A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Untitled Part 101

Galadriel shook her head. She wanted to do it. He handed her the bread and she went about exploring for something to slather on it, ending up with shredded pieces of chicken and butter. "Would you like one?"

"I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." She took a mouthful, chewing slowly. "What have you been doing this morning?"

"Other than worrying about you?" he asked, leaning his hip against the island counter to face her. "Worrying about everything else. Seems I didn't do enough worrying since you are making me a bit concerned right now."

Galadriel pulled the sandwich away. "Has the chicken gone bad?"

"No," he murmured. "I think Azriel and Cassian were expecting a different sort of greeting. Mor and Amren are out but they'll be home this afternoon."

"I know I usually offer a feast if we're gone for a while but..." How did she explain that she didn't exist to make it earlier. "I can make something for dinner."

"We were gone for fifty years," Rhysand drew out. "It was more along the lines of saying more than three words to them. I think you've managed to insult Cassian deeper than anybody else has in five centuries." She shrugged, an uncomfortable sensation wriggling up from her stomach. Rhysand glided forward, brushing her short hair behind her ear as she stuffed more bread into her mouth. "We're home," he whispered, pressing the lightest of kisses to her cheek. "We're safe." Another to her brow. "Alive. You saved me."

"I stabbed you," she spat in correction, slamming the sandwich down. A stillness encapsulated the town house. "You died, you're dead. I killed you." She shoved her finger into his chest which was covered in one of his impeccable jackets, fancy lapels and all. "You're dead."

Taking her hand, he pressed her palm flat against his chest. "Feel it." She could—the heartbeat. It was cruel.

Her lip trembled. "Don't," she told him—Atticus. "Don't do this to me again."

"Do what?" Rhysand asked, holding her waist gently as she swayed and searched for something out of place that would tether her mind back to reality. "Galadriel, what did he do? What did Atticus do with you?"

"It's not real."

The Illyrian brothers had slowly made their way into the kitchen, keeping to the wall as onlookers ready to act the moment they needed to. Cassian had a hand on Azriel's shoulder.

Galadriel grabbed her arms, digging her nails into them. "It's not real. It's never real. It's all in my head." So many memories of this place. They all crashed together, mixing and meddling. Impossible to tell real from fake. She didn't know what was true anymore—if the scarlet gleam of Cassian's Siphons was the right shade, if the sun struck through the windows at the correct angle. Had the breadbox always been nearest the cooling box? "Not real. Not real. I want to leave. Let me leave."

He let out a long breath and swore. "It is." Rhysand's arms swallowed her frame. "This is real. Amarantha's dead. I brought you home. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Galadriel tossed her head in protest, trying to move from him but he held her too tight. They sank to the floor. "It's real." He said it again and again. "No one is in your head, not even me."

"He makes me see things. Made me see you and this place. But I won't—I won't tell him anything. I never tell him."

"No," Rhysand murmured into her hair. "You're too strong. You did it, you kept them safe. Three things. Tell me three things."

Battling the rising urge to wrench herself from him, she managed to say some semblance of her name. "Gla...Galadriel."

He nodded softly. "Who am I?"

She looked at him intently. "High Lord."

His brows shifted. "My name? What's my name?"

It took a moment for her mouth to form it. "Rhysand."

"Where are we?"

She couldn't look out the window. "The Night Court."

"The city? Where are we right now?"

She refused to even think the name. It was Atticus—this was him. Another torment to pry some slither of information from her. How much of it had really happened? When was the last time she was certain everything was real? "I won't say it—I won't give it up."

"Alright, alright." He stroked her hair. "What if I say it? You'll believe me?" Hesitating for a moment, she nodded. He kissed her mouth. "Velaris," he said. "We're in Velaris."

It had to be true, then. This had to be real. No one else knew the name but her and Rhysand. But what if Atticus had scraped that from her mind? What if was using it to lure her outside so her mind would fill in the slope of the mountains and curve of the river? The information that would truly be of consequence.

Tears beaded at her lashes. Rolling forward, she buried her head into his neck. "I want it to be real," she rasped. "I want you to be alive. I want to be home."

Rhysand leaned his mouth to her ear and whispered something. Something that at first, she didn't recognise. His family name. A warm trill went down her back. She lifted her head, looked at him right in the eye. "I knew that would do it," he said, kissing her nose and bringing them both back to their feet. "At least you didn't laugh this time."

Leaning away from him, she took in the expanse of the glorious kitchen, pivoting on her spot. Rhysand brought her to her feet as she investigated, hovering behind her. She noted where the herbs were stored, the rungs that pans hung from, the flowerpot sitting on the windowsill. An orchid. Yes—yes, it had always been an orchid. She remembered because she was the one that planted it, and never expected it to live as long as it did. Someone must have replaced it after all these years or imbued it with magic to keep it alive. The dark, marble countertops that were flecked with pearl. The way they would catch the sunlight. He was in her mind, helping her sift through it all.

She faced the two Illyrians. Her throat tightened, her chest hurt.

"Finally," Cassian sang, "we exist."

Galadriel took three large steps forward, opened her arms and fell into his. He lifted her from her feet, his hold so tight that she couldn't breathe but she really didn't care. Anchoring her arms around his neck, she inhaled his familiar scent, the pitch of his deep laugh and the rumble of his chest. But his humour melted away fast as his forehead pressed into her shoulder, his chest moving in deep and long motions.

"You better be crying too," he said hoarsely. Letting out a blubber of a laugh, she nodded and he pulled back to place his large hands on either side of her head. He pressed a hot kiss to her hairline. "Welcome home, Galadriel."

"You haven't changed," she said. "I think you're still wearing the same leathers I last saw you in."

"Why change what's already perfect?"

Galadriel looked to his left. Azriel stood perfectly still but he was tense, as if waiting to leap away. His cobalt Siphons were glowing and deep like they had magic recently running through them. She wondered if he wanted to be embraced. If the idea of being held or holding someone else the way she and Cassian had was too much for him. She glimpsed back at Rhysand, hoping that he would guide her but she just barely caught on to his smile before a body slammed into hers.

Letting out an oomph of surprise, she half expected to be thrown back into the wall with the amount of force that struck her chest but two arms, strong as vipers, kept her held to that body. A shudder went through her and she snapped her arms around him and closed her eyes. Azriel didn't bother with flourishes—lifting her feet or twirling. He simply stood there, steady as stone. The only thing that did move were his wings, enclosing them both—not completely. Loosely, as if merely a reflex of muscles. She felt like a little girl again, sopping wet and freezing, clinging to the one piece of warmth there was in that damned court of ice.