Nevander descends slowly, so as not to startle Seren, not to selfishly prolong their entangled flight. Instead of visual landmarks, he follows movement and sound. This twist of fog. That singing brook. Decades of joyful memories.
Past an opening in the leafy canopy is a cavernous meadow. A single great tree presides, its branches like vaulted ceiling beams. The swaying lattice of silver leaves transmutes sunlight into moonlight. Rich earth and dry grasses deepen the bouquet of floral scents. A stream curves to the south—out of sight, obscured by a short cliff in turn obscured by thickets. It mirrors the curve of the nearest leyline.
Nestled in the tree is a small cabin, currently dark and hard to see.
Tension eases from Nevander’s jaw as his boots touch earth. His wings hover, half-furled, as he reluctantly sets Seren down. His reward for letting go is Seren’s hand on his arm, briefly, finding balance.
Seren turns, his eyes the brightest stars in the silvered clearing. “This looks like your haven.”
Nevander shrugs his wings away, assessing the meadow for danger. Nothing more than the usual snareplants and snakeberries. “This is where I spent my youth. The best parts of it, anyway. Yarrow, Valerian, and I built that tree house.”
“What tree house?” Seren asks, squinting.
“I’ll show you.” A buzzing hum choruses from the south. Nevander knew they would come, curious as they are. “Soon. First, we have company.”
Colorful lights blink between the trees. Green, blue, gold, and more, dozens of them dance closer.
“Fireflies?” Seren asks.
“Pixies,” Nevander answers, nostalgia tugging a smile. “Don’t worry. They’re friendly.”
Seren starts. “All the stories say pixies are terrible troublemakers.”
“That too. But they’re friendly about it.”
Then the dancing swarm is upon them. Seren’s yelp of surprise softens into a wondering gasp. Rainbow lights brighten his face. Each pixie is the length of a hand, with darting dragonfly wings. Their tiny faces look much like high fae, except for the needle-sharp teeth. Plumes of pixie dust trail through spins and loops.
“Who is this?” one asks in a tiny voice.
“Is it Nevander?” another continues.
“Where have you been?” says a third. Or the first again—it’s hard to tell.
“I’ve been at court,” Nevander says, an incomplete answer. But the pixies aren’t truly asking. They’re accusing. Cheerfully.
More pixies chirp. “Isn’t the night lovely?”
“Aren’t we lovelier?”
“Who is this?”
Seren jumps as one swoops under his arm. “Do you only speak in questions?”
“Do we?” the pixies chorus. “Do we? Do we?”
“They can speak in statements,” Nevander says. “This swarm just started the question thing fifty years ago, and they’ve kept it up to be annoying.”
A green pixie hovers, sticking out his tongue. “Isn’t he rude? Aren’t we lovely?”
“Can I lie?” Nevander asks, grinning.
“Can he lie?” one echoes, and the others take it up. “Can he lie? Can he lie?”
Seren’s laugh sweetens the aggravating chorus. “Oh, they’re delightful. Harmony would love them—or hate them.” He reaches with an open palm, and a violet pixie alights. She wears a dress of frilly rose petals, and she peers up at Seren’s face.
Another pixie shoves her away, before being shoved in turn. The swarm commences a playful fight over the throne of Seren’s palm.
Having Seren here feels strange. Just as vulnerable as bringing Seren into Nevander’s haven. The Spiritwood clearing holds so many memories, as if Nevander’s younger self still walks here. Idealistic. Daring. Before his fateful vow. Spiritwood isreal, and Seren has been Nevander’s hidden dream for so long. An imaginary prince.
