Page 6 of Sweetling
The memory didn’t pain him as it once had, though it did stir a familiar ache.
Amongst the humans these past years, Allarion had begun to feel time’s passage more acutely than ever before. Time couldn’t heal, but it could dull.
Each changing season severed his ties to the faelands. Every fortnight away strengthened his own magic and resolve. Every day longer he took was another day Ravenna slept alone in her bower.
That last thought was a constant prickle beneath his skin.
In the years since leaving Ravenna, Allarion had crossed forests and rivers, fighting the pull of the faelands as he searched for a suitable place. It was mere chance that he heard of a region welcoming otherly folk, and he was one of the first to arrive in the Darrowlands almost a year ago to try establishing himself his own little demesne.
After years with just Bellarand to share the burden of his magic, finding the abandoned estate of Scarborough had been an utter relief. He’d found the dilapidated manor house and wild lands charming and begun imbuing them with his magic even before securing the deed to the property.
Months now he’d been there, reclaiming the land from the forest, tending the neglected house, and warding the borders. Every day a little more of his magic seeped into the land, and the estate was coming to life.
It was all good progress. He should be content.
It took time to bond with the new lands. With just him and Bellarand, the magic quickly grew acidic inside him. He gave it to Scarborough, where it was consumed by the trees and the moss and the stream just west of the house. The circuit gave him a day or two of relief before the magic again turned sour. Two years of pent magic had nearly felled him, and he was still recovering from the schism with the faelands.
In short, he was progressing, but not quickly enough.
Every day it took him to shore up his land and defenses was another Ravenna lay vulnerable.
He still wasn’t strong enough to protect her. He wasn’t even strong enough to leave his new land for long.
There was a possible solution to this. Something so obvious, it was elegant in its simplicity.
A mate.
In communing with the otherly folk who too wished to make the Darrowlands their home, Allarion had learned that most came with the hope of finding a human mate. More than one half-orc had claimed a human woman, and the manticore pride was growing notorious for sniffing around the skirts of every human woman they saw.
He’d long ago let go of any dream of having anazai,a heartmate. No fae stirred his soul and magic as anazaiwas supposed to, and Allarion had lived long enough to search for her throughout the faelands. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might exist as a human woman, not even after he met Aine.
Allarion had doubted he could find a trueazai,the one meant for him, the one who could harmonize with his magic, the one who could match his mind and fill his soul with light. But that was all right. He had learned over his years in the human realms that sometimes life was merely good enough.
A wife didn’t have to be his heartmate. He wasn’t foolish to hope for perfection, just a good woman to help anchor him to this human realm. Such a connection would surely hasten his bonding to Scarborough and enable him to fetch Ravenna that much sooner.
That was, until just this spring, during a previous visit to Dundúran. His path had been one he’d taken before through the city. There’d been nothing special or different about that day—except for when he heardher.
A laugh, the sound so pure it lit him from within, as potent as a burst of magic fresh from the earth. Turning Bellarand, he’d ventured closer to a simple well, unremarkable and similar to all the other wells dotting the dozen other city squares. Yet, it was there that he sawher.
And when he saw her, heard her, Allarionknew. Finally, the Twins were sending him a little luck.
As the ceremony concluded and the new couple stood to thank their guests, he waited patiently to put his new plan into action.
Some months ago, he’d gotten a favor out of the groom, to be decided later and of his choosing, for helping oppose Lady Aislinn’s treacherous brother from seizing the city with an army of sellswords. Allarion planned on doing so anyway, had pledged his loyalty and sword to Lady Aislinn some days before, but he wasn’t foolish enough to pass over an opportunity.
Like information, promises were worth far more than metal and gems.
He’d had some inkling of what he was likely to ask of Hakon, but now, his mind was made.
It took over an hour for the crowd to thin around the new couple.
Of course, Allarion could have forced the matter. Curiously, despite having made his home in the region for almost a year, the others, humans especially, gave him a wide berth. He didn’t mind, per se, but it was curious.
Still, he minded his manners, those taught to him an age ago by his aristocratic mother. As members of one of the most senior noble fae families, much expectation had been placed upon him and his siblings to succeed. Under his mother’s tutelage and kindness, they all flourished—his eldest sister became an accomplished musician, and the younger one of the most famed smiths of Fallorian; his brothers had distinguished themselves in botany and husbandry, and ran one of the most successful farms in the southern regions, harvesting the finest wool and growing the prettiest flowers.
For himself, Allarion had excelled at his warrior’s training, alongside Maxim and their other brothers-in-arms. They had earned their armor in the late days of the last Fae Queen and distinguished themselves with honor. They guarded the border and fought a handful of skirmishes against raiding orcs in the early days of the new Queen’s rule.
But when Amaranthe began waging war on her own people, Allarion and Maxim both had put down their swords. He’d wandered the faelands without true purpose, pestering his siblings and trying to learn their crafts. Nothing suited him.
