“I understand now,” Viala says with a smile. “A honeymoon suite is a room for romance.”
“Particularly between the newly bound,” Tharios says as he grins at Cerian.
That familiar scowl is back on Cerian’s face, and Arisanna struggles not to smile. Or melt into the floor.
“A fascinating concept,” Viala says before gazing at Tharios. “I don’t believe it would have helped us like each other any better in those early days of our binding.”
Tharios crosses his arms and smirks as he looks at her. “But it would have been fun.”
Viala shrugs, and Arisanna tries not to dwell too much on their exchange.
“So what now?” Cerian asks. “I certainly have no desire to approach the hotel owner and tell him I redecorated his hotel without his permission.”
“Perhaps we should let Grandmera do it,” Tharios says.
“We don’t want to terrify the poor man,” Arisanna says before thinking better of it, and laughter greets her in response.
“She has a point.” Tharios grins.
“Perhaps Arisanna’s father would be better suited to the task,” Viala suggests. “Might the hotel owner give more heed to his own king?”
Arisanna sighs. “I’m sure he would, but Father can’t climb the stairs with his rheumatism.”
Tharios repeats the word, frowning as if trying to place it.
“His knees give him pain,” Arisanna adds.
“Ah. Yes. Well, I can fix that, at least temporarily.”
Arisanna stares at Tharios. He makes it sound so easy, as if the ever-present pain that limits Father’s mobility and prevents him from riding and climbing stairs is little more than a scraped knee.
“You can heal his knees?” Emotion swells in her throat.
“For a time. It will return without regular infusions of life magic, though. And not even elven magic can delay the decline of old age indefinitely.”
“How often would the magic run out?” she asks.
“Perhaps after a year. So much depends on the healer and the health of the one being healed. My magic might even last a couple of years if your father takes care not to push his body too hard.”
Words escape Arisanna, and she sways, but a warm hand slides into her own, steadying her as she gapes at Tharios.
“Forgive me for not suggesting it,” Cerian says softly. “I should have thought to ask Tharios if he could relieve your father’s suffering.”
“Please,” she whispers. “Please help him.”
“Of course. Had I known, I would have offered already. Perhaps I could examine him fully while we’re here. Ensure there’s nothing else I can do to keep him strong for years to come. I can’t prevent the inevitable, but I can delay it—”
But Arisanna doesn’t hear the rest as she buries her face in Cerian’s shoulder and tries to force back the dampness in her eyes and the lump in her throat. And Cerian doesn’t flinch. He wraps her in his arms, comforting her with his gentle touch and whispered words.
When she looks up again, Tharios and Viala are gone, and only Cerian remains beside her.
No words come as she gazes into his eyes. Heat smolders there. And love. Devotion. Concern.
A longing for the comfort only he can provide fills her. Not that she’s sad. Overwhelmed would better describe it. And her thoughts are too jumbled to put to words beyond the simple thought of what Tharios offers.
More time. She might get more time with her father.
It’s a thought too hard to comprehend.
