Chapter 129: Eiravelle’s Nightmare

Eiravelle was holding her baby in her arms and she was very happy. She couldn’t believe it—her daughter was really here, and in her arms. The baby cooed and smiled as she felt the safety of her oma’s arms holding her, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling against the soft fabric of Eiravelle’s gown.

The room was quiet and warm, the curtains drawn to keep out the winter chill, and the fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Eiravelle had not stopped smiling since the moment the midwife had placed the baby in her arms.

She had not stopped looking at her daughter, at the tiny face and the golden eyes and the tuft of red wine hair that was so like Qazaethel’s. She had not stopped marveling at the miracle of it all.

The baby was so small, so impossibly small, and yet she was perfect. Her skin was soft and pink, her lashes long and dark, her little mouth pursed in a pout that made Eiravelle’s heart ache with tenderness. She smelled of milk and warmth and something sweet that Eiravelle could not name, and she fit so perfectly in the curve of Eiravelle’s arms, as though she had always belonged there.

Eiravelle traced the curve of her daughter’s cheek with a gentle finger, marveling at the softness, at the tiny life that had grown inside her for eight months and was now here, in the world, breathing and cooing and smiling up at her with those golden eyes.

"You’re so beautiful, my dear," she said, and she kissed the child’s forehead, her lips lingering on the soft, warm skin. The baby sighed contentedly, her eyes fluttering closed, and Eiravelle felt her heart swell with a love so fierce it almost hurt. She had never known she could feel this way.

She had never known that love could be so overwhelming, so all-consuming, so absolutely terrifying. She would die for this child. She would kill for this child. She would burn the world to ash if it meant keeping her daughter safe.

The intensity of the feeling frightened her, but it also gave her a strength she had never known she possessed. She was a mother now. And mothers would do anything for their children.

Eiravelle watched them rise and fade, her mind drifting to Qazaethel. Qazaethel had been called away to attend to some matter of state, but she had promised to return soon, and Eiravelle knew she would keep that promise.

Qazaethel had been so gentle with the baby, so careful and tender, and Eiravelle had seen a side of her alpha that she had never seen before—a softness, a vulnerability, a love that was just as fierce as her own. The memory of Qazaethel holding their daughter, her eyes are shining with tears, her voice was thick with emotion as she whispered, "She’s perfect," made Eiravelle’s heart ache with a sweet, tender pain.

"Having fun?" The voice came out of nowhere, and Eiravelle was startled by the sudden appearance. She gasped, her arms are tightening around the baby, and she looked up to see Ragnar standing beside the bed, his expression amused, his dark eyes glinting with mischief.

He was dressed in his usual simple robes, his dark hair loose around his shoulders, and he looked exactly as he always did—ageless, timeless, utterly at ease. His presence was a comfort, even when it was unexpected, and Eiravelle felt her racing heart begin to slow.

"Oh my goodness! Master, why would you do that...?!" Eiravelle was not trying to get frustrated at Ragnar’s surprise, but her heart was still pounding in her chest, and she could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

The baby stirred, her tiny face scrunching up, and Eiravelle immediately began rocking her, soothing her back into sleep. "Sorry, my bad," Ragnar said, and he approached slowly, his footsteps silent on the stone floor, to smile at Eiravelle’s baby.

He looked down at the child, at the tiny face and the golden eyes that were just like her mother’s, and his expression softened. There was something in his eyes that Eiravelle had never seen before—something tender, something almost wistful—and she wondered, for a moment, what he was thinking.

He was a god, after all, and gods did not look at mortals with tenderness. But he was looking at her daughter that way, and Eiravelle felt a warmth spread through her chest.

"The child has your eyes... But has Qazaethel’s red wine hair," he mentioned, and Eiravelle nodded and smiled widely, her earlier startlement forgotten in the wave of pride and joy that washed over her.

"I know. Isn’t she adorable?" She said excitedly, and there was a tinge of excitement in her voice as she said that. She was not trying to hide her happiness. She was not trying to be modest or humble. She was simply a mother, proud of her child, and she wanted the whole world to see how beautiful her daughter was.

"Yes... I agree... She is very adorable... Haha, so cute!" Ragnar said, and he gently touched the child’s head, his fingers light and warm against the soft skin. The baby stirred again, her eyes fluttering open for a moment, and Ragnar smiled. "I gave her the protection of the clouds. She will be recognized by the Manor in the clouds," he said, and Eiravelle felt a warmth spread through her chest.

