Chapter 39

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Nine-hundred years, Arawn thought bitterly to himself, holding on dearly to the last piece he had of his wife and daughter. Alone. He has been alone all this time.

Hisirdoux was still sobbing into his chest, nine centuries worth of abandonment, loss, and anger bubbling to the surface. Arawn held his daughter's son close to him, letting the boy scream out his anger and pain. Between them, the boy's dragon purred loudly enough to be heard over Hisirdoux's sobbing—attempting to comfort the boy he'd taken care of all these years. Arawn made a mental note to profusely thank the little dragon for keeping his grandson safe all this time.

"Hisirdoux," he whispered, some part of him still in shock that his little boy was still alive. "Fy tan gwyllt bach. I'm so sorry for all that you've been through, and that I was not there to protect you."

The boy's sobs stuttered for a moment, his shoulders shaking. "I was alone," he grieved, voice heavy. He pulled back, eyes red rimmed, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I've been— I'd been alone for eight-hundred years, Arawn."

He furrowed his brows, unwilling to let his grandson lean too far away from him. He held the boy's cheek in his palm, brushing a stray hair from his face. "Eight-hundred?"

Hisirdoux shuddered, wiping his face with the grimed sleeve of the sweater he wore. "It was just me and Archie... until I found..." his voice broke, eyes swelling with tears again.

"His soulmate," the dragon spoke, curling against Hisirdoux's chest. "Who is somewhere on this island. Possibly in a life-threatening circumstance, as he tends to get himself into."

Hisirdoux was still shaking, but he no longer had a broken expression. Now, he looked determined. That fire Arawn had fallen in love with in his wife had been passed down to their grandson. This boy was... no longer really a boy, was he? He was more than Arawn's lost wyr. He was a master wizard, the last one in existence. He was nine-hundred years old, and a seasoned soldier. He had seen more hardships than Arawn could even comprehend, and he was still here.

"Tell me about him," Arawn spoke softly, wanting to hear everything Hisirdoux had to say. He wanted to know just what he'd gone through in his nine-hundred years estranged from home.

His gold eyes flashed, sharp like steel. "I don't have time for a story. Carter is..." he took in a deep breath, firmly meeting Arawn's gaze. "Do you want to help me?"

"More than anything," Arawn said honestly. He would do anything to keep his grandson in his life.

"Carter is bound to the Underworld," he explained. "We have a little less than three weeks to stop the person who's been attacking Annwn—and stealing souls from the after-life—otherwise he stays there."

"I see." Arawn nodded. "You came here to achieve a different goal from what I'd imagined, but our paths still align."

Hisirdoux pursed his lips. "I can't... lose him, Arawn. Please," he looked at his grandfather pleadingly, desperately. "Help me save him."

"Anything," Arawn said with a breath, kissing his grandson's forehead. "Anything for you, my Hisirdoux. I mean that."

***

Jim was clean for the first time in days. The bath had been... interesting. But he was no longer covered in dirt and blood, and he had real food in his stomach. Things were beginning to look up. For the most part, anyway.

Antigone and Claire were following him down the hall to the "infirmary", or whatever it was called here. He wanted to check on Harley and Douxie... mostly Harley. The poor kid hadn't looked too good when they hauled him off to gods know where.

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