Episode 139 This Is a Bad Idea
This Is a Bad Idea
The closer Starfire takes them to the stone structure, the more Cerian questions every decision that led them to this moment.
What in the Wildthorne Woods was he thinking? If they survive this, Mother will kill him herself.
Go tell Corivos. That’s what Elowyn said.
Not face down the enemy alone with only a unicorn and Arisanna beside him.
“This is a bad idea,” he whispers. He tries to nudge Starfire north, but the unicorn will not be swayed.
Arisanna stiffens in his arms. He shouldn’t have said that. Now she’s probably even more afraid.
But she says nothing. Cerian nudges Starfire harder, but it’s no use. The unicorn merely slows as they approach the light.
Fates save them.
He should have eaten an apple. It’s too late now.
Arisanna’s heart races, but she remains quiet, just as he told her. Her trust in him is both reassuring and terrifying.
When she gently rubs his knee, the sensation calms him and makes him feel stronger, as if maybe he can handle whatever they’re about to face. The son of Lorial and Nestraya. The most powerful plant wielder in Lostariel.
Whistling wind, he’s not ready for this.
But Starfire clearly disagrees, coming to a stop just outside the shine of the firelight casting flickering shadows on the trees.
Now what?
He should probably ascertain if this is a friend or foe.
He’s been training since he was an elfling. He can do this. He just needs to clear his head and remember who he is. Who he’s been trained to be.
Taking a deep breath to center himself and slow the pounding in his ears, he listens. For voices. For snoring. For anything that might give a clue of what lurks within that waypoint shelter made of stone.
Heavy breathing. It’s hard to discern over the crackling fire. Little hisses and whimpers? They match the shallow, ragged breaths. A groan with every inhale.
It almost sounds as if someone is injured.
If this is a foe, they aren’t in any shape to fight.
And if it’s a friend...
He’ll have to peer inside. He can’t learn more from out here.
Cerian presses his lips to Arisanna’s ear. “I wish to look inside. Stay behind me and stay close. If I tell you to get down, you drop to the ground immediately.”
Arisanna nods and looks as calm as ever, but her heart is pounding as Cerian slips off Starfire and gently sets her on her feet. Hopefully, she won’t walk too loudly.
Breathing out slowly, Cerian angles his body between her and the glowing light emanating from the open doorway. One step and then another. Arisanna remains in his shadow, her hand brushing his back. Her touch is reassuring.
Far sooner than he’d ever wish, he rests his palm against the cool stone wall framing the doorway.
He can do this. He needs to do this.
Arisanna leans against his back, and something intangible flows through him, as if she’s gifting him her strength. Her confidence. Her belief in him.
And he stops thinking and sinks into the role he’s been trained for. The role he was born into. The son of First Nestraya. Of the Phoenix King. Their magic twines together within him, the living, breathing manifestation of them being stronger together.
No more hesitating.
He leans just far enough to see into the shelter. A fire crackles in the central hearth, its smoke escaping the chimney through the roof.
A lone figure lies on one of the beds at the edge of the large room. The man’s face is hidden from view behind the hearth.
He’s definitely injured.
No one else is present. It’s probably safe to approach, for Cerian, at least.
He’d leave Arisanna outside, but she’d be completely exposed, and the danger out here seems greater than the danger in there with only an injured person to face.
Cerian steps fully into the light, and Arisanna follows without question, her hand still pressed to his back.
“Who’s there?” the man calls in Elvish, pain lacing his words.
Whistling wind. Cerian knows that voice.
He rushes inside, skirting the hearth, and drops to his knees beside the bed.
“Cerian? What—” Uncle Quilian’s question cuts off with a hiss of pain.
“I thought you were in the Outerlands,” Cerian says. “What are you doing here?”
“Corivos sent word that Elowyn was ill. I came as soon as I heard.”
Mother’s uncle coughs, and Cerian pulls back the blanket covering him. No obvious injuries are present.
“Elowyn is recovering, but you’re clearly unwell. Where does it hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
Uncle Quilian chuckles before moaning. “I will admit that you’re a”—he coughs again—“welcome sight. I wasn’t sure how I’d make it to...to Darlei.”
“But what happened? Did you cross paths with the rebels?”
Uncle Quilian’s eyes grow large. “Rebels? In Lostariel?”
“Rebel high borns attacked Tharios.”
Uncle Quilian attempts to sit, but even his gritted teeth can’t hold back the choked cry that bursts from him, and Cerian glares at him.
“You’re just hurting yourself. Lie still.”
“Echoes of my Nestraya lurk inside you, Cerian.” Uncle Quilian doesn’t argue as he lies back. “Tharios. Is he—”
“He’s fine, as far as I know. You still haven’t told me what happened to you.”
“Your story sounds...far more important than the story of an old man being...being thrown from his horse.”
At least he wasn’t attacked.
“You’re not old,” Cerian says.
“It’s cruel to make me laugh now, young one.”
“You’re closer to three hundred than four hundred. You still have many years left to terrorize me in the practice arena.”
“Whistling wind. There’s someone behind you. Or...or am I seeing things? I hit my head on the way down.”
Cerian glances over his shoulder. He should have introduced Arisanna. Why do things like that never occur to him when they should?
