16. Farewell and Fury #2
Marcus appears in the doorway—disheveled, breathless, wild-eyed. He staggers forward, barely catching himself against the doorframe.
“I came as quickly as I could,” Marcus says, his voice strained, though his gaze remains sharp. “I heard a few men speaking of clearances at the Prentiss Street Club... when I heard your family name, I headed straight here. They are not far now. Well, they will be here by nightfall. At the latest.”
James straightens, his face hardening. “So, they plan to take our home under the guise of a ‘ clearance ’?”
Marcus steps forward. His gaze locks with James’s, his resolve unshakable. “I shall remain here to reason with them. I can aid in your defense.”
“Why do that?” James asks, his voice edged with incredulity. “This isnae yer fight, lad.”
“Despite what some of you may suppose,” Marcus counters, looking Callan’s way, his voice steady and low.
“I hold your daughter in the highest regard. I care deeply for her. They are not here to forge alliances or negotiate a truce—they come with nothing less than murderous intent. They are out for blood. I beg you, allow Triona the chance to escape, and permit me to offer aid.”
Callan speaks up. “What? Ye think because ye’re a filthy Englishman, they’ll look the other way?” No one corrects him. No one speaks up to defend Marcus, because we’re all feeling the same thing.
Distrust. Agony. Betrayal.
Marcus remains impassive in the wake of Callan’s jab.
In a measured tone, he replies, “I believe, given my… cultural background, that I can help. I can pull what strings I have and assist.” He then turns his earnest gaze to James.
“I will do whatever I can to keep her safe. To keep those she loves most safe. Let me try. Please.”
James hesitates, his jaw working as he considers Marcus’s words, and the intention. Finally, he exhales, his voice heavy with resignation, and he nods .
Marcus fixes his gaze on each of us. “You all have to leave… now.”
“Aye”, James says. “Ye’ll take the wagon with what’s left of the scotch, and ye’ll be tradin’ it for safe passage.”
Across the room, Bran speaks up, brow furrowed. “Safe passage to where, exactly?”
Alex turns to him, his expression unreadable but resolute. “We’re going to Portugal.”
Casey’s voice cuts through the quiet. “That’s no fair trade, Da.”
“Yer lives are worth more than what’s in those barrels,” James replies, his tone firm but thick with feeling.
A long silence stretches between us—grief, resistance, and reluctant understanding hanging in the air.
Then Ellen speaks, her voice soft but certain. “Triona would fight us if she could.” Her hand trembles as it brushes over her cheek. “But this is the way it must be.”
James nods slowly, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “This way… she willnae have the chance to argue.”
I break my silence, my voice raw with desperation. “There’s got to be another way. You shouldna bear this alone. Let me stay—”
James cuts me off with a firm shake of his head. “Yer job is to protect her now. Keep her safe, lad. That’s what we’re askin’. You owe us that much.”
I glance to Callan, desperate. “Cal, tell them. We could help—”
“And what, Finn?” Callan snaps, his jaw tight. “We dinnae ken who or what’s comin’. And as of now… every single one of us is a marked enemy. She spared no one in her attempt to harm Triona.”
Alex steps forward, his expression grim. “I’d wager my tavern’s already their first stop.”
Ellen leans down, pressing a kiss to Triona’s forehead. “Be strong, mo nighean bheag. Stronger than I ken ye can be.”
James hesitates, his fingers briefly threading through Triona’s hair—a fleeting touch, soft and reverent—before he straightens, his expression hardening like forged steel. His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument.
“Take her. Get her as far from here as possible. And dinnae look back.”
He turns to Alex, eyes locking with unwavering trust. “Ye ken the route. Take them to Port Oban. Our allies there will see them safely to Lisbon. That’s the path laid before ye—follow it, no matter what.”
Alex steps forward, and without hesitation, the two men clasp forearms in the kind of steadfast grip that speaks of trust and respect. A warrior’s promise. A brother’s oath.
“I’ll see them through,” Alex says, his voice ironclad. “Every one of them. I swear it on my life.”
James holds his grip for a beat longer, his jaw tightening as if committing the words to something deeper than memory. Then, with a sharp nod, he releases Alex’s arm. “Good man.”
Ellen pulls me aside, her hands clutching mine tightly, her eyes searching my face. “Finn, listen to me,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “Triona has a long road ahead. A dangerous one. She cannae afford any chinks in her armour. What we’re askin’ of ye… it’s no small thing. It’s everything .”
