Author's Note: Oh, dear, I really can't stop myself, can I? Honestly, I'd rather take on the Mongol Hordes unarmed than read the whole Inheritance Cycle again (at least fighting Ghenghis Khan would be exciting), but here I go again, when I said I wouldn't. I'm also branching into some material that isn't quite as squeaky-clean and family-friendly as I'd prefer, so please, bear with me...I didn't want to sound too forced or melodramatic. I'd love to hear your opinions, though!

I. Possession

All Selena can think about is the pain that she forces from her body as she fights to expel the parasite that has been growing inside her for months. No magic can dull this agony, and the man responsible for all of this holds their crushing hands together and whispers.

As the torturous moments go on, her screams subside, the pain even subsides; the poison has been extracted and lies bloody on the silken sheets. Morzan catches her wrist in his huge, elegant hand, painfully tight, and the new mother has to drop the silver dagger that she had just pulled from under the pillow.

The creature is almost small enough to fit in its father's hand—held out of harm's way, wet and bloodstained, naked and silent. That boy has tiny perfect hands and feet; a shock of Morzan's dark hair on his head.

Even though their child does not cry (aren't newborn babies supposed to cry?), Selena falls back into the crimson velvet cushions, restrained. Defeated.

Morzan does not look at her.

He takes the child in both his own hands. Nine of his fingers are whole, one is truncated. His hands are hard, callused with the grip of his sword; silver-scarred with the mark of the Riders. But Selena knows how tender those hands could be. Morzan is also strong enough to tear the boy apart, she knows, easily as cooked lamb.

The child's eyes open for the first time.

Three black eyes, one blue, look back and forth. Selena's own brown eyes are drawn to her lover's tender smile.

And she remembers the flowers—her favorite irises—that she had ordered the gardener to plant for good luck. Neal was a fool, but he had a great gift for the growth of living things.

Morzan is still smiling as he kisses his son's little forehead.

"Murtagh," he croons, and shivers run down the young mother's aching spine at the sound of his deep voice, "you are beautiful, you look just like me, my son."

It is obvious the baby does not understand, but Morzan was the one who made him, delivered him, saved him. The way his hands stroke the flawless new skin makes Selena sick and slightly jealous.

"You are mine."

The Red Rider sets his heir oh-so-gently down on the stone floor next to the bed. The marble is cold, but Selena twists slightly to see the not-yet-distinguished little snow-white face, dead black eyes, her own drying blood the only thing yet covering Morzan's newest creation (illusion?). Morzan himself is a great shadow over her, and any strength she mustered melts away under that soft smile. The Rider's left eye is the color of ice, she thinks, and his voice rumbles into her sternum and throat; she knows he is right.

"And you," he whispers, those hands already pushing her shoulders down, "you are also mine."

"Please," she whispers back, throaty and trembling. Selena wants and does not want; she is too tired, but maybe if she lost herself, gave herself up again, maybe then there would not be that thing lying neglected on the floor beside them. She wants Morzan as much as she wants to be left alone; she does not want his lips claiming hers as she does not want a slender black-eyed boy named Murtagh taking her place: in Morzan's service, in Morzan's shining silver armor, in Morzan's bed.

Selena is tired, but she has had no choice ever since she left Carvahall with that handsome, charming man with mismatched eyes and a decidedly macabre taste in humor.

She will, however, order Neal to tear out the irises tomorrow and plant briars in their stead.