“Where is my head? I know who this is,” Uncle Quilian says, coughing again. “Princess Arisanna of Nunia. Come out from behind this nephew of mine, and let me see you.”
Hesitantly, Arisanna steps closer, and Cerian rises and finds her hand. “She’s mine. I mean, she’s my—”
“I think you said it right the first time. Fates save us all. Cerian in love. I had my doubts, but you hide nothing from me, young one. You look just like your grandfather Cerian did when he first met your grandmother.” Uncle Quilian launches into another coughing fit, and Cerian sighs.
It should have been Tharios. Or Mother. Someone who could actually heal the man.
What good is a plant and fire wielder to Uncle Quilian now?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Arisanna says with her beautiful smile in place.
“This is my Uncle Quilian,” Cerian hurries to say. “My grandfather’s younger brother. “
“The grandfather you were named after?”
Cerian nods. “My mother’s first father.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Princess,” Uncle Quilian says. “And unless my eyes deceive me, you are very like your own father, especially with that hair that shines like fire in the light. Cerian’s always been attracted to fire.”
Arisanna smiles at Cerian, whose ears are surely flaming.
Uncle Quilian coughs again. “I need to stop talking, but I want you to tell me everything.”
“There’s not much to recount. Mother thinks I’m an elfling still and wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“Yet you’re here, I assume alone, the better part of a day’s ride from Darlei.”
“It’s a long story. I may take Arisanna and move far away in the interest of remaining alive before I have a chance to encounter my mother again.”
“Don’t make me laugh, Cerian. Nestraya must be feeling more like herself.”
“She is.” Cerian quickly tells his uncle everything he knows.
“As distressed as I am by this development, it’s the presence of a unicorn in this story that confuses me most.”
“Starfire...I would explain if I could, but the magic of the heartbinding prevents me.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. I more or less healed what I believe must have been an injured lung, but that took its toll. My life magic pales compared to your mother’s and brother’s.”
Whistling wind. Cerian drops to the bed and takes Uncle Quilian’s hand, rolling up their sleeves and pressing their arms together.
“Thank you,” Uncle Quilian murmurs.
“You should have said something sooner.”
“I wouldn’t be a Thariosi if I didn’t pretend to be invincible, now would I?”
Cerian smiles at that.
“It’s late, and you must be tired,” Uncle Quilian says. “We should rest here tonight and return to Darlei in the morning.”
It’s doubtful Uncle Quilian will be ready to ride anywhere in the morning, but it’s hardly worth arguing about now.
“What happened to your horse?” Cerian asks.
“I’m sure he’s out there somewhere. An ornery pair we make.”
“I’ll find him in the morning,” Cerian offers. “I need to see to Starfire. You’ll be all right?”
“Now that you’re here.”
Cerian turns to go, but Arisanna doesn’t release his hand. Words float in her eyes, but whatever she’s trying to convey to him isn’t clear.
“We’ll be back,” Cerian says to Uncle Quilian. Perhaps Arisanna will say what she’s thinking outside in the dark.
Relief fills her eyes, and they return to Starfire, who happily munches the grass. At least he’s not as spoiled as Stardust. Yet.
“What’s wrong?” Cerian asks.
A nervous huff of a laugh escapes Arisanna, and he turns fully toward her. Are they about to have another conversation like the one they had about that bottle Tharios gave her?
Which is in his knapsack, thank the fates. He digs inside the bag until he finds it and hands it to her.
She just looks more nervous.
“As much as I love circling awkward conversation topics with you, perhaps you can just tell me now what we’re not discussing,” he says softly as he takes the bottle back and offers her the dropper instead. She opens her mouth without fussing, and he soon slips the bottle back into his bag.
Then he frames her face with his hands. “Sanna. Tell me what your eyes are screaming. Please.”
“It’s just...there’s only one room. And...and that one small bed your uncle isn’t using.”
Cerian fights back a smile, but he can’t resist kissing her. She’s adorable when she’s busy being scandalized by his elven ways.
“Be brave, Sanna,” he whispers, and a smile clings to her lips.
“Be a Westaria?”
“Exactly.”
“And this doesn’t feel awkward to you?”
Cerian tilts his head from side to side. “It’s awkward. Because it’s me. Elowyn wouldn’t give it a second thought.”
“I doubt Rominy would now, either.”
“Are we good?”
“I suppose so. Yes. I’m married to an elf. This is normal. And we need sleep, so there’s no point fussing about it. Right?”
“Right. It’s completely normal.” He draws her into another kiss, and she melts against him.
He shouldn’t let down his guard out here to kiss her, but he struggles to pull away.
Then, to his shock, she slips her icy hands beneath his shirt, and he flinches.
She immediately pulls back. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I was being brave. Or trying. And failing.”
He puts a finger on her lips. “How are you always so cold? Here.” He slides her hands back under his shirt and floods them with his heat. “I’d kiss you again, but—”
“I know. We shouldn’t be doing that out here. Not when dangerous elves are wandering these woods.”
He wraps his arms around her instead and sends her more heat. “I’ll keep you warm tonight.”
“Hmm. That offer hits differently knowing your uncle is right there.”
Cerian laughs before giving her one last quick kiss. “Come on. Let’s have some apples and get you some sleep.”
“Us. Get us sleep.”
Cerian doesn’t argue, but whether he’ll manage sleep tonight with danger lurking so near remains to be seen.