Page 152 of Heart Cradle

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He turned his head towards the bed, but not towards the wound. Not the blood that had soaked Taelin’s leathers when Draeven brought him back, not the bruises, or the broken arm. Orilan looked at his son’s face, pale and still.

“You were so small when she held you,” he whispered. “She was already fading, but she smiled. She was so proud.”

He swallowed.

“You never stopped fighting. Not when you fell from the keep walls at eleven, or when you broke your wrist defending Branfil in the tunnel breach. Not when you told me you would take the commander’s oath.” He exhaled. “I thought I had prepared myself for war, but I never prepared for the day I’d watch my son fall and not know if he would rise.”

Taelin didn’t answer and Orilan bowed his head, the silence achingly tortuous.

“I would give up the throne,” he said softly, “if it would bring you back to me.”

Taelin groaned and Orilan snapped his head up.

“…Father?”

“Taelin.” He stood so fast the chair scraped behind him. “You reckless, precious fool.”

A rasp of breath, then a cough. “What happened?”

Orilan took his son’s hand again and sat, letting the anger drain out of him, replaced by something far heavier.

“You nearly fucking died, that’s what happened,” he said simply. “The healers worked on you for hours. It was close, far too bloody close.”

Taelin’s eyes flickered with something softer, something real.

Orilan leaned in. “You’ve another child on the way. A son still healing, and a realm at your back. And I… I thought you were gone. I thought I had lost you.” He paused, and then, with all the weight of a crownless man “I love you, and I would not have survived it.”

Taelin’s fingers curled weakly around his father’s arm. “I’m here,” he said again, a son’s promise.

Orilan exhaled, shoulders sagging like a siege wall coming down. For the first time in hours, he let himself sit back, really relax.

Taelin’s brows furrowed slightly. “Did we win?”

Orilan huffed a laugh, rough, genuine. “Yes, you bloody idiot. We won.”

Taelin blinked. “Really?”

“We did.” Orilan gestured vaguely towards the door. “The field’s still being cleansed now. No bodies, no magic traces, not even an arrow shaft left. Branfil’s returned to lead the teams.” He leaned forwards, a smirkflickering. “Vargen will think his entire legion vanished into the bloody mist. He’s going to shit.”

Taelin barked a laugh, then winced, clutching his side. “Fuck! Oww, don’t make me laugh.”

Orilan chuckled. “You always did laugh like a blacksmith dropped a hammer on your toe.”

Taelin grunted through a grimace. “Only because your jokes are always shit.” A moment passed, quieter and Taelin sobered. “Were there many casualties?”

Orilan shifted “Under a hundred, and a just over five thousand injured. No dragons were downed though. Branfil estimates there were around forty thousand Avelans, so maybe a quarter of his forces.”

Taelin rolled his eyes and grimaced again “Fuck, he definitely is going to shit.”

Orilan chuckled and checked his son over now, looking for new bruises, new injuries.

“What about Calen?” Taelin questioned.

Orilan’s face softened even further. “He’s well. Better than you, at least. Almost up and about, Hayvalaine’s been threatening to pin him to the bed with chains if he doesn’t stay put.”

“Sounds like her,” Taelin murmured, relieved.

Orilan nodded. “She’s been between rooms, but went back to sit with him about an hour ago.”