“See? Your eyes.”
“But Annwyl’s hair.”
“Aye. And I can tell by the look in his eye—he already knows he’s trouble.”
“I’m sure you’ll help him with that.”
“Me? Of course not. I don’t need any competition.”
Gwenvael busied himself around the room until he knew Fearghus was comfortable with the children he held in his arms; then he crouched in front of his brother. “You know, Fearghus, I bet they’d like to meet their mum.”
Fearghus winced, his eyes blinking rapidly. “What?” he asked, torn between being confused and angry.
“Just for a few minutes.”
He calmed down, understanding what Gwenvael meant, and nodded. “Right. You’re right.”
Gwenvael helped his brother stand and followed him to Annwyl’s room. It was unbearably quiet except for the sounds of Annwyl’s labored breathing. Together, they placed the babes next to their mother on the bed. Immediately, the little ones clung to her, their tiny fists already able to grab what they wanted.
Fearghus knelt by the side of the bed, picking Annwyl’s limp hand up and holding it between his much bigger ones.
Gwenvael briefly squeezed his brother’s shoulder and started toward the door. It was only a flash, but he saw the hem of white robes pass by. He rushed out, closing the door behind him.
“Morfyd. Wait.”
She waved him off. “Leave me be, Gwenvael. Please.”
He watched her run away, for once unsure of what he should do next. A few minutes later, Brastias stalked around the corner, stopping abruptly when he saw Gwenvael standing there.
“Well?”
Gwenvael started to say something, but really he had nothing to say. He shook his head instead.
“Is she—”
“Not yet. Soon.”
Brastias rested back against the wall, his eyes staring off. He and Annwyl had always been close. A kind of brother and sister who had been through hell together. The general glanced around the hallway, suddenly standing up straight. “Where’s Morfyd?”
Gwenvael watched the human male for a long moment before he motioned with his hand down the hallway. “In her room, I suspect.”
Brastias headed off, and Gwenvael felt his heart break for all the things he couldn’t do to help his kin.
Morfyd ran into her room and slammed the door shut. She pressed her forehead against it and finally let the tears explode out of her.
She’d failed. She’d failed everyone. Her brother. Her friend. And now her niece and nephew.
And it had been she who’d held the dagger that cut Annwyl open. Something her mother had never done before, but Morfyd had. Only two of the ten she’d helped this way had not survived, their pregnancies troublesome from the beginning. Yet Annwyl had been too weak. Her body simply drained. They’d had no choice but to cut the twins out or risk losing both mother and children.
She knew Annwyl had made her choice. She believed what Dagmar had told them. But none of that made Morfyd’s failure any easier.
Then she’d come in as Fearghus and Gwenvael placed the babes on their mother. Like any hatchlings would, they wanted their mother’s attention and were annoyed they weren’t getting it, but were not yet at the age they could reason why. But Fearghus knew why, and the pain of that showed on his face.
Of all her kin, she was closest to Fearghus and the thought that she’d let him down, that she’d failed him in something so important, tore her in ways she never thought possible.
“Morfyd?”
Startled at the voice from the other side of the door, she stumbled back.
“Morfyd, open the door.”
“I … I need some time …”
“Open the door.”
Not bothering to wipe her face, Morfyd pulled open the door and quickly stepped away from it, turning her back.
She’d let Brastias down too. She knew how he felt about his queen and his comrade. They’d faced death together many times, Annwyl and Brastias. This was hurting him too.
“I’m so sorry, Brastias,” she sobbed. “I’m so—”
He was there, in front of her, pulling her close, his arms tight around her.
“You’ll not say that again,” he told her gruffly. “You’ve done all you could. Now I want you to let it go, love.”
She did. For hours. Sobbing into the poor man’s surcoat until she practically passed out in his arms from exhaustion.
Izzy dashed up one of the highest hills within three leagues of Dark Plains and screamed into the night, “What have you done?”
When there was no immediate answer, she bellowed, “Don’t you dare … Don’t you dare ignore me!”
The flame-imbued lightning flashed out and Izzy barely moved in time as it struck at her feet.
“Ordering me?” a voice she knew as well as her mother’s boomed. “Me?”
“You should have protected her! I told her to trust you!”
Rhydderch Hael, the father god of all dragons, appeared. He did not come out of the darkness as much as he was a vast part of it. His dragon body stretched for what looked like miles and his hair glowed in the moonlight. She’d seen him three times now like this. Before her mum had sacrificed herself to save Izzy seven months ago, she’d only met Rhydderch Hael in her dreams. If it was urgent, she’d hear him in her head.
Lately, however, things had changed. He’d appeared the first time while she’d been off practicing with her spear by one of the lakes. She’d tried to hug him, but she couldn’t even hope to reach her arms around him, so she sort of ended up squeezing his enormous dragon neck. They’d talked for hours, and Izzy had promised never to tell that he’d come to her in physical form. But his voice could still pop in her head unbidden. Like it had that morning when he told her it was time for Annwyl’s babes to be born.