Chapter 15

When the winds changed, so did Garen. Morgan watched his friend bracing himself in the weeks leading up to the oncoming of winter because it was going to lead to another perennial occurrence—one that never got less painful.

When the winds shifted, Garen’s father, Sariel, began to relive the tragedy of his youth, the battle that had changed everything for him—for all their people. He went from long periods of docility, during which he let his wife and son care for him with little acknowledgment or emotion, to a period of regression that left him active from dawn until dusk and sometimes later.

And always, always, he either fought or wept.

Rozyne used to take care of him during this period on her own, but as Garen grew, she’d relied on him more and more to step in and keep Sariel from hurting himself or others. She never asked her brother or nephew. For all they touted the importance of blood and family, Morgan knew the truth—Rozyne didn’t let them close to her husband in these desperate times because she didn’t trust him with them.

The first day Sariel woke up screaming, the sound traveled all the way to Morgan and Brevaer’s hut. Both of them bolted upright, Brev reaching for his spear before they realized what was going on.

“Damn it,” Brev said with a sigh. “The change has come on so gradually this year, I thought we would have a few more days of peace.”

“He never even goes outside,” Morgan groaned. “How can he tell the winds are changing?”

“He feels it in his heart,” Brevaer replied.

“That’s not a thing.”

“Of course, it is.” Morgan’s brother cuffed him on the back of the head. “The Agnarra have always had a sense-feel for the most important events in our lives, whether they’re good times or bad times. Being consciously aware of it isn’t necessary; you can just feel it.” He looked bemusedly at Morgan. “It’s worse for Sariel than it is for a lot of us, obviously—he spends an entire season in a state of panic and fear, but I always feel the exact day that our home was invaded. I’m surprised you don’t.”

Morgan shrugged. “I was too young for it, I guess.”

“Garen feels it.”

That was news to Morgan. “How do you know?”

“Because he told me about it, of course.”

Wait … “When did you two get so companionable?” The words could have sounded accusatory, but Morgan made sure to saturate them with approval and a fair dose of innuendo.

“Shut up,” Brevaer groused, throwing his blanket off and reaching for his kilt. “I’m going to go help finish in the north field today.” The change in the winds also heralded the fast-approaching end to the growing season, and many hands were requested to make light work.

“I’ll probably harvest more seaweed. Medicinal this time, not the stuff for dyeing.” Morgan had found himself becoming something of an expert when it came to how to use the many varieties of seaweed found near the island, after testing everything he could get his fins on to see if and how it would be helpful to Auban.

“That’s good.” Brevaer paused where he was stoking the fire and bestowed Morgan with an appreciative look. “I used to think that nothing could interest you more than art, but this year you’ve found all sorts of useful occupations for yourself. I’m impressed, little brother.”

“Thanks.” Morgan said it a bit dryly; he knew he was generally thought of as useless, so of course Brevaer liked it when he showed a passion for something that was more useful to the clan.

“Not—not like—” Brevaer made an exasperated grunting sound. “I’m not saying that to make you feel bad. Your art makes the village more beautiful. The children love finding it on the beach; they’ve been wondering why you stopped, in fact.”

Morgan was about to protest that that couldn’t be true, but then he stopped himself. He had stopped drawing in the sand on the beach, and making sculptures out of driftwood, and every other thing he’d once occupied his days with. “I … I’ll have to go back and make something new,” he said even though he already knew he wouldn’t do it before Auban was safely away.

“Do that,” Brevaer said, and the rest of their time together passed in companionable silence.

Morgan knew better than to go to try and get Garen’s attention after the morning. Rozyne wasn’t going to let her son out of her sight for the next week, and he wouldn’t leave his father anyway. He might not love the man—something he had shamefully admitted to Morgan the first time they got drunk on yara together—but he was a dutiful son and would never abandon his father in his time of need. That meant Morgan was going to be visiting Auban by himself, which was … honestly, it was fine with him.

It was more than fine.

