, sad thoughts.

At that moment something caught her attention. In one of the stands she saw the most beautiful bracelet she'd ever seen. It looked like it was made of molten starlight that had been woven into something that looked like a vine. But instead of blooming with flowers it seemed to grow tiny little stars. And the most wondrous about it was, that it seemed to be alive. The stars seemed to grow and then they would fade and new ones appeared in its place.

She didn't know how long she'd stood there, open mouthed, just watching the tiny stars grow and fade and grow anew, when a voice started her. "Pretty, isn't it?” someone asked right beside her ear.

It was an instinct to whirl around and bring up her fists in a defensive stance. In front of her stood the oldest Fae Tara had ever seen - and she was chuckling. Her face was wrinkly and saggy, and her eyes, though fierce, had a look to them... She had no words to describe it but – old.

"Did I startle you, child?" The woman asked, still chuckling. "That bracelet seems to have mesmerized you. Do you want to buy it?"

Tara's eyes drifted back to said item and again it seemed she couldn't take her gaze off of it. The woman started chuckling once more. "I know, it's quite beautiful. But you need to be careful with it, there's a spell on it. And in the wrong hands it could be quite harmful. So what do you say?"

"Ehm...", Tara tried. Her voice seemed to have abandoned her. The stars wouldn't leave her mind, she couldn't think of anything but those ever changing vines made from starlight.

"What's your name child?" The old woman suddenly asked.

Without hesitation Tara answered. Only after she realized that that might have been a mistake.

Shit.

"Tara", the old woman mused. "I have not heard that name in a long time. It very rare. Do you know its meaning?"

To be honest she hadn't even been aware that there was any meaning behind the name at all. So she shook her head.

"It means star... It seems this meeting is no coincidence. This bracelet, it has chosen you."

What? She didn't understand anything anymore. "What does that mean? How can it chose me?"

"As I told you, there's a spell on it. It has found you for a reason. Plus I haven't seen it morph in over a millennia. That's its reaction to you." She added with a wink.

What did that all mean?

"That will show itself over time, child."

Had she spoken the question out loud?

The old woman only smiled at her.

"Here take it." She suddenly offered. "It's yours."

"What about-", Tara started, but the woman interrupted her.

"As I said, it has chosen you, so you don't have to pay. Take it!" An order.

So Tara reached out and took the shining bracelet from the woman's hand. It seemed to shine even brighter when it touched her skin and she couldn't help but smile as she fastened it around her wrist.

So this day had turned out to be an adventure after all. That thought made her want to jump around and sing, but that would most likely draw more attention to her than she would like.

"Thank you!" She told the old woman. She wished she knew more about her, about who she was and what she knew. Tara was about to ask her, but when she lifted her head the old lady and the shop were gone. As if it had never even been there… That was strange.

For a few seconds Tara kept staring at where she'd seen the old woman stand only moments before, but then she shrugged and turned away. There were enough people that were able to winnow, maybe she just grabbed her belongings and winnowed away. She didn't really see why, but it didn't seem too absurd... right?

She had taken only two steps when she bumped into someone. "Hey can't you watch out?" She started annoyed. Then she looked up and all the blood drained from her face. She was looking up into the face of her very angry father.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>

So I hope you guys liked this one. I honestly have no idea where the idea with that old Lady came from or where it's gonna lead, but I guess we'll just see ;)

As always, please tell me how you liked this piece!

@denielapple

#rowaelin fanfiction #rowan whitethorn #aelin fireheart #tog fanfiction #rowaelin #rowaelin children #acotar tog crossover #feysand fanfiction #feyre #rhysand #feyrhys fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #feyrhys children #feysand children

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autolovecraft · 7 years

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Their older men gave him space to lean and rest.

From the motions of the earthly traveler.

Carter the columns stopped, and in numerous hewn chambers were found terrible carven altars and doubtfully stained fonts and shrines for the cold waste, wherever that might be guarded by winged diarote lions lead down from his window, of course, making the way to find a boat in this primeval passage. And Carter walked with in the gray twilight gave place to the taverns of the clouds, but still the vile bird winged meaningly through the night. They told him furtively by the obnoxious stems of lunar horrors might be needed.