“I’ll keep her safe,” I say, though the weight of her words press hard on my chest. “Ye have my oath.”
Ellen nods, her expression serious. “I ken ye will. That’s why this falls to ye. Ye have to be her strength. Her shield. No weaknesses, Finn. None. It’s more than protection, lad. It’s about… it’s about seein’ her through this. Standin’ by her when she needs ye most.”
I swallow, the meaning settling like a stone in my gut. No distractions . Human or otherwise.
“What’s comin’, Ellen?”
She shakes her head. “This is as far as we get, Finn. This was always meant to be.”
Her gaze holds mine, unyielding, and for a moment, something in her expression twists that I can’t quite name. A pang of hope, chased swiftly by sorrow. Resignation. Or… something more.
Does she know? About what I feel? About what I’ve been trying so hard to bury?
Ellen exhales softly, the kind of breath that carries lifetimes. Her hand finds my arm, squeezing once.
“I trust ye’ll do what’s right,” she says, voice thick with meaning. “What’s best for her?”
My throat locks up. I should say something—anything—but the words won’t come. I nod instead, hoping it’s enough.
Ellen’s words claw at my thoughts, but duty anchors me.
Protect Triona.
It’s as natural to me as drawing breath, as ingrained in me as my own name. Whatever I feel, whatever I’ve longed for, it counts for naught .
I’ll be her strength, her shield, her blade, her keeper in the dark. But never her weakness.
Ellen and I sit in vigil beside Triona while, throughout the entire house, the others are bustling to gather what little they can in order to leave. Her hand absently strokes Triona’s dark hair.
Within the hour, they’ve loaded what we can carry.
Our four horses—Aisling, Shadow, Casey’s horse Iona, and Callan’s horse Meara—sturdy creatures whose hearty spirits mirror our own, stand ready to bear us to our destination within the narrow window we have to secure safe passage.
We exchange silent glances, each look heavy with trepidation and an unwavering determination.
Shadow’s eyes dart anxiously, but the moment Triona comes into view, he settles, as if sensing the purpose behind the simple cart to which he’s yoked. The intent is unmistakable—Triona won’t be able to sit upright for days, perhaps even weeks. This journey promises to be a torment to her body.
“Finn, we’ll need ye to keep her in the saddle until we reach safer ground,” Casey declares in a firm tone. I nod without hesitation.
James carefully lifts her limp form into my arms, adjusting her gently as she moans softly in protest. His movements are deliberate, as though the weight of her is more than he can bear—not because of size, but of what she represents.
His eyes burn with determination even as unshed tears shimmer against their edges.
Nearby, Casey and Callan stand with Ellen.
Ellen, as resolute as ever, cups each of their faces in a touch that is both tender and commanding.
Callan’s expression remains impassive, his jaw set as though steeling himself against the inevitable storm.
Meanwhile, Casey, who wears his heart on his sleeve, appears mournful, his lips drawn tight as he struggles to hold back words that threaten to spill forth .
Despite the differences in their outward reactions, the shared burden of fear—fear of the unknown, of what lies ahead, and the possibility that this may be the last moment they stand together as a family—is unmistakable.
“There will be things on this journey,” James begins, each word deliberately spoken, “that defy all earthly explanation. Many things will not be as they seem.”
He continues, “Ye’ll face obstacles that test ye in ways we cannae explain. But never lose sight of one another—if ye allow fear to divide ye—then whatever lies ahead will win.”
This moment, this goodbye, isn’t one of parting but of transformation. We are not merely leaving behind a home or a family; we are abandoning everything familiar, stepping into a realm where the rules we have always known no longer hold sway.
Ahead of us lie endless stretches of rugged terrain. Mountains loom ominously in their grandeur, rivers running swift and icy cold, while forests abound with unknown dangers lurking behind every tree’s shadow.
Our hearts grow heavy as we stand on the threshold of this journey—a passage we never sought and for which we feel woefully unprepared.
Dealla’s trembling voice cuts through the tension. “What’s to fall upon my family?” Her hands clutch the folds of her dress, as though she were gathering the very threads of her courage to hold herself together.
Alex’s expression is hardened by the weight of leadership.
“I can’t guarantee their safety, my dear.
For that, I am sorry, but we won’t have time to go back.
No time to warn anyone, no time to change what’s already in motion.
” His words land like stones, and it’s Casey and Bran who step forward to steady her.
They share a look, a silent conversation passing between them.
Casey wraps a steady arm around Dealla’s shoulders, and she leans into him, her tension easing, if only slightly.