It was a vow. Freely given, and forevermore.
He would ever fight to protect the King and the people in this house—not because of what Xcor had sworn to sometime ago, or because fighting served a perverted inner need, but because he would always protect those who were his family.
And all of them were in this room.
Wrath lifted the sacred ring of the ruler, and nodded back, accepting the pledge. After which . . . it was time to eat.
As Syn took Jo over to the two seats that had been saved for them, he said, “Bacon and chocolate, right?”
“Oh, my God.” Jo took his hand and squeezed it urgently. “Yes. Please. How did you know?”
As Syn and his female, Jo, made their way to their places at the meal, Wrath stepped to the side and found himself still grappling with his new reality. The war was over. Finally.
Holding his son in his arms, he imagined the faces of the people sitting around his table. He could tell who was seated where by the sounds of the voices, and also the scents. But it wasn’t the same as being able to see.
Still, he would take what he had and be grateful.
Whispering a command to George, he let his dog lead him where he wanted to go, the pair of them making steady progress to the base of the grand staircase. The ascension was an easy one, and at the top, Wrath continued straight ahead, entering his study.
With a deep breath, he pictured from memory what was across the space.
The chair.
The ancient, carved throne, that his father had sat upon.
As Wrath crossed over toward it, he went back into his past and recalled being in that crawl space in the Old Country’s palace, watching as the lessers streamed in and slaughtered his parents. So helpless he had been, a weak pretrans, hidden by his mahmen and his sire, protected by those he should have protected.
When George signaled he’d arrived at his destination, Wrath reached out into thin air, moving his hand around until he found the throne’s high back. It seemed apt that the King’s ring made contact with the old wood with a clonk.
Holding L.W. extra close, he gripped the carvings that had been made so long ago.
“It’s over, Father,” he said in a voice that cracked. “It’s done. We won.”
As a wave of emotion overtook him, he sat down and arranged his blooded son in his lap, holding his precious one close.
That was when he heard the meow.
Angling his head to the sound, he frowned. And then . . . “Analisse?”
The Scribe Virgin’s presence registered as a weight in the room. He wasn’t sure he could describe it better than that.
“Yes,” she said in that voice of hers. “’Tis I.”
To cover his emotion, he chuckled. “I asked you a question, did I. Such a no-no.”
“Those nights are past, my old friend.”
Wrath sensed her moving closer to the desk. “We won. But you know that, don’t you.”
“Yes.”
“I wish my father were here to see this. My mahmen, too.”
“They can. They are always with you.”
Wrath had to clear his throat. And then he tried—and failed—to keep the pride out of his voice. “This is my son. Another thing you already know, right?”
“Yes.” The affection in her voice was a surprise. “I know many things.”
“So you’re not completely gone, then. The cat, though? Really.”
“I have been with your Queen since day one.”
He had to laugh. “That makes me happy.”
“You are a fine King. You have done your father proud.”
Behind his wraparounds, he started blinking hard. “Don’t say shit like that. You’ll melt me.”
“And as for your son, he looks like you.”
“Does he?” He ran a fingertip over L.W.’s soft hair. “You know, his eyes have changed. They were blue. But now they’re green. Beth doesn’t want me to know. She’s kept it a secret—but I overheard her talking to Doc Jane about it. I don’t care. He’s perfect the way he is.”
“Yes, he is.” There was a pause. “Here. See for yourself, my old friend.”
All at once, his vision opened up from a pair of pinpoints, the apertures widening in perfect concert, providing him with a crystal clear vision of Little Wrath . . .
. . . that carved him in half.
Gasping, he fumbled his wraparounds off and beheld his blessed born son, from the face that was a carbon copy of Wrath’s own, to the jet-black hair that was growing in thick and healthy, to the limbs and torso that, even in this still nascent stage, promised to be powerful and strong.
And then there were the eyes.
Clear . . . and icy green just like Wrath’s own. And they stared back at him with a gravity that made no sense. How could the young know how important this moment was?
“He knows,” the Scribe Virgin said. “He is a very old soul, that one.”
Wrath looked up. And there she was, a glow of light in the form of a female, levitating above the Aubusson rug just on the other side of the desk.
“He will be a fine ruler,” she said. “He will live long and succeed your legacy with one of his own. And yes, he will find love. In all this, you may put your faith.”
Wrath stared down at his son. The tears in his eyes were doing his fucking nut in. He knew this wasn’t going to last and he didn’t want to waste one second of it on blurriness.
“You have given me such a gift this night,” he said in the Old Language.
“You have tallied long and hard. You deserve it. Now be well, Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath.”
Wrath looked up. “I still owe you a favor. Remember?”
Even though the Scribe Virgin was just a light source, he could swear she was smiling at him. “Oh, I have not forgotten. And in time, you will give me my due, I promise you that—now, though, here comes your shellan. I shall give you a moment with her, and then—”
“I know. Be well, Analisse.”
“And you, old friend.”
Just as the Scribe Virgin disappeared, Beth appeared in the study’s open doorway. “Wrath, are you . . .”
She stopped talking as he looked up at her with eyes that properly focused. Then she put her fingertips to her mouth.
“Wrath?” she said urgently.
“You are so beautiful.”
As she rushed over to him, he made note of her flowing dark hair and her lovely skin, her eyes and her body, her . . . everything. His eyes were starved for what fed into them, and when she got in range, he took her hand and pulled her into his lap. Then he looked down at George.
“And hello there as well, you good boy.”
He stroked the golden’s perfectly boxy head. Then he stared at his son and his shellan.
“How did this happen?” Beth choked out as she touched his brows.
“It’s a gift from an old friend.” He stroked her hair. Her face. “And it’s not going to be for long.”
“The Scribe Virgin was here?” she said with shock.
“She’s always with us, as it turns out.”
Wrath kissed his shellan. Kissed his son. Kissed his dog.
Then with one last look at the three of them, he closed his eyes. It seemed important for him to have control over the re-loss of his sight. If he’d had to watch his family fade from him, he would have panicked. But by doing it himself, it was less traumatic.