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Everard sighed heavily and sat on the bed right next to Sorin. He folded his arms, elbows on his knees, and hung his head, giving them both time to breathe.
“You do not have to tell me what happened to you,” he said after a while. “In fact, it would be better you didn’t—the eggs might suffer from the stress, and neither of us would want that—but…” He left the word hanging for a significant moment, like he had to find the strength to say what he wanted to say. “Is it true?”
Sorin didn’t want to answer.
The creeping darkness was getting bolder, the screaming louder. Sebastian’s hulking shoulders, his accusatory words. Foreign magic in his body. Helplessness. Suffering. He wanted nothing more than to duck under the covers, to cower in the darkness of his own bed and be quiet until none of it felt so heavy.
But that wasn’t an option, was it?
Everard was right there, and Sebastian wouldn’t be held back much longer.
How was it that memories could do this to him?
Five hundred years and he was still as weak as ever.
Helpless.
Another five hundred years could pass and that wouldn’t change.
He would never be enough.
Tears gathered on his lash line. He blinked them away, but the damage was done. Everard must have seen, because he laid a reassuring hand on Sorin’s forearm—no magic, this time.
“I cannot pretend to know what you have gone through,” he said quietly. “From what I understand, yours has been an especially difficult journey, and I don’t even know the half of it… but what I do know is this. The fact that you are here shows resilience tougher than dragon scales. What happened to you was not right, and was not fair, and whatever it is that you’re feeling may never quite leave you alone… but you are here regardless. You have fought to be where you are today, and whatever weakness or vulnerability you are feeling in the moment does not change the fact that you are strong.”
He took a deep breath, seeming to weigh his next words.
“But sometimes, even the strongest of us need help. I came here today intending to perform a simple prenatal examination, and I apologize if this comes across as overstepping the purpose of my visit, but I find myself worried about you. With your consent, I would like to begin treating you for PTSD.”
Sorin was so taken aback, he didn’t realize his broiling magic had begun to bubble over until a droplet of dark blood pooled at the base of Everard’s nostril. He pulled his magic back immediately at the sight of it, and no more damage was done, but the droplet stayed there as Everard popped up to his feet and crossed the room to the dresser, on top of which sat his doctor’s bag.
“PTSD,” Everard continued in a factual tone of voice as Sorin sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, “stands for post-traumatic stress disorder. It commonly occurs in those who have suffered through traumatic events, and can manifest emotionally and/or physically during times of stress or duress, or when the individual with the condition is reminded of their underlying trauma.” The bag opened, and after some searching, Everard took from it a small black notebook and a pen. “Humans discovered it, if you can believe it. They live such short lives you would think none of them would have time to puzzle it all out, but they did. Clever things. The symptoms are rather broad and difficult to measure, yet humans persisted, and found correlations, and came up with a diagnosis anyway. A marvel, modern medicine. There is something to be said for the simplicity of an old-fashioned bloodletting, but if given the choice, I would never go back to the way things were before. There is just simply so much more we know about the body and the mind these days, never mind the marvel that is modern pharmaceuticals.”
Sorin stared at him.
Everard did not notice. He was busy flipping through his notebook, talking nonstop.
“But you see, as wonderful as human medicine is, there is an issue. We dragons are behind the times. It has to do with the birth rate, I think—new generations improve on old techniques and teach them to the next generation, and so the cycle repeats. But dragons have not had much luck reproducing these last few thousand years, and have become stuck in our old ways. For example, I only learned about PTSD recently, and only because my scrumptious spoonful of Hungarian goulash was poring through a medical textbook I procured for him, lamenting its outdated terminology. Had he not brought it to my attention, I might never have known there was so much I did not know.” He found a blank page and set pen to paper. “However, now that I do know, I have made it a priority to bring myself up to speed, and am confident enough in my knowledge to make a diagnosis. If you’re willing, would you please describe what it feels like when you’re in the middle of an episode? For example, when you grabbed my wrist just now… what was going through your head?”
There was movement in the doorway. Sebastian was gone, and Bertram with him. Sorin eyed the empty space nervously, stalling. He was not well. He’d managed to shut his magic down before it did severe damage to Everard, but if he continued to push, next time he might not be so lucky.
But he was also tired.
Tired of having to struggle. Of worrying he might snap and hurt someone he loved.
Worrying he might black out one day, and wake up to a pool of blood.
If there was a chance Everard could take that burden off his shoulders—even if only partially—he had to take it. So, smoothing his hands down the legs of his trousers to soothe himself, he found his center and tempted fate.
“I remember things about the past,” he admitted with some difficulty. “Awful things. Things I rather wouldn’t think of, if given the choice. When it happens, I’m overwhelmed by this awful feeling of panic and doubt, like I’m not good enough. Like I’ve never been good enough.” He breathed in deeply and his breath rattled, but he did not stop. “All of it is terrible, but the worst part is the screaming. It gets so loud sometimes I can’t think. It bounces around my head, growing shriller and shriller until all I can do is curl up and close my eyes and hope it goes away.”
“Screaming?” Everard looked up from his notebook, an eyebrow raised. “If possible, would you elaborate?”
Another deep, rattling breath later, Sorin did. “It’s the sound of my stolen eggs calling out for me. It started after my first clutch was taken away, and has only gotten worse since.”
“I see.”
“It hurts.” Sorin’s voice warbled, but he couldn’t stop now. The words wanted to come out, and they did so in a rush. “It’s debilitating. It feels like I’m being ripped apart from the inside. Punished because I couldn’t save them. Couldn’t keep them with me.”
