They will be strong, he said softly in a language his mate could not understand, but Elowen smiled and nodded as if she had.
Though he could not nurse, or cradle, or hum lullabies the way she did, Midas vowed in that quiet moment to learn every other thing she needed.
Because she had given their children life, and he would give them everything else.
Thirty-One
After the birth,the world was a haze of pain and soft breath. The bliss of fresh newborn children had worn off, and Elowen grew tired, weak, and irritated.
She drifted in and out of sleep, her body too battered to rest, too exhausted to wake. Every inch of her felt torn open. Her womb ached with an emptiness that had once been full of fire and life. Her thighs trembled uncontrollably. Her chest burned as two small mouths suckled, demanding strength she no longer had.
Still, she endured. The twins were bundled against her skin, warm and fragile. She held one against each breast, cradled them with arms that barely obeyed her.
Her lips were dry. Her eyes crusted. Blankets clung damp to her skin—still soaked with blood, sweat, and the strange fluid that had spilled from her during the long hours of labor. She whimpered softly as a cramp rolled through her lower belly, the aftermath of delivery still wracking her with aftershocks.
A claw, gentle as breath, nudged her shoulder. Midas had finally regained enough control of himself to shift back to his human form. He pressed a bowl of cool water to her lips and supported her neck with his tail as she drank, his touch careful. She could barely swallow, her throat raw, but she tried. He coaxed her with soft sounds, brushing strands of hair back from her temple, wiping sweat from her brow with the corner of a cloth she recognized from his hoard.
When she coughed, he stilled. Waited. Breathed with her, then brought another bowl to her mouth.
“Eat,” he whispered, voice cracked and guttural from disuse. “Please.”
Broth touched her lips over the rim of the bowl. Salty, rich, and warm against her tongue. Though every swallow felt like a mountain, she knew in order to nourish her sons, she had to nourish herself first. When she slumped forward, too weak to sit, Midas caught her. His wing draped protectively behind her, his chest curved inward like a shield.
Elowen felt like she might have drifted into a light sleep when she felt a warm cloth touch her shaky, clammy skin.
Slowly, silently, Midas cleaned the dried blood and afterbirth from her thighs, her calves, the raw curve of her hips. He worked delicately like he feared she might shatter beneath him. His tail moved behind him in slow, soothing arcs, a silent lullaby meant only for her.
She winced once, her body tender, and Midas stilled immediately.
“I am sorry you hurt,” he whispered. A truth. A sorrow.
She didn’t respond, too drained to form words. Instead,she leaned against him, letting his heat cradle her while her children fed.
He inhaled the scent of her—blood and milk and life—and closed his eyes. She had given him everything. And what could he offer in return? Gold? Gems? No. She deserved more than that.
She deservedworship.
His hands, still too large and clawed, trembled as they stroked her back. He whispered dragon-words into her hair. Old things. Sacred things. “You,” he said, voice low and hoarse, “are...mine.”
But not as hoard. Not as prize. Asbeloved. Asprecious.
The twins mewled softly between them. One hiccuped. The other clung to Elowen’s breast with small fingers.
Midas looked down at them, and for a moment, his vision blurred with heat and wetness he couldn’t recognize.
The fire crackled softlyagainst the stone walls of the cave, casting long, flickering shadows that danced across the hoard of treasures nestled deep in the far corners. Elowen lay propped on a thick bed of blankets and woven pelts, her body still aching but no longer trembling. Midas had not left her side. Even now, he sat close, his legs crossed awkwardly beneath him in his humanoid form, tail coiled gently behind him, wings folded like a blanket at his back. His hand hovered near her thigh, not quite touching, but always near.
Nestled between them lay the boys, bundled in soft cloths made from a stolen priest’s robe and a weathered tapestry Midas had long ago hidden beneath gold. The infants were quiet now, their bellies full, their tiny fingers twitching in their sleep.
They looked like her. But also like him. They had her mouth, her nose, but their eyes…those golden eyes were Midas’, down to the molten ring around the iris.
Elowen’s voice broke the silence, hushed and reverent.
“They need names.”
Midas turned to look at her, head tilting ever so slightly. “Names.” He blinked slowly. Her heart warmed at that. He still spoke in short sentences, his tongue wrapping clumsily around human words. But his meaning was never unclear.
“These are our miracles,” she said. “Their names will be written into history.”
