Chapter 4
Aeldryc
I walked out of my bedroom, buckling the lower straps on my leather armor and grabbing a hunk of bread and some cheese on my way out the door.
This was my usual routine, and it almost worked.
I almost got out of there without thinking about Pip.
But when my gaze swept across my guest room door, my chest squeezed.
His mere presence stopped me.
I closed my eyes and took a deep, calming breath, wondering what in all the realms was happening to me.
The young man inside had been crying the night before.
I shook my head. The last thing he needed was to be shaken awake by a fae warrior.
The boy was a suspect, a possible interloper.
Definitely not someone who needed hugs or reassurances.
As if I was someone capable of hugs and reassurances.
He was locked in, for the safety of the kingdom, even though I couldn’t envision the cheeky Pippin Crane being a danger to anyone other than himself.
I stepped closer to the door, letting my head rest on the wood for a moment as I listened for a reason to barge inside and check on him. But he was quiet, probably asleep. And the thought that he might have cried himself to sleep when I could have—No. What would I have done?
I’d been under too much pressure lately. Hadn’t taken leave in too long. That was all. I turned away from the door, checking the lock once before leaving my apartments.
I flagged down a footman passing in the corridor. “Get breakfast for the guest in my quarters. Bring a guard, as he’s technically a prisoner, and lock my exterior apartment door when you leave as well.”
He nodded. “Yes, Commander.”
I jogged down the stairs to the training yards, ready for some kind of distraction, something physical.
Something that would take all of my attention and focus to achieve.
I finished my bread and took a drink from the water barrel, before running through my own set of warm ups, sword work, and fighting patterns.
Thyren warmed up beside me, his presence steadying.
He’d been with me for two centuries at least, had seen me through the Long War and the peace that followed.
He was slow to speak and quick to assess, which made him my most reliable second.
I looked up to find him watching me with a half-smile.
“What?” I growled.
“Nothing, Commander.” The smile didn’t fade. “Just noting that this is the first time in seventy-three years you’ve been late.”
“I’m not late.” I gestured at the sky, where the sun had barely crested the palace walls.
He looked up at the sky. “Mm-hmm.”
“Do you have something to say, Sergeant?”
“Not at all.” He straightened his posture. “Just thinking about that cute little human and his unconscionably tiny trousers.”
“That’s not your concern. And he calls them shorts.” Fuck, why had I corrected him on that?
“Yes, sir.” His lips twitched.
I ignored him, taking a quarterstaff from the rack and testing its weight. Today would be a basic skills day—the sort of training that had kept us all alive when we’d fought the Great War in the northern forests. No magic. No weapons beyond staffs and batons.
Vaelith and Caelyndris arrived together, Caelyndris moving in that particular silent way she had, as if the air parted for her. Vaelith was loud in her wake, chattering non-stop, but she quieted when she saw me, her posture snapping to attention.
“Morning, Commander.”
We worked through basic fighting forms first, moving in sequence across the ring.
Thyren and I stood side by side, matching each other’s movements.
My arms were still tight from the previous day’s ride, the muscles in my back stiff.
Vaelith kept glancing at me from the corner of her eye, as if I might do something unexpected.
“Vaelith. A bit more focus, if you don’t mind.” I demonstrated a block, then moved into an attack, forcing her to backpedal. “You’re leaving your left side open.”
She grunted, forced into a tight defense. “Yes, sir.”
“Again. Show me a proper block.”
She did, but I was still too hard, driving my staff into hers with more power than I’d intended. She staggered back, catching herself.
“Commander,” she said, but her expression was measured, calm. “That’s the third time you’ve almost taken my head off this morning.”
I frowned, straightening up. “I wasn’t—“
“With respect, you were,” Thyren said. “Something on your mind?”
I straightened my grip on my staff. “This is training. You expect me to go easy on you?”
“No,” Caelyndris said. “We expect you to keep us from getting concussed, is all.”
I paused. She was right. I was being a shade too rough, the sort of thing that would get me a reprimand from the Palace Guards. “Fine. We’ll work at half-pace.”
“Or,” Vaelith said, “you could tell us what’s got you so bent out of shape.”
“Just focus on your footwork.”
Vaelith opened her mouth to argue, but paused, her head tilted to one side. A brief, charged silence fell, and I watched as her expression softened, relaxed. She looked up, eyes wide, and slung her staff into its holder on her back.
“Ilyndra needs me,” she said.
We all nodded. The resonant bond allowed Vaelith to feel Ilyndra’s distress from anywhere on the palace grounds, a constant connection that paid no mind to training schedules.
“That’s three times this week,” Caelyndris said, leaning on her staff. “Is she summoning you every time she thinks of an errand for you to run?”
Thyren chuckled. “Going soft.”
Vaelith was unbothered by the ribbing. “You’ll both see when you find your resonant. Makes you stronger in ways you probably never thought to imagine. But you also want to do your best for them.”
“Is she working on something?” I asked, before they could get going again.
“Something about a pattern in the magical fabric of the realm. Perhaps something to do with your twink,” Vaelith said.
“He’s not my twink,” I muttered, the words only highlighting her remark. “Keep me updated. I want this mystery solved.”
“Always.” She slung her sword belt over her shoulder and headed for the armory, her steps quickening as she crossed the training ground.
“I’ll walk you,” I said, jogging to catch up.
She glanced at me, surprised, but nodded. We walked in silence for a moment, cutting across the courtyard that stood between the armory and the practice fields.
“What’s on your mind, Commander?” she asked.
I hesitated. “The resonant bond. How do you know if someone is... compatible?”
“Compatible?” She raised an eyebrow. “Have you met someone?”
