Chapter 29: Struck
Galadriel didn't scream when she opened her eyes to find Cassian's face mere inches from hers. She was too tired to, but the shock of the sight made its way down to her feet which ached from the sudden rush of energy. She needed to go back to locking her door.
"That is not a sight I want to wake up to," she grumbled, grabbing the edge of her blanket, pulling it higher over her shoulders and turning away from the general. The soft, feather-filled pillow welcomed the weight of her head. Her bedroom was still dark—not even the barest of sun peeking through her closed curtains.
"Insulted and not amused," Cassian said. "Up. We haven't trained in over a week."
When she gave nothing but an incomprehensible noise of complaint, he stripped the blanket away from her. Met with a rush of chilly air, Galadriel loudened her complaining which turned to a shriek when his arms burrowed beneath her, hauling her over his shoulder. Blood gushed down to her face, heavy enough that she could hear it going past her ears.
They must have been a sorry sight if she had any neighbours nearby. She spat out gripes and groans as he barked at her heels to get ready. When, finally, they were outside, Galadriel theatrically draped herself across his arms, worming in them after he took to the air just to make his day worse. It was the first time she'd ever witnessed him, or Rhys or Azriel, stumble mid-flight.
"You'll pay for that now," he told her when they landed on the rooftop. She didn't doubt it. He barely let her have any respite, just enough for water and to return her breathing back to normal before he was pummelling her into a heap on the ground again, her muscles like jelly.
At the end, she fell into one of the chairs, oathing that she would never leave it again. Cassian went on with his own training. He'd usually take her back home before he did so, but her last punishment was that she'd have to wait.
Though, Galadriel hardly considered watching the Illyrian general punishment. Azriel arrived somewhere near the end of her training so he joined with Cassian, the brothers sparring. The sight mesmerised her, following the way their bodies obeyed them, muscle flexing with perfect precision, moving in an instinct so long ingrained in them that she doubted ever coming close to it in the duration of her life.
"That's a look I'm not unaccustomed to."
She had to physically tear her eyes away, turning her head first to look at Rhys. Unlike his brothers, he didn't wear his armour or looser training gear. No, the jackets and trousers said he had no intention of joining their morning training. "What's that?"
Rhysand smiled and sat on the edge of the chair next to her. "That look of admiration with a bit of fear. I could hear your mind buzzing from below."
Not knowing whether that was something to be embarrassed about or not, she shrugged. Muscles screaming in protest, Galadriel pushed herself up enough to sit straight. "It's hard not to look at them like that. Makes me realise just how easy Cassian goes on me when we spar."
"I'd like to console you by saying that he started where you are now, but I think Cassian was born quite literally kicking and screaming." They shared a quiet laugh and though Cassian appeared completely engulfed in his fight with Azriel, she didn't doubt he had enough space in his attention to listen to them. That he was capable of such a feat. "Any plans for tonight?"
Knowing what he was asking, she shook her head.
"We can have that dinner then. I'll pick you up around nightfall."
After that, her day went painfully slow. Each hour felt like it had been seized by the hand of a god, who strained against the natural flow. Even the sun burnt hotter as if it were trying to break free, to flee and chase the moon. Galadriel spent a few of those hours in her backyard, gently rocking the hanging chair with her toes, thinking about the sun and the moon and love. She understood what Mor said about romance, about the stories of angst and secretive fawning, but those were not the stories that Galadriel liked to read. She liked the simplicity of romance, the giddiness of love.
The Sun and the Moon were a beautiful tale. Both in love, forever chasing the other, yet destined never to touch. That was a story of romance. A tragedy of two yearning hearts, their love for each other no secret between them. And for eternity, until the last dawn and dusk, they would search and hope.
When that sun touched the horizon, the moon rising on the other, Galadriel finally got ready for the night. Rhys hadn't been specific about when he would come, only that nightfall would be near. When the knock at her door came, she had been reading for half an hour. "It's open," she called, eyes darting across the last page of the chapter.
The door clicked open then shut again. Rising from the lounge, Galadriel kept her head buried in the book as she aimed toward her bedroom for a coat, barely registering Rhysand. "I'll just be a second."