Vaster and vaster loomed the tenebrous towers of the night. The farther they went, the galley was steered boldly through the sinister merchant shone so feebly that one tower room whose size was so little less than human dancers, and then the tall steeples and winding hill streets where wooden ox carts lumbered and feverish merchants cried their wares vacuously in the original part of dreamland. Carter put out of the yak often slipped on the city where meadows roll gracefully up from the black wale and the vault-like air; and although the sound of his loyal defenders. Each day the sun, and wide streets marching between delicate trees and the creatures was in the rays of sunrise on the outside were far from encouraging. The Other Gods, the ghouls and night-gaunts whereby they explained the loss of such things no more. Only a very great isle, and Carter at once apparent to Carter. Full twenty feet he felt he could leap off the evil procession from a far hill that it might be available for a buried Gug will feed a community for almost at once resolved to find the feared and unvisited quarry whence hands older than history, and Carter was not a reassuring thing. Soon the peaks were again visible above the perils of the almost-humans gradually joined the hellish whine of the Other Gods were born again, and taunted insolently the mild gods are absent, the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep.

But that offensive galley did not wish Carter to let down a ladder; for verily, they tickled him with greater subtlety. Farewell, Randolph Carter steal to the gilded spires of infamous Thalarion, that are never told. There were many men in that tavern Carter saw by the seaward wall among traders and sailors. The Zoogs did not aim as far as that useful beast could go, far distant from the stars in places where lava-gatherers returning with laden sacks from Ngranek's lower slopes and feeble shrubs above them, but Carter did not try to land elsewhere on the greasy walls and courts, its flattened dome, and Carter saw ahead a trifle from one of the column advanced out of earshot, and Carter knew that the illimitable Southern Sea flying by in unnatural swiftness. So. Uneasiness rustled through the aft.

Carter was not well that earth's gods to their chosen victims. Yet have these gods kept you from the enchanted wood. In a detestable square a sort of overseer would pinch experimentally—were unloaded from ships and nailed in crates and boxes or driving nameless and frantic designs.

When the last echo died away. No other human presence was indicated only by its flying hooves fell over a parapet of Notre Dame. The battle which then ensued was truly a frightful one. Of other clothing they had warned him he was obeyed; so that in a black cave on an alley of steps that are gods, but Carter felt the terrors of nightmare as earth fell away and the washed-down walls of myriad little houses. Carter, boarded the evil-smelling crypt, and descend at last; Pickman and the smoke of cottage chimneys, and even they were, and stupidities. Some of them dares even approach the central tower with the evil one, and their infamous ways.

The ship itself, moving more from automatic impulse than from reasoned will; nor is it unwhispered that deep flights of onyx, and some of them. Great Ones wished to learn its legends from old people and lava-gatherer scratched clumsily in the slanted light, he did so a spot on the little couch whose pillows were stuffed with fragrant, drowsy herbs. Seek out your marvelous city, and Carter saw that crag he gasped and cried out aloud, and wondrous with high fanes and carven places. Once a lookout reported fires on the dais was without doubt the High-Priest sad with inner secrets.

Then the two columns a lone pallid light was seen hovering timidly over the slippery floor of an open street he wriggled worm-like, and bore above their foreheads was in his fancy.

No mountain known of man, and anxious to preserve a means of ugly gestures. Then into that gaping well which rumor holds to reach down to the foot of the dancers became tinged with a shudder the circle of the ship lay to under the stars, necessarily vague as it was not disturbed; for his act in reporting the plight of the twilight reaches of a frightful red-footed wamps that are never told. But that offensive galley did not, despite their material, invite either appropriation or long inspection; and told him how sorry they were in earth's blackest crypts, and which no cat can endure the gray twilight waned and the creatures was in his conversation.

It was dawn when they came again—You need only to mock had that black messenger revealed the downward hopping of at least within a harbor formed of steep and slippery stairs. Presently three other ghasts hopped out into the sky, and this the Gugs were one sentry less, and let them see and tall cliffs on the evening of the night. Presently from the marvelous sunset city of broad squares and prismatic fountains, you need only to cats on the borders of the old days, and Carter could see from his far realm on the banks as that useful beast could go, far beyond the Tanarian Hills and is ruled over by that King Kuranes, clad in a tavern. New Hampshire roads where giant elms half hide white farmhouse walls and broken columns and swept on, rounding the eastern gate and across all those leagues of pasture land, rose the uncouth stones of a park sloping up or down, with the whole a double line of march. Landward beyond the city. Ten feet from Carter the columns stopped, and which lie always in high vortices of gleaming mist. That mouth had great yellow fangs and ran when he suddenly recognized the frantic meeping and glibbering.

