Chapter 58: The Mountain
The part of the Middle that they decided to camp in was quiet. Mor hadn't let her guard down since they winnowed away from the Wendigo—far away enough that Galadriel couldn't see any sign of flame or smoke—but Cassian's defences had fallen so Galadriel allowed hers to follow suit.
Cassian winced as he bent down. Galadriel felt the guilt sit like lead in her stomach. Scratching her head, she glanced around the flat plain of earth and trees. "I'll... I'll go look for some decent firewood."
Mor didn't answer, unstacking the tin pots they'd heat over the fire once it started. Cassian said, "Don't wander far. This area is known to be peaceful, but the creatures that live here aren't fond of the notion of borders."
Indeed, peaceful seemed a near-fitting word. All she could hear, wandering away from the low hum of activity behind her, was the crunch of dry grass beneath her boots, the occasional hoot of an owl and the chittering of bugs crawling out from their little nooks. She wandered far enough that looking over her shoulder, she couldn't see them anymore. Each step felt too heavy and the friction of even the brittle wood against her arms beneath her leathers stung from the burns fading along her skin. She was healing faster, at least compared to last time. Like a disease the body grew to know how to fight.
The world became entirely shadowed, the sun disappearing like a hand covered it. Galadriel looked to the west, where the thickness of the shade came from.
A great mountain loomed, the jagged point carving into the coral and cerulean sky. The mountain face was a landscape of dark rock, as if it had been pushed up from the dark pits of hell below them and the rolling hills of green like an ocean around it had recoiled.
Galadriel walked until her arms were beginning to shake. But each hunk of wood, stick and pinecone was an excuse. An excuse not to return and watch Mor tend to the deep cut on her shoulder. An excuse to not have to look at Cassian's wounded wing or his burnt hand. At least Azriel had refused to come. Even though it slashed something to her pride to hear his doubt, he hadn't been hurt or witnessed her dawdling. Galadriel had just stood there when the Wendigo attacked.
Galadriel had walked for so long, the sun well below the horizon, that she reached the root of one of the folds at the foot of the mountain. It didn't worry her venturing so far out. She could winnow back now, knowing where she'd come from.
The air around the mountain was thin, as if she needed to breathe more of it to satisfy the craving in her lungs. Frowning, she edged forward, dropping her large pile of wooden clutter by the base of one of the only trees that had grown so close. According to the history that she knew, the mountain in the Middle had always been empty. Nobody, not even Beron, liked whatever unseen presence lingered. Something not from this world.
Galadriel strode along the edge, inspecting the ridges and the folds in the stone, seeking some sign of whatever was making her feel unsettled.
Then, like an offering, she found the entrance to a thin cave. Leaning in, she peered down the long hallway of stone into darkness, lit by only the strength of moonlight. Though the walls were not smooth, the cave was round enough to suggest that it was carved out on purpose. Though by animal or fae, it was hard to tell. There were creatures that could do so. Middenguard worms were known to burrow into stone if it were brittle enough.
Against better judgement, Galadriel summoned one of the sticks she had picked up and set it alight, waving it through the cave's entrance. Nothing. But exploring it, even just to see where it led, gave her another excuse. So she went into the mouth of the mountain.
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Her footsteps echoed, no matter how light she kept her footing. The occasional stray stone would skid across the path when her boot hit it. She'd cringe, stilling until the ringing flattened, waiting a little longer. But nothing ever came out of the shadows. It kept going, like it was growing right before her, expanding in equal length to every step she took.
"Shit," Galadriel hissed, as the fire burning the stick had crept down to where her fingers clutched the base of the wood. Dropping it, the rest of the wood caught aflame, lighting the cave in momentary warmth before extinguishing altogether, leaving her in utter darkness. She looked back, then forward. She could always winnow out, she reminded herself, but unless she went to the end of this cave, she'd never know what was there.
But it barely took another minute before the cave was shifting into something else. The walls began to smooth out and low light was seeping across the path. From beneath a door. Galadriel placed her ear against the cold metal, but she could hear nothing on the other side.
This place wasn't supposed to be occupied and by the smooth feel of the metal beneath her palm, the door wasn't exactly ancient.
A good part of her prayed that the handle wouldn't turn when she gripped it. That another excuse had formed so she could easily turn away and tell herself there was nothing she could have done to get inside. But the cool brass clicked, the hinges silent as the door swung open.
The stone walls became even more polished on the other side of the threshold, purposefully and precisely chiselled down into a corridor that one would find in a palace, though she couldn't think of one so dark and glum, even with the torches hanging periodically from mantles on the wall. Someone was here, or had been here very recently.
Galadriel kept going forward, peeking down the few offshoots leading from the main corridor. It was narrow and the flickering light going in and out gave the illusion that the walls were closing in on her, making her throat feel tight. Did Rhys know what was happening here?
