I strip thee bare; I name thee naught?—
A hollow thing of rot and thought.
Stone to dust and gold to grave,
No soul to claim, no will to enslave.
By breath of earth and fire’s decree,
Be undone, and cease to be.”
As soon as the last word fell from her lips, the dragons unleashed flames so white and purifying that no evil could withstand them. They kept the blast going until the heat became unbearable, backing the Weavers away from the forge.
Mairwen stood transfixed by the crackling flames, breathing easier as a piercing wail spiraled throughout the room, then faded away. It was done. The witch was no more, and any poisons or curses she had created during her existence were now rendered null.
The smallest of the hatchlings approached her, spreading its pale green wings and doing its best to appear fearsome. “Will our sister heal now?” it asked in a squeaky voice.
“That is our hope,” Mairwen said, careful not to promise anything too much. The poison had simmered entirely too long within Calia. Permanent damage may have been done. Only time would tell. “Yer love for her, and yer caring will help her greatly—and the healing of her mate at her side.”
Bresag stepped forward to shoo her young ones out of the room. “I will join ye soon,” she promised them as she ushered them out into the hallway. “Return to the nursery. Now.” Then she turned and leveled a stern gaze on Mairwen. “We have the herbs to mix with the tears. Ye may go now. Return to yer tending of the Highland Veil.”
Mairwen expected no less from the dragons. It was miraculous enough that they had extended the hospitality that they had. She offered both Noirgarth and Bresag a regal nod. “The blessings of the goddesses be upon ye now and forevermore.” Then she turned to the other Weavers. “We go.”
Uncertain where he was or what danger might lurk around him, Mathison hesitantly reached out with his senses as soon as his weary consciousness became alert enough to heed his commands. Whatever he lay upon was pillowy soft. Silence surrounded him. No. Wait. What was that sound? He listened closer. Breathing. He was not alone. And then the most precious scent in existence washed across him, relaxing every tensed, aching muscle. His Calia was near.
“Mo chridhe,” he tried to whisper, but the only sound he made was a raspy wheeze.
A salty sweetness wet his dry, cracked lips and trickled into his mouth. He gulped at the moisture like a man dying of thirst.
“Slowly, grand chieftain,” Bresag said. “It has been most difficult to administer that which ye needed to heal since this is the first time ye have awakened.”
The liquid eased the stiffness of his parched throat. “My Calia?” he managed to force out in a weak whisper.
“She is here beside ye.” The motherly dragon lifted his head and pressed a cup to his lips. “She has yet to awaken. Now drink these tears so ye can grow stronger and help us coax her back into the light.”
After a few more swallows of the healing elixir, he gathered his building strength and forced open his eyes. Slow to focus, he blinked several times to clear his vision. “I was dead,” he said, his husky voice cracking.
“Close.” Bresag lowered his head, then helped him turn it so he might look upon his sleeping mate. “Yer lady pulled ye away from the crossing before ye fully passed to the other side. She and her wolf saved ye and yer wolf in the Dreaming. Yer Dubh and her Litress are healing themselves in the In-between. Much was asked of them, and they gave their all, but they live. Giddrie has assured us it is so.”
Mathison stared at Calia, drinking in the sight of her and wishing he had the strength to pull her into his arms and hold her. She was too still, and the pearlescence of her pallor made her appear bloodless. The silver-white stripe in her dark hair shone even brighter than before, framing her face. She looked too much at peace, and that frightened the living shite out of him. He didn’t want her at peace. He wanted her vibrant, alive, and arguing with everything he suggested.
She didn’t twitch a muscle as three small dragons scampered into the bed and protectively curled around her, gently propping their noses on her chest, arms, and legs before settling in and going to sleep.
“My children keep her warm,” Bresag explained with an affectionate nod. “Her fevers have not returned since the destruction of the witch’s medallion, but she seems frequently chilled, often shivering in her sleep.” She set aside the goblet and smoothed the covers higher across Mathison’s chest. “They consider her their sister.”
Mathison tried to move his hand closer to Calia’s, but he didn’t have the strength.
The tiny dragon closest to him lifted its head and seemed to notice. It nudged Calia’s hand closer to Mathison’s, then looped its scaly tail around Mathison’s wrist and pulled his hand over on top of Calia’s. With a satisfied nod, it snuggled back in place on Calia and closed its eyes.
The faint but steady energy of the mate bond passed between them and warmed his fingers, assuring him that his dear one possessed enough life for her soul to recognize his. He breathed easier and found the strength to close his fingers around hers. Ever so softly, she didn’t squeeze his hand, but her thumb twitched and caressed his.
“Mo chridhe,” he whispered.
“My heart.”
He heard her in his mind and would’ve smiled if he’d had the energy. Aye, they had a long road of healing to travel, but together, travel it they would.
Her eyelids were too heavy to lift, but at least no pain or nausea remained. The unbearable ache in her chest had decreased to a heaviness that made taking a deep breath a struggle, but she’d worry about that later. Mathison’s hand on hers, the warm, familiar tingle of their bond as their fingers touched, that’s all that mattered because it meant he lived.
