Chapter Text
Balinor awoke, as he had done every morning for twenty years, to a numb feeling in his chest. He forced his eyes to remain shut, attempting to keep himself in his dream world for just a little longer.
He was in the woods near Ealdor, dappled sunlight casting funny shadows on his very pregnant wife’s face. Hunith. Her beauty was still as fresh as when they first met, and so was her kindness, as shown by the laughter lines on her face. She spotted him watching her from their kitchen window and gestured for him to come and join her in their garden. He made his way out to her, picking up a chair and moving it next to hers. As he sat down Hunith pulled her head up to face his, asking for a kiss. A wide smile broke across Balinor’s face, mischief in his eyes, he bent down to meet Hunith’s waiting lips, but at the last moment ducked his head down to her enormous bump and smothered it in kisses. Hunith let out a light laugh, the kind that the Dragonlord could listen to for hours on end. Having recovered from his bout of silliness Balinor settled himself on his chair and began to make idle chit chat with his wife about baby names, the flowers in the garden, when he should next visit Kilgarrah. He heard excited giggles and squeals of laughter as a troupe of children flooded into the garden. His children.
There were five of them, all smiles and innocence. His twin sons had come running in with their elder sister, all three coated in dust and grass stains. Trailing behind them was his eldest and youngest, as to be expected, his eldest son was protective of all his siblings, but had a soft spot for his youngest sister. The eldest was almost sixteen, his eldest daughter fourteen, the twins were twelve and his youngest daughter was only three. He laughed as he watched his middle children engage in a fierce battle using their stick swords yelling something about claiming lost treasure and out of the corner of his eye he spotted his other daughter running around after the bubbles his eldest had conjured for her.
Shifting his attention over to the pair he watched her chase after the bubbles, her tiny face alight with joy waving her chubby hands about, desperate to catch them. When she did pop one, she called out in delight as it turned into a brightly coloured butterfly that landed on a nearby rosebush. His son’s face was broken into a wide smile, Balinor’s smile, as he watched his beloved little sister being entranced by his magic. Out of all Balinor’s children, this son was the only one to posses the gift of magic. He looked at all his children and recited their names in his head. The youngest daughter, Rose, for her pale pink skin that matched the roses that had bloomed in the garden on the day of her birth. The twins, Edmund and William, two good strong names for to mischievous strong boys. Cahira was his first born daughter, her name chosen to reflect her fighting spirit, her birth had not been easy.
But his oldest son, his first born… Balinor could never think of a name for him. However long he searched he could never find the right word to describe his son. His personality was so complex, his looks so diverse (only the gods know who inherited those ears off!) his name had to be perfect. The name was always on the tip of his tongue but Balinor could never quite reach it. Still, he watched contently with his beloved by his side, his children playing before him, Kilgarrah never too far away. He could smell the swent scents of flowers from their garden and the sounds of the forest were ever present under his precious children’s giggles. In the dream world, Balinor shut his eyes and immersed himself in the comforting sounds.
All too soon, the giggles had turned into shouts and he heard heavy footfalls past his tent.
With a shuddering gasp Balinor was wrenched from his fantasies by the loud noises from the usually quiet druid camp. Pushing himself upright he swung his legs out of his cot and caught sight of himself in the small mirror opposite his bed. The morning light illuminated his face. His dark hair was long but kept clean, as was his short beard. Lines were etched upon his face, adding age and sadness to the once always smiling face. If Hunith could see him now she wouldn’t recognise the man I’ve become, he thought bitterly. A tear leaked from his left eye, crawling down his face. One tear for a family that would never be. Slowly he rose and went about his normal routine, ignoring the excited noises from outside. They could wait, he thought as he washed his face and changed into his green robes.
He poked his head out of the flap and called to a passing druid “Anthea, what is it? What’s going on?”
Only stopping for a moment she turned and answered “It’s our lord, Balinor, our King approaches once again!”
The Dragonlord frowned. He had lived with this clan for the last five years so he knew enough about them to know that there was no druid King, or at least that they had told him about. More over, this clan was one of the more calm, reserved ones (partly why he took refuge with them) so to see them so excited about someone shocked Balinor slightly. Still, this visitor sounded important so Balinor thought he’d better get to Iselidr and help great him. Being the last Dragonlord did give him a very high status in the group, as high as any of the clan elders. Besides, his curiosity had got the better of him and he found he was desperate to know more.