Chapter 7: Snide Remarks
By the time someone came to her door, Galadriel's stomach was making songs of its cravings. Her feet were kicked up in the vanity, head tipped back over the back of the chair in plain boredom. Yet, when the door opened and she saw who entered, she found herself wishing to stay in that state of boredom instead.
"I believe I promised you a tour of my city."
"And I said I'd rather not."
"You're being extremely rude to the person currently ensuring your safety here." Galadriel tightened her jaw, sending a short-lasting glare at the High Lord. "Care to explain why?"
Because she didn't want to be there. Because he was an arrogant prat who could use a few hard blows to his egotistical swaggering. Because Azriel was annoyed by her. Because she can no longer see some of the few true friends she had made. Because—
"There's a long list of reasons," she settled on answering. "If I'm safe here, then I'll explore on my own. If I cannot, then perhaps I should winnow back to the Day Court and tell Helion that the deal is off." Galadriel tilted her head in a dangerous challenge.
Rhysand took two more steps into the chamber, observing it as though he didn't already full-well know what was inside. "I didn't bring you here on Helion's account. Perhaps I may have considered him a favour, but I didn't need to for this. I won't be staying in this city for much longer so I'd rather see to ensuring that you do not get lost and trapped down a wrong street whilst I'm otherwise occupied."
"You don't live here?"
He shook his head. "I have another city that I reside in."
Galadriel glanced down at her vanity, tracing a fingernail over the wood. "And Azriel?"
"Lives there with me." So, she'd be here in the city all alone? The thought tightened something in her throat. "Now, stand up and follow me. By the time we get back it'll be lunch. Hopefully, that'll ease your moping."
Despite herself, Galadriel stood with a rigid back, arms folded. "Show me the delights of my new home, then. I expect a special tour if it comes from the High Lord himself."
"It'll exceed any expectations." He hooked out his elbow as he had to winnow her here, but she ignored it, standing before him instead.
"They're not high."
There was no missing the rolling of his eyes. Rhysand pressed the door open, dropping his arm and she begrudgingly followed a step behind. They walked through the hall which actually widened once they turned onto another and she realised that she was in a very quiet, almost abandoned branch of whatever part of the palace they were in. Soon enough, they passed the Fae that lived in the city, clearly attending some sort of court business if they were in the palace. He spoke of sights within the palace itself, pointing out features here and there. Galadriel remained silent through most of it but filtered through as much information as she could. One could never know when it would be of use.
"This is the throne room."
Galadriel slowed, peering past the large arched entrance. The room inside was overtly generous in sizing, with polished ebony crafting every surface. It was so reflective that she could make out the face of one High Fae lingering near the entrance on the floor just before him. The ceiling was so high that she tilted off balance to look up and see it. Throughout the throne room, large colonnades supported the ceiling, fanged beats of onyx stone are carved to look as though they have climbed and settled on each. At the very end of the room, a throne sat atop a dais, the head of another one of those beasts perched near where one's shoulder would sit.
Eyes within the throne room turned, darkening and composures stiffening. From beside her, Rhysand stood tall, his face still and the foolish grin he had worn earlier wiped from existence. The High Lord of Hewn City, her mind sang. His exuded power, and not the arrogant kind that he had in the Day Court, but a ripple of true darkness. Night itself. There was no visible sign of it, but her bones shook with the sensation.
A hand laid on the small of her back, leading her away. Even Galadriel wasn't stupid enough to brush it away until they were far away from the eyes, even if her muscles twitched under his touch. Swallowing, she faced the reminder of what power he held. Of who he was. It was enough to crop her tongue for the time.
"Where is Azriel?" she asked as they strode through a more open chamber that seemed to be a foyer of some kind.
"Eager to see him?" Rhysand said, jeering underlining his voice.
"Eager to know why you are here with me instead of attending whatever High Lord duties you have," she corrected. Though it didn't need correcting. "I would have thought you might send a servant, or Azriel since he knows me."
"How long have you worked for him?"
