A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 9: Insufferable

Chapter 9: Insufferable

It had been four more days since breakfast with Rhysand's circle that she arrived at Hewn City. Four days of wandering through the delights of the mountain city. Court of Nightmares. Fitting. Eyes would turn to her as she wandered through the market space donned in glittering golds, pastels, and creams. She stood out like a light amongst the pitch darkness. But she would not relent to dressing as one of them, not when she did not belong. Certainly not when she did not want to belong.

Galadriel had sought after Mor's company, but as Rhysand's third in command as she soon learned, Morrigan had a particular charge with overseeing Hewn City and there was little time for idle chat with an ex-spy. She didn't bother with seeking after Azriel. Galadriel physically couldn't even if she wanted to. But she didn't want to. He had barely made the time to see her, probably still frustrated with the situation she has put him in. And Rhysand—well, he had the habit of finding her.

He kept her updated on her situation, reminding her of the bounty and that the people of this city were more than willing to hand her over if they knew who she was. Galadriel kept her responses short, hoping that he would just leave her alone once he said all he had to. But he kept trying to pry more conversation out of her like he knew exactly how much she wanted him to leave and he couldn't help but frustrate her.

Galadriel had written letters to Helion, begging him to come retrieve her and take her back in. Each time, though, she promptly sent them into the flames of the hearth that kept her chamber warm against the miserable cold inside the stone walls. It was summer, for Cauldron's sake.

Azriel wanted her under keen surveillance. He wanted her in Hewn City. And as much as she hated it, she made a promise to serve him. To obey him. Galadriel knew she was already on a fine line by being terse and blunt with his High Lord, and it was probably only Rhysand's tolerance for her that kept him from saying anything that would land her in a deeper pile of shit. Yet she couldn't keep her frustration with him at bay. It was like just being around him heightened whatever was boiling inside her stomach at the time.

Galadriel sat at the small desk, fingers threaded through her hair when the door opened unannounced. Dropping one hand, she rapped her knuckles against the wood. "Knock, knock. Oh, hello High Lord. Yes, you may come inside."

"You can call me Rhys." She lifted her head from her fingers, setting her chin on her fisted knuckles instead. Rhysand shut the door behind him, leaning a shoulder against it and toeing the floor with one foot. "Everybody does. Well—" he tipped his head from side to side— "everybody that doesn't hate me, that is. They call me High Lord. Or Rhysand."

"Don't like the title of High Lord, Rhysand?"

He aired a mirthless chuckle. "I love it. But I don't ask the ones that I like to call me by it. It would be irritating having my family and friends call me High Lord all day. Too time consuming."

"Beron didn't seem to mind it. And it kept everybody in check."

"Unlike him, I value and trust in the loyalty of those closest to me."

"And you want me to call you Rhys? Is this some sort of manipulation tactic to get me to like you," she drawled, swivelling on the chair to lean against the desk. "By acting familiar."

"I thought it would be a compliment. If you read between the lines, that was me telling you that I liked you."

Galadriel made a gesture to the air between them. "H-have I been sending mixed signals? Because I've given you no reason to like me."

Rhysand placed a hand on his chest, over the immaculate black silk shirt. "Are you trying to say that you don't enjoy my company? Because here I was thinking that you were falling in love with me more every minute. Hear that—it's my heart breaking, Galadriel darling."