Chapter 91: Tomorrow
Someone had left the window open last night. Galadriel stared at the clear glass, the honeyed stream of dawn pouring through it, and wondered which one of them forgot to close it. She couldn't remember the night before, the morning haze of her mind still lingering like thick fog, but she knew it had been wonderful. Rhysand was pressed against her bare back, an arm under her neck, the other loosely hanging over her stomach.
Something about the window urged her to look out of it, like a melody she couldn't hear calling to her through it. But she was too comfortable wrapped up in her blankets and mate to bother. Reaching behind her, Galadriel ran her fingers through Rhysand's hair, smiling as he pressed his chin and nose further against the back of her head. Perhaps they had been too distracted to close a window, occupied with something of much more interest.
"We were," Rhysand croaked in that deep, crackling morning voice. "We were very occupied."
Galadriel turned her face into the silken pillow, laughing as the memory came back to her. Rhysand ran a hand down her back and she wormed at the cold touch until he warmed it for her. He went down her spine, over her rear and the back of her thigh before returning north, slipping his hand between her legs as he did. She squirmed and turned onto her stomach as he chuckled into her ear.
"Considering how much I abused you there last night, I'm surprised you're not slapping me away."
Galadriel tucked her arms beneath the pillow, turning at last to look at him directly. "Bring me breakfast in bed and all will be forgiven." He grinned, already shifting off the bed. "And you're cooking!" she added. "No handing it off to the wraiths."
He held up his hands as if opening his naked body for her to behold. "As long as you don't mind your eggs slightly burnt." She had minded, for a while. But those crispy edges had practically become a staple in her diet.
Galadriel grinned back into the pillow, stretching her legs and hips. She waited, smelling her breakfast cooking for what must have been an eternity. She tossed and turned, calling out for him to hurry before her stomach crawled out of her body, but she received no response. With a theatrical sigh, she rose from the bed, throwing on a blue robe tossed over the chair. As she tied the knot by her hip, her eye caught the window again. The sky was a deep shade of blue and she could hear morning birds sing, the peaks of roofs just visible over the window ledge.
Smiling, she took a step toward it, wanting to look over the city for as long as she could. Her home.
But Rhysand was taking too long. Galadriel turned away, stampeding down the stairs so he had a warning of her impending arrival. She heard the sound of wood against an iron skillet, then the ceramic clanking of plates. "Finally," she said, entering the kitchen.
Rhysand smiled at her. "I called for you twice."
As she took her seat on the stool by the island bench, Galadriel frowned slightly. She could have sworn he was going to bring it to her in their bedroom. Shaking away the thought, she took the offered plate and tea. "Plans for the day?" she asked. Rhysand drank from his tea, no plate before him. "Why aren't you eating?"
He placed his cup down, still grinning at her like he'd just received wonderful news. "What would you like to do? What would you like to see?"
"Typical male," she grumbled. "Ignoring half my question."
"I didn't ignore half. I ignored a whole question. And the answer is because I'm not hungry."
Galadriel pushed her plate forward. "Then I'm not eating. You wait until I tell Cassian you aren't eating breakfast. He'll rip you to shreds."
Rhysand glared at her plate, then her. "Has anybody told you that you are a stubborn brat who must get her way?" He investigated the food now sitting between them, stealing her fork to shove a cut of sausage into his mouth. "Happy?"
Galadriel eyed him—those greasy lips. "Happy," she echoed quietly. Rhysand didn't seem to notice the shift in her demeanour. "I don't think I want to go out today. I might practice baking something. There are a few techniques I want to start using."
Rhysand drank from his tea again, nodding towards the kitchen window. A little potted plant rested on the seal. Violets. "It's a beautiful day. We can go for a walk somewhere. You're favourite spot."
Pulling the plate back, she prodded at her slightly burnt eggs and toast. "I don't feel like going out is all. What if I bake you your favourite? Those mustard pastries?" Waggling her brows, she waited for his bemoan of disgust, for him to shove his tongue out and gag.
But Rhysand smiled at her yet again. "If you would like to." Passing her, he leant down and pressed a kiss to her cheek then left the kitchen, humming to himself. Galadriel stared at her breakfast for a long while, her appetite lost.
Managing to get down a few more bites, she whisked the plate away and padded through the town house to find her mate. Maybe they should go out today and take a nice walk. The fresh air might do her growing headache some good.
