A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 24: Training Aches

Tucking her hands under her arms, she declared, "You're just worried I'm laughing at you."

"I cannot live with such fear," he said with great theatrical intonation, placing a hand on his chest as he draped himself over the chair. "Best inform me if it is true before I die of intolerable anxiety."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You think that I would save you from such a fate?"

"You hurt me, dear Galadriel. My soul burns in agony."

"Because I lit it on fire." Her smirk was feline—she'd learnt it from him.

Rhysand ran his gaze over her sharpened lips, his own, softer version forming. "It appears you have." Then, those eyes went distant again moments before he directed them across the rooftop. That tension they had built, playful and light, evaporated, leaving only traces behind of something taut in the most uncomfortable way. "Will you come to training again?" he asked.

"I suppose I will." The ache in her muscles felt good—like the tiredness she had felt when she danced. Freedom. "Unless you or Azriel have wish for me not to."

"I have no wish for you to stop what you desire to do." Still, he only looked ahead. "Contrary, it pleases me to see you here."

"Why is that?"

He smiled, not answering immediately. "You're not avoiding me for one." Finally, he looked back at her over his armoured shoulder, eyes dancing with wickedness. "And seeing you bend in all those positions is—"

Galadriel threw a hand up between them. "I don't want to hear it."

He laughed, bright and loud as the morning seabirds. But again, like she always felt coming from him, there was sincerity. He was indeed glad to see her there and though he might not admit the full extent of the reason for it, it didn't scare her entirely.

~

Thain held the letter like it was some ancient relic, worthy of being the centre altarpiece in one of the priestesses' temples. He was a paler green than his sister, so faded it looked like an off shade of her own creamy skin. His brown hair, dark and rich as woodland forests, hung in soft curls around his youthful face, sharply angled ears poking out at a deep angle. "This is his signature?" he asked again, pointing to the rough-handed mess of lines that Galadriel assumed was Cassian's signature.

"It is." Stealing a step forward, hands wrung in front of her stomach, she began, "I was wondering if you'd be able to—"

"Arane! Look at this!" He disappeared around one of the benches into the office where his sister, Arane, was checking their ledges. Galadriel, following him, heard the slam of paper down on the wooden desk.

She arrived just in time to catch Arane's scowl lifting from the large leather-bound book in front of her. "Congratulations, brother, you have his signature."

"The signature of the greatest warrior Prythian has ever seen!" Thain cried, his knees sinking as he bared his weight on the desk as if his feet were no longer strong enough to hold him with this paper he considered a gift. "Have I not shown you the books? I'll go get them."

Books? Sure, Cassian's legacy had reached even her ears in the Autumn Court, but she hadn't realised that he had been mentioned in books already. She might have to ask to see them. Not that she'd ever let him know that she had been researching him. It was merely curiosity about what they had to say. Learning her enemies. Or... Friend.

Arane leant forward, snatching the letter from his hands. Galadriel winced at the harsh sound of the cracking paper, worried that it would tear but it hadn't. Pointing a stern finger at her brother, Arane growled, "You have work to do. You'll get this back when you're done."

With an incoherent grumble beneath his breath, Arane sulked past Galadriel and returned to the kitchen. "Sorry," Galadriel got out, scratching her arm. "I didn't realise it would be a bad time to come around." It was the early hours of the morning and they were preparing for the day before the doors would open.

Arane replaced her sour expression with a pleased grin. "Don't be. It's actually perfect timing. This—" she fluttered the letter about and Galadriel peered over her shoulder as if Thain might suddenly appear like it was his summoning "—is bribery. And don't worry, I'll make sure he does what we need him to."

"He seems... quite young," Galadriel noted.

Arane nodded slowly. "He is. Twenty-three. Practically a child. You should see his room at our apartment—just filled with...weapons. Some days I'm terrified he's going to decapitate our cat with one of them."

Galadriel let out a short, worried chuckle.

"He's obsessed with the military," Arane added quieter, softer. A topic of sorrow, Galadriel registered. "All he could talk about when he was younger was training for it, joining it as soon as he was of age."

Sinking into the seat across the desk from her, Galadriel folded her hands in her lap. "Both a noble and dangerous endeavour."

Arane hummed thoughtfully. "We had an uncle that fought in the slave war. Thain and I grew up on stories about it. Ever since, he's been obsessed with anything related to armies—the Illyrian General included." A morose smile. "But father needed help here and there's no wars to fight so he bakes and complains all day."

"Not the High Lord?" Galadriel asked, throwing a leg over the other. "If I recall my history, he fought in that war as well."

"Yes, but he's not been named the greatest warrior, has he?" Her tone was completely mockery.

"No, but he's the most powerful High Lord that's come across these lands," Galadriel contended. There was an edge to her voice, a stony and rigid one that didn't weld together with Arane's jesting. Almost defensive.

Arane, at least, didn't seem all that worried about it. Leaning back in her chair, she dropped both the quill she had been writing with and the letter to clasp her hands together. "I had no idea that you were so protective of his titles."

Her cheeks were hot and the back of her neck felt clammy. "I'm not," she practically spat out. What had come over her? Clenching her eyes shut, she willed this uncomfortable sensation away, opening them with a gulp of fresh air, and hopefully a fresh mind. "Sorry. He's done a lot for me recently, is all. I really don't give a shit about his powers."

"Who are you to him?"

The question sounded strange to Galadriel, and it rang like an echo in her ear. "I'm sorry?"

Arane frowned through a baffled yet amused expression. "You are companions of the High Lord and his court yet you are here, trying to help an overworked family in a patisserie. I don't understand how you have come to be in both those places."

Turning her eyes towards the small window overlooking the lane outside which was becoming busier with the rising sun, she thought on the answer. When she looked back at Arane, she had her answer. "I was the Spymaster's spy and had been working in the Autumn Court for the last two centuries but I messed up and now High Lord Beron is after my head—for fifty-five thousand gold marks, if it interests you—so Azriel has pulled me from my duty and placed me here where I shall stay until the world has forgotten my name, but until then I have nothing to do but potter around my home baking and killing every plant that comes under my touch so I thought why not help somebody else out while I do so."

Arane blinked, lips parted in a soft pout. Eventually, she only cocked her head and said, "That explains much."