Episode 42
It’s Endearing
The train rolls along the tracks as Rominy stares at the ceiling of their luxury railcar and waits for the dizziness to pass.
Stars above.
He kissed Elowyn. Not just her ear and not just a peck.
A real kiss.
It felt right in the moment.
Now it just feels awkward. He can’t even bring himself to look at her. Lying beside him. Sleeping next to him. In his bed.
He can’t avoid her, though. This is supposed to be their honeymoon. That would be odd.
Not that he wants to avoid her. The thought of being separated awakens an edge of panic in his gut.
Besides, it was just a kiss. She’s his wife. He’s allowed to kiss his wife. And she wanted him to kiss her.
It was bound to happen eventually.
He rubs his eyes, and the bed shifts beside him.
It was just a kiss.
“Rominy? Your heart is—”
“I know.”
He turns to look at her. The sun catches her silver hair where she leans on her elbow, looking down at him as she rubs her own eyes and stifles a yawn.
With her sleep-disheveled hair and groggy appearance, she’s absolutely adorable.
Gorgeous still, but it’s such an intimate view of this elf he married that the kiss doesn’t seem like such a big deal. Of course he kissed her.
Part of him wants to kiss her again. Run his fingers along her ears...
Clearing his throat, he looks away and throws back the covers, swinging his feet to the floor. “We should get up. We’ll reach Wolbourne soon.”
“And then we take a...what did you call it? A tram into the mountains?”
He nods. They used to take carriages, but Father commissioned a steam-powered car on cables a decade ago to make accessing the mining villages near the chalet easier.
“Rominy?”
He glances back at her from his perch on the edge of the bed. She’s sitting up now, too, her flannel nightgown such a mundane contrast to the otherness about her—the pointed ears and the silver hair.
She’s more suited to silks and satins and whatever flimsy material that sheer gown was made of.
Stars above. That’s the last thing he needs to be thinking about right now.
“Are you going to pretend you didn’t just kiss me?” she asks. “After we almost drowned?”
He meets her eyes, but if she’s hurt, she doesn’t show it. Of course, he is still learning to read her expressions.
With a sigh, he looks down at his fingernails. “That was pretty much my plan. Not that I regret it. At all. Because I don’t. At least, I don’t think I do. I just...wasn’t planning to kiss you yet, and now I feel really awkward.”
When he looks back at her, amusement fills her eyes. “That was a lot of words.”
He chuckles. “I ramble when I’m nervous.”
“It’s endearing. Shall we pretend the kiss didn’t happen?”
Then a brief flicker of...something crosses her eyes.
She is hurt.
And she’s trying to hide it.
She’s not very good at hiding what she’s feeling, though, is she? She’s far too expressive to hide much of anything.
Which is...also endearing.
“No,” he says softly.
“No?”
“No, we shouldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. You don’t regret it, do you?”
She shakes her head. “It was perfect.”
“Really? I barely even thought before I did it. It wasn’t planned or...or practiced or anything romantic.”
“That’s what made it perfect. It was real.”
It was real, wasn’t it?
Before he can respond, the train whistles.
“Wolbourne. We need to get dressed.” He grabs his clothes from yesterday and hurries into the other room, sliding the door shut behind him.
When Cerian opens his eyes, faint sunlight streams around the edges of his drapes. His fire magic is quiet here. Quieter than in the heartlanding, at least.
But the room feels empty without Arisanna.
“Cerian?”
He turns toward her voice, dizziness clouding his head. What is she doing on her feet already? She clings to the doorframe between their chambers, her skin pale and her eyes glassy.
She looks as though she’s about to faint.
He throws back the covers and flies toward her, his own head spinning. Just as her knees buckle, he wraps his arms around her and holds her steady.
“I think I stood up too soon,” she murmurs against his chest.
That much seems obvious. His own dizziness still fills his head. Unsure what else to do, he guides her to his bed and lowers himself to the edge beside her before they both faint. That familiar heat begins to grow, but he shoves it back. For now.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” she whispers. “Though I suppose it could have waited.”
“Are you all right?”
“I think so. And at least now I know.”
He frowns. “Know what?”
She glances down at his chest and bites her lip before looking away. “You definitely sleep without your shirt.”
Heat courses through him, flaming his bare shoulders and seeping to the tips of his ears. Whistling wind. Has she been imagining him without a shirt?
“Don’t run,” she whispers.
He can barely stand. He certainly won’t be running anywhere.
No matter how strong the urge to flee is.
Fighting back the dizziness swirling behind his eyes, he pushes himself off the bed and totters toward the wardrobe, grabbing a linen shirt he rarely wears and throwing it over his head.
Not that it matters, does it? They’re bound. There’s no reason she shouldn’t see his bare chest.
Except his hands are warm again.
He needs to speak to Father, whether he wants to or not, before he burns Arisanna in the real world.
