Chapter 30: The Catalyst of Wings
The first thing Galadriel saw were bright hazel eyes intently searching for hers. It was a sight she had seen enough to know who exactly they belonged to. But his roguishly handsome face wasn't backed by the sweet peach paint of her roof that appeared almost white when he arrived before dawn at her villa. And there were voices other than his somewhere around her that didn't belong to that imagined scene.
Galadriel groaned and tried to roll onto her stomach, but Cassian held her still. He blurred in and out of focus as bile crept into her throat. Swearing, she pressed her hand to a throb on the side of her head but winced when her fingers barely dusted her skin.
"Yeah, probably don't want to do that," Cassian said, urging her hand back down before she could investigate further. "Fucking hell." It didn't sound like the first time he had said that recently.
He guided her to sit up and didn't protest when she leant against him, her entire body feeling like it was getting ready to spill her guts. "My head hurts." Her voice was chipped and hoarse. They were on the rooftop and the sun was well up, which meant that they'd been here for a while.
"Not surprised." Cassian tucked a strand of her hair back over her ear as he squinted at the side of her head where it ached. "You took a direct blow."
"Which he should have pulled." Past Cassian, between the training ring Galadriel was in and another, was Mor, Azriel next to her. "Gods, Cassian. It's like you wanted to knock her brains out."
Galadriel glared hazily at the general. "You punched me?"
"You don't remember?"
She shook her head, but that was a terrible mistake. The bile rose higher, acid breaching her mouth. Cassian turned her away from himself just in time for her to vomit across the ground beside him. He rubbed her back with something of an apology.
"Why the fuck did you knock me out?" she demanded, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
"It wasn't my intention," he replied pointedly. "But you were distracted and not listening to me. That type of distraction would get you killed on a battlefield."
Count the lesson learned.
Galadriel simply moaned a little more, shielding her eyes from the blaring sun with his large frame. Unsteadily, he got her to her feet, arm secured around her middle. She hobbled with him back down into the House of Wind, giving no mind to where they were going until they reached a small sitting room. He set her down on a lowered table and she languidly pointed to the cushioned chairs just feet away.
"I don't want you getting comfy and falling asleep just yet," he told her, rifling through a few draws until he had what he needed, the House of Wind summoning the supplies. He tossed something in her lap. "Chew on that." She did, not bothering to identify it. It was tangy.
Unscrewing the lid of a small tub, he swiped his thumb through a greenish cream. Kneeling in front of her, he brushed her hair away and layered it onto that spot that throbbed in time with her heart. Galadriel hissed, nails digging his arm, but he didn't swat her away and after he'd knocked her into oblivion, she didn't care about leaving a few marks on him. "This will calm the swelling. If the bruising doesn't go down in a day let me know."
"You were too rough, Cassian."
Cassian rolled her eyes at her before peering over his shoulder at the High Lord. "Which one of your little minions ran off to tell you?" he grunted before turning back to Galadriel.
Rhysand didn't deign to answer. He unfolded his arms from across his chest and stalked forward, kneeling beside Cassian on the carpet. "You could have done at lost worse." Not a look on the bright side, but a low growl of warning.
Cassian smiled at her. "Galadriel's tougher than she looks."
"You've trained soldiers before. You should know when to pull your punches."
"I—"
Galadriel pressed her finger to the general's lip. "Cassian, you talk way too loudly and if I throw up again it's going to be on you. Literally and figuratively. Rhys—" she glared at the High Lord "—you weren't there so you don't get to give your opinions on what he was or wasn't doing. And frankly, I'm not in the mood to see you. Both of you shut up before my head explodes over this sitting room."
Cassian smiled behind tight lips that were pointed at her lap; an expression that said, 'she told you.' Rhysand remained completely unamused, hurt darting across his face. It returned to stoic emptiness a heartbeat later. With a curt nod, he rose back to his feet and was little more than a blur of darkness in his retreat.
Sighing, Galadriel rested her hands on her knees.
Cassian wiped his hands clean on his pants. "Something happen between you two?"
'Something' was a vague term. And what had happened between her and Rhys wasn't just vague, it wasn't even a single thing. She couldn't wrap her head around the High Lord and what he did to her head. "He's just an arrogant asshole," she dismissed. That wasn't anything near the truth.
He was an arrogant asshole, but he wasn't just one.
Huffing, Cassian sunk onto the carpet, wrapping his arms around his tented knees. "Want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly."
"Too bad."
