“We can go now.”
I slam the book shut, blushing furiously. Taran stands a few feet ahead, covering a yawn with his fist. It doesn’t seem like he noticed the sketches. The last thing I need is for him to think I’ve been obsessively drawing him this entire time. So I shove the sketchbook to the bottom of my bag.
As we walk away, I glance back at the sheep. I remembertaking my sketchbook out, but then… I must have gotten too lost in thought to draw them. My hands sink into my empty pockets.
* * *
Over the next two days, my tension increases exponentially. Taran spends most of the time keeping his distance, until I trip, slip, or otherwise highlight my humanity. Then he coddles me until his touch lingers for a moment too long, and it’s back to frosty indifference.
Despite my best attempts to help—asking about his plans, trying to offer suggestions—I’m basically luggage he’s dragging around the countryside. He lets me gather food, but only after he’s used fae magic to sprout an unnatural amount of berries on the busheshefinds. And when it comes time for his meetings, he simply stashes me away, out of sight, returning with hardly a word. It’s hard to hold back the tears in those moments, not knowing if he can hear me.
On the third morning, I startle awake from haunting visions of the border to find his arm around me, his warmth permeating my back as his form follows mine. It’d been another frigid night, so he’d sat against a tree with me tucked into his chest. He must have grown uncomfortable during the night and laid us down.
And for once, I woke up first.
What should I do?
My throat tightens, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to stay still as my entire body tenses. I don’t want to wake him and have this moment end. How pathetic is that?
It‘s not right to think of him this way—even if he weren’t a fae prince and me a lowly human, he’s made it clear he doesn’t want this. But how could this have happened if he didn’t? If only he were willing to look past all that and let me be more than just anotherburden. A tool. Then my being here would actually matter.
Is it wrong to want that?
No, but I don’t know how to do it on my own. Everything I’ve tried has failed, which makes sense; I’ve never done anything other than follow expectations.
Maybe that’s what I need to figure out. My own path.
Taran shifts behind me. I wipe my eyes and focus on breathing.
In an instant, he shoots away, cold air rushing to fill the void he left behind. I curl tighter into a ball, sniffing back tears.
He clears his throat, and his words come out as if they tripped on a gravel road. “We should get ready to go.”
Of course.
I barely manage a nod.
“Ellie?” Concern laces his voice.
I nod again, choking out a response. “I’m alright.” With a deep breath, I force myself up, keeping my back to him as I wipe my face again.
“I didn’t mean to…” His voice wavers, then he sighs. “I’m sorry.”
I swallow, tasting the bitterness of my frustration, then spit out, “For what?”
He doesn’t answer, and I’m tired of waiting, so I pull on my pack and start walking. He’ll correct my direction when he catches up.
* * *
Sometime around mid-morning, we step through a shadowy forest of gargantuan trees—they must be ancient—until we arrive at an absolutely stunning fae village. Its dwellings sit high among the forest’s branches; smooth pieces of wood wrapped around the tree trunks, like lumps of clay someone formed around them. We ascend along a spiraling walkway of flattened wood, passing by some ethereal orbs floating through the air, pulsing with a warm, pinkish light. I reach out to touch one, but Taran stops me, grabbing my hand with a silent shake of his head.
He’s been more careful around me this morning, clearly having enough sense to realize I’m upset. Not that he’s talked to me about it. Or anything at all, for that matter. But instead of abandoning me at the outskirts, he’s brought me along for this last meeting of his. As we approach one of the dwellings, the door opens before he can knock.
“Taran? What are you doing here?”
A fae woman steps aside as she lets us into her home. A tree grows through one corner of the triangular foyer, with archways leading to two other rooms, one on each side.
I can’t help but notice the lack of ‘Your Highness’ or any bowing on her part. She looks similar in age to him, with umber skin and rosy eyes, her auburn curls flowing freely around her face.
