Disclaimer: It belongs to Marianne Curley, but of course.
Ethan does not have much to say on the way up the mountain, and that is perfectly fine by me as it gives me time to think about this Arkarian person.
No matter what my honorable Trainer may say, I cannot help but envision this man as a wizard. The picture in my mind is very vivid: a thin, ancient man in a flowing robe of midnight blue damask, with a silver beard obscuring his wizened face. He would have piercing blue eyes, untarnished by age, and a long, gnarly, carved wooden staff.
I frown at this last image. He is a Guardian of Time, not Merlin. I'm being stupid.
Or maybe, he does not look like an old mage. Maybe he is younger, a seasoned, sturdy, taciturn warrior with a deep voice and serious manner. Not much of a sense of humor, but hot nonetheless. Single, in his mid-thirties, with a tall, broad body and a short beard perhaps. He exudes power and strength and raw masculinity, a man of action rather than words.
What if he hates me? What if I annoy him? What if he is thoroughly irritated by the prospect of having to deal with a fifteen year old girl in his charge? Will he think I am pathetic for not being able to develop my skill of healing? What if that makes him mad? Or worse, disappointed?
But all my contemplations come to an abrupt, nonplussed halt as I am faced with something none of my fantasies have prepared me for – a teenager, with electric blue hair. Eyebrows too, which makes me irrationally think that this is his natural color. Grinning widely, he opens his arms, evidently to embrace me. I give it no second thought at first, but when our difference in height causes me to get acquainted with the firm musculature of his chest, I want to die with embarrassment. I close my eyes because seeing the contours of his pectorals has a devastating effect on me. All of a sudden, I am more self-conscious than I have ever been in my life, which does not say much as I am not a self-conscious person. How this man, or boy, or TruthMaster, or whatever, has been able to bring out in me something that I never thought existed, I have no idea.
Finally, after what in my state of utter discomfort seems like several millennia, Arkarian releases me, saying something that my confounded mind cannot even begin to decipher; my attention is already torn between the amazing color of his hair and the very pleasant shape of the shoulders the said hair falls on. I want to look into his eyes so it does not seem like I am staring at a circus freak, but I find myself unable to meet his gaze. My cheeks burn in abashment, and the knowledge of how red they must be does little to increase my evaporating confidence.
Arkarian's words register at last, something about how lovely it is to meet me. I gulp. I hope Arkarian does not hear, but when it causes Ethan to double over laughing, I realize how unrealistic this wish is.
Fuck.