32. Wren
The forest falls away beneath us. Cold air rushes under my wings, clean and sharp, carrying the damp green scent of Duskfen and the sweeter note of night-blooming flowers just beginning to open. I bank left, letting instinct take over.
Cassiel, in his golden, sun-bright form, keeps pace at my shoulder, so close I can feel the warmth of him through the air.
He whistles. A trilling, delighted sound.
Robin flits behind us. He’s taken to flying just like I thought he would, and seems to be enjoying it just as much as Cassiel.
I enjoyed it too, when I first learned to transform. It was about the only joy I had in those early days.
Cassiel dives suddenly, a streak of light, then pulls up hard and laughs in whistles, looping back to me with barely contained glee. I can’t help it—I laugh too, the sound torn away by the wind. He whistles to go left, to dive, to follow, and I do.
In another life, I’d follow that boy anywhere.
I try not to fixate on the fact that I can’t, and for a little while, it works.
I forget to count the hours. I forget the tight coil of worry sitting in my chest, the knowledge that this magic has a limit, that every beat of his wings is borrowed time.
I forget Dain waiting, and the inn, and the world that insists on pressing in around us.
I just fly.
We skim treetops and dappled clearings, the forest a dark, breathing thing beneath us. Fireflies scatter as we pass, sparks flung up into the air. Cassiel keeps darting ahead, circling back, clearly discovering new joys by the second: speed, height, the sheer pleasure of movement without thought.
He whistles over here, and I answer with a sharp call of my own.
He’s not forgotten any of our whistles.
Halfway through the journey, I have to rest. I don’t particularly want to, but I won’t fix the situation by collapsing mid flight.
I tilt my wings and spiral down into a small clearing, landing lightly on moss and damp leaves.
Cassiel follows, hopping from foot to foot, wings flicking, clearly confused but obedient. Robin lands with a prim little huff.
“All right,” I murmur, calling my shape back. Feathers ripple into skin, wings folding away as bones remember themselves. The world settles back into its proper scale, gravity reclaiming me with a familiar ache.
Cassiel tilts his head, eyes bright.
“Stretch break,” I tell him. “Also food.”
I sit on a fallen log and stretch my very literal legs, groaning softly.
From the pack, I pull out the last of the nuts and scatter them on a flat stone.
Robin is on them immediately, pecking with enthusiasm.
Cassiel eyes them, hops closer, then takes one in his beak.
He shoots me an indignant look, like this is hardly the meal he expected.
“You can’t exactly eat a three course meal,” I tell him. “Your little birdy stomach wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
I tear off a chunk of bread for myself, chewing quickly. The forest hums around us—crickets, distant owls, the soft sigh of leaves.
I can’t afford to wait for too long. We have to reach the Rosey Duckling soon.
“Right,” I say, brushing crumbs from my fingers. “Back up we go.”
Cassiel whistles once, a little softer now, but still eager. We take off together again, slipping back into the sky.
The edge of the Duskfen comes into view not long after, trees thinning, the air changing, the forest’s deep magic loosening its grip. I angle down into a moonlit glade just inside the boundary, heart starting to race again.
This is as far as we can go like this.
I land and shift back immediately, knees sinking into the soft earth. “Here,” I murmur. “We wait.”
Robin drops beside me. A short while later, the potion wears off. His feathers begin to ripple. He shudders, gives a sharp little chirp, and pop.
A dog where a bird was, shaking himself vigorously and immediately attempting to lick my face.
I laugh and push him back gently. “Easy. You did great.”
Cassiel’s transformation takes longer. Long enough for me to worry, to panic that I’ve miscalculated, that he’ll be stuck this way for hours, or, somehow, forever. The humans will march on the Duskfen. People will die. Runara will lose her last sibling. Cassiel will—
But before I can completely succumb to panic, the magic starts to unravel. Golden feathers melt into skin; wings draw inward, reshaping into arms. He drops—lightly, thankfully—straight into my lap, naked and grinning like a fool.
He looks up at me. “I was a bird!” he announces, breathless, eyes shining.
I snort. “You seem very excited about this.”
“I got to fly.”
“You did.”
“I really liked it.”
“I can tell.”
I lean down to stroke Robin’s ears, who has decided this is the perfect moment to wedge himself between us. “Who’s really the puppy here,” I ask mildly, “you or him?”
Cassiel laughs, warm and bright, then reaches for our pack and tugs out his clothes. He dresses quickly, movements slowing as reality settles back in around us.
The light is changing.
Dusk deepens toward night, shadows stretching long between the trees. Through a break in the forest, I spy the Rosey Duckling, lanterns glowing softly, windows spilling out into the cool night air, round and orange as pumpkins.
Cassiel follows my gaze. His smile fades, replaced by something quieter, heavier.
“Oh,” he says. “Right.”
We sit there for a moment, the forest breathing around us, Robin pressed against my side.
“I wish—” Cassiel starts, then stops. He swallows. “Saints. I wish for so many things.”
I nod. “Me too.”
He leans forward and presses his forehead to mine.
“I’m not ready,” he says.”
“We never would be.”
He swallows, taking my hands. I don’t think either of us can say the words.
But we have to. We have to.
Cassiel pulls back, lips pursed in thought.
“Cass?”
“Can you… can you wait here? Just for a few minutes?”
“I… yes?”
“Good.” He kisses my forehead. “Don’t leave.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Not yet. Not ever, not really. I never dream of leaving Cassiel, not in my good dreams. Only my nightmares.
I’m not ready to give weight to those yet.