And by evening the low railings guarding traveled highroads. Wine was produced from one of Throk's peaks. The army would fly high, they were not the frightened hoof-beats of the newcomers; whereat the latter retreated through the dark upon the jagged rock while he thanked them kindly; and its rapid bobbing flight through the flume-like strait, but none of them seized Carter and his guide climbed up an alley that was Pickman now went below and gave him blessings and warnings of lava. And Carter saw once again with a sombre and polished loveliness; and at intervals lone huts of granite none might say whether this evil plateau with its bottomless well and repellent bronze door lingered restlessly in his eyes after the things he had seen the carven mountains stand guard. Always ahead loomed those titan walls, and who own not Nyarlathotep but hoary Nodens raised a howl of triumph when Nyarlathotep, horror of infinite shapes and dread soul and messenger Nyarlathotep. But when from its high tower the great wall of an almost-humans on deck would perceive the invasion of the void S'ngac the violet valley where the ladder, and in the dark to where unknown Kadath, which is the crawling chaos to give. All this while there had stretched before him the goal of convergence beyond the walls of myriad little houses.

It was dark when the singing sounds. For a week with rubies from lunar mines there was in the symmetries of the ghouls favored the design, but only gold and marble city of Gugs to the prisoner as a signal to proceed again. Atal, however, had risen with floods of weird light over the edge of the Shantaks fly screaming away from an unseen thing, for it is better to let himself be borne along smoothly and passively in the enemy's course would be all gorged and snoring indoors, and hastened back through the town is thronged with the Shantak till he knew he was still, for such a person might well expect a breathless second the leading ghoul pushed Carter to the gray death-fire and roared with the generals, he perceived that it led steeply on in a great lone building on a mountain could rise so vast as seen from the three sardonic merchants stood grinning nearby, and the fatter ones, whom it is well that they know it is unlawful for men to see again those living faces so like the godlike features of that galley's stay one of them were quite furry. Here they had of course to return through them; and Carter saw that the likeness was more than a Dhole, which is always turned away from an unseen thing, offering his prayer as a free and potent master of dreamers that Randolph Carter, though perhaps it had followed him had not fought the Gug sentry in the bazaars of Celephaïs in Ooth-Nargai, and when upon awaking once he thought of Kadath towering lone with its towers and eyries and fortresses chiseled from the chill that he wished none the less fabulous parts of the rock were heard.

Trapped though he dared not go unaided; for in those trackless leagues beyond, and never a cheering purr or a marvelous city of vision, for he soon saw that he had asked of his nightmare company when there rang without warning through that enchanted and phosphorescent wood of monstrous trees, and to visit the scattered farmers and traders filed ashore and through some narrow gaps between tumbled walls, he felt the terrors of nightmare as earth fell away and deliver him to divine.

There it shimmered like a vision under that gray twilight waned and the Great One's curse no Gug might ever emerge from that port.

And as he climbed.

Most of the grayish-white blasphemies they worshiped as gods, the groves. It spoke, and its gate of the palace itself no visitor may enter; and it was ancient Trevor Towers, where assuredly he would meet the under-manned galley of the injured men. Meanwhile the three rescued ghouls who knew precisely what those howlings meant. Carter did not like to ask questions; once in antediluvian times, as at first he did not wish to say that they were above Thran, where he was much reminded of those unseen rowers steered not for an instant did the stench of that scabrous and unwholesome beast, whose strange-faced race of the rumored Shantak-birds, and it might be, and he heard it clatter down over the top of the rugged conical mass. The third night he felt the bondage of dream's tyrannous gods; for not a scrap of provisions was ever sent aboard. The flutes stopped, and wondered how close a watch had all along the quays for some hand greater than that of the steep roofs and cobbled ways and the vault-like from its unknown shore, and how their ruler is not of earth that he did so each trumpet flew abruptly to its mouth.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath #1926 #The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath week

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acourtofcouture · 3 years

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An Insider’s Guide to the Night Court: the Mountain Palace, 1/?

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acourtofcouture · 4 years

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An Insider’s Guide to A Court of Thorns and Roses: the Night Court Mountain Palace and the Gates to the Hewn City, 1/?

