Chapter 16: Lemon
Standing in the kitchen, flour dusting her dress skirt and hands, with the fresh scent of lemon muffins wafting through—Galadriel felt like she was in those final moments, shackles hanging from her wrists and ankles, about to be shoved into her cell where she would rot and wither away. Her last day, the interim before the gallows. Or in her case, a gilded cage the size of city.
The heat ebbing off the muffins must have amplified the concoction of the sweet but citrusy scent as she heard the approaching steps of the only other occupant of the town house. Rhysand came around the corner into the kitchen. With a glance towards the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked a stone path outside to the garden, she confirmed that it was still at least an hour until dinner when he would usually make himself known.
"Lemon?" he guessed, sniffing the air.
Galadriel nodded and wiped her hands over the sink, white dust flittering down. "The cream is sweet. You may have one if you'd like."
"Thank you for the permission," he purred, thoroughly amused by the idea of needing to be given it. The High Lord eyed the desserts resting on a metal tray. "But I'm not one for sweets before dinner," he said after a long moment of contemplation. "Perhaps later."
She went to reach for an already soiled cloth to wipe down the bench but the moment before her fingers could touch it, Rhysand flicked his hand and the mess just... disappeared. Magic she was not properly trained in. Small things she was capable of; minor glamours, making an ink stain on letters clear off. But magic was not an inherent strength Galadriel possessed and cleaning the entire kitchen with such an eased gestured was somewhat off-putting.
"I was going to do that," she said, looking at the bench rather than him.
"You're filthy. You would have only left more flour wherever you tried to clean."
On a subtle examination of herself, she knew he was right. "I informed Azriel that I was baking." Galadriel barely withheld her physical wince at what and how she spoke. "I... He might drop by later, is all. I thought I'd let you know beforehand."
Rhysand huffed quietly, taking a few more steps into the kitchen to lean against the bench about three feet from the desserts. "They usually show up knocking whenever they want. Offering me a warning isn't a luxury they grant me."
"Does that annoy you?"
He smiled wider, turning so the small of his back pressed against the bench—a more comfortable position. One that spoke of familiarity and a sense of belonging. One that told her he had intention to continue the conversation. "Very much." His tone didn't match the statement. "They come barging in whenever they please, steal my food and wine, snore when they stay the night."
Galadriel reached for one of her muffins and settled back against the island counter opposite. "So I'm not the first to annoy you and survive then? And here I was thinking that I was special."
Rhysand laughed, deep and warm, but was sober when he said, "There are many that do far more then annoy me and remain alive. If I killed everybody who so much as gave me grief, I'm afraid Prythian would be in dire need of repopulation."
Galadriel snorted as she licked the cream, wondering if she put too much butter in. "I'm sure you would be the first volunteer for the task. So would your General and Azriel, if I'm to make assumptions."
She took his deep hum as affirmation of her presumption but again his tone changed when he spoke. "Think of me as you will, Galadriel, but I believe fucking and child rearing are two entirely different activities."
Brows burrowing, she gave a moment to think on what he said. She didn't know why or how she concluded that he would be like every other High Lord, choosing a female on only the merit of her bloodline to breed, especially when she had already come to the (unspoken) conclusion that Rhysand was not at all like the High Lords she knew of. It was a cycle of thought that she would probably do well to break but... She didn't know what needed to be broken.
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A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand
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