Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the past, Azriel had dreamed in shades of gray. It was why he had preferred not to dream at all.

Intangible, haunting, and suffocating, like the trailing smoke of his beloved shadows, his dreams—more nightmares than pleasant fantasies to pass the night’s hours—wrapped around his throat, and they threatened to choke him.

After years in the dark, alone, his blankets would never be rumpled. Instead, each morning when he woke, he would find his sheets wrapped perfectly around his body to preserve whatever warmth he could.

Even during the worst of his dreams, he didn't squirm or thrash. No matter how sore his throat was when he woke in the morning, Azriel’s tongue was always like hot lead in his mouth, his teeth digging into the tender appendage to avoid drawing attention to his nightly terror, his noises of terror being silenced by an instinct time had not let him grow out of.

He always found himself completely and utterly alone.

Nowadays, however, Azriel found himself with the opposite problem—and he also found that he didn't entirely care.

Centuries ago, to his utter loathing, Eris Vanserra barreled into his life and drove Azriel mad. He taunted, teased, and drew Azriel out of his world of shadows. Eris used nails and teeth to carve out a place inside Azriel’s chest that he could call home, and then he had the audacity to dig in his heels and stubbornly refuse to leave.

Azriel had shied away from the sparks in the beginning; he feared the singe of the embers, but he couldn’t stay away. Especially not after the bond slid into place as if it had always been there, and he was filled with nothing but light and warmth.

And that had been enough. It had been perfect.

Until, to his absolute shock, he met Gwyneth Berdara.

She was brilliant and witty, with a crooked smile that brought warmth to his chest and a lightness to his step. She did not fight for his heart, not the way Eris had. She did not have to. Instead, one day, Gwyn had waltzed into his life. She gave Azriel a pretty smile that made her eyes glimmer like sunlight hitting the ocean, and he found himself unable to do anything but freely hand her the key to his mind.

His soul.

She was everything Azriel had wanted, everything he had needed, and everything he didn’t realize he was missing.

Which was insane to consider, let alone come to terms with—he was a mated male, after all. However, after a long conversation with Eris and an even longer conversation with Gwyn, and then several dates where the second mating bond neatly tied itself up, connecting three souls into a tight circle before any of them could even realize what was happening, Azriel simply decided that this was it.

This was always meant to happen.

He was always meant to burn bright with Eris. Gwyn was always meant to come along to soothe Eris’ flame, to sing to his shadows, and to make certain that they did not burn each other out.

Azriel was never meant to be alone. He just didn't expect that he was meant to be so loved.

As he lay on his stomach, his wings splayed wide over the bed, Azriel watched with half-lidded eyes as his mates underwent their nightly rituals before bed. Seated at the vanity, Gwyn and Eris spoke in soft voices. Gwyn's face was dewy with some sort of cream that Eris had applied for her, glowing in the light of the candle set nearby. Her chest was pressed to his back, and with steady hands and careful touches, she helped the High Lord pluck the ruby-encrusted pins from the twin braids gathered across his hairline in a neat crown, his auburn hair falling across his forehead in unruly waves.

He decided then and there that he would spend another several centuries in a dark dungeon and would let his wings atrophy if it meant that he still had them both in the end.

“That looked pretty,” Gwyn murmured, her chin on Eris’ shoulder as she watched his every move in the mirror. “You should do it again. Perhaps for your upcoming good will banquet with the Spring Court?"

Eris dropped a third pin onto the vanity, then massaged his temple. There was a slight scrunch to his nose. “It left me with a migraine. Never again.”

Cooing in sympathy, Gwyn passed her fingers through Eris' hair. She massaged lightly, scratching blunt nails over where the braids had been tightly wound and pinned to his scalp. A shudder ran up Eris' spine, and he let his eyes fall shut, his long lashes fluttering against his pale cheek.

Azriel bit his lip, his amber eyes roaming over his mates as thick strands of auburn hair slipped through Gwyn’s fingers like running water, like blood. Soft to the touch and twice as glossy, Azriel’s fingers twitched against the silk sheets, suddenly struck with the urge to cradle the back of Eris' head and kiss the High Lord silly.

Or his Valkyrie, with the knowing glimmer in her teal eyes, which drank in the content expression on Eris’ face as greedily as he did. Either one would do.

