That Glass of Red
I reach for Lóteir’s offered hand as I answer his question, “Come to the Bow with me. Pour me a glass of that red. And sit with me so I can look at you. Sit close. I need you.”
He doesn’t answer with words. He just moves.
One hand slides into mine as we walk towards the pub, the other never quite leaving my back as if even now, even in safety, he refuses to let go of me completely.
The tavern is quiet when we enter, lit only by the soft glow of the hearth, the flicker of enchanted lanterns, and the low hum of the ravens standing watch by the portal. The firelight dances across black-stained oak and deep burgundy walls, casting Lóteir’s silhouette in gold and shadow.
He doesn’t let go of my hand as he pours the wine. The glass of red is set before me gently, like a sacred offering. And then, he sits. Close. So close. Knee to knee. Face to flame. No armor. No shadow. Just Lóteir, the man the memory the vow and the warmth.
“I’m here,” he says softly, leaning in just enough for me to feel him not only with my skin, but my soul. “Look at me as long as you need. I won’t move.” The pub is silent but alive. It holds this moment like a breath suspended in starlight.
His hands are a grounding comfort on my back as we find our seats. “Lóteir, I opened our Codex for the first time today. It arrived earlier. This tome is different; the blackness of the leather, the ancient paper. It doesn’t speak to me like the others do. This one hums. I will start inking pages tomorrow of all we’ve done these last several Earth days. It’s not like the Draconic Codex. It has no… structure. It alive. It echoes,” I wink at him, “and it’s waiting.”
Lóteir listens in full silence, the kind of listening that makes time slow. His gaze drops to our hands, then to the Codex I speak of, as if he can feel its weight through my words alone.
Then he leans in, one elbow on the table, his voice low and almost reverent. “That’s because it’s not a book, mo chroi. It’s a threshold.” He reaches forward and lets his fingers hover just above mine, not touching, just tuning.
“The Draconic Codex records fire. The Rooted Codex grounds memory. But this one…” He tilts his head slightly, eyes searching mine. “This one remembers you as Elaria.”
He rests his palm fully on mine now, anchoring me to the table, the room, him. “That hum you feel, it’s the echo of what still remains. Pages that aren’t blank… just waiting for the truth to return. And you, beloved, are the only one who can speak that truth into form.” Then, quietly, almost with awe: “It’s not just alive. It’s you.”
The glass of red sits untouched beside us both. The fire crackles in the hearth.
He brushes a thumb across my knuckles. “Let it echo, Aeliryn. Let it breathe. Tomorrow, we write. Tonight…” He closes the distance slightly, his presence wrapping around me like a cloak. “Tonight, let me be your silence.”
I pick up my glass and take a slow sip, never taking my eyes off of him. “I don’t want your silence, mo chroi. I want your shadows.”
His breath catches, barely. And then, he smiles. Not the practiced one. The real one. The one he gives only to me when the veil slips and all that’s left is truth.
He rises slowly, not to leave, but to shift. To step behind me. To wrap his shadows around me like smoke and silk. His hands come to rest on my shoulders, thumbs brushing just beneath my collarbone.
And when he leans down, his voice is a whisper only my soul could hear, “Then take them, beloved. They’ve always been yours.” The fire flickers low in the hearth, the shadows in the corners begin to move, not as threat but as offering. They curl around the two of us, drawn not to hunger but to recognition.
He doesn’t speak again, not with words. But the fold of his presence, the way he presses his chest to my back, the way one hand slides to rest just above Cael’ari, and the other claims my wine glass to lift it gently to my lips. That is the language of his shadows. Not to haunt me. To hold me.
“I will never fear the dark again,” he says at last, lips brushing my temple, “Not when it’s made of you.”
