Author's Note: Apologies for how long I've kept you waiting for this chapter. Real life distracted both me and my beta, so between the two of us, this chapter spent a while languishing. I'm making it up to you by giving you something y'all have been waiting for since Book Two, if that helps?
Special Thanks: Many thanks to Ranguvar27 for giving this a good beta-ing, even if RL was getting in the way!
Gregan's favorite time of day at Annwyn was in the early mornings. Before Briallen had to rush off to attend to the manor, before Gregan's tutor arrived to cram more knowledge into his overstuffed head; when the estate still lay relatively quiet and sleepy beneath a sun that hadn't quite risen. Gregan reveled in the stillness, the peace, the privacy; it was in the breathless hush of sunrise when he felt closest to his athair.
In the nearly two years since they'd come to Annwyn, Gregan and Briallen had developed a morning routine. They would wake with the sun and meet in Briallen's parlor office, eating an early breakfast while baby Dai toddled around the room looking for non-edibles to put in his mouth. Most boys his age shunned spending time with their mothers, especially after their Manhood Rites, but Gregan wasn't one of them. He'd already lost one parent; he wanted to keep an eye on the other, make sure she didn't disappear on him, too.
It was their family time; the only time during the day that Gregan saw his mother relaxed and at ease. Some mornings they even laughed; those were Gregan's favorite times of all.
This morning had been shaping up nicely. They were eating squidberry tarts with clotted cream, and Briallen had been telling a story about Niall's boyhood. But then there was a commotion outside; startled exclamations and the strident voice of Gregan's grandmaman. So it wasn't entirely unexpected when one of the serving-men burst through the door a few minutes later.
"Milady!" he panted. "The White Queen's 'ere! She says she's come ta see the Master. Lady Gwynyth 'ad a fit, she did!"
Briallen's eyes fell shut as she drew a deep breath. Gregan could see her petitioning Underland for patience; he'd been the cause of this exact Look on her face many times through his childhood.
"Thank you, Stodgins," she said. "Gregan, if you'd please take your brother to the nursery? I'll go out to the Queen."
Briallen didn't wait to see if her son would follow her command. She immediately stood and headed down the hall, twisting her hair up as she walked. This would be a delicate diplomatic moment, and one which Briallen preferred to handle herself. She loved her mathair-in-law, truly she did. But Gwynyth's prejudices ran deep, and her sharp tongue was legendary. She'd already angered Ioan and Rhys by lashing out at their beloved little Queen; there was no need to antagonize another Royal, especially when this one could actually help Dafydd.
Steeling herself, Briallen walked out into the courtyard, stifling a groan at the situation before her. Gwyn was trembling with rage, clearly glaring at poor Ioan. Because not only the White Queen, but also the White Princess had come to Annwyn. Two Adamasi, one of whom was the reason for Ioan turning his back on his clan and home; no wonder Gwynyth was in a state.
Personally, Briallen was grateful for the White Queen's presence. Mirana's gifts of alchemy were renowned throughout Underland; if she'd come, then that must mean she had a cure for Dafydd. At least her presence here would be useful, unlike that of the younger White Queen. Briallen knew that Dafydd loved Regina, but what possible good was she doing here, other than causing more fuss and bother for them and driving Gwynyth towards an apoplectic fit? Maybe the White Princess would be of some use in that regard; perhaps she could convince Regina to leave.
"Madam, I assure you-" Mirana tried, only to have Gwynyth cut her off.
"I won't have you anywhere near my son!" she spat venomously.
"Mathair, that's enough," Briallen said in her very best Banrion of the Nazari voice— which she'd learned from Gwynyth herself, naturally. "Our remedies haven't worked. If the White Queen knows of a cure, I won't refuse her help. And we can't do anything for Queen Regina, either-"
"Regina's here?" Mirana asked, a shadow of a frown on her pale face.
"Blast the Trees, did he make her Freeze again?" Lily asked, exasperated, before turning to punch Ioan in the chest.
"Ow!" he protested, grabbing her wrists.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded.
"Because you bloody well know there's nothing we can do about it till Dafydd wakes up!" he retorted.
"Then I had best get to him quickly," Mirana said. "Madam Briallen, if you'd be so kind…?"
"Certainly," Briallen nodded, leading the way. "I hope your work won't be hindered by her Majesty's presence. Ioan refused to move her from Dafydd's room, and she seems unable to move by her own volition."
"Poor lamb," Mirana murmured. "This must be quite a serious attack of the Chill."
"I wouldn't know. It's a condition unheard-of among our people," Briallen demurred.
Mirana nodded. "No matter. Regina won't disturb me in the least. Can you describe the treatments you've attempted for Dafydd?"
"I'll do my best," Briallen said. "I'm not a healer like Gwyn. Many of the remedies she tried were her own invention."
"I'd love to have the chance to discuss medicine with her, someday," Mirana mused. "From what Ioan's told me, she's quite prolific."