"Poor lordling," Azriel mused. "Shall I come over there and kiss it better?"

Eris' sharp eyes were open and on him in an instant, narrowed, and glaring at him through the mirror. Gwyn sighed tiredly, lifting her chin from Eris’ shoulder. "It's so late," she complained. "Must you two start flirting with each other now?"

Eris scoffed, guiding Gwyn's hands out of his hair. He turned to face Azriel properly. "You are partially to blame for my migraine, Azriel. You lurk in the shadows, following me around and scaring away my courtiers. How am I supposed to be getting work done as High Lord if all of my subjects run off screaming at the sight of you?"

It was his turn to scrunch his nose. Azriel had noticed, of course, that members of Eris’ court went to great lengths to avoid being alone with him. He just couldn't find it within him to care. “They don’t scream.”

Gwyn shook her head at their bickering, selected an ornate silver comb, and began carefully brushing through Eris' hair for him, section by section, starting at the bottom. He leaned into her hands, his posture relaxed and comfortable, even as he currently stared at Azriel as if trying to decide how best to verbally eviscerate him.

How Gwyn managed to get Eris Vanserra to wordlessly agree with whatever she wanted from him, Azriel didn't know—perhaps one day she might show him.

“No,” Eris agreed slowly. “But they want to.”

Planting his hand on the bed, he shifted off of his elbows, sitting up properly. Azriel shrugged. “My reputation precedes me. I can’t help that.”

“And such an intimidating one it is, Shadowsinger,” Gwyn agreed. “The spymaster of the Night Court. Known and feared across the realm.”

Eris and Gwyn shared a look—a silent conversation that he was left out of, and Azriel huffed.

His mates were as different as a brook and a bonfire. Gwyn was quiet where Eris was sharp, kind where he was calculating. And if anything brought them together, it was not their brilliance but their shared love of watching Azriel squirm—of teasing and taunting him until he was furrowing his brow and frowning.

His two major telltale signs of being disgruntled.

He didn't need to see his expression in the mirror to know that he was currently doing both.

“You’re not supposed to take his side," Azriel complained, though his tone lacked any real heat.

Humming, Gwyn moved on to another part of Eris’ hair. “Why not? He’s my mate, too.”

She said it with such delight, such sheer joy. Like she still didn’t believe it. Eris’ expression softened, and the corners of his handsome mouth turned upward into a boyish grin. "Yes, Shadowsinger. She's my mate too."

Azriel frowned at them. Deeply. They were so pretty, with their rivers of red hair and their sharp tongues. He wanted to kiss them. Instead, he collapsed back into bed on his belly, his arms tucked around his head.

Gwyn's responding laugh was a breathy thing, stirring his shadows from their place on the bed. They swelled with delight until he urged them to stay put. To not run toward her, the way they were prone to do.

He was mad. He was very, very upset. He tried to convey this to his shadows with as much sincerity as he could muster, but instead they swatted at his ankles and told him to get over it. "What have I done to be mated to two of the cruelest Fae I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting?” He wondered aloud. “No one stands up for me. No one brushes my hair.”

Eris sighed. “You are insufferable.”

“And changing the subject,” Gwyn added. “You clingy male.”

That he was. Azriel was clingy and possessive, and perhaps it was selfish, but he felt that he had finally earned it. He had spent so long without that now, when he finally had something that could be his, Azriel didn’t know how to—didn't want to—share.

Being with Gwyn and Eris was one thing.

The three of them had been created to carry each other’s weight, to circle each other, to meet in the middle and build off of whatever the other two brought to the table. He could not be possessive over one because they all belonged to each other in some way.

An entire court’s worth of picky courtiers vying for Eris' attention was a different matter entirely.

Besides, he was of the belief that any diplomat who would go running from the High Lord just because one of his mates was lingering around was not someone who should be a diplomat in the first place. 

Azriel peaked out from under his arms. Wisely, he said none of this.

“This is favoritism,” he instead said after a moment of silence.

Gwyn waggled her comb at him. “Yes,” she said, “it is.”

Then she discarded the comb entirely. Planting a hand on Eris’ shoulder for support, she leaned around him and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth with an overly emphasized, 'mwah!’ Azriel’s lips parted as Gwyn nuzzled her nose into the High Lord’s cheek, Eris snickering all the while.