“No. I was just thinking about what you said. That it made you stronger.”
“Having someone who is there for you isn’t the weakness everyone in the guard thinks it is, Aeldryc.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Well then, if you meet someone who might be your resonant, you need to get to know them, to get a feel for how you work together. It’s not about finding someone who’s a perfect fit. It’s about finding someone whose rhythm matches yours.”
“Ah,” I said. “So it takes time.”
“Time, attention, and energy, but it’s worth it. The sex is great.”
“I really do not need more information about your sex life, thank you very much.”
She was laughing as I left her outside her wife’s workshop, jogging up the stairs to my apartments. Just to check on the prisoner. For security purposes.
Because there was nothing sexual happening here. I’d had seven centuries to understand my own desires, and they didn’t include half-naked humans who bounced when they talked and wiggled their asses when they were nervous.
I was sweaty and aching, my muscles pleasantly tired from the workout, but my mind was still racing.
My quarters were silent when I arrived, the sitting room empty, the door to Pip’s room still locked. I paused, listening for the sound of movement from the guest room. Nothing. I knocked softly on the door.
“Pip?”
There was a moment of silence, then: “Yeah.”
I unlocked the lock and pushed the door open.
Pip was sitting on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs.
He was wearing the clothes I’d found for him last night—a simple linen tunic and trousers that were slightly too large and his hair was sticking up on one side, as if he’d slept on it wrong.
He looked up when I entered, and I was struck again by the blue of his eyes—the sort of impossible blue you saw in deep forest pools in the middle of winter.
“I want to go home,” he said, staring out the window. “Is it possible I have a cell phone addiction? I can’t write, can’t text my friends, can’t just Google things. It’s very unsettling.”
“I don’t know what that is, but I’m doing what I can to find a way home for you.
Ilyndra is working on it as we speak.” I sat on the edge of the bed, careful to leave space between us.
“But it might take some time. In the meantime, you’re welcome to read the books on the shelf.
Or write. There’s paper and ink in the desk by the window. ”
He looked at me blankly. “I don’t... what?”
“I said—“
“I don’t even know how to use a quill,” he said. “And I can’t read any of that stuff anyway. The ring doesn’t let me read, I can only understand your language when you speak.”
“I can show you how to use a quill. What do you write with where you’re from?”
“That’s not the point. I’m stuck here with nothing to do, no way to communicate, and no idea if I’m ever going to see my home again.”
He was right. I’d been so focused on the immediate questions—where he’d come from, who might have sent him—that I’d forgotten about the practicalities. I stood, moving to the desk, and picked up a quill.
“Come here,” I said, sitting at the desk and pulling a small footstool over beside me.
He didn’t move, just stared at me for a long moment.
“Listen, I can’t control what happened to you, but I can give you this. I’ll get you as much paper as you need.”
He blinked at me, then sighed and slid off the bed and sat on the stool beside me. He was small—barely coming up to my chest—and he smelled of the lavender soap I kept in the guest water closet. I dipped the quill in ink and made a mark on the paper.
“Like this,” I said. “You hold it here, and move it across the page.”
He took the quill from me, his fingers brushing mine, and tried to mimic my movements. The result was a wobbly line that bore only a passing resemblance to the mark I’d made.
“It’s different where I’m from,” he said. “We write with ink, but they’ve invented a way to keep the ink inside the pen. You don’t have to dip them.”
I nodded. “That sounds efficient.”
He tried again, with the same result. “This is stupid.”
“I can see what else we have.”
He looked up at me, eyes wide. “You’d do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. Because I’m a prisoner?”
“But not because you did something wrong. Just because some in the court don’t understand you. Personally, I’m fairly certain you’re exactly what you claim to be.”
“Which is...”
“A twink,” I said, and he laughed, the sound bright and sudden in the quiet room.
“Exactly,” he said. “Just a regular twink, dropped into a magical land.”
I pulled a stick of charcoal from the drawer and handed it to him. “Try this. Do you like to draw?”
He took it, his fingers warm against mine, and guided it across the paper. This time, the line he drew was smooth and controlled. “I’ve used charcoal before.”
“That’s better.” He made another mark, then another, his hand moving quickly across the page. “I used to draw all the time when I was a kid. Before...”
“Before?”
He shrugged. “Before life got complicated. Back when people paid for me to take art classes.”
I watched as he worked, his hand moving with unexpected grace.
He was drawing a flower—a simple thing, with five petals and a stem.
It was crude but recognizable, and there was something about the concentration on his face, the way his lower lip caught between his teeth, that made it difficult to look away.
“This is awesome,” he said, stepping back to admire his work. “I mean, it’s not going to win any awards, but it’s better than nothing.” He turned to me, beaming. “Thank you.”
“Perhaps I’ll bring you paints, too?”
“Ooh! Paints? Really!”
Before I could respond, he threw his arms around my waist and squeezed, his face pressing against my chest. He was warm and solid and smaller than I’d expected, and my arms came up around him without my permission, one hand settling on the back of his head, feeling the fine texture of his hair.
I let myself relax into it for nearly five seconds before I realized what I was doing and stiffened.
He stepped back, still smiling. “Sorry. I’m a hugger. It’s a thing.”
“It’s... fine.” My voice sounded strange in my own ears. I cleared my throat. “I should go. I have reports to file.”
“Sure.” He was already turning back to the paper, the charcoal stick moving across the page. “Thanks again.”
I gave a short nod and left, closing and locking the door behind me. I turned towards my writing desk, then shook my head, and stalked back out of the apartment. I wasn’t specifically searching for paints, but if I happened to come across some, I might just bring them back to Pip.