Briallen opened the door to Dafydd's suite, her gaze sweeping the room quickly. Dafydd lay completely still; far too still for comfort. She was quite certain that since Regina had come, Dafydd hadn't moved once. Was it possible that his color had gotten worse? She wrapped her arms around herself in defense against the frisson of unease that flew up her spine. In the two years since Niall's death, Dafydd had stepped up and become the head of their family— a mentor and surrogate father to Gregan and Dai, an anchor and helpmate to her. What would become of them, without Dafydd? Regina had given Annwyn to Dafydd out of guilt for her part in Niall's death, Briallen assumed, but who was to say the Crown wouldn't take the manor back if Dafydd died without naming an heir?
Reluctantly, Briallen tore her gaze away from her brother-in-law to check on the little Queen. Her pale complexion was nearly grey now, and though she was huddled in a quilt she looked utterly miserable. Most frightening were her eyes; a harsh silvery-white that blended almost perfectly with the white of her eye, leaving only dilated pupils. Would Prince Jacoby reign down fury and retribution if Regina died beneath their roof?
In the split-second it took Briallen to assess Dafydd's and Regina's continued deterioration, Mirana had breezed past her, setting her large satchel down on the bedside table. She leaned over Dafydd, setting pale fingers over his temples, his forehead, his cheeks and tonsils. Frowning, Mirana held a jeweled, hand-held mirror to Dafydd's nose and lips, peering into the fog left behind from his breath.
"Oh dear," she murmured, rummaging within her satchel. "Briallen, might Gwynyth have access to the winterlock herb?"
"I believe she brought some with her from Tearmunn. Let me find her and see," Briallen said, walking out of the sickroom to find her mathair-in-law.
Humming to herself, Mirana arranged her portable cauldron in the fireplace, expertly crushing and blending her medicinals together. As she worked, she kept a close eye on her ailing niece. Regina never once moved; despite the Chill, she wasn't even shivering now. The only indication that she was alive were the small puffs of air, and her fiercely focused eyes trained on Dafydd's face.
Through long practice, Mirana kept her composure, but internally she fluttered with anxiety. Why had Ioan refused to separate Dafydd and Regina? It was obvious that they deeply cared for each other, but wouldn't it be more upsetting for Regina to have to witness Dafydd's suffering when she was helpless to alleviate it? The stress of that could trigger an episode of Regina's Madness, and Tarrant was so very fearful of the effects of Madness on his elder child… In no way did Mirana want to be responsible for telling either Tarrant or Alice that any harm had befallen their beloved daughter because of the actions of Mirana's future son-in-law.
But, it was too late to move her now. Regina was far too Chilled to be carried away, despite the fact that she was clearly beyond exhaustion. Mirana could think of only one solution; fortunately, that would be to Dafydd's benefit, as well.
Mirana looked up as the door opened, forcing a smile onto her lips as Gwynyth entered.
"I have the winterlock," she announced, holding it up. "But I've already tried it, in two separate potions."
"Has Dafydd responded to any of your treatments?" Mirana asked.
"I made him a tincture of bitterroot and charcoal," Gwynyth said grimly. "That helped purge the poppy juice, but too much had gotten into his bloodstream before I got it down his throat."
Mirana nodded thoughtfully, adding a pinch of selfease to her cauldron before taking the proffered herb from Gwynyth. She added two small pinches of the winterlock before gently extricating a delicate white flower from a leather pouch.
"This is a snowdrop," she said, carefully holding it by the stem. "An amazing flower, and very rare. As far as is known, it only grows in one place in our entire world— a small valley just north of the White City. Only a few of the plants flower in any given year. But just a few grains of its pollen are enough to cure any poison, even if the patient only has moments left to live."
Mirana smiled at the hope that lit up Gwynyth's eyes. Humming again, Mirana turned to the cauldron, hardly daring to breathe as she ever-so-gently shook the flower in time to her tune. Her keen eyes counted as one, two, four grains of pollen fell into the bubbling brew. She smiled as the potion turned a milky white; success. Hurriedly, Mirana spooned a measure of the liquid into a glass vial, calculating just how much Dafydd would have to drink.
"Madam Gwynyth, could you fetch Rhys, please?" Mirana requested, approaching the bed.
As Gwynyth rushed out, Mirana laid a hand on Regina's shoulder, shivering at the shock of cold one felt in Regina's immediate presence.
"Sweetheart, he's going to be alright," she soothed. "Do you see this potion?" she asked, holding it up. "It'll cure him within hours. And you're going to help."
Regina didn't speak; at this point she was probably too Chilled to even attempt speech. She didn't exactly move, either, but Mirana saw her twitch and shiver, as if she'd attempted to move and her muscles had rejected the effort. Taking that as proof that Regina was listening, Mirana continued.
"We need to cool Dafydd down," she said. "His fever will counteract this potion; it works better the colder the patient is. I want you to lay with him. Your Chill should lower his temperature, let the potion work more quickly."
As Mirana leaned over the bed, the door opened, and Gwynyth re-entered with Rhys.
"Ah, Rhys. Wonderful," Mirana said. "I need you to do some lifting for me, please. Madam Gwynyth, Dafydd will need a good, hearty stew when he wakes."
"Of course," Gwynyth nodded curtly.
Mirana nodded to herself as Gwynyth left. Good, that would keep her occupied. Gwynyth's joy at Dafydd's recovery probably wouldn't extend to pleasure about Dafydd and Regina laying in bed together, however innocent the action might be.
