Chapter 38: Sombre Talks
Galadriel couldn't bring herself to lift her head enough to watch ahead, eyes vacantly pointed at the ground before her feet as Rhysand led her through the House of Wind to whatever dining room Cassian had chosen. It turned out to be one of the smaller ones, barely larger than her bedroom, designed with intimacy and familiarity in mind. Not a place to host guests. The round window was almost as large as the far wall it was cut into, and if she walked right to the glass, she'd probably see down to the foot of the mountains.
In her mild pondering, Galadriel missed whatever short interaction Rhysand and Cassian shared, only drawing herself back to the present when the latter's chair scrapes the ground. "I'll go check on Mor," he said. "She's probably sulking about being left behind." He clapped Rhys's shoulder as he left.
Galadriel eyed the serving platter on the modest table. Despite it being near dinner time, breakfast foods were heaped on the silver—bacon, baked tomato, eggs, toast. Easy foods. Her guts rumbled at the sight and smell but she couldn't distinguish if it was in hunger or queasiness. In her indecision, arms curled around her stomach, Rhys had already moved towards it, plating something of everything.
Setting it down, he pulled out the seat and motioned to it. It took a moment, but she made her way to over. As she prodded the egg with her fork, willing herself to at least try and eat something, she said, "I brought you food. Every week."
Rhysand sat down next to her. He never usually did that unless they had other company. He always preferred taking the seat across from her. More selective, he only plated a few pieces of bacon and a buttered slice of toast. Perhaps their appetites had ventured off together. "I think you already know I never ate any of it."
Yes, she had made that assumption. Always avoiding her inquiries about new recipes, finding the basket in the House of Wind instead of the town house. And now she knew the reason. "You asked me to bring you something when I baked. Why ask then?"
He focused on his dinner. "Because it gave you an excuse to see me. And I wanted to see you, if only for a few minutes each week."
Galadriel brought her fork to her mouth, chewing slowly on the egg. "How long have you known?"
"Since I first saw you," he answered. "I suspected something linking us in the dream I had, but I wasn't certain until we met." Still he did not look at her, as if facing her would be too hard. "Do you not feel it?"
It was a struggle to swallow the egg. When she did, she placed the fork down and folded her hands in her lap. Rhys regarded the movement in the corner of his eyes. "I do," she whispered. "I think I've felt it since that day too but I... I didn't want to. I blocked it out, refused to put a name to it. You confused me, Rhys."
His smile was bland. "You've said so a few times now."
"You're not supposed to." The sight of the food became too much. Galadriel shoved it forward—out of sight from her lowered gaze and replaced her folded arms in its spot. "This is supposed to be punishment. I am supposed to hate this place and everything about it. I failed my job and you—you and Azriel—it's—I'm not supposed to feel this way. I'm not supposed to get this."
"This was never meant to be punishment." Abandoning his meal, Rhys leant toward her. He hooked her hair over her shoulder, smoothing his hand around the nape of her neck, eyes trying to snag hers like a baited hook calling for its catch.
She let it bait her, and when their eyes met, he reeled her in, locking them together. "That's why I had to go to the Autumn Court," she told him quietly. "I was trying to convince myself that I did the right thing. I had to see her. Amoise was my friend and now I know for certain that I would never have done anything differently. This." She looked around them. At the food, the mountain, the city through the window. Him. "I couldn't accept it. You are so good, Rhys, and you shouldn't have been." She was glad for the fact that she'd hidden her hands beneath the table. Maybe her subconscious knew that they would start to shake as they did now. "I'm terrified that it's going to be taken away. That it's some trick of fate and what I deserve will come, because a cell would have been nothing compared to having this all ripped from me."
"Good?" he echoed. Even through the claustrophobic sobriety choking the room like smog, he managed to grin. "Is that all I get?"
Galadriel bleated a sound that could have been a laugh at another time. "You're a bastard."
"Technically that's Cassian and Azriel. I think you mean charming."
"Bastard," she reaffirmed, sniffling. "Arrogant. Snide. Pompous."
He examined the nails on the hand he'd splayed across the table between them. "I believe pompous means the same as arrogant."
Leaning across the space between them, she could kiss him if she willed it. The hand still cupping her neck tightened as if he made the same deduction. "Vain," she muttered.
"Come now, my dear Galadriel." His eyes were wicked and bright. "Be a little creative. I get called that every day by Mor."
She tested the word. "Mate."
His lips softened, brows quirking almost like a flinch. "That one I haven't been called before. I think I prefer it over vain. And arrogant. Snide. Pompous."
