Grief or rage or love: why did Elia never have the right words to speak?
A queen would have them.
So that was what she decided to say.
“Everyone wants different things from me, and it is never enough: my father wants that I be a star, only his, and not even my own; my sisters require that I submit to them, or to never have existed at all; Morimaros wishes that I be his queen; and Brona and Kayo want that, too, but for them! Even Aefa wants me to rule, if it makes me safe. You’re the only one who ever asked me to be something for myself. And there is a chaotic web of danger all around us—war and spies, dukes and kings, and even just this storm, this breaking island—and I don’t know how to make any of it better. I just know that I want to. I want to make Innis Lear strong, to help the land revive and the rootwaters clear, and I want you to kiss me again, and always.”
“Why?” His voice cracked.
“Because I…” Her shoulders lifted; her voice drained away. “Because this is the only way I know what to say to you. We’ve never needed words.”
“I think you’re so beautiful, Elia, it hurts me sometimes.”
It hurt her, too, the hearing of it. Morimaros had said she was beautiful, gently convincing. This was so different. With Ban it was a struggle. It was selfish to take and take.
Elia closed her mouth, stopped trying to speak. Instead, she pulled Ban back to the low bed. She sat on it, her head level with his waist, and untied his pants again. He held still, the long line of his muscled belly trembling, hands frozen at his sides. Elia focused on the work, and when the laces were free, she grasped the band of the pants and gently tugged them down over his hips. Her eyes flicked to his because she couldn’t quite look at the rest of him.
Ban’s lips parted. “Elia,” he breathed.
“We’re in the heart of the White Forest. Whatever we need, Brona can help with.”
“She’s not perfect with prevention,” he said bitterly. “She had me.”
Wrinkling her nose, Elia said, “Because she wanted you, Ban! And I want you, too. I always, always have.”
His shoulders hitched as his breath went ragged, and Elia leaned back onto the bed, pulling the long shirt up her thighs, holding his gaze. All her skin was tight, and tingled: her lips, her nipples, the small of her back, and the damp well of her body, aching.
“Ban,” she said.
He gave in, kneeling on the edge of the bed. Elia reached for him, and Ban bent over her. They scooted together, and Elia spread her thighs, pulling up the shirt to get it off herself. She had to wiggle where it stuck under her back, twisting her arms until it slipped up over her head, dragging at her hair. Ban did not help at all, propped over her on hands and knees. His breath was hot, skimming around her breasts and along her ribs.
In the dim orange firelight, Elia shivered. She touched Ban’s chest: scars pale against his skin, some random, others in obvious designs of the language of trees. One of them spelled out his name, and Elia leaned up to kiss it, put her tongue there, making Ban groan.
He hardly moved, letting Elia do what she would, still hanging over her, every part of him awake and hot with desire.
She recalled Aefa’s specific instructions: Whatever else you do, make sure you’re damp enough, if not from exertion and lust, then spit or grease or something, don’t forget that, especially your first time. Try to relax! Not your strong suit, I know. I hope you’ll have some wine.
Oh, stars, and her friend was only a cottage away.
Elia smiled suddenly. Ban did not smile back, but something in his eyes brightened.
She touched her belly, and then petted the wild hair at the top of her thighs, at the crest between them, and slipped her fingers between the folds, showing him. “Ban,” she whispered, using her other hand to caress his chin, nudging his face down so he would look.
With a little gasp, his entire body shuddered and he put his hand over hers, between them. At the first touch of his finger against her unbearably tender flesh, Elia whimpered, her hips lifting off the mattress. “Ban,” she said again. More urgently, louder.
He shifted, panting, and carefully, shivering, they moved together, focused so precisely either would have been embarrassed to realize. Elia put her hands against his ribs, widened her hips, and whispered his name in the language of trees.
THE NIGHT BEFORE the island shattered, there was a raging storm.
Wind cracked the sky, drawing thunderclouds impossibly tall, like castles for lost earth saints, throwing black shadows over the whole island, coast to coast. All living on Innis Lear hid, tucked heads beneath blankets or huddled in nests or tree hollows, shivering, wretched; the sharp trick of lighting bit at tongues and fingernails and the napes of necks.
Those forced to venture out did so with clenched teeth and layers of protection, sticking carefully to known paths, holding hands, bracing against the ferocious wind and squinting through driving rain.
Those lost clung to anything they could find.
One let rain cut against her cheeks like cold daggers, preparing herself for what was to come. She was glad for such a roiling, starless sky.
One raced in such a terrible frenzy she could not feel the rain at all. It was only desperate tears, hot on her cheeks, and a storm of panic, lighting her from the inside.
One found, finally, the balance she’d long overlooked; branches stretching between all she’d ever loved. It was not a choice, or destiny. It was not storm nor sea