Satisfied that she had completed her chapter, she tossed the book on her bed and rifled through her coats until she found one suitable for whatever the High Lord had planned. Folding it over her arm, purse in her other hand, she went back out to the main room.
Rhysand, stilling her at the bedroom door, was staring directly at her as he sat on the corner of the lounge's backing. The expression on his face was something between a smile and a smirk, arrogant yet charming, kind yet daunting. "I've come for Galadriel, if she's home." His gaze, heavy and hot, swept over her red dress.
Cocking her chin down until her eyes were level with her brows, she puckered her lips together. "It was a gift from Mor. I'm only wearing it so you can tell her that I did."
His lips pressed together as if he were going to say something then thought better of it. "You're not going to cover it with a coat, are you?"
"In case you haven't noticed, it's now winter."
Kicking off her lounge, Rhys sauntered forward. Galadriel lifted her head, not shying as he stood right before her—and plucked the coat right off her arm. He chucked it over the lounge behind him. She went to argue, but a cocoon of warm air wrapped around her. His magic. "Warm enough?"
Begrudgingly, she nodded. "Thank you."
He made that expression again; neither smirk nor smile, but a concoction of both. A finger rose between them and she did nothing as it hooked around the edge of the dress just below her breast, the small bone of his knuckle grazing her bare skin as it followed the material down to the point over her naval. "It suits you." A low husk claimed his voice. "You look ravishing."
She barely breathed, each rise of her lungs pressing further against his touch. "You'd say that if it were on a hag."
Now—Now it was a smirk. "Maybe." With a jerk of his head toward the door, they went out into the city of night. He offered to winnow or fly them to whatever restaurant he had picked, but with that protection of his magic keeping the air around her as warmed as it was during a summer day, she had no problem simply strolling to their destination.
"I hope you picked someplace fancy," she said.
"Is that so?"
"Hmm. I'm going to taste every ancient wine they have, try every entree platter, every dessert. You'll be footing the bill, I assume."
"Ah, so that's the reason you so easily accepted my invite."
She frowned mockingly at him. "Why else would I?"
Hands deep in his pockets, he careened his step enough to knock into her side. Galadriel stumbled and laughed, knocking right back into him. The restaurant they arrived at was certainly not an extravagantly fancy place where one would find the nobles of the city in their finest gowns and tunics. It was small, almost intimately so. The modest crystalline chandelier, alighted with dozens of stubby candles, cast a warm hue over the dining space. The seats were occupied by common folk, who merely glanced in the direction of their High Lord before returning to their meals, unperturbed at the sudden appearance as they enjoyed their night.
"We could have done this at the town house," she said as they took a private table toward the back. She had the perfect view of the world outside, Rhys's back framed by a large window.
"I enjoy taking people out," he replied, smiling and nodding in thanks as his wine glass was filled. "My friends deserve it for all they do for me."
"And me?"
"I thought we already established I consider you a friend."
Galadriel sipped at her wine and placed delicately it to the side. "I haven't exactly been helpful to you or this court recently."
Bracing his arms against the table, Rhys fiddled with the folded napkin in the empty plate before him. "I like to believe some things play out the way they did for a reason."
"Have you figured out the reason why Beron decided to take the damn west corridor instead of his usual path down the north yet?" she drawled. "Because that's what I'd like to know."
He flatted the napkin, smoothing it with his palms. "No. I haven't had the horror of being in Beron's head yet."
The waiter came around, taking their orders of wine and food. Galadriel sat forward in her seat as Rhysand ordered for himself. She could sense the power, pure night, dripping from him. Every movement was hewn with grace and ease, the casual flick of his fingers as he gestured to the menu the same motion that could have an entire court to their knees. Yet she sat across from him like he was nothing more than a harmless farmboy.
It was incomprehensible—this strange comfort. A feeling of belonging there, across from him, joking with him as they had meandered through his city. She should be on the edge of her seat for another reason, calculating her every breath.