"Rhys, if you could please lift Dafydd for me. I need to be sure this goes down his gullet," Mirana said.
Rhys nodded, walking to the bed and gently hoisting Dafydd up. Mirana supported his head in one pale hand, gently pouring the potion into his mouth. Closing his mouth, she gently massaged his throat to encourage the liquid down before nodding to Rhys to lower Dafydd back onto the pillows.
"Excellent," Mirana murmured. "Now if you could please lift Regina into bed with him, we can leave them alone for a few hours."
Working together, Rhys and Mirana managed to remove Regina's riding boots, and loose her hair from its braid. Then Rhys maneuvered her into bed, coaxing her stiffened muscles to conform to the new configuration. Through it all Regina didn't speak, but her wintery eyes held gratitude as Mirana gently laid her niece's head over Dafydd's heart. For his part, Dafydd released a contented sigh as Regina's Chilled limbs made contact with his overheated body. And when her head came to rest over his heart, his head moved to compensate, his face burying itself in her hair.
Watching them, Mirana smiled sadly. Jacoby may be her nephew and Regina's Betrothed, but Dafydd was clearly her Beloved. Perhaps Mirana should suggest that the Betrothal be broken, in light of the presence of True Love…
Motioning to Rhys, Mirana silently withdrew, leaving the lovers to their repose. Soon Dafydd would wake up, and then would come difficult decisions and time for investigations. For now, let them sleep.
Inhale. Exhale.
At first, that was it. Just breathing, and the consciousness that he was doing so. Good. Breathing was good.
It was finally quiet in his head. That was even better.
For so long, such a timeless time, everything had been fuzzy and disjointed, spinning dizzily in flashes that made no sense. It was light, then dark… He was alone, then he wasn't… The world lurched and spun, but everything was still… He was freezing cold, he was stifling, he was there, he wasn't, he was alive he was dead…
But now his head was quiet and clear, and that was wonderful. Since everything was quiet, he cautiously tried using his other senses, unsure if this was a dream state or reality or something in between.
The first sensation was scent; a familiar scent, beloved. He inhaled the honeysuckle and sandalwood deeply into his lungs, instantly feeling better. Whether this was reality or dream, Regina was here, so he was perfectly content to remain where he was. Not as dominant as Regina were the scents of a fire, baking bread, a subtle perfume of grapes… he was home. He was in Annwyn, with Regina. Alright, this was probably a dream then; Regina had never come to Annwyn, despite repeated invitations. Still, this was shaping up to be a really good dream, so he let that slide for now.
Once scent was established, touch was fast on its heels. Warm sheets, slightly damp beneath him; heat, probably from the fire, but tempered with a chill from the bundle he held in his arms, a pressure over his heart. Cool, small, the familiar weight over his heart, the honeysuckle and sandalwood…
"Gia," he breathed.
She was here. Not just in the room, but in his arms. He hadn't lost her, she was here with him. Thank Blessed Underland; the rest was just a bad dream.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, feasting on the vision before him. As much as he hated that Regina still suffered the occasional nightmare, he'd be lying if he said he didn't love those nights— holding Regina in his arms, falling asleep to her breathing, waking up before her so he could watch the sun fall on her peacefully sleeping face.
Fates, she was beautiful. His heart swelled as his hand rose of its own accord and stroked her cheek. All through the confusion and the dizziness, he had been searching for her, fighting to get back to her. Now that he had her here, he wasn't letting her go again. As soon as she was awake, he would confess his feelings, beg her to reconsider the Joust and marry him instead.
He glanced out the window, surprised to see the sun setting, not rising as he'd originally thought. As he glanced around his room, he saw it cluttered with herbs, potions, all the detritus he associated with his mathair and her healing tools. His brow furrowed in confusion; just how long had he been incapacitated?
His attention snapped back to Regina as she shifted, a sleepy murmur emitting from her. He smiled to himself, stroking her face and jaw as she lazily woke. He played with her hair gently, frowning in confusion as he realized the lock of hair at her temple had turned white-blond. Was this a new effect of the Chill? He hoped not; he loved her hair… When her eyes fluttered open, his heart dropped a little to see her beautiful eyes slightly glazed over with the wintry sheen of her Chill. Blast the Stars, he'd never meant to scare her…
She blinked a few times as the last vestiges of sleep released their hold on her. When she focused on him, the icy silver of the Fear began to recede.
"You're awake," she sighed, her voice thick with relief.
"How long has it been?" he asked, playing with the lock of wrong-colored hair.
"Three days since the Joust," she replied. "For a while, we were afraid you weren't going to wake up."
He shook his head. "I'll always come back to you."
He'd meant to say more, but when his eyes locked with hers, the breath was knocked completely out of him. Regina's eyes were melting, from silver to the pure gold he'd only seen a few precious times. Was it too much to hope that the gold meant what he thought it might, that his feelings might not be entirely unreturned?
The moment stretched on, the tension building with each second. His eyes shuttered, his gaze flitting between her eyes and her lips. Ohhh, he shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't. But that didn't stop him from slowly shifting forwards, giving her plenty of time to pull away.