"Thank you, master," she said, and her voice was thick with gratitude. She knew what this meant. She knew that Ragnar’s blessing was not given lightly, that the protection of the clouds was a gift that few ever received.

Her daughter would be safe. Her daughter would be watched over. Her daughter would be recognized by the Manor in the clouds, and that knowledge gave Eiravelle a peace she had not known she was missing.

Ragnar nodded, his smile fading slowly. "But... Eiravelle," he called, and Eiravelle raised her gaze, her heart suddenly pounding with a new kind of fear. There was something in his voice—something heavy, something dark—that made her blood run cold. "It is coming," he said, and his face was clearly worried about something.

No matter how Ragnar tried to stay calm and composed, he could not hide the tremor and dread he was feeling. His eyes were troubled, his brow furrowed, and his hands, which were usually so steady, were trembling slightly at his sides.

Eiravelle looked from afar and saw the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. They were not like the soft, white clouds of a winter sky. They were black and heavy, churning with thunder, and they were moving toward them with a speed that was unnatural, a speed that spoke of something terrible and inevitable.

"Master, what will happen if the clouds—" She wasn’t able to finish when she glanced at Ragnar and found him not there anymore.

"Master?" she called out, her voice high and panicked. She glanced everywhere, searching for him, but he was no longer there. The room was empty, the fire still crackling, the curtains still drawn, but Ragnar was gone.

The baby started crying, her tiny wails filling the silence, and Eiravelle began rocking her in her arms, her movements desperate and frantic. "Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay," she whispered, but her voice was trembling, and she could feel the fear building in her chest.

Then she screamed. She glanced down and saw that the baby she was holding was no longer a baby. It was a skeleton, tiny and white, its bones cold and brittle, and its empty eye sockets stared up at her with a terrible, silent accusation.

Eiravelle let go of the child and stumbled back, her hands flying to her mouth, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The black clouds ate the entire bright sky and grew bigger and bigger, thunder rolling through the darkness like the voice of an angry god.

Eiravelle was heaving and gasping as fear wrapped her entire form. The world around her was dying. Every life died—the flowers in the garden, the birds in the trees, the grass beneath her feet.

Even the ground she was sitting on crumbled and withered, and the darkness spread until there was nothing left. Only darkness. Only silence. Only death. The air grew cold, so cold that her breath misted before her face, and she could hear the distant sound of weeping, the soft, hopeless sound of those who had given up.

Eiravelle gasped and was totally scared, until she held something and lifted it up. It was a lamp, old and rusted, and the lamp just lit up on its own, its flame small and flickering but bright enough to cast a circle of light in the darkness. Eiravelle heard a howling wind, and she was sweating so much, and fear was her only companion.

She held the lamp close to her chest, her fingers wrapped around the cold metal, and she tried to breathe, tried to think, tried to remember that this was just a dream. But it did not feel like a dream. It felt real. It felt more real than anything she had ever known.

Then suddenly, she heard a scream. "Huh?" She turned, her heart pounding, and she followed the sound. The darkness seemed to press in around her, the wind howling louder, but she kept walking, her feet moving without her permission, drawn toward the sound.

Until she stopped mid-step when the scream became frantic, and everything around her was filled with different screams of agony. They came from everywhere—from the shadows, from the sky, from the ground beneath her feet.

They were the screams of the dying, the screams of the lost, the screams of those who had been consumed by the darkness. She couldn’t help but cover her ears while her hold on the lamp stiffened.

"Make it stop, what is going on?" She murmured, and her voice was small and afraid. She turned around, her eyes wide, her breath catching in her throat, and there was a creature’s face in front of her.

It was a face of pure nightmare—twisted and grotesque, its eyes burning with a dark fire, its mouth stretched into a smile that showed teeth too sharp and too many. And all she could do was scream.

"EIRAVELLE!" Qazaethel’s voice cut through the darkness like a blade, and Eiravelle was jolted awake. She gasped, her eyes flying open, and she saw Qazaethel leaning over her, her face pale with fear, her hands gripping Eiravelle’s shoulders. The room was bright, the fire still crackling, the curtains still drawn, and the baby was crying beside her, her wails loud and healthy and alive.

The servants were there, their faces pale and worried. Dawn was there, her eyes are wide with concern. Liv was there, her hand on the hilt of her sword, ready to protect. Xelvyn and Yvaine were there, standing near the door, their expressions a mixture of fear and relief.

