Episode 35
Tearing Down Walls
Cerian eyes the wall.
Is he really going to put a door in it?
Arisanna hasn’t even been here a day, and he’s already dismantling Windhaven for her. What sort of hold does she have on him?
He glances at her where she studies his collection of tree-grown figurines. Little toys. Why in the Wildthorne Woods didn’t he pack them away before they left for Nunia?
“These are exquisite.” She holds up the unicorn figure. “Did you make them?”
Clearing his throat, he nods. “That one’s supposed to be Stardust. My mother’s unicorn.”
Arisanna stares at him. “Your mother has a unicorn? She rode a horse to Nunia.”
“She didn’t want to leave Stardust in the care of...”
“Humans?” Arisanna asks when he doesn’t finish.
“Yes. But only because unicorns can be very particular. Stardust will only eat fresh oats from a clean bowl, and she prefers to drink straight from the Waters of Pendarra.”
Arisanna stares at him some more. “And I thought Dahlia was picky.”
Before he can stop himself, laughter bursts from him, and she fumbles the figurine. As it slips from her hand, he reaches out to catch it.
“You have a nice laugh,” she whispers. Her heart is racing.
Is that because of him? Does he really have that effect on her?
He sets the unicorn back on the shelf, trying not to dwell on whatever she is or isn’t thinking.
“So. The wall,” he says.
“You don’t mind?”
Demolishing part of his personal sanctuary?
She steps closer to him. “You have a look about you.”
A look? What does that mean?
“I suppose I’ll be fine on my own,” she continues. “I don’t know what was going through my head. You must think me pathetic, wanting a door in case I need you at night.” A nervous huff of a laugh parts her lips.
Honestly, that was the last thought on his mind when she suggested the door earlier.
The fact that she desired a door instead of a wall between them was enough to banish every lingering fear about her not wanting him near her this morning.
He would have agreed to build her a replica of Starhaven in Celesta if she’d asked at that moment.
“What sort of door do you want?” he asks.
“You don’t have to—”
“Tell me?”
She gazes at him with a softness that makes him want to wrap his arms around her again, but he keeps his hands to himself.
“Just something simple,” she says.
Tearing his eyes away from her, he approaches the wall again.
They already moved everything away from both sides, and he reaches out with his plant magic.
An opening forms in the tree-grown wall as the wood slinks back on itself, and once the hole is large enough to pass through, Cerian calls forth wooden hinges and a simple door.
“I love watching you do magic.”
When Cerian glances over his shoulder, Arisanna stands nearby, a wide smile gracing her beautiful face.
“Go ahead and test it,” he says.
“First, though, are you all right? We didn’t bring food for me to shove down your throat.”
Thoughts of her feeding him in the arena and in the heartlanding leave him wishing they had brought something, but he hasn’t worked enough magic to truly need it, especially since they just ate.
“I’m fine. This was just a small bit of magic.”
“Still impressive.” She offers him another smile before stepping toward the door and pushing it open. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Will she actually use it at night? Come find him in the dark when she’s afraid? And what will he do if she does?
His palms heat, and as he shakes them off, a sinking feeling clutches at his stomach. Every time his fire magic has escaped his control, he’s been thinking of her.
And not just thinking about her. He’s been thinking of being closer to her. Wanting to be closer to her.
Whistling wind. Is that why his parents keep asking how his fire magic is doing? That’s horrifying.
“What’s wrong?” Arisanna asks.
He opens his mouth to deny anything is wrong, but the words lodge in his throat. As if the magic won’t let him lie.
“Cerian?”
“Forgive me. I’m just lost in thought,” he manages.
She seems content with that answer. Thank the fates.
He needs to figure out how to keep his fire magic from bursting forth every time he thinks about being near her.
Because not thinking about her is quickly growing impossible.
“Beverages with air bubbles,” Elowyn says as Rominy follows her back onto their private railcar after the train stopped for an hour in the small town of Cheston. “Who knew? That was delightful!”
Rominy doesn’t even try to hold back a smile at her chatter. She’s been singing the praises of Nunian food and drink for the past half hour.
At least she’s adjusting well. And she loves ginger beer. An elf after his own heart.
“Am I talking too much?” she asks.
“I like it when you talk.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
They settle into their comfy armchairs, and Rominy thrums his fingers on the armrest as the train gets underway again. They’ve already played every game in the railcar twice, and Elowyn beat him more often than not.
He didn’t mind, though. Watching how excited every small and large victory, both hers and his, made her was the best part of his entire day.
“What’s that?” Elowyn points at something stowed in the corner.
Who packed that? He sure didn’t. He didn’t notice it earlier, either. The dark case blended into the shadows.
“It’s my guitar,” he says.
“Guitar. I’m not familiar with that word.”
“It’s an instrument. With strings.”
“Oh! We have such things in Lostariel. Do you play?”
He nods.
She clutches her hands in front of her, her gray eyes bright in the lamplight illuminating the railcar. “Will you show me?”
“Right now?”
She nods. “Unless you’re tired.”
Unbidden, his eyes stray toward the closed door to the sleeping compartment, and his heart picks up speed. If Elowyn notices, which she always seems to, she says nothing.
“I suppose I could play something.” Pushing himself to his feet, he navigates the swaying railcar to collect the large case. After setting it on the floor near the chairs, he unlatches and lifts the lid.
A small gasp arises from Elowyn, and he glances her way.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.
“It was a gift from my parents when I was accepted to study at the university in Levina.”
“You studied at a university? You must know so many things. I want to learn everything you know.”
Everything? He chuckles nervously. “That might take a while.”
“We have plenty of time,” she says solemnly. “But first, you must demonstrate your prowess with this guitar.”
Right.
He lifts the polished instrument from the case and perches on the edge of his chair, breathing out slowly. Elowyn leans closer in her eagerness as he tentatively strums a simple chord.
The discordant notes echo through their little car, and he cringes. “Sorry. That’s out of tune. Just a minute.”
As she patiently watches, he plucks at the strings, twisting the knobs to get the right sound from each one.
“You can tell by listening if it’s right?” she asks.
“With years of practice.” He strums again, and the guitar emits a pleasant sound this time. “Much better.”
But what should he play? Something simple? It’s been a while since he picked up his guitar, and having her sitting right there watching isn’t helping his nerves.
“Just breathe.” She smiles softly at him. “It’s me. The other half of your heart. You don’t need to be nervous.”
The other half of his heart? The idea awakens something deep within him.
Does he dare play a love song for her? Not that he knows many. He had no one to serenade before now.
Taking another deep breath, he exhales slowly and plucks at the strings in the simple, soothing melody of one of the first songs he learned to play.
Hopefully, she won’t ask what the song means.
Her gray eyes widen as he strums, and the most breathtaking smile slips across her face. He almost loses the melody at the sight, but his hands find the chords by memory.
When he finishes, he looks across his guitar at her, his heart hammering as he awaits her response.
“That was beautiful,” she says. “You must play for me more on this honeymoon of ours.”
He almost chokes at that, but he manages a nod. It feels good to pick up an instrument again. It’s been too long.
“What do you call that song?” she asks. “The one you just played.”
He laughs nervously again. “It’s called ‘Made to Love You.’”
Stars above. Why did he choose that to play for her tonight? He should have played one of the drinking ditties he learned during his early days studying at the university. Not that he drank much more than ginger beer most days. But the songs were fun.
He rubs a sweaty palm on his trousers as he waits for her to say something.
Maybe he should start a new song. Then they won’t have to talk about it. He’s about to find a new chord when she speaks.
“Will you play it again?”