Chapter 8: A Shovel to Grovel
Her awakening came quite rudely. It involved her sheets being stripped away from her lounging body by the yank of magic. Galadriel's eyes shot open, filtering through the chamber until she found the High Lord standing before her, arms crossed. Her fist curled around her pillow.
"How nice of you to deign me with your presence," she growled, rolling to face away from him. It had been a day since anyone had bothered to see her, other than a momentary check-in performed by Azriel the previous night that lasted with one sentence spoken each before he left. Her door had remained locked, meals appearing at orderly times. "You locked me in here."
"You needed time to cool off without endangering yourself." His boots scuffed the ground with a few short steps. "Besides, there were rising rumours about your appearance. I was dealing with those, and you wouldn't have stayed here if I told you to."
"I might have, you wouldn't know for sure now. I do know how to follow orders." She could practically feel his eyes rolling.
"Are you going to join us for breakfast?" Galadriel waited a moment, then half-rolled back over, her light hair falling away from her face as she regarded the High Lord's face. His arms were crossed loosely, weight rested mostly on one foot. His eyes flickered over her exposed body (her sheet bundled near her feet). "On the condition that you behave, of course."
"Don't lock me in here again."
It must have been spoken with the conviction that she felt, because Rhysand's eyes softened and he nodded. "It was not my best idea. But I promised you safety and the situation here was...tense. I didn't want to snap at you either."
Galadriel slid from the edge of her bed, the shimmering pearl-coloured nightgown from the Day Court lengthening around her thighs. "Then maybe you should have locked yourself away."
Before she could glide past him, a large, warm hand grasped gently at her elbow. Rhysand leaned closer to her. "I'm sorry. Truly. I see how distasteful that was of me and I won't do it again. You have my word."
Galadriel eyed his hand, noting the drift of his scent under her nose as she still lent close. "You haven't given me a good reason to trust you on your word yet," she pointed out, soft in tone despite her protest.
"Then trust me on something more." The spot on her elbow was left with an unnatural coolness once he dropped it, but he turned his palm on offer to her. "A bargain. I'm sure you know how they work. On my word as High Lord, and as an honourable male—" she snorted and he grinned— "I will never again force you to remain in a place that you do not desire to be in."
Galadriel considered the offer but shook her head. "I'll settle on your word. I know Night Court bargains come with tattoos and I like my skin the way it is. But thank you... For offering." He rolled his fingers to his palm before turning it over and placing it into his pocket. "I believe you said something about breakfast."
"Yes. And though I think you look deliciously stunning in that nightgown, it would be wiser to dress for the occasion."
Her chin tipped. "Delicious? Are you planning on eating me or something?" She regretted not thinking over her words as Rhysand's smirk grew almost unbearably wide. "Forget I said that." Galadriel waved her hands through the air between them. "Out. I need to change. But don't leave without me!" He only waved in acknowledgement over his shoulder, shutting the door with a soft shudder.
Extracting a dress from the wardrobe, Galadriel examined it before putting it on. A pale green with a double-layered skirt. Beautiful and ill-fitting to the Night Court. It was perfect. Slipping into the silk-like fabric, she placed her feet in the new heels that she had cured her boredom by wearing in the past two days.
Outside Rhysand was waiting. He hooked out an elbow but again she walked straight past it, rolling her eyes. "It's so drab inside this mountain," she muttered, giving him only enough leash by her own speed to lead. "No sunlight? I'll be sickly pale within a month."
"Is all you do complain?"
With a cynical grin, Galadriel flipped strands of her hair over her shoulder and sent the look to him. "It's one of my many talents."
He matched the expression. "Pray tell what the others are."
"Spying," she noted. "I do have good handwriting and I can run in heels. Oh, I do count myself as a fine seamstress."
"Fascinating collection." They turned down a hall Galadriel had yet to come by. Though that wasn't saying much by her lack of experience wandering these corridors. There was a short, natural pause, or at least what felt natural to her but it was clear but the abrupt addition of, "My mother was a seamstress," that he mulled over the words for a few seconds before speaking them.
It was that pause that made her withhold any snappy remark. Was. Instead, Galadriel carved a true smile and asked, "Did she ever poke you with pins trying to make fitting adjustments?" Lucien had always been unable to stand still long enough for her to make all the markings necessary. Gods, she missed his whinging.
Rhysand laughed as though he shared a similar memory. "Yes," he said. "All the time. I hated standing there. Speaking of annoyances." They turned into a chamber. It was around the size of her bedroom, but the sides were filled with cabinets of glassware and the walls hung with bizarre artwork. Along the middle, a dark table of marble had a length of candles lit and a small feast of a breakfast assortment laid out. On the far side, a female with golden hair—a tone or two darker than her own—held a goblet. Fitted to her body, a dress of luxurious emerald with a generous cutting around her neckline. Gold bangles lined one wrist that matched a set of earrings. "Mor," Rhysand greeted.
"Annoyance?" Mor crooned. "I'm not the one late."
