A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 37: The Cell

Though the burns that had been blistering when he left were now pink, like smears from too much rouge blush, he took the utmost delicacy, brushing his fingers down her cheek, then again along her hairline until the touch aroused her. Rhysand leant back onto his haunches so he wasn't leaning over her, conscious that his face remained locked in a sternness that would be a frightening sight to wake to. He knew that because it was the same one that made his Court of Nightmares bow before him with the barest inclination of his chin. Galadriel hadn't yet been exposed to the true extent of that mask; hadn't become accustomed to the roles he had to play.

He watched her blink awake, turning her head over her shoulder. Her grey eyes found him and they brightened with uncertainty—almost fear. It was enough that Rhys forced the mask to fall apart. With a little breath between parted lips that he knew tasted like honey, she pushed herself up.

He raised his shields, prepared for her own defences to slam into place. To shut him out as she'd done over and over again each time he poked too far, or she let herself enjoy everything too much. After everything that had happened in the past days, after forcing her in that bath while she pled with him to get her out, screaming until she fainted, he expected those defences to be tougher than the wall separating Prythian from the human lands. It had killed a piece inside him to do it.

But Galadriel lurched forward, her arms snapping around his neck, nearly tackling him over. Rhys returned the gesture immediately, capturing her weight, holding her secure where she burrowed against him.

Closing his eyes, he ran a hand along her spine, savouring the way her arms tightened when he did, welcoming his affection. He searched inside her, hunting down that power he'd felt in the forest. It had been buzzing then, like a swarm of wasps trapped inside a nest. He could still sense a trace of it, a freckle on her being, but it was dull. "You're safe," he breathed to her, once that final assurance came. He would lie to her, but not about that. Never about that.

Galadriel rescinded, her hands slowly dragging down his shoulders to his chest before dropping altogether as she sat on her ankles at the edge of the cot. Unable to help himself, Rhys scraped the outer layers of her mind. He couldn't grasp onto any one thing, as if he were passing by a hundred doors too fast to look inside, collecting only snippets here and there. He caught glimpses of her memories—the ones of that dungeon room in Autumn.

His nostrils flared as he realised she had already noted the similarity to the one she was in now. Mor liked Galadriel—Rhys knew that much. He trusted his cousin to protect Galadriel, but if she posed any danger to this court... Mor had a loyalty to him that would drown out her personal relationships, even with his mate. That loyalty was a treasured thing, but one that currently infuriated him.

He'd already hounded Azriel in private, who had never been so sheepish. In the past, Azriel had met reprimands with a stone face and reason. After serving Rhysand's father, Rhys had always taken the time to figure out his approach to Azriel and even Cassian, but this time he hadn't bothered. Hadn't wanted to bother.

Cassian slapped his hands to his legs, a warning or a reminder that he was there. "I think we're all due for some food," he grumbled.

"Bring it to the dining room," Rhys instructed. "We'll come up."

With a nod to Rhys, a softer one to Galadriel, he exited the cell more silent than Rhysand had ever heard him move before.

"You shouldn't be down here," he said, taking her hand. "You should have never been brought here."

"I agreed to it." Her voice was painstakingly small, such a stark contrast to the violent screams he'd last heard from her. Now he didn't know which one was worse. Her pain but the strength of her fighting, or the resigned quietness. And the fact that she'd agreed to come down here, after telling him that she despised being beneath a mountain but had felt dangerous enough—didn't trust herself enough—cracked another piece inside of him. "Beron..."

"Has been dealt with," he said once more.

Tears welled in her eyes, shining and misplaced in this drab room. He peeked into her mind again to gain an idea of what drove them, so he could say the right thing. Guilt led the charge in the knotted emotions. "I didn't want this," she uttered, shaking her head. Her hair waved like sheets of silk. He dampened the urge to run his fingers through it, to push it away from her face so that he could see her clearer.

Rhys didn't know if she was referring to a specific moment or everything together, but his reply was all the same. "I know you didn't."

She took her hand from his, holding it her other like it was some sort of childhood toy she needed kept close. He caught another flash in her mind. The blood, that sensation of tearing through flesh. The moment she had killed that guard. "I've never killed before," she admitted.

"You brought yourself back," he said. "You did what you had to, to come home."

"I burnt my home fucking down."

"Velaris," he corrected. "That villa was just a building. Everything in it can be replaced and my coffers won't even see a dent." He could see that flicker of annoyance, perhaps now a trained habit, at the idea of his money being spent of her. Rhys took her hand again, drawing himself closer to the lip of the cot until his sternum was practically against her knees. "I'm not about to let my mate go without a proper home to sleep in."

He watched that word strike her again as hard as it had when he screamed it to her in the forest. Her chest sunk in, like it was caving under the pressure of the title and she wouldn't meet his eye. There was no hiding from it now, he reasoned. No pretending. He didn't want to pretend any longer.

Tucking her legs up to her chest, she asked, "Do you know? Why... Why I burned down my house? I don't..." She took a shaky breath. "I don't have magic like that. Winnowing is practically a miracle for me. That power wasn't mine. I didn't do it."

It was practically a plea. Not wanting to tell her that he could still feel that lingering trace, he said again, "I know you didn't. And I don't know what happened but Amren is already researching. Whatever it is, that won't happen again. I won't let it." If there was one thing Rhysand understood, it was power. Years of gruelling training and learning to control it, wielding it in a measure beyond what any other Fae had. That fire resembled magic out of control, magic that had been brewing, thrashing to escape as he had felt in the forest. Not for one second did he consider it her fault.

That conviction must have been enough because Galadriel eased slightly and the hand he held in his finally responded, twitching enough that her fingertips dusted the bowl of his palm. Despite that, he could feel her discomfort growing. Not in her mind, but through the bond.

Rhys leant forward, peering up at her as he looked through the curtaining hair on either side of her face. "Let's go eat."