Chapter 45: Snow
Galadriel woke to a serene world. The air around her, even out of the blanket pulled to her shoulders, was warm. Crisp as it should be in winter, but still somehow warm, as if the two sensations had come to an agreement—just for today.
Turning onto her back, Galadriel stretched her arms overhead, eyes moving towards the large windows overlooking the garden. The sky was clear and azure, bright enough that it looked like someone had painted it directly onto the glass. The storm had raged on when she'd fallen asleep, but there was no sign of it now.
The town house was quiet—too quiet, given how high the sun was and how many had stayed the night. Even Amren, who had grumbled about taking the smallest bedroom—a statement promptly retorted with Cassian informing her that Rhysand based it on her size—had to remain because of the storm. It took a good hour for Galadriel to gain the motivation to move and throw on a loose robe. Quietly padding to the windows, she looked over the world through them.
The snow was thick and brilliantly white. It would be up to her knees if she stood outside. It coated everything, lining the windowsills, the branches of the large tree, the seat Mor liked to sit on with Azriel. It was almost a shame that she couldn't bring herself to step outside.
Downstairs, only Mor was around to greet her. "My head hurts," she grumbled, pouring Galadriel a tea from the kettle she'd made earlier. "How are you not wincing?"
Smiling over the teacup, Galadriel said, "I didn't drink that much. Where's Amren?" Rhys had said he'd be at the cabin with Azriel and Cassian until the early afternoon.
"Went home," answered Mor. Then, in a pompous accent added, "Apparently she requires a break if she's to deal with us again this afternoon." Galadriel sniggered into her tea. "So we have the town house to ourselves till about one o'clock."
A glance at the clock informed her that it was already ten. Four hours. There was a lot one could do in four hours. "Want to reorganise Rhys's bookshelves?"
Rhysand, Galadriel had come to know, was a creature of habit. Which was quite understandable given his near five centuries of life. He could hold conversations with her and reach for things without looking, always grasping without a hitch. Whenever he searched for a book, he always knew where to reach for.
Mor grinned.
It took up another hour of their day, pulling books from shelves all around the house and shoving them back at random. They laughed their lungs empty and filled their stomachs with wine. The early hour was excusable given the day of celebration, Mor asserted.
Galadriel draped herself across the armchair. "What do they actually do out there?"
Mor beamed. "Want to go see? It's so childish but they've been doing it since they were young."
All the more intrigued, she allowed Mor to grip her hand and winnow them out of the town house. They landed with an airy hiss inside another building. The floor beneath her feet was wooden and glossy, leading to walls of grey stone. It was familiar to the town house in the way that it felt warm and enclosed—like a family belonged there. But the space was more open, the single room she stood in spanning from deep blue seats around an unlit hearth to a raised platform with a dining table surrounded by windows that overlooked what lay outside, to the entrance of a kitchen that hooked around a corner. Through one of the windows, Galadriel could make out the green peaks of pine trees where the snow couldn't latch. And beyond them, the rugged stone slopes of mountains.
"Bastard!"
Galadriel flinched at Cassian's roar but Mor only laughed and placed a hand on her back. "You can probably see them from the windows."
They went to the south-facing glass and leant up against it. It was a struggle to find anything through the white that seemed to smear the entire field leading to the forest, but the longer she looked, the more she could make out. Sturdy facades of compact snow—defensive walls. A blur of black—Illyrian leathers and wings. A flash of white past the trees—a...snowball?
"Tell me they are not," Galadriel breathed. Mor only tipped her head back and laughed louder. Galadriel might not have experienced a winter like this for herself, but she wasn't naïve to the festive activities winter was told to bring out in children. The games they played. And the games Illyrian and High Fae warriors played, it seemed. "I'm going to hold this against them for decades."
Another ball of snow returned the first, exploding against one of the walls.
"Every year," Morrigan sighed contently. "No magic is allowed. Rhys won last year's, and I had to put up with Cassian complaining for the rest of the day. Watch this." Galadriel leant in closer as Mor pointed to the sturdy snow wall on the left. With a sharp flick of her nail, it burst through the air in a puff of dusty white like a giant fist had ploughed through it. On the other side, crouching and in the middle of preparing more ammunition, Rhysand's head snapped up, looking directly at the window.
Galadriel flung herself away with a giddy fright at being caught.