Lowering himself back to the edge of the bed, he juts his chin at her hands. “Do they still hurt?”
She holds her palms up and flexes them. “They’re fine.”
Thank the fates for that.
She opens her mouth again, but before she can speak, there’s a knock at the door.
Her eyes fill with panic, and she pushes herself off the bed, stumbling toward her door as if she’s afraid to get caught in his chamber.
He’s a little embarrassed at the thought, too, but clearly not as much as she is.
Memories of the way she tried to sneak back to his room at the castle after their night in the astronomy tower fill him, and a smile tugs unbidden at his lips.
Her strange behavior is oddly endearing.
The knock repeats as she slips away, and he rubs his eyes and finds his feet. At least the room ceased its spinning.
Stifling a yawn, he pulls open the door to the corridor. It’s Cook with food. Since when does Cook deliver breakfast herself?
“Now, don’t go getting any ideas, Master Cerian.” Cook shoves the tray into his hands. “I won’t be hand-delivering your breakfast myself every day. But I don’t trust anyone else not to burn down Windhaven, so here I am.”
With a flourish, she douses the stack of sweet bread with some kind of liqueur and lights it with her fire magic. The bright flash makes Cerian flinch, but he holds the tray steady, and the flame quickly dies down as dread fills his gut.
Cook only makes her famous flaming sweet bread on certain special occasions, and when he realizes the date, he gulps.
“Happy birthday, Master Cerian. Now go eat before your food cools.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Cook turns back down the corridor, and Cerian stares at the tray.
Hopefully, Arisanna didn’t witness any of that.
Cerian pushes the door shut and turns. To his dismay, Arisanna’s mirthful eyes greet him as she wanders closer.
“Were you planning to tell me it’s your birthday?”
Rominy looks across the table at Elowyn in the quaint cafe in Wolbourne where they stopped for breakfast before they continue their journey into the mountains.
She’s unusually quiet as she studies the menu.
She can read quite a bit of Nunian, but some words are a struggle for her.
He discovered as much yesterday while they played games on the train.
“Do you need help?” he asks quietly in the best Elvish he can muster. He probably mangled it, but her eyes light up every time he tries speaking her native language.
A soft smile slips across her lips as she lifts her gaze from the menu. “That was well done,” she says slowly so he can pick out the Elvish words.
Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, though, and he frowns. “What’s wrong?” This time, he speaks in Nunian.
She opens her mouth before closing it. Did she try to stretch the truth the way she did in the heartlanding? Is that why the words wouldn’t come?
If only they were alone rather than in the middle of a cafe with guards standing nearby as other patrons glance curiously their way. It’s too bad his Elvish is so atrocious. They could converse privately if he were more fluent.
There’s nothing for it. With a glance around the dining establishment at the people who quickly avert their eyes from their prince and his unexpected elf princess, Rominy moves away from his side of the booth and slides onto the bench beside Elowyn.
She scoots over to give him more room as she eyes him curiously.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers this time so only she can hear.
She looks down at the menu before answering. “Cook always makes flaming sweet bread for breakfast on Cerian’s birthday.”
Cerian’s birthday? Is that today? No wonder Elowyn looks sad. She must be homesick.
“I’m sorry,” he says when he can’t think of anything else to say. “I doubt they serve food like that here.”
Letting out a deep breath, Elowyn nods and plasters a smile in place. “It’s all right. He hates his birthday, anyway. Everyone fussing over him.”
“It’s all right to be sad sometimes.”
Elowyn turns her eyes toward Rominy again. Something he can’t define passes between them—a wordless understanding of sorts.
“Thank you,” she whispers in Elvish. That’s one phrase he understands.
He stumbles over the Elvish for “you’re welcome,” but he clearly butchers it if her attempt to stifle her laughter is any indication. “What did I say this time?” he asks, unable to hide his own smile.
“You told me I’m a tree.”
“A tree?” He groans. “You’re definitely not a tree. How do you say, ‘You’re welcome’?”
She demonstrates, and he tries again.
“Better,” she says. Turning back to the menu, she purses her lips in thought. “What are you getting?”
He glances at the menu over her shoulder.
“You know what? Let’s go big in honor of Cerian’s birthday.
Waffles with strawberries and whipped cream.
It’s not flaming sweet bread, which you’ll have to tell me all about, but it’s far sweeter than breakfast has any right to be, and it’s one of my favorites. ”
The look of something akin to adoration she sends him steals his breath away, and the startling urge to kiss her again fills him.
“Sounds delightful. Thank you,” she says softly.
He carefully repeats the Elvish words for “you’re welcome,” and as she bursts out laughing, he groans. “A tree. I called you a tree again.” He shakes his head and joins her mirth.
Hopefully, Arisanna is faring better with her Elvish than he is.