A Stroke Of Midnight   ::   Гамильтон Лорел

Doyle threw his head back and screamed. It was a sound of such anguish, such utter loneliness. The sound ended on a howl that raised the hairs on my body. He released me abruptly, and half threw me against Frost. Frost caught me and turned me so that his broad shoulders were between me and his captain.

Doyle collapsed to the floor in a pool of black leather, his braid curling like a serpent around his legs.

It took me a moment to realize that he was sobbing. Frost and I looked at each other. Neither of us had a clue as to what was happening to our stoic Darkness.

I moved toward him, but Frost held me back, and shook his head. He was right. But it made my chest tight to hear such broken sounds coming from Doyle.

Frost knelt beside him and laid a white hand on Doyle’s dark shoulder. “My captain, Doyle, what ails you?”

Doyle covered his face with his hands and hunched over until his hands were nearly flat to the ground. He curled in upon himself, and his voice came thick with tears, and thicker with anger. “I cannot do it.” He raised up on hands and knees, his head hanging down. “I cannot bear it.” He looked up, and grabbed Frost’s arm, much as he’d grabbed mine, almost pleading. “I cannot go back to what I was here. I cannot stand at her side and watch another take her. I am not that strong, or that good.”

Frost nodded, and drew the other man into his arms. He held him tight and fierce, and the face he showed to me was raw with sorrow.

I had missed something. Something important. Something had happened not just to Doyle but to Frost as well. This was not his typical moodiness; this was mourning. But what did they mourn?

“What has happened?” I asked.

Doyle shook his head, pressed into Frost’s shoulder. “She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what it means.”

“What?” Fear was beginning to tickle my stomach, march up my spine. My skin was cool with the beginnings of dread.

Frost looked at me, and I realized that there were unshed tears glittering in his eyes. “The ring has chosen your king, Meredith.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Mistral,” Doyle said, raising his head, so I could see his face. “The ring has chosen Mistral. And I cannot let him have you.”

I stared at him. “What are you babbling about? There is only one way for my king to be chosen, and I am not with child.”

“Are you certain of that?” Frost asked. His face was so calm, empty of the emotional turmoil I would have expected from him.