In all the years we were married, I never once told you how beautiful I truly found you. Not the whispers and the grunts that I would toss in while trying to fill you with a king's requisite children, Anaia, but how beautiful I found you when you did not know I was looking.
     I did not even know how much I cared until I was slain. Now I am staring at you, Anaia, watching you from below our castle window, reflected in the umber light of the fire. I am so cold. So tired, my countess.
     And so ashamed that I had been so blind...
     I know the workings of this castle better than anyone. I know the coming and going of my own sentries, a lord's timing, a prince's study. I pass between the rhythm of it without being seen, like walking through rain and not feeling a single drop.
     I stand in our doorway. It is late, the middle of the night. I watch you walk back and forth, holding our Most Recent -- another son, you have given me two, the oldest and the youngest. Bookends between two beautiful daughters. And you, all of you, it is why I am here. Even though I am dead. A thing that cannot now see the light of day.
     "Anaia..."
     She clutches the baby to her and she spins, surprised at the voice. Her surprise is reflected in a thousand tiny reactions, each one a separate explosion of alarm. Speaking in rapid Catalan, she looks to the shadows of the doorway.
     She doesn't see me...
     Who are you? her language demands, in smoke and fire, you can smell the myrrh in it and feel the heat of the Cordoban sun. How dare you speak my name, show yourself to your queen.
     I step from the darkness.
     I raise my hands.
     "Shh, carita, it is only me..." Me, a man she hasn't seen in weeks. Me, a man for whom an entire country has been searching. A man believed dead, mourned, hoped after like Arthur with breaths of: When will he return? So, it is rightful that she is a little angry.
     Angry and relieved, joyed and furious, Anaia holds the red-haired son more relaxed, upon a small, cocked hip. "You are gone for two weeks, Dafydd. Gone from your kingdom, gone from your family, no word you leave, how can you do this?" She at least has the presence of mind not to scream. But I think it is only because she is so angry that she hisses like flame melting wax.
     I cannot help it. The frown. The corners of my eyes that I can feel pulling with sadness. Regret. When I step into the light, she will see the blood and the mud. "I don't have much time, carita. We ...don't have much time..."
     She lets out a breath at the sight, the back of her hand coming to her mouth. Before he can see me, before he can feel her fear and start to wail, Anaia turns silently and places the infant prince in his crib, a bed of fox fur the same color as his hair. "Dafydd," she whispers. "Dafydd," a hand to my bloodied and muddied face.
     I place a hand over her own, it swallows it. "I need you to gather some clothing. To gather our children. We must leave tonight..."
     Her face goes flushed and pale all at once. Alarm and shock are felt simultaneously. "Dafydd... what are you talking about... what do you mean?"
     "I am slain," I whisper. "And I must get you to Spain. You and our children." She shakes her head, she starts to cry, this woman who I thought for all these years did not love me. We did our conjugal duty, but what does that have to do with love. "You and our children. I'm taking you tonight. I have a boat arranged." I close my eyes, I kiss your forehead, I shed a tear. "Now, carita... pack..."
     I am so tired...
     Having fought the Devil himself, my body slain, I have bled but have not fallen. I do not know how long I will last. I do not know how many are coming for us. I only know that I can't leave you. I can't leave you, my wife and my children, to be slain by Them... or by my rivals, my slain brothers' children...