Regina had thought herself breathless before, but as Dafydd came closer she experienced a breathlessness so profound she was afraid that she would swoon and miss this moment. Could this really be happening? The last time, it had been a reaction, a possession, an instinct born of fear and Madness. But there was no Madness to hide behind this time; if he kissed her this time it would be because he meant it…
His lips brushed hers once, twice, before sealing over hers in a kiss so tender it made her ache. Her hands fluttered on his chest, unsure of where to place them, a dilemma Dafydd solved for her when he folded her in his arms, leaving her with little choice but to slide her arms around him in turn.
A dim memory flitted through Dafydd's mind— blood and fear and fury and Madness, the press of cold armor against bruised ribs, a fear and terror that he would never, ever get close enough to assure himself that she was real. He wasn't sure exactly what he was remembering, only that the sensations were wrapped up in the pounding drums of his Battlelust. But he knew it was real; somehow he'd known exactly what Regina would taste like, how her lips would feel beneath his. And sweet blessed Underland, it was so, so good…
Fates, he could spend the rest of his life kissing her. If it wasn't for the fact that he had something to tell her, he would have no qualms about losing himself in her forever, and never mind about breathing.
Regina gasped, giddy and lightheaded as the kiss changed from sweet and gentle to something more passionate. She whimpered, clinging to Dafydd, helpless against the swell of emotions she barely understood, almost too strong to really feel. She whimpered as he wrenched his lips from hers; no, she didn't want to stop!
"I love you," he blurted out, his forehead pressed to hers.
She stilled, her heartbeat stopping for a moment before an entire swarm of bread-and-butterflies erupted in her stomach. Wait… what?
"What?" she breathed, eyes wide.
He swallowed hard, examining her beneath shuttered eyelids. Alright, she was surprised, but she wasn't pulling away. That was good, he could work with that. And her eyes were still fiercely, brightly gold. That was really good.
"I… love you," he repeated, watching for her reaction.
Regina stared at Dafydd, captivated. His normally sapphire eyes had darkened to a royal purple hue. Despite the Reunification, most of the former Nazari hadn't fully developed the Hightopp trait of eyes that changed color with one's emotions [though the babies who'd been born in Underland did have fully Hightopp eyes]. But even for those adults whose eyes did change, the colors were typically very subtle, unless a very big emotion was involved. If Dafydd's eyes were changing this dramatically, he must be truly serious.
Oh Fates, Dafydd loved her.
Oh, she'd been deluding herself if she'd thought she could actually walk away from him. How could she let him go? She loved him, and he loved her. She could no more forget him than she could forget her name. Dafydd loved her. How could she marry Jack when Dafydd loved her?
"You love me?" she breathed, before frowning and smacking his chest.
"Ow! Hey!" he protested.
"You love me and you didn't say anything?" she demanded. "Why did you let me go through with the Joust? We could've avoided all of this!"
"How could I?" he argued, defending himself. "I had no idea how you felt!"
"How could you not?" she asked incredulously. "I've loved you for years, you thickheaded idiot! I've spent years pining for you, and you just-"
Whatever else she'd been going to say, it was muffled by Dafydd's lips, and came out only as a needy moan. Dafydd groaned, the noise hitting him at his core. He wrestled with the last of his self-control, fighting not to pin her down on the mattress and claim her as his right there.
With a monumental effort, he broke the kiss, pleased that he wasn't the only one panting and trembling. Cradling her face in his hands, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"Dearbadan-de," she dimly heard him whisper through the haze. "Regina, cariad… mo chroi… ma taavi…"
She cooed at the Outlandish endearments pouring from her Beloved's lips, stroking his jaw as she replied in kind.
"Mo laoch," she whispered, pulling him closer. "Mo mhuirnen, chuisle mo chroi… ma taavi."
He groaned, helpless to keep from kissing her again. Was he dreaming? How long had he yearned to hear such words from her lips? Ma taavi was a sacred endearment among their people; a declaration, a promise, words not to be spoken lightly. Could she really be promising herself to him?
He would have kept kissing her, but she jerked away as the doorknob jiggled, sitting up as the White Queen floated through the door, followed by Gwynyth, who carried a tray of food with her.
"Ah, lovely," Mirana smiled, fingers dancing in the air. "It worked right on schedule."
"Is that stew?" Dafydd asked hopefully, hoisting himself up.
"It's not much," Gwynyth warned, setting the tray down in his lap. "Mostly broth. If you can keep it down, I'll let you have the vegetables and meat."
Dafydd made an impatient face. "I hate being sick."
"Well, next time don't drink poppy juice with your moonflower," Gwynyth shot back.
Dafydd rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at his mathair, grinning at Regina as she giggled.
"Don't sass your mathair," she chided him, swatting his chest.
"Woman, would you stop hitting me?" he pouted, catching her fingers in his. "I'm sick, you should be nice to me."
"You had me so upset I nearly Froze," she shot back. "You deserve a little abuse. Now shut up and eat your stew."
"Bossy," he mumbled, though he did turn his attention to his food.
As he reached for his spoon, Regina slid from between the sheets, grimacing as her abused muscles threatened to collapse. Mirana was instantly there, gently urging Regina to let Mirana support her.
