Episode 23
Don’t Leave Me
Arisanna looks on in awe as the first buildings appear in the distance. Rather than brick or stone or planed wood, they’re covered in bark, like trees grown into the shapes of houses and shops.
“Plant magic?” she whispers.
“Yes,” Cerian says beside her. “It’s the primary construction method in Lostariel.”
She glances his way and tilts her head. “Can you do that? Create these buildings from trees?”
That smile quirks his lips again, and he nods. “I can, though we have other plant wielders for those jobs. I wouldn’t want to put them out of business.”
The desire to see him work his magic overwhelms her, but she keeps that thought to herself, turning to take in the rest of the city.
It’s more spread out than Levina. Quieter than Feressa, even. Lanterns hang from buildings and along streets, but they’re not gaslit like the streetlights back home.
In the distance, the most magnificent weeping willow she’s ever seen stands alone, looking out of place. It’s enormous, and its branches hang to the forest floor like a canopy, completely blocking any view of what’s underneath.
“That’s the Tree of Memories,” Cerian says as he follows her gaze. “My parents often consult it to glean wisdom from their forebears.”
Arisanna’s brows knit. “It’s magic?”
He nods. “The memories of every King of Lostariel are transferred to the tree after they pass from the light. Wisdom from across millennia. Only the heir to a fallen king can access it.”
A chill ripples through Arisanna at that thought. It may take time to grow accustomed to the magic of her new home.
“And that’s Windhaven.” Cerian juts his chin toward a grand tree-grown dwelling with multiple wings and ornate doors and windows.
The flowering vines covering it look nearly as old as the willow tree did.
Except for one wing. That wing looks younger, somehow.
As if it was added on later or regrown at some point in the past.
Windhaven.
She’s heard of it, of course—the southern home of the royal family of Lostariel. It’s far more impressive than she imagined.
Wordlessly, she follows at Cerian’s side as they approach the grand estate, and soon their entourage comes to a stop. With a few polite farewells, most of the elves accompanying them continue to other destinations, leaving only the royal family and their guards at the royal residence.
Cerian jumps lightly from his dappled gray gelding as Arisanna watches with more than a hint of jealousy. She’ll probably hobble for most of the night after she dismounts.
Cerian looks up at her, about to say something, when an elf hurries from the nearest door. She’s beautiful. Even in her rush to greet them, the woman is stately and elegant.
She moves to Cerian’s mother first and covers her mouth in surprise. “Oh, my darling. You’re already improving. Has Lorial been replenishing your—”
“Yes, Mera,” Queen Nestraya says with a hint of amusement. Her voice is unrecognizable from the ethereal, breathy quality it had before.
Mera. That’s an Elvish endearment for mother, right? This must be Miravel, the queen mother—Cerian’s grandmother. She looks too young to be anyone’s grandmother.
King Lorial reaches up to lift his queen from her horse, gently lowering her to her feet. “I always care for my Nestraya,” he says softly as he presses his forehead to hers.
Then, to Arisanna’s complete shock, he kisses her. Right there on the street.
Stars above. Mother would faint. Humans may kiss at weddings, but that’s the only time a public kiss is deemed appropriate.
Thoughts of that almost-kiss Cerian planted on her own lips yesterday fill Arisanna, and her face warms.
But then Queen Miravel turns toward her and Cerian. “Introduce me to your princess, my elfling.” Her smile is warm as she sets her hand on Cerian’s shoulder and looks up at Arisanna.
The discomfort in Cerian’s eyes is easy to read, and Arisanna’s tired, cramped fingers tighten around the reins in her hand.
Is he embarrassed by her? Or is this just his taciturn nature showing itself again?
“Grandmera, this is Arisanna,” he says. “Arisanna, my grandmother.”
“Help the poor girl down, Cerian,” the woman says. “She looks ready to fall from that beautiful mare.”
Cerian looks from his grandmother up to Arisanna while Tharios grins nearby, as he seems to enjoy doing.
Arisanna’s cheeks warm again when Cerian reaches for her waist, easily lifting her down. How strong is he? Elves are stronger than humans, but he lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and it wasn’t the first time, either.
He lets go immediately, and her knees give way, too weak to carry her own weight as exhaustion tugs at every inch of her aching body.
Then she’s in Cerian’s arms before she even realizes what’s happening. How did he move so quickly?
“Are you all right?” he asks, an edge of panic in his voice.
