That was how he found himself at the back a few steps behind the others with Lt. Rothilion more or less at his side as the elf lieutenant trailed along in their group’s wake.
Fieran glanced at Lt. Rothilion. They’d been slowly easing him into their group, but perhaps it was time Fieran worked to build more of a friendship with the lieutenant. Not just because he was missing Merrik but because Rothilion really could use a few friends.
“Thanks once again for flying with my dacha while I was gone.” Fieran hesitated, not sure if he dared ask even now how that had come about.
“It was necessary to protect the squadron and Fort Defense.” Lt. Rothilion’s shoulders went somewhat stiff, his gaze locked ahead. “He is an elf general. It was only right he fly with an elf of the Tarenhieli Flying Corps.”
And Lt. Rothilion was the highest ranked among the elven pilots. But it was still odd, given the history between their families.
Fieran remained silent, waiting, hoping. Perhaps Rothilion would say more. Maybe he wouldn’t. But Fieran let the unspoken invitation remain between them.
After a long moment, Rothilion sighed, although the stiff set didn’t leave his posture. “He is unlike what my family has made him out to be. He took on an army for his son. My damasha…” Rothilion trailed off for a moment, a hint of roughness and bitterness in his tone. “My damasha has threatened to disown me for willingly serving under a half-elf.”
Fieran halted and turned to face Lt. Rothilion, causing him to stop as well. “I am sorry.”
He’d known Rothilion’s family were sticklers and not happy that he was associating with Fieran and his family, but for his own father to threaten to disown him over his choice to remain in Fieran’s squadron was mind-boggling.
While Fieran had experienced pressure to live up to his family, it was nothing like the pressure Rothilion was under. If Fieran’s family placed the burden of expectations on him, it was the expectation to do the right thing and live with honor. Even when he made choices like joining the Flying Corps instead of fighting at Dacha’s side in the infantry, his parents had still supported him.
But the pressure Rothilion was under was simplywrong.
Rothilion’s expression shuttered again, his posture so stiff he might as well be a tree about to crack under a windstorm. “I do not want your apologies. Or your pity.”
“It’s not pity but an acknowledgment of what being under my command has cost you.” Fieran didn’t look away, even if Rothilion wasn’t meeting his gaze. “If you would like to transfer, I’ll submit the paperwork along with a glowing recommendation, even if the Half-Breed Squadron would be sorry to lose you.”
“No.” Lt. Rothilion all but spat the word, and he finally looked at Fieran. “No, I will not bend to appease them this time. They are in the wrong. I am not. Yes, it may cost me my family, but to do otherwise would cost my honor. I will not do that. Not again.”
Fieran had been wrong. Rothilion wasn’t the stiff tree about to crack. He was an oak standing strong against the storm, refusing to break.
He swallowed back his instinctive urge to tell the elf lieutenant he was sorry for him again. Instead he held out hishand. “You are a good elf, Saranthyr. I’m honored to have you in the squadron, and I’d be even more honored if you would accept my friendship.”
For a moment, Rothilion hesitated. Then he slowly reached out and took Fieran’s hand, giving it a single shake. “It would be my honor, Laesornysh.”
Fieran grinned, not taking it personally when Rothilion yanked his hand back and scrubbed his palm on his trousers. “Just be glad I didn’t decide to seal that friendship with a spit handshake.”
“So unsanitary.” Lt. Rothilion shuddered as the two of them set off walking once again, the others now well ahead of them and turning the corner into another dirt alley. “Is a handshake containing saliva a normal human practice?”
“No. But Merrik and I read it in a book when we were kids, and we—well, I—thought it was a fun idea. Better than sealing our brotherhood with blood, at least, which even I had the sense to know our parents would not approve of.”
Rothilion was giving him a look that was somewhere between exasperated and bewildered. “You are a strange elf, Laesornysh.”
“I’m well aware.” Fieran grinned and lengthened his stride. If he wasn’t such a strange elf, he might not get dizzy when he used large quantities of his magic. But that was something he didn’t want to think about while on leave. “We’d better catch up with the others.”
He and Rothilion rounded the corner into the alley as the rest of the group stopped at what appeared to be the back door of one of the ramshackle sheds making up this part of Defense City.
Tiny reached to knock on the door, but before he could, the door swung open, revealing a young female troll of around their age. She was at least half a foot taller than Tiny with a plump, well-built frame that was made all the more beautiful when she smiled at Tiny, her eyes lighting. “Donkyn! You got leave! Andyou brought your friends. Come in, come in. I thought I’d teach you—all of you—how to make donuts.”
Lt. Rothilion sighed and muttered only loudly enough for Fieran to hear, “This is bound to be messy.”
“Yep.” Fieran grinned, although he let that grin fade as he halted to face Rothilion again. “If you ever need a place to stay in Estyra or Aldon, you’ll always be welcome with my family.”
“Linshi.” Rothilion’s vulnerability vanished, and he almost seemed to be packing himself back inside his impassive mask. He gestured at the shack ahead of them, where Aylia was waiting, holding the door for them. “Shall we?”
Fieran nodded, but he made sure to fall into step behind Rothilion to make sure the elf lieutenant followed the others into the tiny space that served as the bakery of the donut shop.
By the time they trooped out again, all of them were covered in a fine layer of flour. Lt. Rothilion had dough in his hair, and he was muttering as he picked at it. Aylia, Pretty Face, Stickyfingers, and Lije chatted about their grand plans for using the stovetop Fieran and Pip had cobbled together to fry donuts for the whole squadron, once they could get their hands on the ingredients. Tiny lingered in the doorway, clutching a glass jar of sourdough starter to his chest as if it was the most precious gift he’d ever received.
Fieran held a paper bag with the two donuts he’d saved for Pip and Mak. They’d turned out somewhat lopsided, but at least these ones were fully cooked and not burned. That was more than could be said of the first few attempts.