“This is also cruel," Azriel insisted, "Evil.”

“I’m the High Lord of the Autumn Court,” Eris countered, his hand settling on the curve of Gwyn’s waist, his thumb brushing tentatively over the silk material of her sleeping gown. When Gwyn didn’t twist away, he continued, “Cruelty and evil are in my blood.”

Gwyn paused and tapped the tip of Eris’ nose with her finger. “Not quite, but we can discuss that later.”

Azriel grumbled, “Without me, no doubt.”

Eris laughed, leaning into Gwyn. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder, lips to ear, and Gwyn bit her bottom lip when Eris whispered to her, “I think our Shadowsinger is feeling rather excluded.”

He hadn’t been, not entirely. In fact, Azriel had been perfectly content to watch the two breathe, to watch them interact.

Eris was gentle and respectful in the way he touched Gwyn—not overly so, but just because that is how he had been taught to treat the delicate noble females of the Autumn Court. Gwyn, however, was more than happy to lean firmly against Eris and preen him like a bird.

Yet the two seemed to be done with their little ritual of taking care of each other for the night. Eris got to his feet, leading Gwyn to the bed by the arm like a gentleman strolling with his suitor.

Gwyn giggled, her nose scrunching, and Azriel's ears warmed when, before he could stop them, his shadows darted forward at the sound. Wisps of shadow, blacker than the night that cradled them, slowly encased both Gwyn and Eris.

They eased them both back into bed, to their rightful spots by Azriel's side. His shadows twisted around Gwyn's thighs and trailed up Eris' arms, raising goose flesh in their cold wake. Azriel tried to shoo them away as they toyed with the hem of Eris' nightsthirt, only to huff, agitated, as they instead fluttered between the stray strands of Gwyn's hair, which she had pulled into a messy braid.

Sharing a bed took more planning than one might suspect, given that they were three adult Fae with wildly different sleeping preferences.

Eris liked to sprawl out when he slept, and Gwyn could not sleep between them, as she was prone to fighting off invisible enemies. Azriel could not be next to a wall because his wings would cramp in the night, and then he would be—according to Eris—insufferable all day.

By now, though, they had perfected this shuffle, this little nightly display of domesticity. Azriel’s shadows would settle in after they had gotten their fill of attention, content to pool at the base of the bed with two of Eris’ hounds rather than writhing across his skin and whispering their secrets into his ear. Gwyn and Eris fell into bed on either side of him, and once they managed to get comfortable, Azriel settled a velvet-soft wing over their torsos.

He shifted, resting his chin on his arms, as Gwyn carefully arranged the blankets just below his wings.

“Better?” She asked.

“Much,” he murmured, his voice unbearably gentle. “Thank you, sweet girl.”

Gwyn leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead in turn. “You’re welcome, Shadowsinger.”

"You both are disgusting," Eris jeered as he slipped deeper into the blankets, his voice muffled against the cool sheets.

"You can ask for a kiss like a normal person,” Gwyn reminded. “We’d never say no.”

A muscle in Eris’ jaw feathered as he debated it for a moment. It seemed that pride would weigh out, but then his eyes dropped to Azriel’s lips.

Finally, Eris mused, “I mean, since we’re already doling them out...”

Azriel rolled his eyes fondly but bent to give the kiss freely. His rough fingertips skimmed across the underside of Eris’ jaw, feeling the smooth dip and curves of the male’s skin.

It was a deep kiss, a slow one, and when it was finished, Eris looked more pleased than he had any right to be. Eris' russet eyes slid away from Azriel's face, and he beckoned Gwyn closer. She complied, and just behind Azriel's back—just over his wings—the pair kissed. 

Gwyn tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned away, color crawling up her neck. Years later, and she still grew soft when they showered her with affection.

Azriel couldn't help his fond smile as she plucked on her end of the bond, playing a shy, adoring tune.

A peace carefully blanketed the three, and once Eris and Gwyn stopped shifting around to get comfortable, Azriel let his eyes slowly close. One hand absentmindedly trailed up and down Gwyn’s back, while the other slipped around Eris’ waist.

That night—like many nights before it and a thousand nights after it—when Azriel finally fell asleep, he dreamed of red.