8. Arrick

Chapter eight

Arrick

O nce Yera and I have a way to communicate, we work on my speech.

Each letter and syllable I choke out feels foreign and wrong. My throat aches, but I can say my name and her name, albeit forced and awkward sounding.

Only now do I see the dark circles under her eyes and the strain on her face. She stayed up later than she should have, excited to communicate and teach me speech. Her delicate features seem weighted with the stress from the day, and I internally scold myself for not noticing it.

Another sleepy yawn escapes her mouth, and I point to the bedroll, gesturing for her to lie down and sleep .

"Are we both going to sleep there?" she asks hesitantly.

I shake my head no and write that I will stay up and keep watch.

Her features soften. "You don't have to do that. If you wanted to hurt or violate me, you would have done it well before you cooked me dinner." A light laugh rises from her throat, and she pauses before continuing. "If you get tired, we can share the bedding. We're both adults. At least, I think you're an adult. I never thought to ask your age."

I write out the number 150, and she gasps. "You one hundred and fifty years old? How old do people of your kind typically live?" I write out 600, and her mouth gapes. "How is that possible? I can't wait until you can speak. I have so many questions. This place is fascinating. I want to know everything about it."

I motion back to the bedroll, indicating we can finish the conversation after she rests. I'll need to watch for that , I think.

Her excitement and hunger for knowledge override her basic needs. I'll need to ensure she takes care of herself.

She sleepily walks over to the bedding and tucks into the covers. The word 'cute' pops up in my mind when I see her buried in the blankets. She makes contented sighs before her breathing evens out in what must be sleep.

Most of the night, I recount the day. I've always considered my life to be exciting. I spend my days in the most magical areas. I've seen the rarest creatures and view the sprites and fairies as friends. Yera is something wholly new and unexpected.

While she sleeps, she stirs and appears to be saying something. She spills some incoherent phrases about orbs and Crock-O-Beavers before she quiets again.

She really is fucking cute .

A smile arches over my face, and I try to bite it back. She shouldn't have such an effect on me.

The draw to lie beside her is palpable despite my body not showing any of the normal indicators for sleep. Maybe I am tired, just ignoring the usual signs.

It's not her, right?

I walk over and pull the covers back slightly, ensuring no chill gets in. I make sure not to approach too closely and hold my body tense at the edge of the blankets, leaving a space between us.

Her heat bleeds into the hollow air under the covers and gently taps at my skin. I want to stretch my hand, run my calloused fingers through her curly hair and then trace it down the arch of her jawline. See if her skin is as smooth as I remember it being.

With her back turned towards me, I resist the temptation to pull her close and wrap her in my arms.

Where is this coming from?

You've been around breathtaking creatures without any desire to touch them. Why this human? You've seen humans before, and they've never had this effect on you.

My mind continues shouting at me for more time than I care to admit before everything goes cloudy, and I fall fast asleep.

I wake with a jolt. Two woodland fairies are arguing nearby, a slight sound only a creature like myself would notice, but to me, it's as if they are shouting directly into my eardrum.

I blink against the irritation and then stop cold. My arm and hand are flooded with heat. I realize it's draped over Yera's waist, with my hand gently pressed to her stomach. I snap it back so fast that the covers shift at the movement.

Quiet spreads, and I desperately listen to her breathing for signs she is still sleeping, oblivious to my indiscretion .

My heart pounds in my chest, and I grab at it, shamed and embarrassed, but then I hear her breath suck in, followed by rhythmic light snores, and exhale. Thank the spirits .

There is still heat in my palm from where it rested on her stomach, and I wipe it on my pants, trying to rid myself of her warmth and clear my thoughts of how her body felt under my touch.

She is a scared human in a world in which she knows nothing. Frightening or intimidating her is the last thing I want to do.

We will travel together in close quarters for the next two weeks. I need to take control of my emotions. I need to explain the wisps and her presence here.

We need to communicate. My vocal cords still ache from last night, but now I'm more determined than ever to learn.

***

"Trree." Yera exaggerates every syllable while resting her palm on a massive cedar. I mimic the word in a choked tone, my voice growing more and more hoarse as the day goes on.

It delighted her when I wrote out that I wanted to learn to speak. Since then, she's chatted non-stop, occasionally pausing to have me repeat a word.

I hate the sound of my voice.

This entire process makes me feel infantile, working my mouth around simple sounds, knowing they're not coming out the way they sound in my head. Frustration stains my features as each passing choked word leaves my throat.

She stops again, points at a ripe berry growing on the trail and stretches out the word "green" for me to roll around and spit back at her. This time, the word is clearly pronounced with the correct placement of consonants and vowels. She looks taken aback by the clarity of the expression and gives me a broad, sincere smile.

She assures me, "This won't take long," brushing my forearm briefly. We're making progress, and she is pleased. That's all I can hope for until I can honestly communicate with her.

The day presses on, and words become more accessible. I'm connecting the language in my head to the sounds I make.

However, the pain in my throat and vocal cords is becoming agonizing. Since my speech is choked no matter what I say, I doubt she has picked up on the extra strain or the rasp in my tone. So, I must rest my voice to talk with her around the fire tonight. I stop on the trail and turn back, where she follows close. She looks up at me, her eyes beaming.

I look down at her and wrap my finger around my sore throat. I choke out a ragged "Hurt," and she understands immediately.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I didn't think about how sensitive your vocal cords would be. I just got so caught up in how quickly you're learning things." She gives me a sheepish smile and folds her arms over her chest.

We spend the rest of the day in silence, not strained or awkward. Just quiet. I encourage her to lead us down the trail for a while.

This area grows exceptionally dense, and the trees and grasses arch over the path, creating a tunnel. It's challenging to leave the trail, even if desired.

She hesitantly steps in front of me and takes the lead, and I gaze at her, fascinated. She brushes her delicate hands through the flora as she passes, testing the textures of each leaf between her thumb and forefinger. I walk behind and smile, watching her take in the forest. It's like she breaks everything into a million pieces and reassembles it, all to understand things better, to learn about this place the only way she knows how. It is truly a wonder to behold.