Page 163 of Rogue Elves of Ardani

“I sincerely hope that’s not a serious question.”

They talked alone in the empty dining room for a long time.

Crow had few friends. She had no connections other than Patros’s associates. She was realizing, now that she was by herself, how difficult it was going to be to live that way. She certainly didn’t want to end up spending all her time with someone like Toreg.

So she suggested to Nero that he might benefit from someone with an Ashara’s talents. Since the night elves’ existence in Valtos needed to be kept secret, the ability to sense a stranger’s true intentions could be invaluable. Nero agreed with her.

So she returned to Akaia’s Haven that evening, and the next, and the next, helping to keep the place secure. Eventually she started doing other things, too. Her presence made it easier for them to safely organize deliveries of supplies, provide escorts in and out of the city, and make connections with other non-Varai around Valtos.

It became a real haven for her. It had been built for Varai, not for half-Ashara, but the function was the same. She didn’t have to hide who she was there. It was a place of secrecy and safety, where outcasts could find refuge.

When she had nothing else to do, she sat at the bar and embroidered. Here, and only here, she allowed herself to bring Vaara to mind, because she had been inspired by the things she’d seen in his memories. She made scenes with glowing mushrooms and blue trees and black deer and other things one could only see in a place as exotic as Kuda Varai.

Whenever she finished a piece, she would gift it to someone sitting nearby. She’d thought people were only accepting them out of politeness, but then they started requesting specific designs and inquiring about when the latest one would be finished, and even offered her payment for them.

Months went by. She settled into a new, better, comfortable life. And she tried to ignore that small, nagging feeling that she was still missing something.

She came home one day to find a man standing at her gate, looking through the bars at the garden beyond. She frowned.

“I told you not to come back,” she snapped.

The man turned. It was not Toreg. His hood was up, and he wore a familiar embroidered scarf over the lower half of his face.

Crow stopped. Her stomach flipped.

He paused, then pulled the scarf down around his neck. He looked almost surprised, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Crow,” he said finally. His voice sounded even more gravelly than usual, as if from disuse. He cleared his throat.

All the feelings she’d been holding back since he left came crashing down around her. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to kiss him or shout at him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He blinked. Then, as if he’d suddenly remembered something, he rummaged through his pack and pulled out a long box. “I brought this for you,” he said quietly.

She arched an eyebrow and stepped forward to take it. Inside was a bouquet of dead flowers. She looked up at him questioningly.

“I’m sorry they’re dead,” Vaara said. “It was a long journey from Kuda Varai to Valtos. I preserved them as best I could.”

“You… brought me flowers?” Crow said, smirking up at him bemusedly.

He glanced away, then back at her, defensive. “Yes.”

“They’re from Kuda Varai?”

His expression softened. “In Kuda Varai, we offer these flowers to people we want to make amends with. The recipient can accept them if they’re willing to talk, or… reject them.”

Crow looked down at the flowers. They were alien and beautiful, like a plant from another plane. The petals were dry and withered, but they looked to have been blue-black spotted with white at one point. The black stems were tied together with a little black string. “They’re beautiful.”

Vaara waited, as if expecting her to give them back to him anyway. When she didn’t, he seemed to relax.

“In Ardani, we give flowers to people we’re romantically interested in,” Crow said.

“We do that, also,” he admitted.

There was a heavy, drawn out silence. Crow fingered the edge of the box. She wasn’t often at a loss for words. There was a first time for everything, she supposed.

Vaara took a step closer, closing the gap between them. He took her hand. Not with bare skin, she noticed—he was wearing gloves. The warmth of his skin radiated through them. Was it her imagination, or were his fingers a little less thin than before? Was his hair thicker and shinier? Was his face less gaunt, and his skin brighter? No, it wasn’t just her. He looked better. Healthier. He looked like the real Vaara. The Vaara he’d been before prison.

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