"I think you would benefit from a bath," she said, her airy voice leaving no room for compromise.
"And tea?" Regina asked hopefully.
"Of course," Mirana nodded.
With a final glance between her and Dafydd and a shared, shy smile, Regina let Mirana guide her out of the room. Dafydd watched her go, not bothering to hide his worry. He'd never seen her suffer this severe an attack of the Chill, and the toll it had taken on her drove home just how dangerous a condition it was.
As the door closed behind the Queens, Dafydd glanced up at his mother, trying to marshal his expression into something resembling calm and sanity. But it was difficult; had he been able, he likely would have been turning cartwheels, or screaming to the skies, or doing a Futterwhacken, or something equally as embarrassing. His mathair seemed to know it, too; though she didn't say anything, there was Knowing in her posture, a silent, amused awareness that both irritated and gladdened him.
"Have I ever told you that you have the worst timing in all of Underland?" he asked his mother mildly as she set the tray in his lap.
"Yes," Gwynyth said dryly. "But as you always said that when I interrupted you with Afanen, I never minded."
His lips quirked in fond remembrance. No, his mathair had never approved of his… liaison with Afanen. At the time, he hadn't understood that, and had rebelled good and hard against her. Now, though… Now, he had to admit, he didn't know what he had been thinking. How could he ever have given a thought to Afanen when there was Regina…?
Gwynyth seemed to sense the direction her son's thoughts were taking, because she sighed and seated herself in the armchair beside his bed. Thankfully, she didn't attempt to help Dafydd feed himself, but her work-worn hand did raise to stroke the closely-cropped hair at his temple.
"I miss your curls," she said absently.
Dafydd made a properly outraged face; not this again. "They made me look like a baby."
"I know," Gwynyth smiled. "For a time, I thought your curls had absconded with your dimples, but I see my fears were unfounded."
Dafydd nodded silently, a faint grin playing on his face as he ravenously dug into his mathair's cooking.
"Slowly," his mother cautioned. "You don't want it coming back up again. I hardly think your little Queen would like that."
Dear Fates, the woman was making him honest-to-Absolem blush. He was twenty-five, she shouldn't still be able to embarrass him as if he were a youngling! If this was going to be her game, he was kicking her out of his house. …Alright, not really. But still.
So engrossed was he in his food and his thoughts that he almost missed his mother's hesitant pause. Almost, but not quite. He wasn't the Ace of Hearts for nothing; no matter how occupied he was, he always noticed the small details. His mathair seemed to be holding her breath to stifle the words that wanted to leave her throat, and her caressing of his hair had become erratic instead of soothing.
"You might as well just say it," he advised her.
"Ordering your maman around now, are you?" Gwynyth asked, quirking an eyebrow; a gesture he had inherited from her. "You're not too old for me to stretch across my knee, Dafydd."
He didn't reply, apart from a sardonic Look. Gwynyth waited until he'd returned his attention to his soup before she spoke again.
"Do you love her?"
She was hard-put to keep from smiling when he choked on his broth. That would teach her unruly youngest son to sass his mathair…
"Excuse me?" he coughed.
"You heard me," she said, eying him critically. "Do you love Regina?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer. But then again, he didn't need to. Gwynyth wasn't blind; she had been watching this situation unfold ever since Niall's death. The way Dafydd had clung to the young Hightopp, the desperation in his eyes as he had battled to reach her… the utter possessive brutality in that kiss… The way he had so adamantly and steadfastly stood beside her for the last two years as her Champion… The simple fact that for the past three days, whenever he fell into fevered delirium it had been her name he chanted… No, Dafydd didn't need to say anything; Gwynyth had all the answer she needed.
She wished there was something she could do to change her son's mind. Quite aside from the fact that Regina was the reason Dafydd had turned his sword on Niall… The Nazari mated for life. Once they had given their hearts, that was it; they were bonded and bound until death parted them, and sometimes even after that. Dafydd had given his heart to Regina… But she was going to marry the recently returned Crown Prince. So not only did Regina not want him, but she was going to prevent him from ever having the chance to marry elsewhere and start a family. Dafydd had given all of that to her, but she wasn't going to take it, and Dafydd would be the one to suffer for it. Even if Regina had had nothing to do with Niall's death, Gwynyth could not forgive her for stealing Dafydd's future like this.
"You realize she's Betrothed," she said.
"For now," Dafydd shrugged.
Gwynyth raised her eyebrows. "You really think she'll walk away from her crown for you?"
"Why wouldn't she?" he scoffed.
"Does she love you in return?" Gwynyth pressed. "If the time comes when she has to choose, will she pick you over her queendom? Would she give up her crown and be content as the Duchess of Annwyn?"
"There's no reason why she should have to choose," Dafydd argued. "She's the bloody Queen. If she doesn't want to marry Jack, she shouldn't have to. And yes. She loves me. We're going to marry, Mathair, whether you like it or not."
"But what if you don't?" Gwynyth exclaimed. "What if she doesn't annul the Betrothal? What if she chooses Jack? What happens to you then? You'll be alone, Dafydd. Alone forever, unable to marry, to have a family. All alone, and watching the woman you gave your heart to loving another man, bearing his children. I can't let you ruin your life like that."
