Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
I’m still on the floor, rocking and crying, struggling to breathe.
Part of my brain stands back, horrified, thinking Lovely, Casie.
You’re having a complete breakdown and panic attack in front of this incredibly hot guy.
Perfect. Pull yourself together! Tits up, for fucks sake!
But the rest of my brain is understandably reeling from the idea that said hot man is from a fucking world I made up for a story.
Goira is the power capital of the Enchanted Realm, the Fae realm.
The Fae realm exists parallel to the mortal realm, accessible only if you have powers born of the Fae.
Goira is full of artists and dreamers, quaint shops and museums. It’s surrounded by forests and mountains, full of dragons, wild game, alicorns and faeries.
The power comes from being built on the land surrounding The Three.
Separate, yet together, as they intersect repeatedly and, from the air, look as though they are braided together.
A mesmerizing spectacle, each flowing with its own hue — crimson, azure, and emerald.
The rivers’ surfaces shimmer under the light of Goira’s triple moons, casting ethereal reflections that dance across the banks.
All begin in separate peaks in the Misty Mountains and wind through the diverse landscape, before meeting at a central point, where they form a natural boundary for the heart of the Fae — Goira.
When you’re close, the air is filled with the sound of gentle rushing and melodic whispers, as if the rivers themselves sing ancient songs.
A fair aroma of wildflowers and fresh rain pervades the area, no matter the weather, mingling with the cool mist that rises from the waters.
It’s easy to see my town in the origins of Goira. The shops, the flowers, the sense of community were borrowed straight from here.
Goira, home of… well, I’m not even sure yet. I see the place in my mind– whispering rivers and beautiful red weeping willows. I can almost hear the waterfalls in the distance, but I haven’t fully fleshed out that scene yet.
I simply haven’t seen enough.
Goira, where Princess Aisling is currently battling emotionless hybrids. Where she may or may not ride a dragon to fight some psychotic cat. Where she battles, side by side, with a handsome Fae warrior, who looks like…
Fuck.
Who looks a hell of a lot like the guy currently watching me like a train wreck he can’t look away from. He looks like he wants to comfort me, whilst simultaneously looking like he would love nothing more than to run for the hills and never look back at this display of uncomfortable emotion.
“Water,” I croak, gesturing to the small mini fridge behind the counter. “Please.”
He looks confused, but follows my gesture. He stands and walks behind the counter, squats down and studies the tiny fridge. After a moment, he tugs the handle and seems pleased with himself when it opens. He picks up a bottle of water, examines it and strides back to me, handing it over.
Our fingers brush as I reach for the bottle, and I ignore the flutter in my chest, although I swear I see a spark of light where our skin comes into contact.
Clearly, I’m still incredibly shaken. Maybe I’m having an aneurysm.
I snatch the water to my chest, opening it and taking a long swallow, easing the tightness in my throat.
I work on taking long, slow breaths to ease my racing heart.
I keep telling myself it’s fine. It has to be fine. There has to be a logical explanation. Maybe Goira is some small po-dunk town in Alaska I’ve never heard of.
Forcing myself to continue breathing, I study the man. He has sat down next to me and, for the first time, I realize that Calida is curled up on his lap, watching me with intense interest. He glances down at her and shakes his head. “No, I don’t believe that’s normal.”
I start. “What?”
He looks back up at me. “She asked if this is normal behavior. I told her I don’t think it is.” He cocks his head, seeming to be amused. “Is it?”
I choose to ignore that. “What do you mean she asked?”
He seems hesitant. I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t want to rile up the crazy lady. “You couldn’t hear her?”
“No, I couldn’t hear her. She is an animal. Animals don’t talk. At least, not in words and not to people. Not in a way we understand, anyway.”
He continues to study me, absently gliding his long, tattooed fingers over Calida.
“Dragons, unlike other creatures, can communicate in your mind, as long as both parties allow it. Some dragons are only willing to communicate with their chosen one. Calida, however, has decided I am worthy of speaking with, as well.”
His words swirl around in my brain.
“You aren’t from Alaska, are you?”
He blinks. “What is Alaska?”
Fuck.
“Okay, let’s try this a different way.” Keep it together, Casie. “Can you tell me more about where you’re from?”
The question seems to puzzle him. “Goira? It’s the capital of the Fae Realm. It sits among The Three, surrounded by the Misty Mountains and an abundance of forests. The forests are full of dragons and other various beasts.”
My head does that slow spin again, now accompanied by a rushing sound in my ears. “What color are The Three?” I whisper.
He cocks his head. “One is red, one green and the last blue.”
“Look, dude. You’re telling me that you’re from Goira.
In the Fae Realm. Which is all well and good, except that it’s a land I created.
I. Made. It. Up. It isn’t real. And how could you know all that anyway?
Did you break into my apartment, go through my things?
” No one had read what I had written. No one.
Not even Betsy has been allowed to read what I’m working on.
Mostly because I’m too anxious and convinced that it’s utter garbage.
There’s something extra terrifying about (possibly, probably) hearing it from someone you love, whose opinion your value.
He looks insulted. “I– I would never go into your home or go through your things. And what do you mean you made it up? You certainly did not. I should know. As I’ve said, I lived there my whole life.”
“What is with the adorable stutter?”
He flushes, avoiding eye contact, and is suddenly either super interested in Calida or the floor. “A throwback to my youth, I’m afraid. It resurfaces when I get nervous.”
“Did the fire make you nervous?”
He still isn’t looking at me.
“No,” he says softly, then clears his throat. “I often get tongue tied and trip on my words when talking to a pretty female.”
Oh.
Oh.
He thinks I’m pretty.
That should not be what I’m focusing on. Grasping for something to say, I finally sputter, “Female?”
He finally looks up at me and I can read the confusion and concern on his face. “Yes, a female.”
“Woman. You mean woman.”
“No,” His brow wrinkles. “A female. A human female is a woman, but a Fae female is just that — a female. In the same way a Fae male is a Male. Like me.”
I stare at him, mouth agape. I’m sure I look like a fish.
Fae. He said Fae. He… he said that he… that I… that we…
I can’t seem to breathe. If he’s not some delusional serial killer, then the man sitting next to me, studying me with growing concern is, in fact, the Fae warrior from my story.
My last thought before the world goes black is And he thinks I’m pretty.