Page 118 of Awakening

“Noah, Brioc, over here.” Emrys guided the men to set the Regent King against the trunk and in the shade of an old oak. He knelt beside Locryn and examined his injuries.

Emrys gently pressed his palm to Locryn’s chest. A blue glow emanated from his hand and spread over Locryn. It surrounded him, like an aura, seeping into his body, healing his wounds, regenerating his leg, and cleansing away the blood and grit. Emrys pulled his hand away and the glow faded.

The bleeding stopped, but one wound remained. A bite on his forearm, and from it spread a blackness under his skin. “By the Gods’ blood,” he muttered.

A bite from a hellhound. Emrys couldn’t heal that. The dark magic of the curse was slowly making its way through Locryn’s body. The Regent King would not live much longer.

“What is it, Emrys?” Marc asked.

“Hellhound bite.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means my time has come, son.”

Marc locked eyes with his father.

Emrys continued, his tone somber and certain. “The bite spreads the dark magic of the curse. It cannot be stopped. No magic is powerful enough to heal this.”

“What are you saying, Emrys? What will happen once the curse has spread?” Marc demanded, holding back tears. He’d just lost his mother. He wasn’t ready to lose his father too.

“If the curse had not been broken and the demon lord killed, he would have transformed into a demon himself. He would have been condemned to forever obey the will of Iôr Thraul. However, since that is not the case, he will die once it has completely consumed him.”

“How much time do I have?” Locryn asked.

“Your Grace.”

“Tell me.”

“An hour at most.”

Marc dropped to his knees at his father’s side. “Father—”

“Do not worry for me, my son,” the King interrupted him. “I am content, for I will soon be in the company of your mother again.” He glanced over to Trystan, then back to his son. “You and your mother were right about Trystan all along.”

Marc clasped his father by the wrist as if to say thank you. The King attempted to return the gesture, but was unable to do so in his weakened state. Locryn looked at Trystan.

“I am grateful to have served you, Trystan of Camelot. As the regent king, by the oath I swore many years ago, I restore to you your birthright. The Kingdom of Loegria is yours.”

“Locryn, Regent King of Loegria and protector of her people,” Trystan said, his voice hoarse as he spoke through the strain in his throat. “I, Trystan of Camelot, Arthur’s son and heir, do hereby hold your oath fulfilled.” Trystan paused as Locryn’s eyes watered with would be tears. “‘Tis been an honor, Your Grace.”

Locryn gave a weak nod. “Emrys, my old, not-so-old friend.” A smile racked with pain touched Locryn’s eyes. “Just how old or young are you?”

Brows drawn, tears wet Trystan’s lashes as a lump formed in his throat. Marc swallowed, his chest tight.

Emrys huffed a quiet, strained laugh. “Centuries upon centuries old, but I rather like being about twenty-nine years young. Being an old man doesn’t suit me.”

“It doesn’t suit me either.” Locryn laughed, wincing as a sharp pain radiated throughout his chest. “Will you do me the honor of one last request, my friend?”

“Name it.”

“Is it possible that I may see the castle of Camelot fully restored before I depart this world?”

“I do believe that can be arranged,” Emrys said as he looked at both Marc and Trystan.

Trystan stood and picked up Excalibur from where he’d dropped it. He extended his hand toward Marc. “Come, my heart.”

Marc stood and took Trystan’s hand.