“I’ll watch him,” Duncan vowed. “I can do that without arousing suspicion, make sure he’s doing well. Keep him safe. I can even bring you news, from time to time.”
Maric looked up at him, surprised. “You would do that?”
“For you, Your Majesty, without hesitation.”
It was almost too much to take in. First Fiona had returned and wasn’t dying, and now he had a son, and he was losing them both. Yet he understood what she was saying. If he recognized the boy and raised him in the palace, he would be subject to the constant politics and struggles. He would be seen as competition for Cailan. Better to have him raised somewhere quietly, out of sight and allowed his own destiny. But to have the boy believe he was never wanted, to have him never know his true mother? Was being of elven blood truly so terrible?
The ache in his heart threatened to make it explode. Maric knew nothing of being elven, and if Fiona wanted her son to be free of the struggles she endured, he wouldn’t deny her that. Let the boy have his chance to be free of them both.
He looked in Fiona’s eyes and slowly nodded. “If that’s what you want. Yes, I can do that.”
“Thank you, Maric.”
“And what about you?” he asked her. “Will I see you again?”
He could tell by her expression that the answer was no. Yet she nodded anyway. “If the Maker wills it,” she breathed. Then she leaned in and kissed him, and he kissed her back. It felt sweet, and sad, and right. He had this moment, the two of them sitting in the warm firelight as Duncan tactfully wandered with the child to the other side of the room. Even though the parting had the air of finality, somehow Maric still couldn’t bring himself to feel sad. This didn’t feel like an ending.
It felt like a beginning.