Chapter 78: Masques
A masquerade ball. That is how Amarantha decided the first night of Autumn would be spent. As Galadriel looked around the large ballroom, her face bare and composed, she wondered if the magnificent decorations—the green and gold ribbons hanging from the walls and the enormous bushels of roses and tulips in ceramic pots taller than Galadriel herself—were an attempt by the Queen Under the Mountain to woo Tamlin. As if he'd be bought over by her attempts while his emissary still bore the evidence of her strike. Even though Lucien wore a mask, a sly portrait of a golden fox, she could still see the raw pink lines jaggedly cutting from just above the top of his mask down to his jaw.
Galadriel hadn't known Tamlin since she was a girl at the height of his hip, but she recalled enough to know that the few friends he kept were dear to him. And the way he kept to Lucien's side, like Tamlin was the guard watching over his charge, Galadriel knew Lucien was certainly one of those.
The masks were an act of apology, Galadriel had heard rumoured, for those new scars.
She hadn't originally been placed on duty for the night, but she couldn't resist offering herself up just to see Tamlin again. It felt somewhat wrong to yearn to look at him knowing what he had done to her mate's family. But the nostalgia, however tainted, still called. Knowing that Lucien was an invited guest only made her that more determined to stand in the crowd at the beck and call of low lords and Amarantha's creatures, even as her head and neck throbbed.
Rhys had come, as all the High Lords of Prythian did. The stately black tunic looked impeccable as always, the silver threading on the hems like a little secret only they shared.
Even if she refused to look him in the eye. He avoided her as well.
Galadriel swept forward under the guise of replenishing a lord's drink as Lucien neared. She tried to catch his gaze, but as soon as he recognised her, a golden eye widening, his lips thinned into a sneer and he swivelled from her path.
"You have history."
Galadriel kept her head forward but espied the figure that appeared on her left in her peripheral. "Who are you?"
"A handsome onlooker." Handsome enough in the simplest of ways, she concurred, tilting her head to inspect him better. His clothes were neat but simple. Servant. His chestnut hair was half pulled back into a tie at the crown of his head, hanging straight just past his shoulders, making the square line of his jaw all the more prominent. High Fae. She'd never seen him before and that made her wary. "Former lovers?" he asked, hazel eyes scanning the crowd.
Galadriel frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm observant," he said. "And you're a terrible liar. Lucien. The Spring Court emissary. The look you two passed didn't speak of fond memories on his part but you had a certain longing in yours. Certainly not the cause of the bruise under your eye."
She unconsciously graced her fingertips over the point of her cheekbone, wincing at the flare of pain from the spot that had struck the hard ground too many times to count. "Not observant enough," she muttered, and without waiting for his response, glided away to another part of the hall.
After five minutes, he found her again, sidling up to her side. "So he did cause that bruise?"
More irritated than she probably should be, Galadriel gritted out, "You never answered my question, so I'm not bothering with yours."
He sighed good-naturedly, leaning back on his heels as if swaying in a summer breeze. "That's alright. Gossip travels. I heard that the Spring Court emissary's lover was killed which is why he left Autumn and abandoned his kin. If he's still mourning the tragic loss, it would mean that he likely hasn't taken any serious bed companions since then. Which leaves me to conclude that you shared a night—maybe two or three—full of lust and sexual desire, and now you find your heart full of unrequited love for the fox-faced Vanserra. But he does not love you and is tired of your attempts to gain his attention. Or maybe—" the male turned and looked directly at Galadriel for the first time "—he does love you but the pain of his first love's horrible death hurts too much. He could not bear the thought of you suffering the same fate. Truly heartbreaking."
Galadriel stared at him, her cheeks burning hot from an emotion far from humiliation. "Who the hell are you?"
"Atticus." He smiled, a charming and trained motion that she could only liken to Rhys's masked grin. "Pleasured and treasured servant of Amarantha's Mountain Court." Said with enough sickly enthusiasm that Galadriel caught quickly on to the male's sarcastic tone.
"Pleasured?" she echoed, hearing a second meaning behind the word.
Atticus's smile sharpened, but it struck her dully. "By many. Though I'm usually the one doing the pleasuring."
An acrid taste filled her mouth and she offered a sincere, "I'm sorry."
The male's face shifted. "Don't be. Just tell me if my assumptions were right. I've been practising."
Maybe it was out of sympathy, but Galadriel huffed quietly and let his whimsical mind amuse her. "Not even close," she told him. "My name is Galadriel."
As she knew it would, it only took the syllables of her name for his expression to change again, this time into understanding. Atticus had gotten one thing right—gossip travelled. "Born in Spring. Lived in Autumn. Spy for the Night Court. Quite the resume."
