Episode 143 We’ve Done This Already
We’ve Done This Already
Arisanna wakes to Cerian crawling out of bed before daylight.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers.
“I’m just checking on Uncle Quilian.”
She sits up and rubs her eyes as he pads across the stone floor. His feet must be cold without his boots.
Does Cerian get cold?
He says nothing as he feels his uncle’s forehead and presses their arms together again. Uncle Quilian mumbles under his ragged breath.
When Cerian glances back at Arisanna, worry fills his eyes. “He has a slight fever and sounds delirious. I’m going to sit with him. Go back to sleep?”
“Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. Someone should be here soon. Hopefully, someone who can help him.”
Arisanna shivers, and Cerian frowns. It’s a lot colder without him beside her in the bed.
Quietly, he adds more kindling to the hearth before pulling off his shirt.
Stars above, he’s nice to look at in the flickering light. Or any light. Memories of running her hands over him the last time they visited the heartlanding fill her, and her cheeks warm.
A soft smile fills his face when her eyes find his again.
“I saw that,” he says. “Here, put this on. It will keep you warm.”
He’s giving her his shirt?
“But—”
“I’ll be fine. Fire wielder, remember? I’m always hot.” He presses a slow kiss to her lips, and she doesn’t argue when he hands her the shirt. He must have warmed it with his heat before he took it off.
She slips it on and breathes in deeply. It smells like him. Smoke and berries. It’s a comforting scent, and her shivering soon slows. “Thank you.”
“Try to sleep some more, all right?”
She nods and lies down again, and he blankets the air around her with more of his heat. She won’t be cold now.
Sleep is slow to come, though, especially with Uncle Quilian’s ragged breathing filling her with worry. She barely knows the man, but he means something to Cerian. Cerian doesn’t let down his guard around many people the way he does with his uncle.
Eventually, her exhaustion wins out, and the flickering fire blurs in her vision before her eyes slide shut and sleep takes her.
When Arisanna wakes again, faint light shines through the nearby window. It must be right around sunrise. Uncle Quilian murmurs incoherently as he shivers, and Arisanna frowns. Where is Cerian? His heart is racing.
She spots him standing in the open doorway, silhouetted by the soft morning light.
A fireball swirls in one hand, and he looks ready to call on his plant magic with the other hand.
His chin is lowered, and his feet are set in a wide stance.
The muscles along his shoulders flex as he shifts, and her heart speeds up just from looking at him.
Stars above. Her gentle prince looks fierce. Her heart beats even faster, and heat pools within her as she watches him standing there, ready to protect her.
Terror wins out over her attraction, though. Who’s out there? And does Cerian plan to fight them off alone?
She almost calls to him before thinking better of it. She probably should avoid distracting him at the moment.
Then she hears it. Horses. He must have heard them long before she did.
Hopefully, it’s his parents and not someone else. His heart pounds along with hers as they wait, barely breathing, not moving.
Then Cerian’s fire flickers out, and he’s being crushed to a silver-haired elf’s chest.
King Lorial.
Relief nearly brings Arisanna to tears as her heart rate slows alongside Cerian’s. His father whispers all sorts of things Arisanna can barely hear, and Cerian grips him tightly in response.
Once Lorial lets him go, his mother draws him close, and he clings to her.
“I have many things to say to you, Cerian,” she says.
“I know.”
“For now, I will say I love you more than you could ever imagine. Are you all right? Both of you?” She pulls back and smooths his hair as her eyes wander over him, assessing him for injuries. No one seems to notice or care that he’s shirtless.
“Arisanna and I are fine, but—”
“Whistling wind. Quilian.” Lorial rushes to the bed, and Nestraya gasps as she lets Cerian go and follows him. Lorial quickly steps aside for Nestraya. “We need a healer!” he cries.
“He’s burning up,” Nestraya says. “What happened?”
“He told me his horse threw him,” Cerian says. “He said he healed his lung as well as he could, and he hit his head. He’s been getting worse by the hour. I didn’t know what to do. I—”
“It’s all right. You did enough by leading us to him.” Nestraya pulls back the blankets covering Uncle Quilian and takes a knife to the furs he wears.
“Let someone else do it,” Lorial says to her. “You’re not ready.”
An unfamiliar elf flies to Nestraya’s side, and Nestraya works her jaw before moving out of the way. They all watch silently as the elf examines Uncle Quilian with her magic.
“I see a partially collapsed lung and broken ribs. I’m not positive, but I believe there’s a bone fragment embedded in the soft tissue. He also has a concussion. I may be able to stabilize him, my queen, but he needs more than a warrior-class healer.”
Nestraya paces anxiously, looking at Lorial the entire time. They seem to be holding a wordless conversation.
And then Lorial nods, and Nestraya drops back to the bed near Uncle Quilian’s head.
Cerian sits next to Arisanna and draws her to his side.
“Your mother isn’t a fully trained healer, either,” she whispers, and Cerian shakes his head.
“She has more experience than most warrior-class healers, though. And more powerful magic.”
They watch as Nestraya works with the other elf to stabilize Uncle Quilian. He cries out a few times, and Arisanna winces, but Cerian holds her close.
She tries not to think about the fact that they’re sitting on a bed as he wraps his arms around her without his shirt on. She’s a Westaria. This is fine.
And Uncle Quilian claims everyone’s attention at the moment, as it should be.
Eventually, Uncle Quilian’s breathing evens, and relief fills Arisanna.
“Only what’s necessary to get him home,” Lorial says, and Nestraya sighs as she straightens. She’s a little pale.
“That should be enough for now. Thank you, Third Laneara.”
“Of course, my queen. I’ll give you privacy now. Let me know if you need me again.” The elf rises and steps out of the shelter, and Lorial slides his hands along Nestraya’s jaw.
Before kissing her.
Stars above. Arisanna glances at Cerian, and his mouth twitches at the corners.
“He’s helping restore her magic,” he whispers.
“Oh. Does a kiss work better than other flesh contact?”
Cerian shakes his head. “Father claims it’s more convenient around others, though.”
“More convenient?”
Cerian clears his throat. “Than removing their clothing.”
Before Arisanna can respond to that with anything more than flaming cheeks, Lorial turns toward them. “Does this feel like déjà vu to you, my love?”
“You mean discovering our son attempting to keep an injured elf alive while his binding partner wears his shirt? I do feel like we’ve done this already today. Or yesterday, I suppose it is now. Perhaps we may sleep again eventually.”
Arisanna’s face heats even more as she fingers the leather cuffs of Cerian’s shirt. She’d give it back, but he’d probably refuse.
“At least this son isn’t near death,” Lorial says, and Nestraya’s expression darkens.
“Not yet. The morning is young, though.”
“Let’s hear what he has to say before you murder him, my love.”
“It’s unfortunate we aren’t near water so I may at least douse him first.”
“He might grow chilled in his current state of dress.”
Nestraya scoffs. “I doubt Cerian’s ever been cold.”
Lorial laughs at that, and Arisanna tries not to sink into the floor. Is Cerian going to say anything?
Nestraya’s expression softens. “I have rarely been as terrified as I was when Rafelis told us you were missing, Cerian. I would very much like to hear what you have to say about the events that led to you being here rather than at the hotel, where we asked you to stay.”
Cerian’s parents look at him expectantly, and Arisanna turns her eyes toward him as well.
How will he explain the magic that led them here?
And what will they say when he does?