"Love, it’s just a nightmare. It’s okay," Qazaethel said, and her voice was steady, but her hands were trembling as she cupped Eiravelle’s face. Eiravelle nodded, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and she tried to calm herself, tried to remember where she was, tried to remember that she was safe.

"Just a dream? You’re real?" She asked, and her voice was small and broken. She looked up at Qazaethel, her eyes searching her alpha’s face, and she needed to hear it. She needed to know that this was real, that the nightmare was over, that she was not still trapped in that darkness with the creature and the screams and the skeleton baby.

"Of course," Qazaethel answered, and she pulled Eiravelle into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around the omega and holding her close. Eiravelle buried her face against Qazaethel’s shoulder, breathing in her scent—smoke and cedar and something warm and familiar—and she felt the fear begin to recede, replaced by a trembling, fragile calm.

Qazaethel didn’t know what kind of dream Eiravelle had that made her question whether this was real or not, but all Qazaethel knew was that it was a very, very bad nightmare for Eiravelle to experience. She held her tighter, her hand moving in slow circles on Eiravelle’s back, and she whispered soft, soothing words against her hair.

"I’m here. I’m real. You’re safe. The baby is safe. We’re all here," Qazaethel said, and her voice was a steady anchor in the storm of Eiravelle’s fear. Eiravelle nodded, her tears soaking into Qazaethel’s tunic, and she clung to her alpha like a drowning woman clinging to a lifeline.

The baby was still crying, her wails filling the room, and Saye stepped forward, her hands outstretched. "My lady, shall I—" she started, but Eiravelle shook her head, her arms tightening around Qazaethel.

"No. Bring her to me," she said, and her voice was shaky but firm. Saye nodded and gently lifted the baby from the bassinet, carrying her to Eiravelle and placing her in her mother’s arms. Eiravelle looked down at her daughter, at the tiny face and the golden eyes and the red wine hair, and she felt a sob catch in her throat.

She was real. She was alive. She was not a skeleton. She was not dead. She was here, in Eiravelle’s arms, and she was crying because she was hungry or tired or simply because she wanted to be held.

"Shhh, it’s okay, little one. Oma’s here. Oma’s got you," Eiravelle whispered, and she began to rock the baby, her movements slow and steady. The baby’s cries began to quiet, replaced by soft, hiccupping breaths, and Eiravelle felt the last of the fear drain from her body. She looked up at Qazaethel, at the worry and love in her alpha’s eyes, and she smiled—a small, fragile smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"I’m okay," she said, and this time, she meant it. "I’m okay now."

Qazaethel did not look convinced. She was still pale, her hands still trembling, and she kept her arms wrapped around Eiravelle as though she was afraid to let go. "What did you dream about?" She asked, her voice gentle but insistent. "You were screaming. You’ve never screamed like that before."

Eiravelle shook her head, her eyes dropping to the baby in her arms. "I don’t want to talk about it," she said, and her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "It was just a nightmare. It doesn’t matter."

"It matters to me," Qazaethel said, and she cupped Eiravelle’s face in her hands, tilting it up so that their eyes met. "You matter to me. If something is frightening you, I want to know. I want to help."

Eiravelle looked at her for a long moment, at the love and concern in her alpha’s eyes, and she felt her resistance crumble. "It was about the baby," she said, and her voice cracked. "I dreamed that she was dead.

That she was a skeleton in my arms. And then the world ended, and there was darkness everywhere, and I was alone, and there were screams, and—" She stopped, her breath catching in her throat, and she shook her head. "I can’t. I can’t talk about it."

Qazaethel pulled her close again, her arms wrapping around Eiravelle and the baby both, holding them both safe against her chest. "You don’t have to," she whispered. "You don’t have to talk about it. But I need you to know that it was just a dream. Our daughter is alive. She is healthy.

She is here, in your arms, and she is not going anywhere. And neither am I. Neither are any of us." She gestured to the others, to Dawn and Liv and Xelvyn and Yvaine, to the servants who had gathered to help, and Eiravelle looked at them, at their worried faces and their steady presence, and she felt a wave of gratitude wash over her.

"Thank you," she whispered, and she meant it. She meant it more than she could say. She had spent so much of her life alone, so much of her life feeling as though she had no one to turn to, no one to rely on. But now she had a family. She had Qazaethel. She had friends who had become family. She had a daughter who was perfect and beautiful and alive. And for the first time in a very long time, she felt safe. She felt loved. She felt whole.