"About two hundred years," she said, admiring a rather gruesome piece of artwork that rose a brow. It was little surprise that he knew next to nothing of her. Azriel spoke nothing of him, and nothing of his other spies. Their relationship was a small globe of just the two of him. Being next to Rhysand felt like she was breaking that itself. "Well, I knew him for about a decade before I started working for him but I was undertaking training through that time so I count it."
"And how long were you in the Autumn Court for?"
"Around one hundred and ninety years."
"So that makes you?"
"Did you never learn not to ask someone's age?"
"Entertain me."
Galadriel pursed her lips for a moment before answering. "I'm two hundred and seven, High Lord. Satisfied with my history?"
"Barely," he scoffed. "That math doesn't add up. Unless when you started working for him when you were—"
"Twelve," she interrupted. "I was twelve when Azriel found me." The memory was not a fond one. What came after, more so, but the only reason she was under his supervision at all was because he had to save her from a fate that took the rest of her family. Four brothers. A mother. Father. "I rounded up. He trained me for seven years."
"You've been in the Autumn Court since you were nineteen."
"Congratulations, High Lord. That was basic addition."
"I'd be careful how you speak to me here." Galadriel only kept walking with her head forward. That was, until a hand firmly planted on her stomach and forced her to stop. Rhysand shifted around to her front, blocking the path. "I'm quite serious, Galadriel." Considering the only other time he used her name was for something somewhat sincere, she listened. His dark violet eyes peered around them, but there were no ears close enough to listen. "Behind closed doors, fine. I can put up with your attitude. But out here I'm a merciless High Lord who needs to contain people who simply tolerate me. So don't do that out here where I will have to act in the way they expect me to."
The weight of his warning settled on her shoulders. His eyes were far darker than they ever had been, his shoulders stiff and straight. People had moved away from him like a parting of a sea. "Alright. I'm sorry." She should thank him for the warning, rather than skipping over it, but the words of gratitude stuck in her throat.
He nodded in acceptance and removed his hand. Galadriel held her glare and straightened the fabric. "Would you like to see the actual city now?" he questioned. She nodded and gestured away.
They passed through the great gates of the palace which were actually stone carvings of the same beasts that prowled along the colonnades in the throne room and painted in many of the artworks. Between the beast gates, were vines of moonflower and jasmines. A strange, yet befitting floral arrangement for the Night Court. Galadriel hadn't expected to see many flowers here.
The city itself was not a stream of halls and corridors, but a true city within a mountain. There were streets and stores, roads and apartments. There was even a large stream and a bridge that ran across it. Pillars were carved to look like they had vines of night-blooming flowers across them. It would be a wonderful city, if not for the truth behind its reputation.
"I need something," she told the High Lord as they passed one store in particular. Inside were arrangements of shoes, from thin strapped heels of onyx that curled up to one's knee, to boots of a similar height. Galadriel, with the High Lord watching over her shoulder, only bought a pair that were to her sizing but did not try them on in the usual way of testing. They would not fit as perfectly as they should if she had gotten them properly tailored as Amoise always insisted, but her good pairs were left behind in the Autumn Court and she only had the sandals currently worn with her.
With the simple heels in a cloth bag, Galadriel looked up to the High Lord as they wandered back onto the street. His dark brows were raised, as though silently (and derisively) asking her if there was anywhere else she would like to stop and divert him from the path for. "Go on," she muttered at his dry humour.
But her tour was near ending.
"Try and find your way back to your room so I know you've got a memory. As long as you do, we'll arrive just in time for lunch with Azriel and my cousin."
She didn't know who his cousin was, nor was she bothered to ask. It would just be some cynical response anyway. Racking her mind for the paths they took, Galadriel took charge in leading them both back up to the palace. They made it past the magnificent, yet dread-enticing, front gates and through a few turns before her memory began to fail her. "Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
Her head swivelled over her shoulder. Rhysand sauntered a pace behind her, hands in pockets with an eased, crooked smile. "You've known this place your entire life. I've been here less than a day."
