Chapter 30
I stake my claim now—he will come to my court after he is of age. I’ll ensure your Titus is taught by the best of the best as he grows into his warrior spirit, as I did for the twins.
—Archangel Alexander to First General Avelina (On the Birth of her Son, Titus )
Titus’s territory was the last stop on their meandering journey, Lady Sharine’s joy at their news incandescent. She enfolded them both into her arms, pressing kisses to Elena’s then Raphael’s cheeks in turn as she cried with happiness.
Titus, meanwhile, beamed. “You may foster the infant here, if you wish,” he said. “When the child is of the right age to spread their wings, of course. My stronghold has raised many a child—including your barbarian weapons-master, Raphael. I, myself, was fostered in Alexander’s court.”
Elena’s heart skipped not one but multiple beats at the idea of “fostering” her child anywhere, though she’d seen enough over the centuries to know that such stays with other courts and families were encouraged as a way to expose an otherwise sheltered angelic child to a wider range of experience.
Sam had been—very happily—fostered in Zanaya’s court once upon a time.
Thankfully, the possibility of having her child not just away from her but on another continent was far in the future.
This visit, they spent time listening to Titus and Lady Sharine’s stories of children they’d raised or cared for in their time.
Titus had no children of his own, but had watched over many an orphaned babe, while Lady Sharine, had, of course, raised Illium—and to a large extent, Aodhan.
Elena drank in their knowledge, Raphael by her side, and she kept telling herself that she would be a good mother, one unburdened by the ghosts of the past.
* * *
That night however, it was those very ghosts who visited her in her dreams.
“Dad?” she said, staring at a young Jeffrey, his hair golden and skin unlined—who walked hand in hand with Marguerite beside Elena.
“What is this ‘Dad’?” Marguerite chided. “He is your papa.”
When Jeffrey glanced at her with a smile curving his lips, the sun glinted off his sunglasses, and Elena realized she was shorter than she’d been at the start of the dream. A child again, one who held her mother’s hand as her father said, “Would you like a piggyback ride, Ellie?”
Suddenly wanting that more than anything, she raised her arms, and her father picked her up and swung her onto his back. As they walked across the fog-laden ground, this child Elena who was also the adult Elena said, “Are you together?”
“What a question, chérie.” Marguerite’s laughter was musical. “You can see us together, non?”
“No, I mean,” she began, then decided her mother was right. They were together here and now, weren’t they? Young and happy and in love.
She didn’t need to pry open the darkness that had forever blighted their lives.
Better to just enjoy this sweet dream where she was a little girl carried on her father’s strong back, while her mother pointed out pretty secrets hidden in the fog. A flower, a slumbering butterfly, a leaf that sparkled in the dew.
She settled in, content.