18. No Home, No Haven #2
Casey nods, eyes flicking between us before trailing after Bran with a muttered, “Try not to bloody each other up too badly.”
Their figures fade into the night, leaving me and Callan alone. The tension from earlier still simmers beneath the surface, but it’s heavier now—shaped by grief, shaded with guilt, and filled with the silence of things neither of us knows how to say.
I glance at Triona; her face is still pale but peaceful.
“She willnae need another tea,” I murmur, more to myself than Callan.
“She’s practically healed. But when she wakes up again…
” My words falter. The physical wounds might be fading, but the pain she’ll carry when she’s fully conscious again will be far deeper, far crueller.
“Aye.” Callan’s eyes drift toward the faint tavern glow, his shoulders stiff.
After a beat, he adds, voice low and gruff, “I never really gave my thanks. For what ye did. For whatever sent ye racin’ back home.
And… for what it’s worth, I believe ye dinnae ken how it is we’re bound for Portugal.
Ye’re an honourable man, Finn. And I’m sorry… for what I said yesterday.”
His words hit harder than I expect.
“Aye, prove it then, Cal,” I say, nudging him lightly, trying to ease the tension.
He huffs a laugh. “Guess I’ll prove it with a pint or two.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Then his eyes meet mine—still tired, still shadowed.
“I wish things were different,” I murmur.
“We all do,” he says. “But I’m glad ye’re at my side. Even when it seems like I want to wring yer neck—and ye want to wring mine.”
A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “That’s more often than you think.”
“Aye, probably,” he concedes, a faint chuckle escaping, though it’s coloured with sorrow. His gaze drifts back to Triona as she stirs faintly, her brow twitching as if she feels the weight of our grief. “But what ye did… Finn, ye saved us.”
The weight of his words settles heavily in my chest. “I didnae save them all.”
“That’s not on ye to bear,” Callan says sharply.
“And it’s not on you either,” I shoot back.
We stare at each other for a long moment, until he nods—just once, but it’s enough.
He claps my shoulder, solid and grounding. “I’ll see if someone can gather what’s needed to make her comfortable. Can ye carry her in?”
I nod my agreement .
Callan steps up to Shadow, eyeing the horse like he half expects trouble. With a sigh, he takes the reins.
“Right then, beast ,” he mutters, giving the reins a tug. “Do us all a favour and behave yerself. Finn’s got his hands full, and I’ve no interest in bein’ dragged through horse shite tonight.”
Shadow snorts, but follows willingly.
Callan shakes his head. “Aye, that’s what I thought. Pretend ye’ve manners for once.”
And with that, he leads the horse off toward the stables.
I turn back to Triona and lift her gently from the cart, cradling her with as much care as I can manage. Her weight against me is familiar, grounding. It quiets something restless inside me.
“Almost there,” I whisper—whether to her or to myself, I can’t say.
As I near the door, her eyes flutter open. Glazed. Wandering. But then they find mine, and the world stills.
She blinks, her hand lifting weakly, and I don’t move—not when her fingers reach for me, not when they brush softly across my cheek. Her touch is feather-light, reverent.
“You are a necessity in my life, Finn.”
The sentence is nearly inaudible, yet it carries the weight to crush the last fragile remnants of pride and anger from our argument days ago—an argument so insignificant now it feels almost foolish to recall.
Her words, her touch, and the way she looks at me as though I’m the only steady thing left in her world. .. it threatens to undo me entirely.
Her hand drops slowly, falling limp against her chest as her eyelids flutter closed once more. The peace on her face feels fragile, like glass that could shatter at the slightest disturbance.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat nearly choking me as I whisper, “ And ye’ re mine. ”
The others bid me a quick goodnight, but say nothing else as I head toward the room where Triona rests. My steps are heavy, the tension of the day dragging me down. I’m not sure how much rest I’ll find, but something is better than what I’ve got over the past few days.
It’s eerily quiet as I approach the door. Just as I reach for the handle, a figure emerges from the shadows—a young woman, her presence as sudden as it is unexpected. She stands before me, her dark eyes sharp, expression unreadable. She is beautiful—hair a pale yellow, skin like moonlit snow.
She’s wearing a long cloak that brushes the floor, and the surrounding air is a stillness I’ve never felt before.
“Warrior, first of many,” she says, her voice melodic, like the haunting tune of a distant lament. It sends a shiver down my spine, raising the hairs on my neck.
There’s no masking how taken aback I am by the strange greeting. “Can I help ye, lass?”
Her gaze flicks to the door behind me, then back to my face. “You carry the burden,” she says, her tone scolding. “But you do not yet see it for what it is.”
I frown, unsure if I’m dealing with a drunk, or someone whose mind has wandered far from reason. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
The maiden tilts her head, studying me with unnerving intensity. “Safety is what you offer, but the bond is what you fight. You stand at a threshold, blind to the weight of your own heart. Do you not see? She is the thread that binds you to the stars.”
I stiffen, words cutting through the exhaustion clouding my mind. “You confuse me with someone else.”
“No,” she says firmly, stepping closer. “It is you who mistake yourself. You carry the blade, but she is the reason you wield it. You see the door, but not the path. And if you do not learn, warrior, the door will close. The path will vanish.”
Her gaze burns into mine, and for a moment, I can’t speak. Her words unsettle me, a strange mix of truth and nonsense that makes my chest tighten. I want to push her away, to tell her she doesn’t know me, but something in her tone, in the way she speaks, makes me hesitate.
“Lass, I’ve no time for riddles,” I say, voice quieter now, edged with uncertainty. “I’m no warrior, and I’ve no path to walk but the one I’m on. ”
Her eyes soften, but the intensity in her voice remains. “You are blind, warrior. But the time will come when the choice is clear. Do not wait too long to see. It is a path you once knew so well.”
Without another word, she turns, leaving me standing in the hallway, heart pounding in my chest. I stare after her, mind racing, but the sound of a faint stir from behind the door pulls my focus back.
I push the door open swiftly, the faint creak cutting through the stillness.
My eyes dart around the room, instinctively searching for movement.
Triona lay undisturbed, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Her lips move faintly, a soft murmur slipping past them, but the words are too quiet to catch.
The dim glow of the lantern on the bedside table casts a warm, flickering light over her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek and the shadows beneath her eyes. She’s turned toward the light in her sleep, as if seeking its comfort.
I exhale slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing just enough to remind me how tightly wound I am. Lowering myself to the floor, I settle onto the bedroll I’d laid out just beside her. The floorboards creak under my weight, but Triona doesn’t stir.
Though I try to shake off the maiden’s word, I fail. The thread that binds you to the stars .
I don’t understand them. But I feel them—because I have something that pulls me back when the world threatens to tear me apart.
My gaze drifts to her—pale, still, her chest rising in quiet, measured breaths. The ache in my chest tightens, a pressure with no name.
And then her lips part, barely moving, and in the faintest whisper that feels like a prayer, she breathes my name.