Rhysand appeared seconds later inside the cabin. His raven hair sat tousled, small flakes clinging to the strands and embedded in the grooves of his fighting leathers. Because such a battle called for thick armour. Those violet eyes flicked first to her, assessing her stiff stance, then to Mor who played an innocent grin.
It only took a second of calculation before Mor was thrown over his shoulder with a screech. Galadriel only caught, "Don't you—" before Mor was cut off, sucked away into a winnow.
Lurching back for the window, Galadriel cackled as she watched Rhysand land mid-field. He dumped his cousin unceremoniously onto the snow, her body devoured by it. There was a second shriek, followed by a heavy thud when she reappeared at Galadriel's side. Shaking off the snow, shivering with contempt, Mor held up her longest finger to the glass. Rhys gave the same gesture back before ducking behind a tree and evaluating the threat of his brothers' ammunition and positioning.
Azriel and Cassion wouldn't let him rebuild a shelter with magic, dubbing Mor an 'unfortunate casualty of nature.' Galadriel was a little worried that it would sour his mood to have this rather intense competition tampered with, but he was grinning when she finally left the window to explore the rest of the cabin.
It was a calm, cosy space and she could easily imagine herself bunkering down here if she ever needed to escape the city. Which she did, curling up on the lounge in front of the hearth which lit itself, wrapping the grey throw blanket around her body. Mor returned from the kitchen with a few platters of food and knowing that the Illyrians would probably be starving once they finished, Galadriel only picked at a few pieces. She had the whole day to gorge herself on delectables.
Finding out who was victorious in the battle didn't take much deduction. The back door boomed open, Cassian striding through with a mighty grin that could make hearts flutter or stomachs coil depending on who received it. "It was a fair fight," he announced as soon as he entered.
It only took a moment of wondering why he'd need to make such a declaration, because Rhys came in next, shoving him out of the way with his arm. "Outside interference. We're not counting this year."
Azriel came in last, his lips thinning as though trying to hold a smile. "It is against the rules for magic to be used, even if by outsiders," he said, hazel eyes easily finding Mor near the fire. Accusing, but... Flirtatious.
Mor lifted her shoulders, as if shrugging off the intone of Azriel's voice. "I was just making it more entertaining. You were all hidden and Galadriel wanted to watch."
"Don't throw this on me," Galadriel spluttered, holding her hands up.
"Well, if that's the case," Rhys drawled, wandering closer to her. To the fire. "Then how could I be offended that you wanted to see me."
She waggled her finger at him. "Don't you get caught up in Morrigan's lies."
"Lies?" He knocked her finger away.
"Lies," she affirmed. "In fact, I was making fun of you three." She still couldn't believe it. Three males, whose name was revered and feared throughout the entirety of Prythian, threw snowballs at each other in the name of tradition. In their leathers, like they were playing dress up.
'Dress up?'
'You don't really exude an image of a great warrior pelting snow across snowforts.'
"So judgemental," he crooned. "How about you come join us in the steam room then?"
Arching a brow, she asked, "Steam room?"
He hummed, stroking his fingers across hers. "You'll see us in all that glory people revere us for."
Suddenly, the name and image clicked. Behind him, Cassian and Azriel were sharing an expression of exasperated amusement. Galadriel snatched her hand away from him. Snorting, Mor held the back of her hand to her mouth. "Piss off," Galadriel growled. "Go purr over each other's bodies since you're so arrogant about them."
Rhys laughed. "I'll let you know what you missed out on after then."
She maintained an indignant scowl until all three of them had retreated to another part of the cabin—to the annexed steam room. It was a hard duty not to conjure an image of what was happening in there. Especially when Rhys still crawled around her mind, caressing her thoughts, warping them.
She shoved him out.
Mor and Galadriel nibbled on the food and some more wine. When Mor left for the bathroom, Galadriel rose from the chair and headed towards one of the windows. The world outside called to her, the snow like a beautiful, white sea, welcoming her to swim in it. Her fingers ran over the wooden windowsill until they landed on the small latch keeping it locked shut. Flicking the contraption, she inched the window open.
A frigid breeze nipped at her, but it was soft and lulling, cradling her arms. It smelt of pine and snow, so fresh it was like awakening from a dream. Distantly, she heard the Illyrians and Rhys return, chatting mutely behind her. It wasn't until a dark shadow occupied the corner of her eye did she looked away from outside.
