The Haven

Chapter 10

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Note: Hey to anyone who has anything to say about my Wanderer translation – I KNOW THAT"S THE POINT! Keep reading....... ;-)

~IM

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"You said in the library that you thought magic wasn't real," said Nikolai.

Elsa heard his voice weave through the rhymes in her own head. Agrimony for the deepest rest, Amanita left alone at best... A heavy book lay propped on one knee as she sat, curled up, in a wide window seat. On the page, the litany of herbs hypnotically lulled their properties into her brain.Amaranth any hurt arrest–

"What did you mean?" Nikolai's voice interrupted the

Elsa shook her head, trying to separate the spoken words in her ears from the written ones in front of her. She looked up. "What?"

Nikolai had a book open in his left hand, but he wasn't looking at it. His eyes were on his other hand. A broken chain wound between his fingers. "You said magic wasn't real," he repeated, the words dull. He didn't look at her. "In the library."

"I didn't say that."

"You said you might be crazy. That we might be crazy," he clarified. "You said if. If it's real."

"Yeah, well..." Elsa sat up and let the book slide into her lap. "Yeah, I guess."

"Do you think we're both crazy?"

Is it important?She looked at him for a moment. The frustration was gone from Nikolai now, but the empty monotone, the grey apathy that rippled out from him wasn't much better. Less headache-inducing, though. "Maybe," Elsa answered honestly.

He looked at her. "But you do it anyway. Why?"

"Um," she faltered. One hand came up to twist around her necklace chain, her fingers tapping against the blue stone. She sighed. "I guess..." I just met you, and you want the story of my life?

"What?" Nikolai's eyes followed her agitated fingers.

Elsa paused for another moment. She looked back down at the words on the page. The story of her brushes with magic was the story of her life. It was intimate, a deeply personal origin story she didn't really care to share with anyone.

But there'd never before actually been anyone to share it with.

And now here she was, sitting in a library filled with spell books, pentagrams, the scent of old wax, and a guy asking her about her views on magic.

"When I was ten..." she started, the story slipping out, almost without her approval, begging to be shared because there'd never been another chance. She took a breath and looked back up. "When I was ten, my mom... she tripped. Carrying spaghetti in a pot of boiling water from the stove to the sink and..." she trailed off again. It was such a stupid story, such a tiny little moment, such a normal moment. But it was the beginning of everything. "Well, never try cooking in six inch heels okay? Bad idea."