He was in the living room, examining the contents of one of the books from the shelves on either side of the hearth. He looked as handsome as ever, dressed in clean black trousers and shirt, his hair combed away from his face. Remaining in the threshold, Galadriel took her time to watch him flick through the pages, finding intent interest in some old book of magic. "What are you reading about?" she asked.
He didn't look up from the book. "Just seeing if there's anything more about your power."
Folding her arms, Galadriel said slowly, "I didn't realise you'd found more books. Has Amren been doing some research?"
"She has. Helion's library."
The pain that had been a dull but growing throb suddenly struck at the base of her skull like lightning. Hissing, Galadriel placed a hand on her temple. She heard the book snap shut and be re-shelved. Rhysand took her hand from her head, eyes narrowed in concern. "What is it?"
"Nothing," she sighed, wrinkling her nose and straightening. "Headache. I thought Helion's library was ransacked."
Rhysand tilted his head. "It was," he said. "Plenty of books and artifacts were left untouched. They must have overlooked this book."
"We should offer him some assistance in locating missing pieces." Some of the libraries had been burned to chars and embers, but many ancient scrolls and artifacts had been taken, sold on black markets or kept by Amarantha herself.
Rhysand leant against the threshold opposite her, resting one foot over the other. "Look at you playing politics. It's a good way to learn what that place has. You think he would tell us?"
Galadriel scowled, moving into the seating area. "It's Helion. We should do it to help him."
"That too."
As she sat, three loud knocks came from the foyer. Rhysand went off to invite them in as Galadriel pulled her feet onto the seat, and turned to face the alcove window. The street was empty, the cobblestone road polished and flat. This part of the city never received much foot or carriage traffic. The house across from them was large and a little gaudy, taking up the entire view unless she intended to venture closer to the window pane.
Loud, brazen voices cut through her quiet thoughts. Cassian barged his way into the sitting room, his scarred face as roughish as ever. Those ginormous wings took up so much space that she worried for the oil lamp and priceless vase sitting on one of the shoulder-height shelves. Her eyes dropped to his bloodied knuckles. "Where have you been?" she demanded.
His smirk was brash. "Keeping soldiers in line."
"So early?"
Cassian shrugged, glancing over his shoulder as Azriel pottered into the room. The Spymaster was quiet as always, leering at everything in the room, his shadows whipping silently about. He took his spot near the hearth, staring at the fresh wood already set in there before looking at her. He jerked his head in gesture for her to come to him.
Pushing from the lounge, Galadriel wandered to his side.
"I need your help," he murmured into her ear. Galadriel cocked her head, stepping closer to hear him. Hazel eyes searched hers. "Are you in?"
"In for what?" she asked at the same volume.
He angled his back against the slither of stone wall, crossing his arms over his Illyrian leathers. "Hybern. I've been hearing whispers about ships arriving in Autumn."
Peering over her shoulder, she found Rhys and Cassian in deep conversation, their voices low and too muddled for her to make out. "I'm not sure what you're asking of me," she told Azriel. "You know I'll do anything, but I'm not sure I can."
"You can do more than most, Galadriel," he said. Between them, his scarred hand reached out just enough to dust his fingers along the backs of hers. It was a strange, tingling sensation—a way she'd never been touched by him before. And it was odd enough that she let him do it again, entangling their fingers more intimately. "You can sneak into Autumn, talk with the Lady."
"She won't just give me that information, Azriel," Galadriel hissed, pulling her hand away. "I am an enemy of her court. She doesn't love Beron but she loves her people and her sons. Besides, I'm a recognisable face. You have plenty of spies who are still covert."
Azriel pulled back into himself, his shadows swirling tight. "I was mistaken to ask," he replied stiffly. "You are—you are Rhysand's mate. It would be too dangerous anyway."
Galadriel snorted, digging one of her fingernails beneath another. "I think I crossed the line of not doing dangerous things when I went and knocked on the door of the Weaver's Cottage. Rhys tells me he still feels his heart stop when he remembers." Azriel didn't laugh. He looked a bit blank, as if he wasn't processing her words. Taking that look in, Galadriel straightened a little. "Clearly you still haven't forgiven me for that."
"No," he said after an awkward pause. "No, I haven't."