It was kind of … amazing? But also terrible? It was hard to describe. Morgan treasured the time he had with Auban, and as his friend became healthier and more mobile, they were able to do different things together—mostly swimming and diving. Auban was a bit clumsy in the water compared to an Agnarra, but he turned out to be a very decent swimmer once he got used to it. Whether he’d known how to do it before or he was just learning now for the first time, Morgan was impressed.

Morgan loaded himself up with as much food as he could safely carry, then began his now-daily run to the pebble beach. The wind nipped at him as he went, colder, harsher than before. He frowned. He’d brought Auban a blanket months ago, and spare clothes, but those wouldn’t suffice for long. And he’d need another container for fresh water, and something to cover his food, and a net or a pole to fish with—not things Morgan’s people used often, but before children were developed enough to fish in their dragon forms, they did so from the shore.

There’s still so much to do.So much to do, and the end date was coming faster and faster.

Auban was nowhere to be seen when Morgan reached the beach. That in and of itself wasn’t surprising—Auban was wary about not being seen, which was good since one of them needed to be cautious. Morgan knew it was already a lost cause when it came to him. He walked down to the edge of the water and looked left, then right. There was no one clearly visible although he could see the very tip of the canoe where they’d dragged it under the edge of the cliff. He stared out into the water for a moment, but he didn’t see anyone’s head bobbing out there.

A little disturbed now, Morgan stowed the food, then decided to check the only place he could think of where Auban might be that they’d ventured together before. It would be faster to swim, so he stripped down and waded out into the shallows, then dove and changed all at once. He headed for the point of the island, the easternmost tip that was barely wide enough for two men to stand on side by side. From it, if you squinted and the water was calm enough, you could see the shadow of the next closest island in the distance, the one that Morgan was hoping to get Auban to himself before setting him off on his own.

Not that he was thinking about that.

He emerged from the water with a relieved whuff as he saw Auban standing exactly where he’d hoped he would be. He wasn’t looking out at the sea, though. He was standing with his eyes closed, arms extended, the wind ruffling his ragged clothes and leaving him looking like a beach bird on the verge of flight. Morgan didn’t interrupt the experience, just lifted his head out far enough to lay it on the rocks beside Auban’s feet.

The man blew out a sigh a second later. “So close,” he muttered. “I feel so close to something today. I’m almost—there’s almost—I’m on the verge of some memory, I can tell. I just don’t know what it is.” He pounded one of his hands into the palm of the other. “It’s driving me crazy!”

Morgan crooned comfortingly, and Auban knelt down beside him a moment later. It wasn’t easy for him; he still grimaced bending his right knee, but he could do it without help.

He’s ready, and we need to get ahead of the storms that will come with winter.

Then Auban stroked a hand over Morgan’s head, and every uncomfortable thought fled his brain as a rush of pleasure rolled down his spine. “There are things I feel I need to remember,” Auban said. “Things that make me feel … I don’t know, like something is about to happen that I should know about. A sense of foreboding, a … a feeling of danger. It’s been growing stronger.” He half smiled. “Perhaps it’s my mind telling me it’s time to leave this place. But my heart … my heart is saying the opposite.

“I think about not seeing you”—he scratched beneath Morgan’s jaw, tender on his smallest scales—“and I feel frantic. I feel like I’m abandoning you even though I know I can’t stay. I’m endangering you every second I’m here, but.” He sighed again, then leaned forward until their foreheads touched, his fire-warm and human, Morgan’s cool and damp. “I cannot tell you what I feel, because I refuse to be cruel to you. But I know, beyond all doubt, that you are the best person I’ve ever known in my life. If I never regain my memory, or if it all comes back to me someday, that is something that shall never change.”

Oh.Oh, was it possible he … felt the same? Could he possibly love Morgan back? Could he want him the way Morgan yearned toward Auban, every inch of his body suffused with longing—sometimes embarrassingly?

Oh.

Oh no.

Morgan crooned again, this time a sound of sadness, and Auban held him through his song. It was probably the last chance at a courting behavior he would get with this person he’d fallen in love with, the man his heart had chosen as his mate.

He would enjoy it even though it hurt.