~
Galadriel reread the letter from Amoise, tracing her eyes over the beautiful, cursive hand. Her friend. One that still believed her name was Sahra. One that she lied to for two centuries. But still a friend that she missed dearly.
She missed the Autumn Court. The palace's dark halls and stained-glass windows. The hustle and bustle in the kitchens whenever she picked up duties there. The lake on the edge of the palace grounds, the water so dark that some days it appeared black but it was always splattered with the brightest leaves of burnt orange and brown and pale green.
Doing what she always did whenever she couldn't get out of her head—Galadriel baked. She dusted the entire length of her kitchen bench with flour, rolling dough until her arms burned and her fingers twitched. Every recipe that she could think of and had the ingredients for, she made. Breads, muffins, tarts, cakes, eggrolls, cream rolls, jam balls. The sun began to descend, peeking through the window opposite to where it had when she started. The entire house managed to become a mess—eggshells shards scattered along her floor, smears of melted chocolate staining her wall, smudges of butter on her window. It became a warzone of battling scents, each one trying to dominate the rest.
Mor visited at some point during the day-long kitchen rampage, ranting on about Cassian and how he should have known better. Galadriel agreed, but she didn't like throwing blame, and left Mor to rant on her own. When she realised Galadriel wouldn't join her gossiping and bickering, she left, mentioning something about returning in the morning to make sure Galadriel woke up alright.
A talon of velvet scraped her mind not long after. It was gentle—one she might not have noticed at another time. But right now, it was all she could think about. Not caring if he pried, she left the gates to her mind open for him.
Galadriel was bent over, pouring batter carefully into a shaped tin when somebody knocked at her door. She lurched so hard that she knocked the tin off the bench. It clattered by her feet, the filling exploding in every direction, drenching the hem of her dress. Swearing—because now she couldn't hide from whoever was at the door—she stomped over the batter.
Rhysand waited on the other side, his face ripe with concern. He didn't smile at the sight of her. She knew what she must have looked like—some batter-covered, senile female who had lost it. He didn't ask to come in, simply gliding past her, but with that look on his face, she didn't think he would have let her turn him away.
He followed her back into the kitchen where he leant against the cleanest part of the counter. He didn't smile at the sight of all the sweets and breads and rolls either, or at the herbal aroma that finally dominated. He stared at the mess. "How long have you been baking for?"
She blinked, rounding off her shoulder in a shrug-like motion. "A few hours."
Violet eyes flickered over her in assessment. "Cassian didn't tell you to rest?"
"He did," she confessed, with not an ounce of shame for ignoring the warrior. "But I couldn't keep still."
"Sit down," Rhys instructed her. "I'll get you something to drink."
Galadriel did not sit down, remaining right where she had been standing. For once, a drink didn't mean wine. He placed the clear glass of water in front of her, looking to hold back a sigh at the sight of her still on her feet. With a wave of his hand, the mess from her kitchen disappeared, leaving behind her goods on the platters and racks. She gripped the cool glass but didn't raise it to her lips until he physically guided her into the motion.
While she was distracted with drinking, he inspected her wounded skull. "I know that us High-Fae are strong," he began, soft as one would talk to a child, "but Cassian is an Illyrian, and their strength lies more in their fists then their heads. He could have done a lot more damage than he did."
"He didn't mean it."
"He's a good warrior. A good friend and general. But he makes mistakes like the rest of us do. He's been distracted the last few weeks with everything happening at some of the Illyrian camps. Training usually clears his head."
Wrinkling her face, Galadriel rubbed on the good side of her head, wondering if she could convince herself that she was massaging the aching side without the side effects of touching the still bruising and slightly swollen tissue. "I think I was the distracted one."
Shifting forward, Rhys lightly pressed his fingertips to her temple. "I don't have an affinity for healing magic, but I do have one for the mind. May I?"
Hesitantly, Galadriel nodded. She felt that scrape again. Her shields had been down which meant that he did it to give her warning—like knocking on the door even when you have invitation to be there. When he receded, a worried bite pinched his cheek.
"Maybe I should get Madja down here," Rhys murmured. "She's my household's personal healer."
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she gave herself a few seconds to collect the scattered pieces of her mind. "It's just a headache."
"You're head's a mess, Galadriel. Even I can barely sort through it."
She didn't want to be poked and prodded at by a healer. It was another thing to think about—another person to deal with. Maybe it was the concussion making her feel that way, but the mere idea irritated her. "No strangers," she said, folding her arms over her stomach.
"Would you consider staying at the town house tonight then?"
"No. I want my own bed. Mor said she come visit in the morning, anyway."