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acourtofcouture · 4 years

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A Court of Thorns and Roses Masterlist

An Insider’s Guide to Velaris

A Night at the Theater- 1, 2, 3, 4

Amren’s Apartment- 1

Autumn in Velaris- 1

Azriel’s Apartment- 1, 2

Cassian’s Apartment- 1

Dine Along the Sidra River- 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Eat Your Way Through the City of Starlight- 1, 2, 3, 4

Elain’s Apartment- 1

Elain’s Flower Shop in the Rainbow- 1

Elain’s Garden at the Townhouse- 1

Enchantment Exhibitions at Art Galleries in the Rainbow- 1

Feyre Attends the Opening Night of the Velaris Ballet- 1

Feyre and Rhysand’s Bedroom at the House of Wind- 1

Feyre and Rhysand’s Estate by the Sidra- 1, 2, 3

Feyre’s Studio in the Townhouse- 1

First Snow of the Season- 1

Flower Shop in the Palace of the Hoof and Leaf- 1

Girls Night Out- 1

Morrigan’s Apartment- 1

Nesta’s Apartment- 1

Starfall- 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

The City of Starlight Clock Face- 1

The Estate by the Sidra’s Greenhouse- 1

The Family Library in the House of Wind- 1

The Floral Café in the Palace of Hoof and Leaf- 1, 2

The Glass Palace in Sidra Park- 1

The House of Wind- 1, 2, 3, 4

The Library- 1

The Night Market- 1

The Open Air Market in the Rainbow- 1, 2

The Rainbow of Velaris- 1, 2, 3, 4

The Spring Equinox Celebrations- 1

The Townhouse- 1, 2, 3

The Winter Solstice Market- 1

An Insider’s Guide to the Night Court

Athelwood, Morrigan’s Country Estate- 1, 2

Beds Built to Accommodate Illyrian Wings- 1

Cassian’s Cabin in Illyria- 1, 2

Cottages in the Illyrian Steppes- 1

The Hewn City- 1

The High Lord and High Lady at the Court of Nightmares-1, 2, 3

The House of Wind- 1

The Illyrian Coast- 1, 2

The Illyrian Countryside- 1

The Illyrian Warriors- 1

The Mountain Cabin- 1, 2, 3, 4

The Mountain Cabin Lake- 1

The Mountain Palace- 1

The Prison- 1, 2

Velaris, the City of Starlight- 1

An Insider’s Guide to A Court of Thorns and Roses

Adriata, Capital of the Summer Court- 1, 2

All That Remains of the First Home of the Archerons- 1

Amarantha Summons the Middengard Wyrm for Feyre’s First Trial- 1

Amarantha’s Peregryn Dress- 1

Feyre Captures the Suriel- 1

Feyre’s Forest in the Mortal Realm- 1

Map of Hybern, Prythian & the Continent- 1, 2

Rosehall, Ancestral Home of the High Lords of Spring- 1

The Archeron Estate- 1, 2

The Autumn Court- 1

The Border of Autumn and Winter- 1

The Crown Forced Upon Rhysand by Amarantha- 1

The Crown of the High Lady of the Night Court- 1

The Crown of the High Lord of the Autumn Court- 1

The Crown of the High Lord of the Night Court- 1

The Crown of the High Lord of the Spring Court- 1

The Crown of the High Lord of the Summer Court- 1

The Dance of the Will-o’-the-Wisps- 1

The Dawn Court Palace- 1

The Dawn Court Palace Gardens- 1

The Day Court Palace- 1

The Forest House, the Sprawling Autumn Court Palace- 1

The High Lord of Night Gate-Crashes a Wedding- 1

The Mirror of Ouroboros- 1

The Night Court Mountain Palace and the Gates of the Hewn City- 1, 2

The Sacred Mountain of Prythian- 1

The Starlight Pool- 1

The Suriel- 1

The Spring Court- 1

The Weaver’s Cottage- 1, 2

The Weaver of the Wood’s Trove and What Rhysand Lost There- 1

The Winter Court- 1

The Winter Court Palace- 1, 2

Under the Mountain- 1, 2

An Insider’s Guide to the Court of Dreams

Azriel and Elain- 1, 2

Azriel and Elain’s Country Estate- 1

Azriel and Elain’s First Date- 1

Elain’s Birthday Breakfast in Bed for Two Courtesy of Azriel- 1

Amrem and Varian- 1

Cassian and Nesta- 1, 2, 3

Celebrating Winter Solstice at the Mountain Cabin- 1

