Spellbound by Marcus Atley Page A

activity.
    Stavros watched Elion from the corner of his eye. The elf dropped his pack inside of the shallow cave and began shoving twigs and old moss into a pile. He didn’t seem outwardly bothered by the arrangements, even if his teeth were audibly chattering and his nose was burned from the cold. He had made it further than Stavros thought he would. Elion hummed quietly and used his foot to swipe a larger stick into range before turning to Stavros with a tired frown and announcing that they needed wood. His voice was tired, he was tired, and Stavros felt something tug in his chest; guilt maybe? No, he didn’t feel guilt because the brat wasn’t his responsibility.
    They didn’t stray far from the cave; just enough to gather wood to keep a fire burning low for the night. Elion was silent as he stacked his arms with sticks and twigs, his hood falling over his face, but doing little to keep him warm if his trembling arms were any indication. His bow would occasionally shift and cause Elion to cuss and shove it back. It suited him; the earthy leather armor that had obviously been created with him in mind. He had never considered if Elion could use a bow, but seeing him with it looked natural. Elion looked like he was in his innate setting, despite the snow. The tips of his ears were red and twitching against the cold when he pushed his hood back to keep it from his face. He scanned the wooded area, his almond shaped eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. Despite Stavros’ first impression of him, he would admit, Elion’s instincts were of a hunter. He walked with a grace that would give him an advantage over animal or criminal, a skill that couldn’t be taught. Stavros’ muscles tensed at the images of Elion hunting, silently stalking his prey, cycling through his mind.
    He offered Stavros an uncoordinated half-smile as they made their way back. It was rare to see him that quiet without his eyes being lit up in thought. He looked worn, a bit beaten even. It didn’t suit him.
    “There’s food in my pack if-” Stavros began only to startle back a step when he caught a flash of a spark from the corner of his eye. Elion was squatting next to the small ring he had formed from their gatherings, his open palm pressed forward and a few lingering embers flickered out against his flesh. The low fire danced and crackled strongly as Elion pulled his hand back and curled it into himself.
    “What?” he asked sheepishly. Stavros cocked his head slightly and shrugged.
    “Besides you are trying to attack me, I’ve never seen you use magic.”
    “I didn’t try to attack you, Stavros,” Elion said pointedly, “I was defending myself, and I can’t do magic.”
    “I’ve seen you do it twice.”
    “Okay, I suck at it,” Elion snapped. Stavros didn’t push the topic, knowing all too well that some things are better left sleeping.
    Neither spoke as the setting sun began to cast deep shadows into the cave and their weapons were laid at their sides. Two bedrolls were still waiting to be laid out when Elion tossed an apple core into the fire and tucked his hands under his arms.
    “Are you still cold?” Stavros asked, wiping any remnants from his bottom lip.
    “I’m fine.”
    “I didn’t ask that. I asked if you were cold.”
    “I’m not going to cry about it,” Elion huffed.
    “Cocky little shit,” Stavros muttered as he shoved himself off the rock and dirt floor and moved towards their packs. He draped a thick fur around Elion’s shoulders before he crouched next to the fire and stoked it until the flames frenzied.
    “Thank you,” Elion said, glancing up through his lashes for a split second before laughing lightly, a sad, weak sound. “We left Raylea in what was November of the human world. I didn’t know they actually had a winter like the stories my mother would tell me. Even though it was the west coast, I remember seeing these people in jeans and sweaters at most, and I was wearing all these layers of our