"Then I'll stay here." She willed herself to glare at him for the way he framed it: a declaration rather than a request. Rhys loosened a breath. "Please, it'd make me feel better. I can know you're not baking till your hands bleed."
By the rawness on her palms, that wasn't far off. "Fine. But you get lounge." Figuring that she might as well try and save as much as she can, Galadriel started packaging the food, sealing them in containers, wrapping them in cloth. Rhys helped where he could. "I'm sorry about earlier. My head, it was, well... It was a mess."
"Don't apologise. I didn't even ask if you were okay."
"I hadn't realised. But now that you mention it, I'll be grumpy about that for the next few hours too." She smiled to the countertop as she saw his own lips quirk up as he worked around her. "What's happening at the camps? You said Cassian's been distracted."
At first she thought he would brush her off. "A few decades ago, a female Fae came to Prythain from Hybern wanting to initiate trading between our two islands again. We hadn't had contact with them since the war. I don't my court to have anything to do with her, but some of the camp lords are enticed by what she has to offer. She's been pushing me these past few months. Now Cassian is getting the brunt of it from them."
Galadriel fingered the rim of the glass of water. "You don't like her?"
"She was one of Hybern's best generals. I have... a personal vendetta against her. A story for another time," he added at the curiosity.
She scoured the name from her memories. "Amarantha." A tale that many children born after the war grew to know. And Jurian, the human warrior who tricked a fae into loving him.
Jaw tense, he nodded. Then that expression, taut and downturned, evaporated. "You need fresh air," he said, taking her hand.
Without complaint, she let him lead her to her backyard. They stayed under the shaded mini-courtyard, sitting on the swing hanging from chains connected to the rafters. Galadriel pulled her legs up, leaning back into the cushion as Rhysand used his feet to swing it gently. She hadn't even realised she needed this, breaking away from the chaos inside that she'd created. Out here, she could know nothing but peace. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the brisk air which was like splashing chilled water to her face, reviving something in her.
After a while, Rhysand took her hand, unfurling the natural fold of her fingers so her palm was open in his lap. Peeling her eyes open, she watched as he used the side of his thumb to scrape off the dried, flaking batter caked onto her skin. It was such an intimate, familiar thing to do, that she felt like it was something they'd done a hundred times over. As if finding the High Lord of the Night Court sitting with her on the swing in her back garden was a sight not worth any note of importance.
"Can I see your wings?"
His thumb paused, violets flashing toward her. His chest rose with a long inhale and when he let it go, he nodded. He placed a hand on the curve of her hip. "Shift forward." She wriggled further up the seat until she was practically teetering on the edge. With an airy beat, those beastly wings appeared behind his shoulders. They were long enough that the bottom half of both were crossed behind his back like some birds did, the upper halves spread wide to accommodate the flex.
In the late afternoon light, his wings caught the gilded rays, the membrane almost glowing in its thinnest areas, the veins and main artery visible beneath. Galadriel turned in the seat to face him, tucking one leg under the other. Slipping her hand from Rhys's, she brushed over one of those thinner points, feeling the bump of the flesh beneath.
He shivered, wing shuddering. Galadriel snatched her hand back, terrified that she had done something wrong, but the look on Rhys's face was one of pure bliss. Yet when he said, "That was dangerous," she worried once more. Swallowing, he added, "Illyrian wings—don't touch them without permission unless you don't intend on touching anything again."
Wide-eyed, she brought her hand closer to her chest.
He chuckled, breathlessly, and grabbed her wrist. "I knew your intention. And I wouldn't have shown them to you unless I was prepared to give it. But—but let me guide you."
Letting her muscles loosen, he brought her hand back to his wing, to the outer part first. Hand over hers, they stroked down the firm edge, the scales like smooth glass. He was quiet, breathing shortly, but controlled. "Is it painful?" she asked, having no idea what leathery wings would feel like to have.
"Sensitive," he corrected, eyes almost closing over. He slipped his fingers down to her wrist, guiding her to another area where bone sprouted from the muscles in his back, letting her decide how to explore the spot. "But it can be painful. An Illyrian's one vulnerability in battle."
"It sounds like another sensitive area I know you males have."
He flashed a quick smirk. "Would you like to feel there next, too?" She barely restrained from flicking his wing, settling on nudging his thigh with her knee instead. Chuckling, he said, "They can both be used in the bedroom."
Suddenly feeling a little dirty, her fingers lightened their touch. "Do you?"
His throat bobbed as he shook his head. "Wings are more personal. I haven't met anybody who I've felt comfortable enough to do that with." She returned her touch, tracing along the line of a tendon until Rhysand's thumb slipped between the wing and her palm and pulled it away slowly.
