A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 56: The Weaver

Chapter 56: The Weaver

Galadriel wasn't sure how it had come to this.

Well—no. She knew exactly how she came to be standing in front of the Weaver's cottage, a quaint and rather unremarkable structure built on white-washed walls with a moss-trodden path leading to the door. But Galadriel felt like the journey here hadn't taken more than a few mere minutes and expected much longer to build and consolidate her courage.

Winter had come to an end, but the morning frost in the early hour they departed Velaris at had not relented. It would turn into glistening dew within the next hour, silver beads hanging like jewels from the grass and the tips of the birch tree leaves. Within another three, it would have melted away completely to a beautiful spring morning. But Galadriel didn't have enough room in her mind to give to admiring the wildness of the Middle.

It was a strange land, neither here nor there, belonging to no one court or another. The seasons came as they naturally flowed, sometimes with the strength of the court namesake, other times with the barest whispers of wind or rain. Cassian was full of historical facts about it all, telling her horrifying tales of the creatures that lurked mere centuries ago that had been slaughtered during the War by both sides as they trudged through the forest.

Mor had winnowed them as far as she could but with Cassian unable to hold them both and fly any substantial distance, and Galadriel too unfamiliar with the land to winnow, they walked the rest of the way. She had never seen Mor in anything but her pretty dresses and training gear, so it was unusual to see the beautiful female padded in armour—a mix of Illyrian and Fae. The iron pommel of the sword at her hip was freshly polished.

"It's safest to walk," Mor had told her. "The Weaver will be able to detect magic nearby. She will consider it a threat."

"As opposed to an unannounced visitor knocking at her door?" Galadriel shot back. "I'm not sure the Weaver gets many visitors. Do you think she'll offer tea?" Mor didn't have an answer to that, but Cassian grunted out a sound that might have been a laugh if Mor's lack of reaction hadn't wrought it distasteful.

They had walked on for another few hours, conversation kept at a minimum. Mor offered to winnow them further again once her energy replenished but Cassian dismissed it. "May as well get some training in while we're here. We're not expected back until tomorrow afternoon." So the theme followed and when they stopped for lunch, he demonstrated to Galadriel simple knots and contraptions for hunting small game.

"Not many bothered offering food to a bastard before Rhys's mother came along," he said, his thick fingers surprisingly nimble as they worked another knot, Galadriel intently watching to try and copy. "I had to learn to feed myself."

Galadriel hated these stories. Hated hearing the horrors of his early life. He didn't speak most of it with fondness, but there was a certain intimacy about them, about receiving them, that she never spoke to change topic.

"Most families could freeze their meat during the winter, but when I was at training, there was nobody to defend my stock so I ate what I caught right away. There were a few weeks where I didn't eat at all."

"No wonder you always eat like a starved dog these days," she said quietly, glancing over to Mor who was reclining against her pack, not sure if she was awake or not. "It always shocks me when you tell me these things."

Cassian smiled crookedly at her, biting into the rope to tighten it. "How so?"

Galadriel shook her head in a sort of confusion. "That you're still so kind. It would have been so easy for you to be bitter. To depend on nobody but yourself and grow cold. Untrusting."