Cerian repeats the Elvish words after Arisanna, knowing what will happen when he does. But he pushes through. This is his destiny. He won’t fight it.
Then it’s over. The pain vanishes along with the room as everything transforms into...a train?
Whistling wind, the fates must hate him.
“What just happened?” There’s an edge of panic in Arisanna’s voice, and her heart is racing. It’s an uncommon occurrence, but he easily recognizes the sensation.
“Arisanna—” He turns, and words escape him. She stands in the aisle between the velvet-lined seats wearing some sort of elven huntress or warrior dress made of leather. It’s black, and it straps over a single shoulder as theskirt splits high over her left leg, giving the gown a slanted appearance. She carries a bow and a few arrows in a quiver on her back. Her hair hangs in waves over her shoulders, held away from her face by a crown of flowers and ribbons.
It’s...not really practical attire for hunting or fighting. Did he conjure her in that?
Whistling wind, what is wrong with him?
Her large eyes follow his gaze, which he struggles to pull away from her.
“Well. At least I’m not wearing that monstrosity anymore.”
The urge to laugh surprises Cerian, but he suppresses it. There’s still a hint of fear in Arisanna’s voice, and she tugs at the skirt that covers...far less than it should.
She has gorgeous legs.
Cerian slides his eyes closed. The fates really do hate him.
“Cerian?”
How is he supposed to explain this to her? Perhaps someone should have warned her.
He should have warned her.
He exhales slowly and opens his eyes again. She’s moved closer as she eyes him with concern. And a thinly veiled look of...appreciation?
What in the Wildthorne Woods is he wearing? He was so enthralled with her—as much as he hates to admit it—that he didn’t even notice his own clothing.
He glances down, almost afraid to look, only to be met by his own elven leathers he usually wears in the woods. Though this version has no sleeves.
That’s not so bad.
“Cerian?” She runs her hands over her bare arms. If only he had something warmer to give her.
Then he spots a cloak lying over one of the seatbacks.
“Here.” He takes it and twirls it behind her, closing the clasp at her neck. It even has a split in it to allow access to her bow—though she probably doesn’t know how to use it.
She still looks stunning. In fact, the cloak only adds to the effect.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I have no idea why I’m only half-clothed. Or where we are or how we got here.”
He clears his throat. “It’s called a heartlanding.”
She frowns. “So you knew this would happen?”
“I did. Though I didn’t know the details.”
“You could have warned me.”
Before he can respond, the train lurches and slows, and Arisanna falls against his chest, elven huntress dress and all.
Trains, Dresses and Otherwise