"Their fascinating."
"I can show you what it feels like."
Intrigued beyond measure, she nodded. Rhysand leant forward, cupping her cheek with his large hand. Her eyes closed as she was pulled into a mind that didn't belong to her. She hadn't realised how bad the ache in her head was, or how dull the world had been for her until she experienced it through Rhysand's senses. His memory.
Galadriel saw herself peering curiously at the things connected to her—Rhys's—back. Something delightful coiled through her at the touch. She could feel everything, from the different pressure to the temperature of her own fingertips. That divine pleasure built, swelling low in her stomach.
She was sure, even in her own body, that she let out a shaky breath. She—he—didn't want it to stop. Wanted to feel that area she had first reached for touched again but kept her fingers well away from it. There was arousal, but not the sweaty, throbbing type. It was more intimate than that, something belonging to his mind more than his body.
The hand slipped from her face and her own world faded back in. "I'm surprised you weren't purring," was all she could mutter out.
His smile was warm, coy almost. "I was close to it." It was the most un-High Lord thing she'd ever heard. "You should join us on Winter Solstice this year. I won't be around in the morning, but we spend the eve together. Drinking mostly. Then in the afternoon we do gifts and eat a feast."
Galadriel heard him, but she wasn't really listening. Whatever it was, whatever he was asking of her, she would say yes. "Alright."
"Don't worry too much about gifts. I'll tell the others not to get you anything so there's no pressure on you, but I'll warn you now that Mor won't listen. Not that her presents are ever good, but she'll give you something."
"I won't."
He huffed, leaning closer to her with a small, little smile. "You're distracted." He tapped the underside of her chin with a curled finger. "What are you thinking about?"
Her gaze trailed up from his lips to those brilliant, bright eyes. "Read my mind," she whispered.
He did. She could see the exact moment he searched through her immediate thoughts, the fine lines on his face disappearing, his expressions shifting ever-so-slightly.
Then everything changed at once.
Galadriel would have fallen right off the seat he if hadn't wrapped his arm around her waist as he pressed his lips to hers. The seat swung wildly beneath them as he kissed her. It wasn't something she had ever imagined, and she was glad she had not wasted the time. Her imagination would have run short by leagues.
They met in a knotted mess of lust and skin. Her fingers curled through the hair at the nape of his neck as he brought her into his lap, pulling her knees to rest either side of his hips, wings gone. Passion burned as hot as flame through her as he swiped his tongue across her bottom lip. Not seeking entry just yet, simply tasting her. She tasted right back.
He murmured her name against her mouth between the low sounds of his ragged breaths. A small sound erupted from her throat in response, dragging her hands along his cheeks to pull him closer. Desperation she wasn't familiar with ignited, coursing through her, controlling the way she arched against him until she could feel the individual buttons on his jacket against her stomach.
His hands explored everywhere they could reach, scrunching her dress as they went. Down her arms, her sides, the lengths of her thighs which they ran back up, pinkie and ring finger grazing on her bare skin, following where he bundled the dress up around her hips, to smooth over her backside. She couldn't get enough of him. His hands squeezed as she bit his lip—
"Agh."
A throbbing ache overwhelmed her other senses. Galadriel broke away, bowing her head against his shoulder. Rhys hissed a curse and dipped his head to try and meet her eye. "Is it getting worse?"
Taking a long draw of air, she said, "No. Just moved too fast." She fought to find some chance of it fading before the moment completely passed, but the pain had weaned the desire. "I need to sleep it off."
He hooked strands of hair fallen from over her shoulders back behind her ear. "I think that's a good idea."
At another time, she might have been embarrassed or flustered. Or perhaps she would've been ecstatic. But the thumping in her head blinded her to everything else she should have felt as Rhysand guided her to her feet then back into the Villa. He laid her on the mattress, and with whisper of his magic she was in clean nightwear. The curtains were pulled shut, trapping the room in a false night. She wriggled her way beneath the blanket as he set a fresh glass of water down on the nightstand.
Galadriel closed her eyes, intending to will herself to sleep right then, but at the sound of his receding footsteps, pushed herself back up. "Rhys?"
His shadowed form angled back to her. Slowly he arrived back at her bedside. His cool fingers—cooled by magic—grazed over her forehead before curling down along her jaw. He kissed her again, soft as a feather's touch. Then her forehead. "Sleep," he said, and left.
Galadriel dropped back into the pillows and fell into an endless, blissful dream.