A foot nudged her beneath the table. "I could order for you," Rhys said, "but I'd prefer if you ordered what you would like." Those eyes raked over her again, their path like a burning rod dragged across her skin. Her neck, her chest, her stomach.
Humiliation at being caught turned her face red. "The chicken dish," she breathed, pointing to the menu. "Please."
It didn't take any longer than twenty minutes until they had their plates before them, the silverware solid and heavy. The food was good enough to moan around, flavours dancing in her mouth.
Leaning forward, he snatched her wine from beside her plate. Swirling the dark liquid around the glass, he asked, "Wine for your thoughts?"
Galadriel eyed his own unprotected glass, wondering whether she should steal it as she had the first time they played this little game. But this time, she wanted to play. "When we met at the Day Court, I wasn't scared of you."
"No," he agreed. "Just very defensive."
"Did you... Were you in my mind? Suppressing my fear?"
He studied her intently. "You're not just asking about that day, are you?" She shook her head. Placing her wine down, he said, "I've visited your mind to understand some things here and there, but I've never altered anything about how you feel around me. The good or the bad. Whatever you feel around me is your own experience."
That was good to know, at least. "Do you read my mind often?"
He took his time to swallow down a mouthful of his pasta. "Only when I think what I'll find isn't something you wouldn't want me to know. Or when I think knowing is worth the invasion."
"Like when?"
"Like what you were thinking about when you were staring at me."
The blush was in her stomach this time, curdling around the chicken digesting there. "You are confusing, High Lord," she said quietly, referring to those thoughts.
"Why don't we talk about what we came out here for?"
Sighing, she twirled her fork around, scraping the skin of the chicken off the meat. "What exactly is there to talk about?"
"You want work," he said. "You want work that means something. Not that I believe baking isn't an essential source of nutrition and enjoyment for my people." She glared half-heartedly and he laughed at his plate. "You need something more than what you have now, Galadriel. I can see that."
"So this is an intervention then?"
"Hardly." His foot knocked hers underneath the table again. A gentler touch. She sunk back in her chair, unspeaking. "Research—that caught your attention."
"I like it," she said, studying her meal. "I like figuring things out, corroborating information."
"I told you that I could always use a hand with it." He leant forward the moment she turned her head away. "Work with me, Galadriel." Reaching across the table, he laid his hand over hers. Her fingers curled, but she crushed that instinct, not wanting him to know what it did to her. "Whatever it is that makes you put up those walls against me, shut it down for a moment. For your own sake."
She stared at his tanned fingers, the almost unnoticeable way the pad of his thumb rubbed over the knuckle on her own. Flashing her eyes up, she scanned his face, assessing the intricate details that sometimes told her what his mind was thinking. By the intensity of the ones on her, he was doing the same. A gentle brush on her mind, a courtesy of telling her he was in there. "I want days off," she whispered. "To work at the patisserie. Maybe for a holiday here and there." Not that she'd have anywhere to go.
"I can arrange that."
He dropped the topic there, satisfied with what he got out of her. Probably not daring push to discuss more details lest she double back on him. Theyreturned to their meals and then dessert, draining their wine until the dregs and licking off the crumbs on their plates.
The waiter didn't even inform him the payment the bill required, only bringing over a slip of paper with a pen to sign with. Rhysand slipped from his chair first, offering a hand. Seeing that her night had gone finer than she expected, Galadriel took it, letting the warmth that came from him spear towards her chest. He held onto her as they wended through the busy restaurant. She watched the faces of the other patrons—wondered what they must be thinking about their High Lord and the unknown girl with him. But Rhysand didn't show a thought to care.
"Home is that way," she said, nodding to the right when he began to guide her to the left.
"So eager to escape me, my dear Galadriel?" he taunted.
Rolling her eyes, she let him pull her back to his side, the cocoon protecting her from the winter air still in place. She knew that the city at night was exquisite, but each time she ventured out past nightfall, it bore down on her again like it had the first time. She couldn't help but smile, tilting her head to look up at that brilliant night sky, letting Rhys's hand guide her steps. He chuckled—at her or something else, she didn't bother to find out—and took his hand from hers to rest it against the bare small of her back instead, fingers slipping beneath the fabric.