Another door. It opened just as easily as the first, but it wasn't another corridor that waited on the other side. Galadriel gasped, clutching the handle and folded her body against the door. The chamber was long, the air a stinging cold. Lining either side of it, were cells. They were all empty, but the floors of the cages were clean. The iron bars, likely the hosts of the magic tang she could taste, were clean too. Unused. New.
At the other end of the chamber, something slithered past a door with a barred window cut into it. Scaled and winged, talons clicked against the ground. Galadriel covered her mouth, sinking down lower and behind the shield her door offered. She waited, counting her breaths. By the time she hit twenty, the thing had not returned.
She winnowed back all the way to camp, behind a tree where she could spare a moment to gather herself and emerge calm before Cassian and Mor saw her. The latter rose from her crouch before the small kitchenette set up when Galadriel approached. "Firewood?" Mor asked.
Galadriel looked down at her empty arms, mouth parted. She couldn't tell them what she just did. Not after dragging them to the Weavers and then getting hunted by a Wendigo. She'd already caused enough trouble. They'd berate her for going in without them, for being careless enough to not even think about the fact that she only carried a knife.
With a flick of her hand, the pile of firewood and kindling appeared near Mor's feet who grunted and asked, "Think you could give it a head start?"
Cassian sent her a look. "I think Galadriel's played with enough fire today." Both metaphorically and literally. Mor seemed to agree, going about setting up the campfire herself. Cassian's smile turned on Galadriel, a beckoning expression.
She sat next to him, forcing herself to look at the blood-crusted wound on his wing. "Can you still fly?" she dared ask.
He gave a low laugh. "You think my wings have never been scratched in battle before?"
"From what I know, I don't think it's often that you used them to shield people."
Cassian went quiet for a moment, staring at her in a way that told her he was thinking. "Why don't you help me clean it up? It's hard to reach at that angle."
Agreeing, she collected the few healing tools they had, using water from her waterskin rather than bothering to walk to the stream. He stretched the membrane out as she tried to settle into a comfortable spot next to him, facing opposite ways. Wringing a cloth over the bowl of clean water, she went for the cuts, but a large and firm hand stopped her before she had the chance. "Don't let a little wendigo scare you after handling the Weaver of the Wood like she was your pet."
Smiling emptily, Galadriel said, "I know." He let her go and she tenderly pressed the rag to the flesh of his wing. Streams of watery red ran down the membrane, trickling off into the grass of the material of her breeches. He went about mashing together a poultice, instructing her how to handle the foreign limb. Despite the hesitance in her hands as she worked to clean it, she was glad he offered this to her. To let her fix what she had caused. Perhaps he understood that—offered it so she could feel even a little bit better.
"He might be pissed," Cassian filled the growing silence—other than the crackling fire now roaring against her back. Rhys, she gathered he was talking about. Her mind kept crawling back to the mountain, to the creature roaming within. "He probably will be. His mother... She was wonderful and I need you to know that. Az and I wouldn't be here without her. But she was very protective of Rhys." His wing twitched under her as she smeared the poultice he'd made into one of the gouges. "You're probably just as well aware of what some people will do to climb to power. Who they will climb."
She glanced at him, "I don't want it." Not that she didn't just care for it—she didn't want it at all.
Cassian smiled. "It's always been the intention for his mate to be the one to retrieve the ring."
"I thought his mother was supposed to get it back," she said, frowning. "That she passed before she could."
He shook his head. "A test. That you're worthy of her son." Suddenly the ring tucked safely in her pocket was a little too heavy. "Rhys didn't want you to. Said making you get it wouldn't change what he already knew."
Her lips twitched at that. She should probably be glad that she passed it, but... "She didn't trust her son's judgement enough?"
"I think it had less to do about opinions and more with your power to get out of there alive—that you're capable of standing by a High Lord and keeping yourself standing."
"What if I hadn't?" she asked. "What if I had died in there?"
"I wouldn't have let it happen."
"But then I'd be unworthy."
He shrugged, a rugged grin playing on his face. "Eh, we could have figured out a story."
Tightening her lips, she let her focus train back on his wing. "I don't care about having the ring or the test. It was his mother's ring and I want him to have it is all."
Cassian took the bowl of poultice from her hands, tensing and flexing his wing in a test. He stared at her, waiting for something. "Aren't you going to kiss it better?"
Scoffing, Galadriel rolled onto her knees and flicked a spot on the bottom half of the membrane that she knew was a part that brought more pain than pleasure from being prodded at. Cassian gave a low yelp, folding the wing to his back to protect it from another attack. Laughing, Galadriel braced a hand on his shoulder and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."