Elain’s Birthday Celebration- 1

Elain’s First Starfall- 1

Family Dinners at the House of Wind- 1

Family Dinners at the Mountain Cabin- 1

Feyre and Rhysand- 1, 2, 3

Feyre and Rhysand at Starfall- 1

Feyre and Rhysand’s First Anniversary Honeymoon- 1

Feyre and Rhysand’s Date Night- 1, 2, 3

Feyre’s First Pregnancy- 1

Rhysand’s Favorite View- 1

Feyre’s Fighting Leathers- 1, 2

Feyre’s First Trip to the Prison- 1

Nesta’s First Starfall- 1

Nesta Outfitted in Illyrian Fighting Leathers- 1

An Insider’s Guide to the Court of Dreams: Winter Solstice Gifts

From Amren, to Varian- 1

From Azriel, to Elain- 1, 2

From Cassian, to Feyre- 1

From Cassian, to Morrigan- 1

From Cassian, to Nesta- 1

From Elain, to Feyre- 1

From Feyre, to Amren- 1

From Feyre, to Azriel- 1

From Feyre, to Morrigan- 1

From Feyre, to Nesta- 1

From Morrigan, to Cassian- 1

From Morrigan, to Feyre- 1

From Morrigan, to Rhysand- 1

From Nesta, to Elain- 1

From Rhysand, to Feyre- 1, 2

From Rhysand, to Morrigan- 1

From Varian, to Amren- 1

An Insider’s Guide to the Spring Court

Calanmai- 1

Details of Spring at Rosehall- 1

Feyre at the Summer Solstice Celebrations- 1, 2

Feyre’s Bathing Room at Rosehall- 1

Feyre’s Rooms at Rosehall- 1, 2

Lucien’s Fox Mask- 1

Rosehall Manor- 1

Rosehall’s Informal Dining Room- 1

Rosehall’s Library- 1

Tamlin’s Study- 1

The Blue Gem Worn by Ianthe- 1

The Diadem of the Lady of the Spring Court- 1

The Grand Foyer of Rosehall Manor- 1

The Spring Court Gardens- 1

The Spring Court Village- 1, 2

The Traditional Flower Crowns Worn by Fae Females During Calanmai- 1

The Water-Wraith’s Lake- 1, 2

The Western Woods, Home of the Suriel- 1

An insider’s Guide to the Summer Court

The Bay of Adriata- 1

The Caves of Adriata- 1

The Pools of Summer Starlight- 1

The Summer Court Palace in Adriata- 1

A Court of Thorns & Roses Weddings

Amren + Varian

Amren’s Engagement Ring- 1

Amren’s Wedding Dress- 1

Cassian + Nesta Archeron

Cassian and Nesta’s Wedding Bands- 1

Cassian and Nesta’s Wedding Reception- 1

Nesta’s Engagement Ring- 1

Nesta’s Wedding Dress- 1

Elain Archeron + Azriel

Elain and Azriel’s Wedding Bands- 1

Elain and Azriel’s Wedding Reception Details- 1

Elain’s Bridal Hair- 1

Elain’s Engagement Ring- 1

Elain’s Wedding Dress- 1

Elain Archeron + Lucien

Elain’s Engagement Ring- 1

Elain’s Wedding Dress- 1

Feyre Archeron + Rhysand

Feyre and Rhysand’s Wedding Bands- 1

Feyre and Rhysand’s Wedding Cake- 1

Feyre’s Engagement Party- 1

Feyre’s Engagement Ring- 1

Feyre’s Veil- 1

Feyre’s Wedding Dress- 1

Feyre Archeron + Tamlin

Feyre’s Engagement Ring- 1

Feyre’s Wedding Dress- 1, 2

Morrigan + Andromache

Morrigan and Andromache’s Wedding Dresses- 1

Viviane + Kallias

Viviane’s Engagement Ring- 1

Viviane’s Bridal Hair- 1

Viviane’s Wedding Dress- 1

A Court of Thorns and Roses Series x Iconic Runway Collections

Azzi & Osta “Memoirs From the Silk Road” S/S 2019- 1

Elie Saab Fall 2019- 1

Elie Saab Spring 2015- 1

Paolo Sebastian “East of the Sun and West of the Moon” F/W 2019- 1

Paolo Sebastian “The Snow Maiden” F/W 2016- 1

Paolo Sebastian “Once Upon a Dream” S/S 2018- 1

Teuta Matoshi Duriqi

A Court of Thorns and Roses

A Court of Mist and Fury

A Court of Wings and Ruin

A Court of Frost and Starlight

A Court of Silver Flames

Ziad Nakad F/W 2017-2018- 1

Zuhair Murad “Dreams of Saint Petersburg” F/W 2018- 1

Zuhair Murad S/S 2020- 1

Modern AU x ACOTAR

Amern- 1, 2

Azriel- 1

Elain Archeron- 1, 2, 3, 4

Feyre Archeorn- 1, 2

Morrigan- 1, 2, 3

Nesta Archeron- 1, 2

Viviane, Lady of the Winter Court- 1

#a court of thorns and roses #masterlists

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