Page 114 of Fey Divinity

Then Tristan and Ollie walk in, and my heart nearly stops altogether.

Tristan grins at me with that familiar mischievous expression, but there’s something deeper there now.Something settled and peaceful that speaks of a man who’s found exactly where he belongs.

Ollie scowls at me from behind Tristan’s shoulder, his emerald eyes still holding all their familiar hostility. Some things apparently haven’t changed. But even his glare seems less sharp than before, tempered by the security of knowing he’s loved and protected.

I think my heart is going to explode with happiness. My brothers decided to stay. They chose love over power. Love over the Fey Realm. I haven’t lost them. I can live here with them and Jack in this wonderful house, in this wonderful community. It’s all too perfect, too good to be true.

And then, as if the universe has decided I haven’t been surprised enough today, more people walk into the room.

Llywelyn steps through the doorway, and time stops.

My middle brother. The one I thought I’d never see again. The one who was exiled for losing the deadly dance of court politics, who I managed to save from death but couldn’t protect from banishment. He’s here, alive and whole and smiling.

His hair has grown long again. Golden and woven into a true love’s braid. A marker not only of his happiness, but of how time runs differently in the realm.

Beside him walks Ethan, his human lover. They’re holding hands with the casual intimacy of people who’ve long stopped hiding their affection from the world.

Tristan got to them in time. He managed to warn them before the portals closed permanently. They’re no longer in exile, no longer cut off from family. Everyone I love is here, gathered in this impossible sanctuary that somehow contains all the people who matter most.

But then a small figure pushes past Llywelyn’s robes, and my world tilts off its axis entirely.

A child. Waist-high, with hair as golden as my brother’s and as curly as the human who loves him. The child stares up at me with solemn eyes that hold depths of intelligence far beyond their apparent years.

I go to my knees without thinking, bringing myself down to the child’s eye level. My heart is hammering so hard I can barely speak.

“Greetings,” I manage, my voice coming out far weaker than intended.

The child stares at me gravely, taking in my appearance with the serious consideration that small children give to important matters.

“My name is Dyfri,” the child says.

My heart goes absolutely crazy, beating so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t simply stop. This child, this perfect, impossible child, bears my name. Llywelyn named his son after me. After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve cost him, he chose to honour me in the most permanent way possible.

“Oh really?” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. “That’s my name too.”

The child nods with grave dignity. “I’m Dyfri Y Llywelynogi,” he says with a proud tilt of his chin that’s pure royal bearing despite his tender age.

“That’s a beautiful name,” I smile, and I mean it with every fibre of my being. It’s a perfect name for a perfect child who represents everything good about second chances and new beginnings.

My gaze finds Jack’s from across the room. He’s watching this entire scene with tears in his eyes and lovewritten plainly across his features. This man who married me as a stranger, who saw past every wall I built, who stood by me through revelation after revelation. This man who is so very good, kind, and brave. Gentle and caring. Who was fundamental in saving his world and doesn’t even want to reap the rewards of his deeds.

My smile deepens as I realise what I want to say, what this moment calls for.

I belong to Jack. And he belongs to me. This incredible, impossible, wonderful man has become my home and my heart and my chosen destiny. And somehow, impossibly, we get to keep everyone else too. For the first time in my life, I really do have everything I never dared to hope for.

And I get to keep it all.

I open my mouth and speak the truest words that have ever been spoken.

“I’m Dyfri Wyf Jackogi.”