"Bastard," she supplied.
"And bastard. Definitely prefer it over bastard." He loosened a heavy breath, leaning his side against the back of his chair as the hand on the nape of her neck started to move in a rolling massage. It was the game again, the one they always played. Prick and poke, taunt and tease. Distraction. "I'm not sure I want everybody calling me that though. It might start a bit of a brawl if everybody suddenly started declaring themselves my mate. I heard we get quite protective over them."
It flung her back to her conversation with Arane, how she accused Galadriel of overprotectiveness over the High Lord. "Seems troublesome."
"It can be."
Galadriel faced the table in front of her again, dragging the plate back. "Where is Azriel? I...need to speak with him."
Rhysand retreated back to his own little bubble of space. "He won't be home for a few more hours. Another day, I'd guess. I suspect he's not keen on being around me right now but I can relay a message to him."
She shook her head. "I'd rather see his face. I didn't take the poison because I'd given up, Rhys." The bacon had gone cold and the toast soggy from the egg yolk that'd spilt. "I took it because there was no other way and that's what I've been trained to do. Because I care about the secrets I hold. Who I'm protecting with them."
"Your loyalty is something that I've always admired. To your own values and to others." His voice was the only thing she could focus on, interrupted by the occasional scrape of prongs across the ceramic plate. "I don't want to condemn you for one of the very things I love about you." He swiped at a glass that hadn't been there moments ago, bringing it to his lips, drinking as though they'd merely been discussing something as plain as bookkeeping and not a declaration of love.
"Do you expect something of me?" The pressure of that potential answer constricted something in her chest, made breathing nearly unbearable. It wasn't that she despised Rhysand—not even close. "Does your court?"
Would she become like Amoise? Wife of the oldest High Lord yet with the power of a mouse in the gutters? Forced to breed enough heirs that they'd fight amongst themselves, clawing at the blood of their blood just to sit atop a throne of flesh and bones?
But Beron wasn't Rhys. A distinction she still fought to remember after two centuries of fearing to hear 'The High Lord is nearing' whispered throughout the halls of the Forest House.
Rhys swirled the glass around. "I think Cassian is expecting you to kick me down for not telling you earlier. Maybe that's why he's been training you so hard. But other than that, whatever they want from you is to be kept to themselves."
Despite the fact that they were just words, she trusted them. She'd always trusted Rhys, even before she wanted anything to do with him. "And what do you want from me?"
"What any male desires from their mate."
Her eyes flickered to his, warning filling them.
"Decent male," he amended, quipping a small smile. "You've been here for nearly five months, Galadriel. If I was going to demand anything of you, I would have done it by now. The question is—what do you want?"
"Rest," she said, barely able to look at him. "I still feel drained."
He nodded knowingly as if not at all bothered at the fact that she had burned down an entire villa only hours ago. It kept her own fear from bursting through. "You are drained. Depleted. This is what happens when you overextend your magic."
"It's not my magic."
"Not inherently but it's inside you now. It's dangerous—both if you let it build to what it did and let it all out like you did. Our life forces are intertwined with it and for now, we'll make the assumption that so is yours."
"Can you... Get it out of me? Take it for yourself?"
"That would require killing you." Another bland statement. They struck her the worst, she'd come to notice. "And then some meddlesome magic after the fact. Fortunately for you, I have no interest in stealing that power or learning how to." It would probably be little more than a dagger in his arsenal anyway. "You've already been too close to death for my liking."
Galadriel didn't bother with goodbyes, feeling beyond them now, and stood after she managed enough of her meal to feel full. Rhysand didn't protest, calmly watching her go. She wandered through the halls for a while, aimless until she realised that no matter how many twists and turns she took, she kept arriving back in the same hall. The House was either rearranging itself or somehow creating portals she didn't notice going through. Inside the only door of noteworthiness was a bedroom. Unoccupied but decorated.
Still in the nightgown, there was nothing preventing her from slipping onto the bed, curling beneath the covers. Rhys hadn't even said anything about the gaudy material. Hadn't stared at the bare skin or the way the silk clung to her frame. It hadn't been important to him in those moments, which was a testament to the sobriety of it all.
If anybody needed her, she didn't doubt the House had the power to lead them here and Rhys could probably seek out her mind from across the city. She ran her hand across the soft duvet, suppressing the gnawing anxiety that it would combust at her very touch, but logic took hold of her enough to understand what Rhys had told her. The power was drained, and likely wouldn't show itself for a while again. Hopefully that long enough would allow her to sleep. Hopefully when she woke, it would be gone, returned to its rightful owner.