I nodded. “The Black Prince of England. Edward.”
“He was my friend, but he was also a bit of an ass.”
I snorted a laugh.
“I remember trying to make peace with the French, but he always screwed it up.” Merrick shook his head.
“Peace,” Rune murmured.
“Rune?” I went to him and rubbed his back. “Come away from the painting, love.”
“No, it's all right. I . . . I don't remember my name, but I see a family. I had love. A home full of it. That is why I stood there.” He waved his hand at the painting. “This wasn't a war. It was an attack on my home. I fought until there was no one else standing. Until there was only silence.”
“Then you saved your family,” I said.
Rune grinned at me. “It seems that I have always done whatever it takes to save those I love.” He pulled me into his arms. “Sweetheart, you are amazing.”
“I don't understand how I've done this,” I said. “I've never painted prophetic scenes before.”
“These aren't prophecies. They are glimpses into the past lives of your mates.”
“These three are,” Braxen, his voice gone grim, waved at their paintings. “And yes, maybe it was the mating magic drawing us together that gave Lora access to our past. But if that's true, then who the fuck is that?”
I eased from Rune's arms to follow Braxen's pointed finger to the final painting in the group. The crusader.
“Maybe he's a regular subject, pulled from my imagination,” I said even as a shiver ran down my spine.
Again, I remembered my fantasy, a fantasy that now seemed like a prophecy, but this time, I focused on the crusader. The scornful look on his face.
Rune took my hand and drew me over to the painting of the crusader. He scowled as he studied every inch of it.
“He looks almost holy,” Merrick said.
“Maybe because he's wearing a giant cross,” Braxen drawled.
“No, it's something else about him,” Merrick said. “The way Lora painted him. The way the sunlight spotlights him. His stance. He . . .”
“He believes he's right,” Rune said. “He looks like one of the Host.”
“Oh, my Gods!” I exclaimed. “You're right. He looks like a man who does bad things in the name of something good.”
“This is Michael,” Braxen said.
We fell silent, all of us staring at the crusader. It made sense. I had painted the men I'd love and the man I'd hate—their enemy.
“Now we know who we were and who he was,” Rune said. “We must use this to our advantage.”
“How?” Merrick asked.
“I don't know yet, but we're taking this painting with us.”
“We're taking them all.” Braxen grabbed his portrait. Then he cleared his throat. “I mean, if that's all right with you, Lora.”
“Of course, it is. They're your paintings now. If you want them. Although, yours isn't finished, Rune.”
“But now, I can help you fill in the details,” Rune said gently.
A wave of something soft came over me. Love, certainly, but also relief. I finally knew who these warriors were. And Rune would help me finish a painting that had been haunting me. For an artist, that is the ultimate relief. Beyond that relief though, was joy. Bliss. A feeling of forever shared. These paintings were so much more than a glimpse into their past lives. They were a sign that I was meant to be with them. Hermes would accept it. He had to. Even Gods bowed to Destiny.