She was almost sorry when she saw the happy light leach out of Dafydd's eyes, turning him once again into the serious, shuttered stranger he had become as the Queen's Champion. For a few precious moments, she had seen her lighthearted, laughing baby boy again; the young man that had disappeared when Dafydd met Regina. But now he was gone again, replaced with this too-serious man who guarded so many secrets.
"It's too late, Mathair," Dafydd said simply. "It's her. It's always been her. If I can't have her, I won't have anyone else. I can't give her my heart, because she already has it. She always will. So there's nothing more to be said."
Gwynyth said nothing more; she merely left her son to his tray of food and his thoughts. But as she walked back downstairs, she couldn't help but feel apprehensive. This slight, strange half-Uplandish girl had utterly conquered her son; did she even realize the power she held over him? When push came to shove and the little Queen had to make her decision, would she make the right choice?
Regina stretched luxuriantly in the chaise lounge, basking in the unusually warm afternoon sunlight like a cat. The book she'd borrowed from Dafydd's library lay forgotten, abandoned in her lap. Her ears were filled with the muted drone of the honeybees and the bright chirping of the Birds; the air smelled fragrantly of rhododendrons and grapes. It was an absolutely perfect afternoon…
Beneath her closed eyelids, Regina rolled her eyes as Dafydd shifted again and grumbled beneath his breath. It would be a perfect afternoon, if Dafydd would just calm down and stop complaining. She understood his irritation; he hated being idle, and the poison had rendered him weak and helpless. He was on the mend, thank Blessed Underland and Mirana's miracle cure, but he'd been warned it would be several days before he would be back to full health. Until then, he was confined to bed rest, a viewpoint upon which Mirana, Gwynyth, Briallen and Regina were all in full agreement. But Dafydd was an absolutely terrible patient, and his enforced idleness wasn't helping.
Regina had suggested this sojourn into his garden as a compromise; he'd still be resting, but at least he'd be outside. By that point, Gwynyth had been so aggravated with her difficult youngest son that she'd readily agreed to Regina's idea. But now Regina was beginning to regret the suggestion; Dafydd's constant fidgeting was making it very difficult for her to enjoy herself and rest.
"Would you please relax?" she asked, not bothering to open her eyes. "Your mathair will send me packing back to Isla Affalin if she sees you in a state like this."
Her eyes were still closed, but she could just feel him rolling his eyes.
"Why does everyone keep forgetting that this is my house, not my mathair's?" he grumbled.
Lolling her head to the side, Regina raised her eyebrows and favored Dafydd with a Look. He huffed in irritation, but he couldn't deny the charge, a fact which made him slouch low on his couch, folding his arms and pouting like a child.
"But she can't send you away," he said. "Because I want you here. If you're not here I will be impossible."
"Oh, I wish I could stay," she sighed wistfully.
She bit her lip as the gravity of her situation sunk in. She couldn't remain here; she had a country to rule, a Betrothed awaiting her. Fates, she'd managed to forget about that in the wake of Dafydd's confession. But she couldn't glory in her new-found love; she had to return to the bed she'd made.
She jumped as a hand brushed her cheek, relaxing into Dafydd as he sank onto the chaise beside her, supporting himself over her.
"You shouldn't be up," she chided him, gently pushing on his chest. "You're supposed to be resting."
Instead of answering, he leaned down and placed his lips over hers. She melted beneath him with a sigh, reveling in the knowledge that he loved her, that it was alright to show her love for him now. A moment later he pulled away, kissing her forehead softly.
"How can I rest when you've run away from me again?" he asked, playing with her hair, stroking the streak of white-blond at her temple that seemed to be a permanent change.
She sighed, looking up at him as her fingers twined with his. "What are we going to do, Dai?"
"Get married?" he shrugged.
She froze, nearly choking on air. What? He couldn't possibly have said what she thought she'd heard… Surely he hadn't just…
"I'm… I'm not a Prince," he said, unusually tongue-tied. "Everything I have, I owe to you. But… everything I have… it's all yours." He shifted uneasily, clearing his throat. "In the Outlands," he continued hesitantly, "when a lad wants to propose to a lass, he has to go out into the desert and search until he finds a rock shaped like a heart, and he has to bring it home to her."
Swallowing hard, Dafydd reached into his pocket. He withdrew the Heart Rock, which he'd bored a hole into and strung on a long, delicate golden chain.
"My heart is as enduring as the rock of the earth, and my love flowers even in the most barren times of my life," he intoned, the words of the ancient Nazari Courting Ritual rolling off his tongue.
Shyly, he looked into her eyes, which were a deeper and richer shade of gold than he'd ever seen them. Encouraged by this very visible proof of her feelings, he continued.
"I'm in love with you, Regina Miraget Hightopp. When this is all over, will you marry me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from cracking.
Regina clapped a hand over her mouth as her eyes welled with tears. "Yes," she choked out. "Yes!" Laughing, she flung her arms around his shoulders, shivering with pleasure as he kissed her again. "I love you," she whispered. "Oh Dafydd, I love you so much."
He grinned, a bigger smile than Regina had ever seen, and she was struck speechless by how beautiful it was.