"Time doesn't heal then," she muttered, turning away from him. Heading to Rhysand's side, she slipped an arm around his waist, saying nothing to interfere with his discussion with Cassian.
But Cassian looked down at her, those bright eyes aflame with gold razing over her with a warrior's brutishness. "Why don't we get some training in today? Put a little muscle back on you." Flexing and stretching out his hands, the muscles in his forearm feathered and hilled.
"I think you should," Rhysand added. "Let's go now before it gets too hot."
He tugged her towards the hall and the foyer, Cassian already heading for the front door, but Galadriel dug her heels into the rug. "No," she said. "No, I don't want to train today. I want to bake, to stay inside."
Rhysand angled his head. "Why? Why don't you want to go outside Galadriel?"
Looking towards the window, she caught a glimpse at the edge of one of those red mountainsides. She shook her head, tearing completely from her mate. "I don't want to, Rhysand. You're not... You're not right! You're not right!" She threaded her fingers through her hair, scrambling backwards until her spine hit the back of the lounge.
Hands found her shoulders and wrists, trying to pull her hands away. They called her name, told her to calm down but she could not. They crowded on her, voices shifting and warping. The pain in her head intensified, crawling around like it was someone inside trying to find their way out.
Or to keep her in.
~
Galadriel screamed, thrashing her body. Her joints and muscles burned, most of them cramped up and burning. Her knees scraped the wet, stone floor already bleeding from broken scabs and new wounds. Lurching forward, she set her sights on the dark figure standing before her—but the chains kept her in place.
She kicked, sending straw and dust into the air, the empty and dark hall behind the figure echoing her scratched voice back to her. "No," she rasped, her limbs beginning to sag. Two separate chains connected to the ceiling kept her hands locked in the air on either side of her head, another at her left ankle. Her cage was barely fit to house goats, with damp and rotten hay shallowly littering the ground, her bedding a mere lump of frayed wool. It was endlessly dark and cold and miserable.
Atticus remained rigid, his back straight, but she could see the agitation.
For months he had been doing the same thing. He wasn't strong enough to tear through her mind and she had barriers of steel, just as Rhysand had taught her to keep. What he could touch, was her consciousness. Every day he came down, he sent her away. The first few dozen times were hard, when he had nothing but guesses and assumptions to formulate the world he put her conscious mind into. He manipulated everything and everyone but her, feeding off what her mind gave him. Over time he learnt what she thought was right and what she knew was wrong, adapting it, tweaking things. The better he got at it, the harder it was for her to recognise that it wasn't real.
That she wasn't in Velaris.
She knew what they wanted—to see the city. The geography. The mountains and the Sidra would narrow down the city's location even with the wards in place. They wanted to know about her power, Rhysand's weaknesses. Anything they could use against him. Her mind would fill in the gaps Atticus left. If she opened the door to the town house, it would be like opening a gate to her memory for anyone to peek into. When she was there, she had little to no memory of Amarantha. But the moment she returned to reality, her false memories of being in Velaris felt too real. She was being torn from them over and over and over again.
"You once loved him," Atticus said, hands locked behind his back. He'd figured out her long-ago affection for the Spymaster many weeks ago after she'd let slip in one of the dreams. "I was curious whether your affections had run out."
Her throat was so dry that she knew it would ache to talk. "Fuck you." Worth it.
Atticus tightened his lips. "Why did you go to the Weaver's?"
"Fuck. You."
He usually reminded her about his daughter, as if it would alleviate his guilt when she pierced him with a glare worthy of Amren's admiration. But today he didn't bother reminding her that he sold her out, leaving the cell with nothing else to say other than, "Tomorrow." As if she didn't already know what awaited her the next day. And the next. And the next.
She waited as long as she could, until the withering inside of her grew too much and she screamed again, hanging her head, matted hair curtaining down either side of her face.
My bad y'all. I have been so distracted that I honest to god just completely forgot that I had a story going on most days. I haven't written anything in about a month but I'll be trying to put my nose back into it and getting some more updates. Thank you for reading! We've got around tenish chapters left of Part 2 and I plan to release a few of them at the same time. I'm in the middle of writing Part 3. Not sure how I want to end this story yet but I'm going to try and develop a storyline that has a 'soft' ending - i.e. no solid resolution but something that can be read without confusion or uncertainty.