Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 7.2: Cling to hope

Ella wrote two more notes for Callan.

When are you coming? How? One said. On the other, she'd then tried to make a shoddy map of sorts, from where Keldriff was, which wasn't much help, given that it was in the middle of nowhere. She'd never gotten to send these messages though, because as soon as Vesper delivered the last note from Callan, he disappeared and didn't come back.

From then on, Ella fell into the waiting game.

Logically, Callan wouldn't be coming any time soon. He didn't even know where Ella was. She was in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, with no visible markers to lead the way. Finding her was a coin toss at best. Still, Ella knew that if Callan had said he would come, he would do it. Something deep inside told her he always did.

She estimated he would arrive a few days later. He had told her to stay where she was, so Ella stayed still, sure that if she tried to venture out to meet him halfway, she would only manage to get herself in trouble, as she was wont to do.

She'd settled herself for a long haul, so it startled her to the bone when just a few hours later, three firm knocks sounded on the door.

She wiped suddenly clammy hands on her skirts, as she stared at the door in askance and ambled over. She knew who was on the other side even before she opened.

Outside, the sun had almost set, drowning everything in dreary blue. Illuminated by the glow of the fire coming from the house, Callan stood there, looking just as firm and formidable as she'd always known him to be. Hopeful, apologetic but so, so determined.

Seeing him standing there shook something in her, something dormant for many, many years. With startling clarity, all at once, she knew she had seen him this way before.

"Mister wolf," she whispered to herself, the howling wind almost drowning out her voice.

Callan's features morphed into incredulity. They looked at each other as if the years of distance came rushing back at full speed. So much time, so much loss. It all settled into the space between them, silence carrying more words than any of them could utter.

"You remember?" His voice was faint, as if afraid to break the tenuous space between them.

Ella nodded, the knot in her throat making it difficult to speak. "Somewhat," she managed. "I think."

She moved to the side, feebly waving him inside. Callan ambled in, heavy boots snow-covered, movements strained and stiff. The house, which was small to begin with, looked downright tiny with Callan inside. The slanted roof grazed his head, making him look like a giant in a dollhouse.

Callan looked around, as if afraid to break anything. Finally, he settled on a, "Is this where you have been staying?"

Ella nodded and ushered him to the sofa, afraid that if he sat on the old rocking chair, he'd break it. "I found it accidentally," she mumbled, busying herself with setting a kettle for tea. It was sorely needed for the conversation they were about to have.

"I stayed here during the storm, and now..." she waved a hand and tapered off.

"I'm glad you found shelter," Callan uttered. He was a comical sight, half sunken into the worn sofa, knees awkwardly raised and elbows jutting out at odd angles. He looked like he was sitting on children's furniture. Had the circumstances been different, Ella would have laughed.

As it was, they simply stared at each other, tense, words bubbling in the silence, like a kettle about to boil.

"I'm sorry for what I said--"

"I am sorry for what happened, I never meant to hurt you--"

Ella let out a whoosh of air, an almost laugh, deflating like a balloon. Callan gave her a tentative smile, rusty and a little out of use.