Galadriel didn't feel like going into detail about Lucien being her charge, or her tale from there on so she simply nodded, letting him make the presumptions. "What court did you come from?"
"Dawn," he said. "I was a palace guard. When we were...invited here, I was quite vocal about wanting to return home." Atticus turned until they stood facing opposing ways, his mouth close to her ear so their conversation would not be overheard, deafened by the lively melody of the fiddles and drums on the raised platform nearby. "Amarantha found her way to control me."
"Through what?"
He tipped his head, eyes too bright for belonging beneath a mountain. "If I tell you, then you could control me too."
Something drew the bantering reply from her. "Wouldn't you rather I did than her?"
Atticus looked incredulous. "I hardly know you." For the first time in weeks, Galadriel let out a single note of laughter. It mellowed quickly, sinking back into her chest. Atticus turned back around, smiling again. "But I'd like to."
"You're not going to get into my bed," she retorted. Instantly, she regretted the words but could do nothing beyond sealing her lips to prevent any more from escaping them.
Tilting his head, Atticus looked at her like she was a painting. A painting that one simply understood more than any other in a gallery full of the finest artists. "Amarantha controls you too," he said, quiet. Galadriel's heart beat with the heavy drum, the sounds of the party blurring into a distant fog. "If we have no one, what is the point of all this?"
She knew the answer. "There is none."
"Then I intend on making some strangers friends."
"Most people would warn you to stay away from me."
"Most people would call your eyes grey rather than silver."
She didn't know what he meant but before she could say anything more, he was gone, vanished within the crowd and she didn't find him again until he was bowed over the shoulder of a High Fae, a daring yet empty smirk playing on his lips as the female whispered something with her ruby lips into his ear.
There was no time to ponder on the strange male because for the first time in weeks, she felt a tug on the mating bond.
~
Rhys met her in the empty corridor space outside of the ballroom. When she saw him, he looked at her, lips parted, and dropped his shoulders. "This is dangerous," she whispered.
"I know," he said. She barely recognised his voice. "But I saw..." Violet eyes flittered across her face and she felt her skin throb in response as though the very weight of his gaze disturbed the still-healing wounds. "Are you alright?"
Closing her eyes, she nodded. It was as truthful as she could be. Fine meant alive.
When she opened them again, Rhysand had neared, his hand reaching for her. She let him brush his fingertips across her cheek, his lips tight as though her pain was his own. "Who?"
"I don't know," she answered.
"Are you lying?"
"Do you think I am?" His palm smoothed against her cheek and she couldn't help but lean into it, lips dusting his inner wrists. "I miss you," she admitted. She missed the simple comfort of his touch, his voice, the way it soothed the instinct that burned inside her each day to find him.
Rhys stroked his thumb beneath her eye. "I think of you at every moment." A rowdy call resonated down the corridor. Far away enough that they had time, but a warning nonetheless of the risk they were taking. "I just want a few minutes with you. So I can bear the rest of the night back in there."
Galadriel smiled into his hand before pulling it from her face, clutching it in her own. "It's hard," she breathed. "Watching you. Not being able to talk to you."
"It's hard not breaking into the mind of every one of her cronies and figuring out who hurt you," he said with a cracked smile. Rhysand took a step closer until all she could smell was him, all she could see was him. "If there is a chance—if I find any way out of this—I will get us home. She's letting me close." He paused momentarily, another loud clash reverberating from down the hall.
Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. It was hard and a little uncomfortable, but she pressed back all the same, stealing what she could in their hideaway corner. When he pulled from her, he wiped his thumb roughly over her lips. "Drink the wine when you go back. It'll get rid of my scent." When he dropped his hand, it felt like something was tearing a limb from her body. It hurt more than the days she couldn't touch him at all.
"I don't want to go back in there," she whispered, latching her gaze on his face, wishing the world around them would dim into nothingness. "I hate letting you go."
"You're making it near impossible to do." He stepped closer. "If you'd stop looking at me like that, it would make my life a little easier."
"I can't help it. I'm looking at you like a love you."
"I thought we agreed you couldn't do that."
"You made that impossible."
He sighed, nostrils flaring. Another step towards her and he had his head bowed, forehead pressed against the slope of her shoulder, hands firmly on her hips. He tilted his face a little, nose brushing her neck where he placed the lightest kiss before his arms were around her, engulfing her entirely. She let him lift her heels from the floor, their chests so tightly against each other that it was difficult to breathe.
"Rhys—"
"Let me risk it a little longer," he whispered hoarsely.
The only thing she said in the minute they embraced was, "I don't know how long I can stand this place."
He finally pulled himself away, completely shedding all touch. "Don't make me start worrying about you," he said. "I'll do things you won't like. Things that I should regret but won't."