"It's not my fault," Rhysand bickered. "I had to retrieve little miss sunshine over here."
Galadriel stood forward. "Should you not have accounted for the time it would take? If you left earlier then maybe we would have gotten here first."
Mor threw her head back with a feminine bellow as Rhysand thinned his mouth and frowned at them both. "Galadriel, meet Morrigan. My cousin. Mor, this is Galadriel, the lint I picked up."
"Ignore him," Mor drawled, gliding around the table. "He's bitter that there are now two of us to pick on his flaws. And trust me, there's many." Galadriel's shoulders eased as the female placed a hand on top of one. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Galadriel."
"You as well. Glad to hear that I'm not the only one who has noticed them." She leaned closer to Mor's ear, leering at Rhysand who grunted and whispered, "He doesn't seem to be very self-conscious of them."
"Where is Azriel?" Rhysand demanded with a sulking frown.
"Late," Mor answered.
"So why are you picking on me for being late?"
"Because he told me that he was going to be late." Mor gestured to the table. "Sit."
Galadriel eagerly chose the seat next to Mor whilst Rhysand took the far side of the table. Admittedly with a tinge of greed, she started piling her plate with all sorts of delicacies. It wasn't long before Azriel also walked in, sitting next to Rhysand.
"So, tell me about yourself," Mor inquired as soon as they began to slow, the curve of their morning hunger evening. "Azriel has barely filled us in with anything."
Galadriel buttered a slice of fresh roll. "That is a broad question."
"Well, I know nothing but your name so anything is of interest."
Galadriel tipped her head in her master's direction who only remained in silence, watching the two females as he ate. "Always a delight to hear that I'm not of interest to speak about."
"I did not want to put my words to your story," came the unexpected response. It was the usual flat drawl of the spymaster. She tightened her lips as he barely spared a moment to look at her before returning his attention to his food. But Mor's questions were persistent, and Galadriel spent that morning answering them, some with the permission of Azriel first, others with no answer at all.
"You know Beron's children?" Mor questioned.
Galadriel nodded. "Knew them is a heavy term. Three of them I very rarely spoke with, two of them, uh, died some years ago now. The Lady of the Autumn Court was actually looking for a handmaiden when I first arrive because she had fallen pregnant and needed some extra assistance. I helped raise her youngest, Lucien."
"Emissary in the Spring Court," Rhysand noted with a tone of distance.
"Yes, he left for the Spring Court a few years ago. I haven't seen him since, unfortunately, but occasionally he would write. I suppose I won't be receiving those anymore." Her fingers drummed the table. "He was always at heads with Eris who is an absolute delight." Galadriel's sarcasm was heavier than the mountain they resided in.
Mor spooned sugar into her drink. "Yes, I am aware of his character." Azriel's jaw stretched, the muscles under his ears bulging and Rhysand watched the table carefully. It wasn't hard to deduce that the Night Court had some experience with the volatile son of Beron. "So what brought you into Azriel's service." Her eyes slithered playfully across the table. "He's very particular about who he works with."
"Oh." Galadriel readjusted her seat, folding her hands in her lap with her plate scraped clean. "Azriel saved me when I was just a child." Sparing him a glance, he only watched her give the story. "He put me with a family that he knew well, and they raised me but he would come down and train me every month for seven years. Then he found me the position in the Autumn Court and I've been sneaking around there for the past two hundred years until now." And please do not remind me why I am no longer there.
"May I ask what he was saving you from?"
Galadriel's lips parted dry. "Drowning," she answered the half-truth. "I was running over this frozen lake and the ice started to break underneath me and I fell in." The story was no secret, but it was a painful memory that she had no interest in sharing with someone she had just met.
"I was flying over and saw her," Azriel added to the continuity.
"And felt sorry enough for my ass that he lodged me and then gave me work."
"And now he's saved your sorry ass again," Rhysand quipped.
"Rhys," Mor snarled.
"I'm teasing," he drawled, revealing his feline grin as though to prove his point.
Galadriel, however, wasn't so mulled by it. Saving. Punishment. They had become the same. "May I return to my chambers?"
Rhysand sent her a questioning look. "I thought you would have been less than eager to return to them."
Taking it as permission granted, she rose from her chair. "Yes, well now that I'm not locked inside of them, I don't mind."
"Locked?" Mor squealed. "Rhysand! Is that why she didn't join us yesterday?"
The High Lord held his palms in surrender. "I've given my apologies." At Galadriel's pointed look, he added, "And I will not be doing it again." The trueness of his apology ran within her enough that she didn't make him give her more then and there, but he would be grovelling for it in the future. For purposes of her entertainment.
And by the narrowed eyes shot at her, Galadriel made good guess that he heard those thoughts. Her mind flashed with an image of her favourite knife being held to what was most likely his favourite place. Rhysand shifted in his seat, a hand dipping below the table. She flashed a grin at Mor. "He knows the risk now. Thank you for breakfast." Mor still continued simmering over the antics of her cousin.