She nods. “Just stiff and sore and tired. I think my humanness is showing.”
She says it lightly, and though Cerian’s concerned expression doesn’t change, his family chuckles at her words.
“Here. This will help.” Tharios lays a hand on her shoulder, and the most marvelous sensation flows through her, unknotting every inch of tension and pain, leaving only weariness in its wake.
Now she can barely keep her eyes open, and without meaning to, she rests her head against Cerian’s shoulder.
“Let’s get you to bed, my youngling,” Queen Miravel says, and Arisanna is too tired to argue.
Cerian carries her through the door, and though she tries to take everything in, her eyelids are too heavy to get a good look at the home of his childhood.
“Where do I put her?” he asks at the end of a long corridor with doors in every direction and a window overlooking a river. She knows its name, but she’s too tired to remember right now.
Hushed voices rise around her, and she tries to focus on what they’re saying in Elvish.
Where will she sleep? That’s what they’re discussing.
“Cerian,” she murmurs, and he looks at her with furrowed brows. And as if the longing is knit into her core, she whispers, “Don’t leave me.”
What did she just say?
He looks as surprised as she feels.
Then Queen Nestraya is there, stronger than ever as a softness fills her eyes. “You feel it already, don’t you, my youngling? Don’t fight it.”
“The heartbinding?” Cerian looks more than a little horrified as he meets his mother’s eyes.
Arisanna would be horrified herself if she wasn’t so focused on staying awake.
But she doesn’t want to leave him. That much is as clear to her as the knowledge that the sky is blue or the grass is green.
Does he feel it, too?
“Set her down,” Queen Miravel says. “We’ll get her to bed.”
When he lets go of her, she clutches at him.
“He’ll be back soon,” his mother whispers, and Arisanna relaxes enough to let them guide her into a large chamber with a strange bed of what looks like...moss? Maybe she’s hallucinating in her exhaustion.
Then they’re stripping her down, much to her mortification, but she’s too tired to fuss about it.
“Is this all she has?” Cerian’s grandmother asks, and someone murmurs something about Elowyn and human clothing, and soon, the softest satin slips over her head and arms.
“That will do for tonight,” Viala says. Is Arisanna wearing something of Viala’s?
Then the three women lead her to the strange bed and help her under the satin covers. It’s soft, but not like the beds in Nunia.
Her last thought before her eyelids grow too heavy to lift is of Cerian.
And how much she misses him already.
Cerian paces the corridor as the women hover over Arisanna behind closed doors.
“You look antsy, little brother,” Tharios says with a grin, and Cerian glares at him.
“Why don’t you check in with Corivos,” Father says to Tharios, shoving him down the corridor, and Tharios lobs a smirk over his shoulder before making himself scarce.
It’s unlikely Father’s First among warriors has much to report since they were only gone for a few days, but at least that will give Cerian a reprieve from his brother’s teasing.
Once Tharios is gone, Father takes Cerian’s shoulders and looks into his eyes. “Tell me what you’re thinking, my elfling.”
Cerian glances away, but Father turns Cerian’s chin back to meet his gaze, and Cerian sighs.
“I wasn’t expecting...that.”
“That her heart would seek out yours so quickly?”
Cerian nods. “And that...” He breathes out slowly and looks away again.
“And that you’d feel it, too?”
Father always knows. He always has. For all Cerian’s life, Father’s understood him better than anyone but Elowyn.
“Don’t fight it. Let it grow,” Father says softly. “Give it a chance.”
It’s terrifying being so drawn to a stranger. But it’s been growing all day. This inexplicable need to be near her. All he could think about earlier while he spoke to his parents was her. Was she all right? Did she need anything? Was she warm enough?
Whistling wind. It’s unsettling.
“Do you feel this way all the time?” Cerian asks, and Father laughs.
“My air magic keeps looking for your mother. I’ve pulled it back so many times already.”
“No wonder it’s drafty in here,” Cerian mutters, and Father laughs again.
“Do me a favor, Cerian. When your fire magic grows difficult to control, come find me, all right?”
Cerian frowns. His fire magic?
Before he can respond, the door swings open, and the women step out.
“She’s already asleep,” Grandmera says, and Cerian swallows as he peers through the open doorway. Arisanna lies there peacefully, with her reddish-brown hair spread over his pillow.
His human princess is sound asleep in his bed.