Page 135 of The Mercy of Dawn

Then, just as quickly as it came, the memory drifted from her mind.

“I think this is who you really want to see, and, if you are okay with it…” There was a hint of hesitation in Runa’s distant voice. “I would like to show it to someone else afterward too.”

A beige blanket spread over grass came in first. A mess of wavy, auburn hair settled into her vision next, belonging to a toddler who stood unsteadily between Runa’s legs on the blanket, gripping onto her fingers as she kept him upright.

Him, because Cyril knew instantly who that someone was.

She knew exactly where they were too. With the royal gardens in sight and the lake down off in the distance, they were on the terraced grass of the back lawn. Just like where Mikael had found her on the solstice.

Movement came into Runa’s periphery and it knocked all the air from Cyril’s lungs in one ragged breath.

Her mother.

There was no one else that could be.

She came from behind Runa and settled opposite her on the blanket, reaching her hands towards Mikael. The toddler prince made a shrill, joyful noise and stumbled across to her.

Cyril was captivated.

Her mother’s hair was short, falling just above the tops of her shoulders, but it was the same silky black as Cyril's, and there was no mistaking who she inherited her bone structure from. Even though everything about Malia’s face was just a touch sharper, more angular from her half-nymph blood, Cyril felt like she was looking in a mirror.

Now she understood why people always felt the need to tell her that.

Their only contrasts came from the vibrant blue, water-bearer eyes her mother held, and the unmistakable gentleness in her voice. Cyril was sure, even as she called to Dion and Hector, telling them to come watch Mikael walk, that this was a woman who couldn’t carry hatred or anger in her voice. A healer, through and through.

Just as Cyril’s father came to sit behind her mother, resting his chin on her shoulder and looking down at Mikael with wide, playful eyes, her chest started to ache.

Not from fondness, or longing, but from her heart thundering.

There was pressure too, building in her mind, but she ignored it.

She pushed past that budding discomfort, clinging on to her mother’s voice.

Her father’s laugh.

The bewildered expression on Dion’s face when Mikael staggered towards him.

They all looked so happy.

And then it was gone, the memory swept away by darkness and devastating silence.

“No,” Cyril’s voice came as a rasp, “No, Runa, please. Bring it back, I…please, Runa—” She gritted her teeth, holding back the sob that crept up her throat.

She wanted to see every memory Runa had of them.

Every bit of laughter, every word they spoke, she wanted to hear it.

She wanted to see her mother again.

She wanted to see the happiness on Dion’s face again.

She wanted—

“Another time, Cyril,” Runa said, and that cold heaviness withdrew from her limbs, the tide retreating down her spine. “That is enough for now. Too much at once, and I can cause damage.”

Cyril’s eyes opened of their own volition as the last trace of cold skittered away. Runa looked at her, her own eyes glossy, with as sad of a smile as Cyril had ever seen. A twinge of guilt ran through her.

“Just sit for a bit, alright? You’re quite flush.” The queen’s hands skimmed down her face, her palms pressing against Cyril’s cheeks. “You might feel dizzy and a bit nauseous, but that will pass soon.”