Episode 137 Home Before Morning
Home Before Morning
Sobs wrack Viala’s body as she clings to Tharios while all the emotion of the day overwhelms her, and it takes a few moments for her to sense the wetness seeping through her gown and sopping her hair.
Is it raining again? Her sobs choke her as she lifts her head to look at the storm she must have caused with her tears.
“It’s all right, my love,” Tharios says softly.
“It’s not. I am a menace. I don’t know how to stop it.” She cries harder, and the sky darkens.
Then Lorial kneels in front of her. “Your feelings are so strong, my youngling. It’s a beautiful thing, but it makes it harder for you to control your magic. I fear you left your people before you were ready, and I have failed to help you master this power you wield.”
She shakes her head. “You haven’t failed me. None of you. I’m just not capable—”
“You are. You are capable of so much more than you realize,” Lorial continues as Tharios holds Viala close. “I want you to imagine a safe place. Somewhere you always feel at home and protected.”
“Does it have to be a real place?”
“No. Just somewhere you can imagine in your mind. In this safe room, there is no magic. Just you and whomever you let in. Can you picture it?”
Viala closes her eyes, and a vision of a room similar to the chamber she shares with Tharios at Windhaven fills her head. He’s there. How could he not be?
“This is where you go in your mind when you need to feel everything you’re feeling,” Lorial says. “Your magic will attempt to join you, but it’s not welcome in this room unless you invite it in. Imagine closing the door on your magic now.”
She rests her head against Tharios’s shoulder and imagines him cutting off her flame, as he’s done so many times before drawing her to their bed. The thought steadies her, and the downpour becomes a gentle mist again.
“This is a skill like any other,” Lorial says. “It will get easier with practice until you don’t need to think about it anymore. It will become natural for you to keep a mental separation between your magic and your emotions.”
“It’s still raining,” she says with a sniffle.
“But it’s less,” Tharios says. “You’re doing beautifully, my love.”
“Some emotions are more difficult to contain,” Lorial continues. “Ones that affect you physically will take more effort to keep that separation in place.”
“And some people, elves included, struggle more with that separation,” Nestraya says, and Lorial smiles.
“It is a blessing and a curse to be a Westaria,” Lorial says.
“But you have joined the right family, my youngling. Don’t let any of us who were born with the Westaria name fool you.
The battles you fight now are ones we all fight, too.
But you came into your power so much more quickly than elves do, and you’re having to learn this lesson with your full magic.
I’m uncertain how your people handle such things, but for now, I’ll teach you the way I taught my elflings, and we’ll figure this out together, all right? ”
Viala nods. “Thank you.”
It’s hardly enough, but further words escape her.
“Thank you for loving our elfling with your entire being. You’re ours now, too, Viala, and we will do better by you. I give you my word.”
Viala shudders again and buries her face against Tharios.
“When you’re ready, call for us. We’ll be near.” With a squeeze of her shoulder, Lorial rises and leaves Tharios to hold her until her tears are spent. She imagines Tharios with her, apart from her magic, and it helps.
“Are you ready to assist me with my trousers?” Tharios asks eventually, and Viala wipes her face.
Not that it matters if tears coat her cheeks. That downpour soaked all of them. At least Lorial and Tharios have air magic to help dry everyone off.
She shivers as she crawls off Tharios’s lap, and he frowns. Always the healer. She never thought she’d end up bound to a healer.
Especially not an elven one.
But Tharios has the heart of a healer. It’s as much a part of him as his gray eyes and teasing smile. And she loves that part of him. All of him.
That she almost lost him today squeezes her heart as tears threaten once more, but she takes a shuddering breath to keep them away and shivers again.
The warmth of early fall is quickly fading to cooler days, and the chill in the air clings to her wet skin.
“I’ll dry you off once I’m dressed,” Tharios says, and she doesn’t argue.
By the time she’s helped him into his trousers, sweat adds to the dampness on his forehead, and he sways.
“Lean on me,” she whispers. “I won’t let you fall. Your father can dry us.”
Tharios does as she says with little fuss, and she barely calls for his parents before Nestraya leads Stardust into the small clearing.
Someone cleaned most of the blood off the creature, which is a relief.
That’s the last thing Viala needs—to stare at that bloodied horn the whole way back to Darlei.
Stardust nuzzles Tharios, but she seems to sense how weak he is and refrains from knocking him over, thank the fates.
“I don’t think I can get up there,” Tharios murmurs.
“I’ll lift you with my magic,” Lorial says. “But let’s get you dry first. You’re both shivering.”
It’s all Viala can do to keep Tharios from toppling over as Lorial’s air magic hits them, but the wind soon wraps around them and holds Tharios in place. It’s a warm breeze, likely assisted by Lorial’s fire magic, and before long, she and Tharios are much drier than they were minutes ago.
“Thank you,” Viala says. The chilly air hits her skin again, but she’s no longer shivering. Tharios will have to keep her warm on the ride home. Hopefully, he’s not cold like he was earlier, for both their sakes.
“Just relax,” Lorial says as his air magic lifts Tharios off his feet, and Viala helps guide him into place as the wind whips her loose hair around her face.
“Go ahead and climb up in front of him,” Nestraya says. “I’ll tie him to you so you won’t need to worry about holding him in place.”
