A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 49: Labels Carry Weight

"But nothing," she said. "You knew what I felt for him before I even let myself admit it. I'm sure you're well aware now that I don't."

"It's nice to hear it aloud, is all." He looked forward again, a weight setting on his shoulders. "I won't pretend that it will all be easy. I've always had my choice of company for a night. For a few weeks. But it's never been for more than that. Nobody wanted it and I've never wanted someone that way. To drag them through my life."

Twisting the skin around her fingers in her lap, she murmured, "Last night you told me not to let you go. I thought you just meant...then." Now that she replayed the words, they sounded like a plea. Don't let go of me. He'd repeated them through the night, even as her hands were entangled in his hair, when her nails were clawing into his back or lain on his wings.

He smiled blandly. "I already told you that you terrify me. You should also already know this, but I am in love with you, Galadriel. As deep and fierce as love comes." He took her hand from her lap, pulling it into his. "I want you to be my High Lady."

Everything inside her dropped, her face blanching. She barely managed to get out, "Your what?"

"I don't think we'll ever know exactly how the Cauldron chooses mates, but I know that they are equal in some way. I want you to be me equal in every way, including rank."

"High Ladies are not a thing," she told him sternly.

"Who says?"

"The world!"

He braced a hand on the other side of her legs, his upper body bent over her. "Well, I'm part of the world. So is Mor, and Azriel, and Cassian and Amren. We all say that they do exist. Therefore it does."

Her back molars ground together. "You've talked to them about this?"

"Yes." There was a jagged cut-off in his voice, as though he intended to say more but decided otherwise. Galadriel glared at him, but he didn't relent and give her what it was.

"And you didn't think to ask me first?"

His brows bunched together. Not out of indignation, but as one would when they were concentrating on a book. Out of practice, the shields around her mind were in place, blocking him from a straight path to her thoughts. He could tear them apart if he so wished it. "You don't want it."

Galadriel let out a sharp breath. "Of course I don't, Rhys. I don't know anything about running a court. You can't just throw that title at me and expect me to be fine with the fact that a court would rest on my shoulders."

"Our shoulders. I am right here with you." Rolling his lips to his teeth, he gave a solemn nod. "Maybe I'm pushing this too soon. Just let me lay the offer down. It's there for you to take. Tomorrow or in twenty years. I'm not going to chain you to anything you don't want."

Rounding off her shoulders, Galadriel spun herself around so they faced the same way, putting space between them as she did. He didn't understand that it wasn't just the offer—but that she was the last one to know it was coming. Now they would all know that she wasn't enough. That she couldn't handle it. "I need a walk."

"Galadriel—"

She grabbed the coat and scarf she'd discarded coming down from the rooftop terrace. The front door closing behind her cut off the tail-end of a hissed curse. She hadn't explored the city since the peak of winter came through, so the sights of the holly strung from the lampposts, the wreathes hanging from the doors, and the painted pine needles lining the inside of lit windowsills, were a perfect distraction. The streets were busy, younglings running through them, wrapped up in winter coats, shiny new toys in their hands. A group of blue and green and grey-skinned fae walked as a huddled crowd, laughing and singing without a speck of care for the people around them. Rhys's people.

Her people.

No. They didn't feel like it.

Galadriel made it all the way to a small teashop by the Sidra before her solitude was stolen. She could see Mor coming from quite a bit away in the corner of her eye, but didn't look in her direction—scared that she'd see Rhys who undoubtedly led his cousin here—until Mor was pulling the white chair out. "Tea?" Galadriel asked, gesturing to the teapot on the middle of the table.

Mor gladly took some, muttering something about not having breakfast yet.

"I think breakfast ended three hours ago," Galadriel noted.

"Breakfast ends when you finish it." Mor waved her filled, dainty cup around, surprisingly managing not to spill anything. "There should be no rules about food. Only that tomatoes should never be cooked."

Disagreeing but apathetic about the topic, Galadriel didn't answer that.

"I like winter," Mor decided aloud. "I always think I'll hate it when the end of summer comes, but there's nothing like it."

Galadriel looked around, eyeing the frost on the windowpanes, the rainbow of scarfs cradling smiling faces. "I like it too. I don't like the cold, but everything else..." Humming knowingly, Mor yawned, covering her mouth. "How are you still tired?"

"It's a lot of effort to deal with those males year after year." Mor let the silence between them carry on for a while, her bright eyes lazily watching the river behind Galadriel who was instead watching the people hobble along the cobblestone street.

"What did he send you here to do?" she asked when the tea had gone cold.

Mor arched a delicate brow. "What's that?"

"Rhys." Galadriel folded her hands on the table. "Did he send you here to talk to me, to watch me? Convince me?"

"I was hoping we could have a nice day out together before I had to bring him up." Galadriel only shot her a look that told her to get it over with. Sighing, Mor reclined into her chair, one leg draped over the other. "He didn't tell me to do anything other than make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine." It was the truth. She was pissed, annoyed, and needed the walk but ultimately she was fine. Her irritation built from a place of self-deprecation and that wasn't Rhysand's fault. Of course he would consult his court on the idea of anointing a High Lady. Galadriel would call him reckless if he didn't. But she wished that somehow she had been the first to know. "I'm not taking the title."

Mor smiled. "If it helps, it wouldn't change anything between us if you did."

"A lot would change."

"I don't see what would. You're al..." Her red lips rounded, a small breath passing through them. Galadriel's features had turned steady, bearing down on her, willing Mor to continue whatever it was she was about to say.

When it was clear she would not without a metaphorical dagger to her throat, Galadriel said, "You're his Third in Command. High Lady would put me above you. How would that not change anything?"

Her expression was pained. "I thought he told this as well."

Anger blazed up through Galadriel. "Told me what?"

Looking over her shoulder as if to search for a way out, Mor bit deeply into the pout of her bottom lip. When she finally deduced there would be nothing to keep her from answering save winnowing out, she said, "Rhys... Among us, here in Velaris, you already have the authority of High Lady. It's not official but Amren and Cassian witnessed the order given in front of a priestess and seeing as I raised no objections as his Third, it is in place until he dies or your acceptance seals it."

It took all her effort not to knock that dainty little teapot from its spot on the table.