"Why didn't you ever say anything?" she asked again, as he strung the Heart Rock around her neck.
"How could I?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You were my Queen. I was your Champion. I couldn't offer you anything."
"You offer me yourself, which is more than enough," Regina retorted. "As to the rest… that's all still true. So what's changed?"
"Jack doesn't deserve you," Dafydd growled, possessively pulling her closer. "I might not either, but I won't give you up to a man worse than me."
Regina's heart swelled and her spirit soared, and she pressed her face into Dafydd's chest, dismissing the rest of the world.
"I couldn't have found a better man anywhere in either world," she murmured.
His heart was so full it practically ached as he held her— his Beloved, his Betrothed— safe in his arms. Underland knew he never wanted to leave her; by the Flowers, he wished he didn't have to let her return to Isla Affalin! He wished this first sweet hour of their Betrothal could last forever, that they could always lay her in the sunshine, holding each other, kissing, planning their future. But alas, it wasn't to be; they had things to do, first. Regina had to dissolve her Betrothal to Jack, and hopefully dissolve the Council while she was at it. She must leave, and for now he must remain.
"Fight with me," she whispered, her eyelids drifting open to catch his gaze.
He smiled softly, his knuckles brushing against her cheek. "We've still got a few flowers to paint together."
He was rewarded by her smile, one which was blissful and shy and accepting all at once. It was, he decided, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he was helpless to keep from kissing her again.
"Now I really have to go back," she murmured.
Dafydd pouted. "Now?" he whined, pulling her closer.
"Well, not right this instant," she amended, laying her head over his heart. "But I have to figure out just how to break a Betrothal, don't I? Not to mention what to do about Jack. Maybe I'll make him a Duke."
"Maybe you should send him away," Dafydd scowled.
Regina giggled. "Why? Are you jealous?"
"Yes," he said simply.
She beamed up at him. "I love you too."
Dafydd leaned back in his armchair, frowning as he fought off a yawn. He would never admit his weariness; that would make his mathair far too smug. He couldn't afford to be weak and sick right now; he needed to plan for the next few weeks, until Regina had solved this Betrothal quandary and everything went back to normal.
He sat with Ioan and Rhys at the dining room table, all three of them nursing goblets of the wine that was Dafydd's chief source of income. It was late; Gwynyth, Briallen and the boys had retired hours ago, and even Regina had withdrawn after Dafydd promised to join her soon. He'd tried to send Madoc up with her to keep her company, but Regina had bid the Dog to watch over his master, and to bite him when he started overexerting himself. When Dafydd had tried to protest, Madoc had responded that Master shouldn't disobey Mistress, a statement which had sent Ioan and Rhys into stitches. Sensing he couldn't win, Dafydd had settled in with his cousin and his captain, to have the conversation they'd been avoiding since Dafydd woke up yesterday.
"I don't like it," Ioan said, shaking his head. "He can't just dissolve the Fearail. We don't answer to him."
"That's why he's labeled us a foreign occupying force," Rhys replied, rubbing his forehead. "I don't like it, it sounds like he's trying to cut Regina off from Witzend."
"He's jumping in, changing things while Gigi's gone…" Ioan leaned back in his chair, rubbing his scruff absently. "What gives him the right?"
"He's a Prince of the Royal Blood," Dafydd replied, dangling a hand down to scratch behind Madoc's ears. "And he's Regina's Betrothed. For now."
Ioan raised an eyebrow and gave him a Look, which Dafydd blithely ignored.
"Regina's going to see if there's anything in the Laws about ending the Betrothal," he continued. "We just have to sit tight and hold out against Jack for a few weeks, at the most."
"You're in a strangely good mood about all of this," Rhys commented. "How can you be alright with having no one protecting Gigi? Especially after you've been poisoned. Who's to say that with you gone, they won't go after her next?"
"Of course she's protected," Dafydd retorted. "You and whoever else from the Fearail volunteers will infiltrate Jack's guard. Jack himself won't do anything to harm her, he needs her to legitimize his claim on the throne. She has you watching her, and Leferidae; the castle itself is tuned to her safety. She'll be alright."
Dafydd looked up as the door opened, frowning to see the leonine Duke of Tenniel walking into the room.
"Leferidae?" he asked, confused.
"Good, you're awake," the Red Lion said, lowering the hood of his cloak. "For a while there, you had me worried."
Dafydd didn't quite manage to keep from rolling his eyes. "Sorry to inconvenience you."
Leferidae frowned. "Excuse me?"
"Don't think I don't know how you've watched Regina," Dafydd retorted, smug in the knowledge that Regina had chosen him and not the Lion. "It'd be convenient for you if I'd died, there would've been no one in your way then."
A choking sound beside him made Dafydd glance at his cousin. He furrowed his brow to see Ioan shaking with silent laughter, his face turning red with the effort of keeping quiet. Quirking an eyebrow, Dafydd dismissed his cousin's oddity and returned his attention to Leferidae, to find the Lion staring at him in bemusement.
"My dear lord Duke, what in the blazes are you talking about?" he asked.
"Oh come off it," Dafydd said impatiently. "You've had your eye on Regina since you met her. I'm surprised you didn't try to propose to her before the Joust."