Rhys wore a light sweater now, remnants of sweat still smeared on the back of his neck. He tilted his head, then slid his fingers down her arm until they curled around her own. She let him tug her across the cabin. Pushing the back door open, they stepped out onto the porch. It had been swept clean of snow, likely by whatever magic inhabited the building.
But when Rhys stepped to the very edge, Galadriel dug her heels into the ground.
Angling back to her, he took her other hand and held her gaze. It called for her to trust him, and trust him she did.
Taking another step forward, she followed Rhys down as he sunk to his knees. "I know it's not water," she whispered. "Not—not water, I mean." Snow didn't have a current. It wouldn't pull her under or fill her lungs. But the mere sharpness of its sting reminded her too clearly of that lake. It made her lungs ache as though they were once again squeezed of air and her muscles seize in shock.
Letting go of her hands, he bent down over the edge of the porch and rolled a ball of snow into his palms. "Azriel doesn't like fire," he said as he smoothed the snow with precise swipes. Galadriel sat, watching and listening. "His brothers burned him with oil and flame. That's how he got those scars. He can stand near it, but he doesn't like handling campfires if we're ever away from home. If he's alone at night, he won't light candles and will just move about in the dark. Mor won't touch ale, for all the drinking she does. It's what her father prefers, and he never had the best disposition when he drank it. Worse than when he's sober."
"Cassian?" she asked.
He gave a small laugh at that. "There's a creature below the library. Bryaxis. We dared him to go see it once. When he got back he nearly knocked me over with how fast he was going. I've never seen him so pale. Absolutely terrified. If he's ever annoying you, just say that name and he'll go all clammy and quiet. We still don't know what the creature looks like."
If it had terrified Cassian, Galadriel didn't want to know either. She was going to ask about Amren next but given that she had never seen the female anything close to shaken or perturbed, she figured it was best to not ask. "And you?"
"I don't like letting too many people see my wings," he answered easily. She supposed it was an easy answer, since he'd already told her that. "I feel too exposed. Like my weaknesses are on display." Even now they were hidden. Rhys held up a perfectly round snowball. "Hold out your hands."
Hesitantly, Galadriel cupped her palms and held them before her. She took a long, steadying breath as he lowered the snow into them. The cold struck right through her wrists, through the marrow of her bones in her forearm. Her ribs clenched inwards, the breath knocked from her. She instinctively threw the snow down, wiping her hands warm and clean on her pants.
"It's okay," Rhys soothed, running a hand down her shoulder and arm. He shuffled closer to her, dropping onto his backside. One leg hung over the edge of the porch, the other folded under himself to make room for her. He made another, slightly smaller so that she could hold it in one hand.
Instead of dropping it into her palms, he gently lowered it and then moved his hands to frame hers from below. His warmth warred with the ice. Galadriel couldn't breathe for the first minute, her body taut and alert. Her fingers glistened with a wet sheen as crystals melted from their combined heat.
She furled her fingers inwards, crunching and breaking apart the snow. She let it crumble and slip through her fingers, rolling chucks between her thumb and forefingers. Bending over the edge of the porch, she dug up enough snow to make her own, smacking and rolling it into another ball.
Looking up, she found Rhys's small smile, his eyes full of pride and simple joy.
She smashed the snow against that high cheek.
Spluttering, he fell away from her, struggling to flick away the white shards that cascaded down and into his sweater. He shook himself like a dog. Galadriel threw her head back and laughed. "I have been hit with enough snow for today, thank you," he drawled in good humour, leaning back close to her.
She tilted her head, eyes bright. "I see why it's so addictive." He still had clumps caught in the wool on his shoulders, flakes clinging to the hair around his ear. Unable to help herself, Galadriel reached for them, threading her fingers through his hair to loosen the pieces, brushing them down the side of his face and off his neck. "I don't think many can say they've hit a High Lord with a snowball and managed to live to tell the tale."
His hand smoothed over her wrist, pulling it from his neck.
Her fingers curled, ready to pull away.
Twisting, he pressed a kiss to her palm before placing it on his cheek, eyes fixed on her. "It was worth hearing that laugh."
She studied his face like it was a famous painting, the way the mid-afternoon sun glinted off the still-moist strands of his raven hair. Galadriel leant forward, ignoring a voice bursting from inside the cabin. She kissed him, light and once on the lips.
She didn't lean away to study his face again, instead winding her arms around his neck, burying her face within them. Rhys's arms enveloped her, pulling her into his lap.