Chapter 30
Thirty
Midas stirred before the dawn.
The cave was quiet. Eerily so. The usual rhythm of Elowen’s breathing was there, but beneath it pulsed a shift in the air, something only he could sense. It prickled along his scales like static, ancient instincts stirring in the marrow of his bones.
He lifted his head slowly from where he had coiled himself around the edges of the nest, careful not to rouse her.
Elowen slept fitfully now. The weight of their unborn child rested heavy in her belly, and her discomfort had worsened by the day.
Midas had noticed the way she winced when she turned, the way her breath would catch mid-sentence, and how she barely touched her food except when he fussed and fed her himself.
Midas reached out with his nose, pressing it gently to her bare shoulder. Her skin was hot. Elowen’s labor was close. Though she had only been growing the child for less than half of the time of a human pregnancy, her body was already preparing for birth.
He rose in silence, transforming quickly and with strain into his two-legged form—still scaled, still winged, still not quite human, but small enough to move through the narrow alcoves of the cavern without his tail knocking over the drying herbs and bones lining the walls.
His body ached from the change, but he bore it. For her.
There was water to heat. The smoothest of the river stones he had gathered earlier were placed into the fire to warm the basin.
Blankets were unfurled and spread around the nest, shaken and fluffed and scented with her flowers.
A half-cooked stew was stirred back to life with a bit of dried meat and wild greens he had foraged, just in case she could stomach it after.
And still…it did not feel like he had done enough. Not when she carried something so precious in her womb, and when the unknown was quickly creeping up on them.
Thoughts of the labor worried him often—he worried if Elowen would even survive birthing a half-dragon child in whatever form they might take.
His taloned hands shook as he placed jars of salves within arm’s reach of the bedding. He knew these herbs well now—Elowen had taught him. He knew what eased pain, what slowed bleeding, what cooled fever. He would give her everything she needed. He would not lose her.
Midas paused at the edge of the firelight, his golden eyes flicking to Elowen’s sleeping form. His tail lashed slowly, restlessly behind him.
Then—her breath caught. A whimper broke from her throat, sharp and raw. Midas was at her side in an instant.
“Elowen,” he whispered, his voice rough.
She gasped. The pain came like fire in her spine. Her hand flew to her belly, and her eyes shot open wide and wet.
“Midas,” she choked, voice strangled. “Something is happening—”
A wave of pain hit her unlike anything she had ever felt before. Her body curled forward, wracked with the first full contraction. Midas caught her before she could fall forward, holding her gently in arms that felt suddenly too large, too clumsy, too unworthy.
“Elowen. Safe. Breathe,” he repeated, again and again, low and soft into her hair. She clung to him, teeth gritted, tears falling fast down her cheeks.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
He kissed her brow. “No fear. I am here.”
She nodded, her whole body trembling with emotion and pain and uncertainty.
And then the night swallowed them whole, labor beginning in earnest, pain cresting and falling like waves in a storm—and Midas, beast of fire and claw, became a cradle of gentleness. He knelt beside her through every cry, every breath, every trembling squeeze of her fingers around his.
The pain grew worse by the second, and Elowen began screaming.
Not the delicate kind she’d heard in birth stories whispered by village midwives, but an animal scream, ripped from her chest as her body heaved and cracked and stretched in ways it was never meant to, to deliver something the world had never seen before.
Her knees slipped on the pelts soaked with sweat, her hands grasping for anything solid—only to find the ridged curve of Midas’ human forearm. She dug her fingers in until his skin split and blood streaked his scales. He didn’t flinch. He would let her rip his bones from his hide if she needed to.
He wiped her brow. He murmured nonsense words in the dragon tongue. He growled at the shadows as if they dared come closer.
But as her labor intensified, and her distress filled his chest, Midas found it nearly impossible to hold himself in his human form for her. He changed back to his natural shape almost against his will, barely managing to move to a safe distance away from her.
Useless, Midas scolded himself. Worthless!
His claws scored gouges deep into the floor where he gripped it to keep still so that she could grip and claw at him herself. Elowen screamed again, tearful words escaping her throat.
“I can’t do this!” she shouted.
Midas let out a low, guttural sound. Helplessness. His tail coiled and uncoiled beside her, snapping like a struck whip. He wanted to shift, to hold her with the hands she trusted, but her agony burned through the bond between them like lightning. He couldn’t steady himself long enough to change.
“I’m dying, Midas,” she gasped, collapsing into herself once more. Her body shook uncontrollably. “I swear to the old gods, I’m dying!”
He flinched from the grief in her voice. Another contraction hit. Her whole body seized. She clawed at his scales again, her broken fingernails scraping until there were no scales left and she gripped at his sensitive hide.
If pain was all he could give her now—he would offer it. He bowed his head so close that her blood smeared along his snout, her screams echoing inside the cage of his skull.
“Why would you do this to me?” she wept, but the words trembled. “It hurts…I can’t do it! I’m not strong enough.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, swallowed by another surge of pressure deep inside her. She curled forward again, howling like a wounded creature, and Midas bellowed with her, unable to do anything except stay.
The labor went on. Time lost meaning.
He did not know how to help, but he understood she was in pain.
And he could do nothing but watch.
Blood slicked her thighs. Her hair clung to her face. Her lips were dry and cracked from panting. Every time she tried to rest, another wave of pain crashed through her, leaving her shivering and soaked in fear.
Midas didn’t move an inch away from her.
“You’re going to break me,” she whispered once between contractions, voice hollow. “This child is going to split me in two. I won’t survive, Midas.”
