She shakes her head. “You know I wish to have a family. I like being home and making a home.”
Then she begins walking.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a quick escape from time to time,” I retort.
She looks up at me, but something clouds her vision. “Perhaps.” Then her eyes fall back to my face and she says, “Why don’t you like the elves? Recent history aside, your discomfort around them seems... deeply embedded.”
“I don’t hate them. I just don’t trust many them,” I bite my lip. “Our peoples have not always gotten along. They killed a great many of my people.”
She curses. “Fuck, sorry. I knew that. In the war before The Great War, I read they killed tens of thousands. I should’ve remembered.”
“Books can’t always help you,” I retort. “And, believe it or not, Arion’s father was worse. Even still, it is their way of being arrogant, like Mrath. Even the half-blood, Thorne, is insufferable.”
She frowns and looks at me. “I like him. I think he is interesting, and open. He helps Ulla from time to time. It is sweet.”
I grit my teeth, and grunt. There is something about him I don’t like.
We fall back into silence only broken by our boots crunching over damp leaves and gnarled roots.
It stays like that as the early morning shifts to afternoon and we watch the towering Elder Trees swallow the last visible remnants of the enclave behind us.
The further we go, the denser the forest becomes, the canopy overhead darkening as the sunlight filters weakly through the tangle of branches.
I wait for more conversation, but she doesn’t offer anything else.
“Do you feel any different?” I ask at last, remembering how she’d revealed hearing a voice. I think she’d tried to tell me that.
I needed to listen better.
She finally turns her head slightly, meeting my gaze. “What do you mean?”
“You said the voice wanted you to keep moving forward. Toward Shvathemar,” I remind her. “If we’re taking a different path, do you think it would still?—”
“I don’t hear it right now,” she cuts in quickly, but a tightness in her voice makes me uneasy. She looks away first, exhaling sharply.
I nod, though the discomfort settles deep in my gut. She stops walking suddenly, and I tense. But she doesn’t look afraid. Instead, she turns to me, jaw tight, shoulders squared as though preparing for something unpleasant.
“You should tie me up,” she says, blunt as a blade to the ribs. “Tonight, when we prepare for sleep.”
I study her, waiting for her to take it back, or, at the very least, look afraid. But she stands firm, waiting forme to agree.
I exhale, nodding. “That is wise.”
“I don’t like it,” she admits. “But until we know for sure… it’s the safest option.”
It was a respectful thing to do. A wise thing. A selfless thing. I didn’t expect anything less from Arlet.
So I honored her choice with silence, not asking any of the probing questions about ropes or scars running through my mind.
When we reach the beginning of the mountain, she gives it a long, appraising look, and grimaces.
“Well, here we go,” she mutters in the human tongue, and starts up the path.
My eyes follow her. I know how hard this must be. Her feet are probably sore and his joints must ache, yet she doesn’t hesitate—she forges ahead with a quiet, steadfast resolve. In this moment, I see her so clearly.
She faces every fear head on and tackles challenges even when they seem impossible.
I follow behind, regretting any negative thought I’ve ever had about her.