"It is not your memory that I'm judging you on." He leaned forward with an extra step to disintegrate the space between them. "It's that permanent scowl you have that I find so entertaining."
"Believe it or not, it's not permanent. In fact, it's been a rather recent addition that I intend to disappear."
"Oh? And what is currently keeping it here?"
"Have you not figured it out yet?" With another peek over her shoulder, she found Rhysand still smiling, but it wasn't quite the same as before. It was sharper, thinner. "Which way?"
"Left." Galadriel's shoulders twisted with the tight turn. "You know, you've only known me a day and I can practically see the judgement bleeding from you."
High Lord, she hissed to herself again. "I'll try to restrain myself from now on. But you didn't make the effort for a good first impression."
"Neither did you."
"I didn't want to make a good impression."
"You wanted me to rescind my offer." Galadriel's feet stumbled across the stone floor at the true strike of his assessment. Rhysand made the stretch of step to walk by her shoulder. "Don't look too surprised. You're easier to read than a book made for children, even with those walls in place. Good job by the way, very sturdy." At her prolonged silence, during which her inner thoughts were swirling with sudden doubt, Rhysand continued. "You're stubborn, I've gathered that much, but you're also very loyal to my spymaster. He said as much. You found yourself unable to say no to him, so you hoped that I would step in and do it for you. Perhaps you're still hoping I'll be annoyed with you enough to send you on your merry way back to Helion. I just haven't figured the why yet. Am I correct?"
Galadriel jolted to a sudden stop and he moved in front of her. His shoulders were loose yet broad, lips pulled wide in a Cheshire grin as though he had it all figured out. In some ways, he did. And she hated him for that. Galadriel was supposed to be unreadable. A spy. But her emotions had been getting the better of her lately.
And Azriel complimented her loyalty?
"Does it matter? I'm here now."
Rhysand brushed along his perfectly pristine sleeve. "My offer will not be revoked on account of your snarky tone towards me because I know it's just an act. You don't have to bother with it anymore."
Galadriel laughed. "It's not an act." She hadn't wanted him there that night, wanted him to take back the extension of sanctuary—yes, that was true. But he was still an arrogant prat. And Beron... Well, she had put up with Beron for so long that Rhysand's title of High Lord did not scare her. Which is why she had to keep reminding herself who he was. "Do you have any sense of self-awareness?"
Somehow, they reached her door. Galadriel pushed right into it, but alas he followed behind. Chucking the shoes down, her heels dugs into the polished floor as she spun around, facing him with that scowl he found so amusing.
"I am starting to get frustrated with you, I'll admit." As though she should take it as a warning. "Keep provoking me and I might take you right back to Beron myself. Have a nice little extra sum in my credits account."
Galadriel blinked at him, then looked away.
He was right. Part of her did want him to send her back to Helion. How could she want to be here? It was the Court of Nightmares which was terrible enough, but she was also here because of a mess-up. And that made this place a punishment.
"Right." Rhysand clicked his tongue, stepping back into the threshold. His face had darkened but she noted a considerable effort to conceal it. "Clearly you're not in the mood for entertaining lunch so you can stay here and I'll send you some scraps over."
"What?" Galadriel frowned and headed towards the door. Her stomach had been growling for a good two hours by then and it only made it worse by having the prospect of good food being taken away. Launching towards the door, Rhysand backed out and shut it right before her. Galadriel shook the doorknob, but it was locked. With magic. She banged her palm on the thick door, the sound reverberating. "Rhysand!"
"You can come out when you stop insulting me!" rang from the other side, already from a distance.
"Bastard."
~
Galadriel sat frumpily on the edge of her bed, glaring at the floor. She couldn't even winnow out. Once she finally broke from her own enchantment of frustration, she stood and turned around. And—
And there was a plate on her vanity. Steam still curled off it like a silver dance. Potatoes, two large slices of meat, vegetables. Her walk towards it was slow, wondering if it would disappear like a sick trick. Yet she picked up the silver, gleaming fork next to it and stabbed a potato. As real and there as it could be.
And burnt her tongue.