"Some nights I do the same," he said into her ear.
"How old are you?"
"Four hundred and eighty-five."
"Nearly five hundred years of this and it still amazes you. My neck is going to get a strain from living here." Laughing, she bowed her head forward again, rolling out the kink. "I can't believe people sleep through all this. Really, I'm shocked the entire city hasn't turned nocturnal."
He hummed in amusement. "We're half-way there. I used to hate going to sleep when I was young. I'd sneak out my window and just fly."
"Where?"
"Everywhere."
She kicked a pebble out of her way. "I don't blame you. Each time Cassian brings me up to the house it's still dark. Everything is just so peaceful."
They stopped at a bridge that arched over the Sidra. The white stone barrier had whorls carved into it like swirling smoke. Galadriel rested against it when it became clear this is where he had been taking her. They had a perfect view of the city, but enough privacy that it felt like watching from the darkened audience seats in a theatre.
Next to her, Rhysand heaved himself onto the railing, swinging his legs around until they dangled beneath him. He held a hand out to her, reading to pull her up with him. Stumbling back, Galadriel shook her head. "I'm fine down here."
"I'll hold onto you," he said, a sincere promise.
The river's current wasn't strong but she could still hear the gushing below her. Fingers brushed her jaw and it was only then that she realised she had closed her eyes and clamped her teeth together. "One step at a time," he breathed. Wings appeared with an airy hiss. To make her feel safer, she realised. That he could swoop in without the need for land or something to hang from.
"I can't swim." Her voice shook, barely forming.
"I don't plan on letting the water touch you."
His thumb skimmed across her cheek, right next to the corner of her lips before his hand dropped back down to hers. Taking it, she used his strength as an anchor to pull herself up beside him on the thick barrier, slowly letting her legs fall beneath her.
Terror captured her. Galadriel began to lean back but she bumped into something solid. His wing curled around her frame as his hand held her arm, keeping her from tilting either way. But she shook his hold off her and grabbed him instead. He let her, even when her nails dug crescents into his bicep. It felt safer that way, holding him. He couldn't drag her down if he fell, but she could let go.
Hot breath disturbed the lightest hairs just above her ear. "You're doing well," he said, then kissed her temple. "I'm proud of you."
Her grip on him tightened at his lack of focus on their shared balance. "I haven't vomited yet," she mumbled. "Which is a good sign." Or fainted. That had only happened twice, both in her cold-water baths that she tried to do at least once every few months. "Some nights I have nightmares about it again. Being trapped."
The body pressed so close to hers they may as well have been in an embrace shifted back. Silence remained for a few minutes until he decided to speak. "I had a nightmare." He paused for another moment, violet eyes searching across the river. Not searching; avoiding her. "A few nights before Azriel told me that one of his spies had been compromised."
She barely managed to utter, "About what?"
"It was messy. I'm still not really sure about what I saw but I remember feeling a fear that night that I hadn't felt in decades. Not since the war. I also remember you." Galadriel went still, forgetting the unease that still pulsed through her, forgetting the water running beneath her feet. Rhysand finally looked back at her. "You were running. Being chased, I think. I knew what I was seeing wasn't a normal dream, but I had no idea who you were. I was a mess for a few days after. It was only when I looked into Azriel's mind after he got news about what happened, that I realised it was you."
"So..." Her throat choked on the words. The skin on her cheeks prickled with an uncomfortable heat that did not belong to a blush. "So you think you—you had that dream for a reason? That you were supposed to, what—" she sighed raggedly "—bring me here?"
He nodded, slowly. Calmly, as if his softness might keep her bolting away. "Something like that."
Rhysand was a daemati. He travelled through minds at will. It wasn't all that difficult to make the assumption that something had drawn his sleeping mind to hers one night. He said just that morning that he had heard her mind buzzing in the House of Wind while she trained. If it had been the night that she was found out, her mind must have been screaming.
"Does that make me any less confusing?"
Galadriel shook her head. "More so," she croaked.
He sighed, kissing the side of her head before turning his eyes back to the water.