Once she stood next to him, Dagmar reached out and brushed her hand against his side. The stallion moved restlessly but didn’t strike out.
She held up the fur blanket she had in her arms, showing it to the mare. Soft brown eyes blinked at Dagmar but the mare didn’t do much of anything else.
Dagmar really wished this was a dog. Dogs she understood so easily. But horses were different and she knew that. She also knew that the horse would be forgotten for the next few days, even though he loved Annwyl as much as anyone else. The bond between a horse and rider was the same as between dog and handler. It went beyond being a mere pet. It was a partnership where one trusted the other and vice versa. Of all the bonds she knew, it was the most indestructible and the most unappreciated.
Taking a deep breath, Dagmar lifted the fur blanket she’d nicked from Annwyl’s room and slowly placed it over the stallion’s back. She adjusted it so it rested high on his shoulders and he could catch her scent.
The stallion’s head lifted up and over his mate’s, his black eyes looking down at her. After a moment, he lowered his head, his muzzle near her. She reached up and stroked him there.
“I am so very sorry,” she said softly, and his eyes closed.
She walked away, making sure to lock the gate behind her. Once outside, Dagmar looked around. It was late and she hadn’t eaten, but she wasn’t very hungry, truth be told. Nor was she tired.
With a sigh, she started back to the castle, but stopped when she heard sniffles. Following the sound, she came around the stables and what she’d always considered a painfully hard heart melted right inside her chest.
She crouched down beside him, but didn’t know why. He was so large, she wasn’t that much bigger than him when she stood up.
Dagmar placed her hand on his knee, smiling into the teary silver eyes that peered up at her beneath long dark blue lashes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again, knowing words would do nothing at the moment.
“I’ll miss her,” Éibhear said while trying to wipe the tears away. “I’ll miss her so bloody much.”
“I know. I’ve barely known her and I know I’m going to miss her.”
He shrugged sheepishly. “Guess your kin don’t blubber, though.”
“My father cried once. He doesn’t know that I know, but my old nursemaid told me before she died.”
“Why did he cry?”
“Because my mother died while having me. She made the choice to save me. Just as Annwyl did to save her own babes.”
He nodded. “I know it was her choice and that she’d make no other. Not Annwyl. She’ll risk everything for the ones she loves.”
The great blue dragon in human form relaxed his head back against the wall behind him. “But Fearghus … He’ll never recover from this. Not really.”
“And all you can do is be there for him. To let him know that he’s not in this alone.”
“I will.” He tried to wipe his face and Dagmar took a clean cloth from the pocket of her dress and wiped his tears for him.
“You won’t tell, will you?” he asked. “That you found me crying.”
Dagmar rested back on her calves and said, “Your secret will always be safe with me, Éibhear the Blue.”
Gwenvael leaned over and stared down into the crib. The girl frowned like her father—no, that wasn’t right. She frowned like his father. And that did nothing but make Gwenvael rather nervous. Especially with those bright green eyes watching him so intently as if she were debating whether to cut his throat or not. Her brother, however, had quickly grown bored of staring and gone back to sleep.
Thankfully, his niece and nephew looked human. More human than he’d hoped to expect. They had no scales, no wings—no tail, which would have been awkward in the best of situations. They looked like every other human baby he’d ever seen.
Except that they appeared to be three or four months old physically and yet they already moved as if older than that. He’d give them a few days before they could roll over and crawl just like most hatchlings.
Gods, what else did their future hold? As it was, he could feel the Magick surrounding them. No, that was wrong. It didn’t surround them. It poured from them. Out of every pore. They were still weak and terribly vulnerable, but one day … One day their power would be phenomenal.
“How are they?”
Gwenvael glanced over his shoulder. Fearghus lurked in the doorway, unwilling to enter.
“They’re doing well. They’re healthy. Seem to have all the important parts and nothing in addition we have to worry about.” At least not yet. “You should take a look.”
“No. I need to go back to Annwyl.”
“I understand.” Gwenvael reached down and scooped up the girl. He’d done that earlier and immediately put her back down. She clearly wanted to be left alone, but he needed the same reaction he got the first time. And he got it. Her face turned red and she began screaming.
“What are you doing?” Fearghus demanded. “You’re upsetting … her or him.”
“Her. And she’ll stop eventually.”
But he knew she wouldn’t. Gwenvael’s arms weren’t the ones she wanted holding her at the moment.
Aye, very similar to how newly hatched dragons behaved.
The boy’s eyes snapped open. Like his father’s and grandfather’s, they were a coal black and at the moment, quite angry. He started screaming too, because his sister was and he was not happy about it.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Fearghus reached over and took his daughter from Gwenvael’s arms.
“Clearly she wants to be left alone!”
“I was just trying to help.”
“That was not helpful, you idiot. That was stupid.”
“She’s not crying now.”
Fearghus blinked and immediately gazed down at his daughter.
“She has Annwyl’s eyes.”
“True.” He sat his brother down in the chair beside the cribs. “But the boy has yours.”
He readjusted the girl into the crook of her father’s left arm and then placed her brother in the opposite arm.
“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!”