"I highly doubt Shadhavar would have approved of that," Leferidae said mildly.
"Yea- wait, what?" Dafydd said, stopping short.
Leferidae folded his arms, looking too amused for Dafydd's comfort. He didn't answer, merely gave Dafydd a Look and waited for him to put two and two together himself. When it clicked, Dafydd spluttered, his cheeks turning a dull red.
"You and… I…" he stammered, all the pieces falling into place. "But… Zhithene said… the Lionheart King…"
"Was never meant to be me," Leferidae demurred. "She said Lionheart, not Lionfaced. And now that that's settled, I've come to bring the Queen home. She should return to Isla Affalin before his Highness starts asking questions."
The three Fearail stilled, trading concerned glances.
"Would he?" Ioan asked.
Rhys shifted uneasily. "If he's exiled her guard? She is his Betrothed. I mean, I'd be suspicious if my Betrothed left our home in the middle of the night to go to another man's manor…"
"Ahl ag muck a brimini," Dafydd sighed, rubbing his face wearily.
Ioan whistled, his eyebrows raising. "Language, young man!" he said, sounding eerily like Gwynyth. "I can understand a Blast the Fates or two, but to jump all the way to that-"
"Ioan? Shut up," Dafydd ordered, hoisting himself to his feet. "Rhys, you and Leferidae will bring Regina home tomorrow morning. For now, it's been a long day, and we all need sleep."
"You really expect me to think you and Gigi are going to sleep?" Ioan asked.
A moment later, he was cursing a blue streak and rubbing the back of his head while Dafydd strode past him.
"And it serves you right, talking about her like that," Dafydd stated. "Where are your manners? Your mathair would have your head."
Dafydd didn't have to look back to know that Ioan had flinched at the mention of his mathair. The woman hadn't spoken to her son in over a year, incensed that Ioan had had the bad taste to fall in love with an Adamas. Mentioning her had probably been a lower blow than Ioan deserved, he mused. But before he could turn around and apologize, he was stopped in his tracks by his nephew.
"Gregan. I thought you'd gone to bed already," Dafydd said.
Gregan shrugged, glancing around him towards the Red Lion. "The Queen's leaving?"
Dafydd nodded, trying not to feel too depressed about the fact. As he looked down at his nephew, a conversation from a few weeks ago floated through his brain, reminding him of an obligation he still had not discharged.
"Come in here, Gregan," he said, waving his nephew through into the dining room.
With a glance and a subtle tilt of his head, Dafydd silently dismissed Rhys, Ioan and Leferidae. The Men and Lion withdrew quickly, bidding Dafydd and Gregan good night. When the room was empty, Dafydd waved Gregan into one of the abandoned armchairs while he reclaimed his seat and his goblet of wine.
"You're nearly fifteen now, Gregan," Dafydd pointed out, leaning back in his chair. "Have you given any thought to what sort of occupation you might want?"
Gregan shook his head slowly. "There was never a need, when Da was alive," he said. "And since he died… I've been here, helping Mathair run the manor."
"And you've done a fine job," Dafydd smiled. "Your da would be proud of you. But don't you think it's time to build your own life?"
Gregan shrugged instead of answering. Dafydd watched him for a moment before speaking, wondering what his young nephew was thinking.
"I think you should go to Isla Affalin for a while," he said. "It's an artisan's town, maybe you'd find an occupation you'd like there."
Gregan looked up quickly, brow furrowing. "You're kicking me out?"
"Not at all," Dafydd said quickly. "But you're a man now, Gregan. You're of age to strike out on your own, make your own life."
"But I want to stay here!" Gregan exclaimed.
Dafydd sighed impatiently; this wasn't going the way he'd planned.
"Gregan, you've seen nothing of the world," he tried to reason. "How can you know what you want to do?"
"You did!" Gregan argued. "As soon as your Rites were done, you were off training as a Hassasseen! You knew what you wanted, and you were younger than I was. I want to stay here!"
"Give me a year," Dafydd bartered. "Spend a year with the craftsmen in Isla Affalin. Or even six months there, and six in Tearmunn. If you still haven't found an occupation by then, you'll come back here and that's the end of it."
Gregan huffed, rolling his eyes and folding his arms. "This isn't fair," he muttered.
Dafydd bit back an impatient huff of his own, trying not to let his irritation leach into his voice. "I'm trying to do the best thing for you, Gregan."
"You're not my da! You haven't been home in years, how do you know what's best for me?" Gregan burst out.
Stunned, Dafydd had no retort. Before he could answer, Gregan stood and ran out of the room, leaving him alone with the dying fire. Sighing heavily, Dafydd fell back in his chair, his arm dangling down to pet Madoc.
"That didn't go well," he sighed.
"Give him time, Master," Madoc said, licking his fingers. "Gregan will come around."
"I hope so," Dafydd muttered.
After a moment, he shook his head. He had enough to worry about right now; he had to trust that he'd made the right decision and that his nephew would come to appreciate it in time. Rubbing his forehead, Dafydd stood, banking the fire before motioning to Madoc. He only had a few hours left before Regina left for Isla Affalin; he didn't want to spoil them with worrying. There was plenty of time for that tomorrow.