Her courage was faltering, and he could feel it. When her body was ready to push, she braced before trying with everything she had.
The scream she let out tore something inside him.
Blood and heat and fluid spilled onto the stone. Her thighs shook violently, and Midas rose slightly, panic blazing through him.
But then—
A sound. A shrill, wet wail filled the cave.
Elowen slumped back, shaking, pale, barely conscious—but alive.
Beneath her, between her legs, lay a child. Their child.
Midas froze. The air around him stilled. Elowen’s head lolled weakly, eyes fluttering open just enough to find the child. She sobbed and reached for her new son with hands that shook so badly she couldn’t lift him.
Midas moved, finally.
He nosed the child forward gently with his snout, guiding him to Elowen’s chest. She curled around the boy with the last strength she had left.
“I did it,” she whispered, dazed.
And then, another wave of pain hit her so intensely that she nearly lost grip of her child. Midas was there, of course. He caught the wriggling, slimy newborn with his tail, holding him steady against her chest.
Midas leaned his head down to inspect Elowen’s body, to see what was there that could be causing her more pain. She seized once more, and when she did, Midas saw it—another child crowning between her legs, forcing itself into the world.
Her body trembled with exhaustion, blood pooling beneath her. Midas made a low, desperate sound—his talons digging into the stone beneath them. He would have given her his fire, his heart, anything to take her pain as she brought another babe into the world.
The second child came with a sudden rush, limbs limp but breathing. Elowen collapsed, eyes fluttering closed for a terrifying moment before her chest rose again.
He helped lift the child into her arms as he did the first one, and only once Elowen’s breathing steadied did he bend his head forward to examine the newborns. Both males. Both strong in their breath and warm with fire in their hearts—Midas could feel it as easily as he could feel his own.
He sniffed, then opened his mouth and drew his tongue across the firstborn’s skin, clearing the afterbirth with precise, delicate strokes.
It was instinct more than thought. The second child received the same.
He licked them clean, pressed his muzzle to their damp heads, breathing in the scent of them like it might brand them to his soul.
They were tiny. Fragile. Yet unmistakably marked by him. Their eyes gleamed with that same molten gold that burned in his.
He made a low, thrumming sound in his chest. Something protective. Something proud. Elowen stirred weakly, eyes fluttering open. He turned to her.
She was pale, soaked in sweat, hair tangled against her cheeks, but she was alive. He curled beside her, careful not to disturb the blood-streaked blankets, and pressed his snout gently to her shoulder.
“I’m…I’m okay,” she whispered, though her voice was barely above a whisper. Her fingers found the edge of his face, stroking the warm scales there.
The twins squirmed in the curve of her arm. She looked down at them—two tiny boys, their skin pink and flushed, each one bearing the mark of their father in his eyes.
Midas made a low sound and curled his wings protectively around all three of them. He lowered his head until it rested beside hers, his gold eyes soft and wide with awe.
Together, they breathed in the quiet. In that moment, there was no world beyond the cave. Only a woman, a dragon, and two newborn boys—held together with fire and love. Their cave, their home, once a tomb of silence and solitude, came alive with the sound and scent of family, legacy, and pride.
The fire crackled low, casting a soft glow over the curve of the cave’s interior. Outside, a wet, cold storm whispered against the stone, but within, all was warm.
Midas lay coiled along the outer edge of their den, his massive form at rest, though his eyes were not closed.
They were on them.
Elowen sat on a pile of fur-lined blankets, back braced against a mound of softened pelts, her legs curled beneath her. One of the twins, the more impatient one, was nestled against her chest, his tiny fists balled tightly near his face, mouth latched to her breast.
Midas didn’t move for long stretches, and his breath was slow and deep, as though afraid that even exhaling too loud might disrupt the moment.
Elowen murmured something low and sweet as she smoothed the baby’s dark hair. Her clothing had been ripped and soiled during the birth, so she removed it entirely, but she seemed unbothered; natural, content, and utterly focused on her sons.
Midas had seen the rawness of childbirth, the fire of her pain. He had seen blood and trembling and strength that rivaled the mountains. But this quiet act of nourishment, of giving not just safety but sustenance, was something else entirely. It was beautiful.
He inched closer, just enough to see better, not daring to touch or interfere. His wing curled inward, a barrier between them and the rest of the world.
Elowen noticed him watching. “You can come closer,” she said, patting the nest near her side.
Midas hesitated, then moved with slow grace, lowering his head beside her.
He didn’t speak, but rested his snout close enough to feel the warmth of her skin and the steady heartbeat of his son.
When the first had finished feeding, she gently traded places with the second in her lap in order to feed him as well.
Elowen smoothed the baby’s back, rocking gently. “I never thought I’d be doing this in a cave. With a dragon.” He let out a soft sound, deep in his throat. Not offended. Thoughtful. “But you’re not just a dragon, are you?” she added quickly, glancing at him. “You’re…you’re their father.”
He blinked, slow and heavy. His eyes lowered to her chest again—her body so small, so human, and yet she did what no magic of his could ever do. She fed them. She grew them. She birthed them with an animalistic grace and beauty he felt unworthy to witness.
He watched her fingers move. The way she shifted the baby’s weight. The way her thumb soothed a crease in his brow. He studied everything.
He’d never seen anything so fragile or so powerful.
When both boys had finished nursing, Elowen held them both to her shoulders, rocking them gently. The infants gave contented sighs in sync with each other, eyes drifting shut.
She looked at Midas with a kind of tired triumph.
Midas reached forward—slow, careful—and placed the tip of one claw lightly beside one of the newborn’s feet, as if measuring the size of his own children.
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.