“So we can both fall,” Tharios says with a chuckle, but Viala joins him in the saddle anyway.
If he falls, they’ll fall together, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I’ll try not to touch you any more than absolutely necessary,” Tharios whispers in her ear, and she bites her lip as she holds back a smile.
“I’m sure it will be a struggle for you. I know you’re attracted to me, elf prince,” she says in return, just as she did when he climbed on Erlos with her the day they met.
“You may be surprised to learn I lied when I insisted I found you unappealing.”
“You weren’t fooling anyone but yourself that day. Hold on to me, all right?”
“Thank the fates I’m allowed to touch you now.” He wraps his arms around her waist, and Nestraya lashes them together. She and Lorial must have heard all that, but they merely smile.
“If we can make it home before morning, that would be my preference,” Lorial says. “But if you need to rest, we can stop, all right?”
Tharios nods against Viala, and once Tharios’s parents tie everything to Nestraya’s horse, including the rebel elf to return to his kin, Nestraya climbs up behind Lorial.
With a nudge from Viala, Stardust turns north toward Darlei and home.
Rominy holds Elowyn close as she drifts in and out of sleep most of the day. His arm cramps from keeping her in the saddle, but he doesn’t complain. He’ll survive.
The Wildthorne Woods are eerily quiet, though the warrior elves surrounding them comment on how unusually muffled everything feels. When the sun sets, it grows far darker than anywhere in Levina. It’s hard to imagine Arisanna in these woods. She hates the dark.
It’s a good thing Cerian’s a fire wielder.
Hopefully, they made it to Darlei. A knot of worry festers in Rominy’s gut, but he holds it at bay.
He needs to be strong for Elowyn now.
Faint lights in the distance make his heart beat a little faster. “Is that—”
“Indeed,” Grandmera says. “We are nearly home.”
Elowyn won’t be happy to sleep through this.
“Elowyn, love. Wake up. We’re almost there.”
“Windhaven?” she mumbles groggily.
“Darlei first. But yes.”
She yawns and stretches against him. “Did we cross the scouts?”
“Scouts?”
“From the warrior bands. Corivos would have sent them once Cerian arrived. To sweep the woods for more rebels.”
Rominy glances at Grandmera, but she wears an inscrutable expression.
Everyone in their party seems on edge. Have they been thinking the same thing? It never occurred to Rominy. It should have, but it didn’t.
What should he tell Elowyn?
“Your heart is racing.” Dread fills her voice, and she sounds much more awake now. “There were no scouts, were there?”
Before Rominy can answer, Grandmera says, “We will not jump to conclusions. Cerian is very at home in these woods. I’m sure he’s—”
“Elves approach, my queen,” an elf says, and their party closes ranks as Rominy holds the borrowed stallion steady. The horse is well-trained, thank goodness.
Rominy squints in the dark, but elf eyes must be better than human eyes. Shadowed figures eventually take shape, silhouetted by faint lanterns that bob through the trees. “Are they on our side?” Rominy whispers to Grandmera.
“There are no sides, my youngling. But I believe these elves are from Lorial’s warrior bands.”
That’s a relief. Cerian and Arisanna must have made it.
“It’s Elowyn,” a voice calls.
“How can they tell in the dark?” Rominy whispers.
“My magic,” Elowyn says. “It’s like a signature announcing my identity. I’ve never met another elf with dual affinities for water and fire magic. It’s a rare combination.”
“I knew you were special.” He kisses her hair, and she smiles at him in the light from Grandmera’s fire magic.
“Our queen Miravel rides with the princess,” the elf in the distance continues in Elvish.
“And Tharios?” another elf asks.
“I don’t sense him,” the first elf says.
Rominy frowns. Why would they ask about Tharios specifically? Perhaps he misunderstood the Elvish words.
“That’s Second Rafelis,” Elowyn whispers. “One of Pera’s highest-ranking warrior elves. A tracker with life magic.”
“Tharios lives,” Grandmera says in Nunian, probably for the benefit of Rominy’s guards.
And Rominy.
The elite warriors and human guards surrounding them part as two mounted elves approach. Both look young, but they could be any age from thirty to three hundred, if Grandmera’s youthful appearance is any indication.
“First Corivos and Second Rafelis,” Elowyn whispers as she droops against Rominy’s chest. He needs to get her to bed.
“I wish I could say I was relieved, but any conversation that begins with ‘Tharios lives’ can’t be good,” the elf on the right says in accented Nunian.
That must be First Corivos.
“It is a long story,” Grandmera says, “and Cerian only told you half of it. He left before—”
“Forgive me, my queen,” First Corivos says, his brows lowering in the dim light, “but did you say Cerian?”
Elowyn’s fingers dig into Rominy’s leg, and both their hearts beat faster.
“Cerian rode for Darlei,” Grandmera says slowly. “To warn you. Did he not do so?”
First Corivos glances at Second Rafelis before speaking. “Was he riding Nebula?”
“Yes,” Elowyn says. “He was with Arisanna on Nebula. I sent them myself.”
“Nebula walked into Darlei an hour ago,” First Corivos says. “Alone. I haven’t seen Cerian since you left.”