For about a minute they all just stood there in silence, staring at the girl who looked peacefully asleep.
"We should take her inside," Filarion said at last in a melancholy tone, then looked at Dorian. "And we need to tend to your leg. Let me help."
He stepped up to the nest of branches that had served as Leonie's resting place and was just bending down when Dorian's hoarse voice stopped him.
"No!"
Leaning on Marcus, he forced himself to his feet and felt blood running in a warm line down his leg.
"I'll do it," he said.
The others bowed their heads, and Filarion stepped back with a small nod. Dorian stared at that pale, beautiful face for a few more seconds, trying to harden his features so his companions wouldn't see how shaken he was.
Now Leonie's death, too, rested on his conscience. This kind, strong girl, who had been given a horrible life, who had—however briefly—trusted him, whom he had convinced there would be a better future…
That girl was now dead.
How could he ever look in a mirror again? How could the elves ever deserve a king like him? Three hundred years ago he had given up the crown for this very reason, and now that Leonie had made him forget his past for a single heartbeat, the world had cruelly reminded him of his unworthiness.
Elora had trusted him too, had believed he would save her and their child, and he had failed then as well. His entire life was one long string of failures.
"Let me help," Marcus said quietly, but Dorian shook his head and dragged himself back to reality. He bent down to the girl and brushed her cheek with his fingers.
Instead of the chill he had expected, he felt magic slide into his veins at the touch.
In the same instant, Leonie's eyes flew open and she sucked in a huge breath.
The elves' funereal silence shattered into stunned disbelief.
Dorian's knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground. The root in his leg might have been enough to do that, but it was the shock that truly drove him to his knees.
"She's alive!" Nir shouted. "She survived!"
Bright, disbelieving laughter burst out of him, while the others simply stared at the girl.
Filarion was the first to recover. He stepped forward and knelt beside Dorian, who still seemed completely frozen.
"Leonie," he addressed her softly.
She clearly had no idea what was going on around her or where she was.
"How do you feel?" he asked carefully.
Leonie blinked up at him in confusion.
"How did I get here? What happened?" Her tired gaze slid over to Dorian's ravaged face and she furrowed her brow. Something in her mind whispered that he had carried her out here.
"Dorian," she murmured, and he answered with two slow blinks before he finally snapped out of it.
"Leonie." Her name left his lips like a sigh.
They just stared at each other for several heartbeats before Dorian forced himself upright again.
"Can you move? I'll carry you in," he said after clearing his throat.
He scooped her up carefully and limped toward the house. No one said a word around them; they simply followed in silence.
Leonie rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes. Dorian didn't take his gaze off her face. He simply couldn't comprehend that she was alive.
He had believed he had lost her forever before they had even had a chance to truly find each other. He had felt he would go mad from it—but Leonie was here. Her warm, soft body in his arms was proof she still lived.
If it were up to him, he would hold her like this forever, just to know she was breathing and safe.
When he reached her bed, he paused for a few more seconds, still holding her as if he never wanted to let go. In the end he laid her down, though reluctantly, and in that moment a new certainty took shape in him.
He would, in fact, never be able to let Leonie go.
"Filarion," he said, his voice tight. "Check on her, please."
Then he turned on his heel and almost fled the room. Filarion and Marcus exchanged a knowing look, and Marcus went after Dorian.
Dorian stepped into his own room and limped to the window, resting his forehead against the cold glass.
Now that he was finally alone, he allowed himself to fall apart for a moment. In the quiet of the room the only sound was his ragged breathing.
Damn it, he had almost lost her.
How had it happened that this young elf girl, raised among humans, had become so important to him so quickly? He had sworn never to let anyone near his heart again, and yet here he was.
What was he supposed to do now? And what would he do if she continued to hate him? Would he be able to let her go?
At least she was alive…
"She survived," Marcus said behind him. Dorian turned and looked at his friend with misted eyes.
"She survived," he echoed, reminding himself of the fact for what felt like the hundredth time.
"And now let's fix you," Marcus went on. He took off his belt to tie it around Dorian's thigh.
"Lucky for you, that root almost turned today into a day of mourning for all the elven women," he remarked, nodding toward the location of the wound.
"That would've been your good fortune," Dorian shot back.
They grinned at each other—for the first time in days.
Marcus grabbed the blood-slick end of the root sticking out of his thigh and tore it out in a single motion. Dorian didn't even flinch; he only let out a spectacular curse.
Marcus bandaged the wound and Dorian flexed his leg. Thanks to his elven blood, he would be ready to dance by evening if he felt like it.
Physical injuries didn't trouble him much; he had collected more than he could count over his lifetime.
He stepped closer to his friend, laid a hand on Marcus's shoulder, and met his gaze with a serious expression.
"Thank you," he said.
They both knew exactly what he meant.