Chapter 38 Axl
Axl
“Are you sure you want to do this?
“Yes.”
“You could just run the real thing tomorrow and forget about today.”
“Are you joking?” she snaps. “I’m running that course today if it kills me.”
“It well might.”
“Are you coming or are you going to sit there making asinine comments?”
“Ouch,” I mutter, but she’s right. She’s doing this, and the only thing that will stop her is tying her to the bed.
Even then, I have my doubts. “Coming,” I say, pushing myself to my feet.
“Wouldn’t miss the opportunity to carry your broken body back for all the money in my family’s offshore accounts. ”
She flips me the finger over her shoulder as she hobbles towards the door.
Ciar stands by the window, his back to us, a solid wall of disapproval.
He won’t watch this. Can’t watch it. It’s a weakness in him she brings out, this desperate need to protect her that wars with her own stubborn refusal to be protected.
Cillian is already waiting by the door, a water bottle in his hand. He offers it to her without a word. His silence is a language they all speak. He doesn’t agree with this, but he understands it.
“Pacing is for losers,” she says, grabbing the bottle.
I fall into step beside her as we head out into the weak morning light.
Her face is a mask of pure, bloody-minded determination.
This isn’t about the cross country. This is about the fight.
It’s about proving to herself, more than anyone, that she can take a beating and keep fucking moving.
It’s insane. It’s reckless. It’s the most magnificent fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
I’ll run every painful step with her. I’ll watch her conquer this, because that’s what queens do. They bleed, and then they reign.
We reach the starting point and line up.
The first few metres are a fucking horror show.
She moves like a broken doll, each step a jerky, painful-looking motion.
Her face is pale, set in a grimace, but her eyes are pure fucking steel.
She’s not running; she’s waging war against her own body.
Cillian falls into a slow, steady jog beside her, not pushing, just matching her agonising pace.
He’s a fucking rock, a silent pillar of support.
I take up the rear, ready to catch her if she falls.
We hit the tree line, and the path narrows, plunging us into the familiar green gloom.
The air is damp, smelling of earth and decay.
Her breathing is already ragged, a harsh, tearing sound in the quiet woods.
Any other person would have quit. Any other person would be in bed, swallowing painkillers and feeling sorry for themselves.
Not her. She stumbles on a root, catching herself on a tree trunk with a sharp hiss of pain.
She doesn’t stop. She just pushes off the bark and keeps going.
It’s not about winning. It’s about the refusal to fucking lose, even to your own limitations.
It’s the most beautifully self-destructive thing I’ve ever had the honour to witness.
She’s going to own this world, or she’s going to burn it down with herself inside. Either way, I’m here for the show.
The stumble is like a pep talk. I witness the moment she fucks everything off just to run.
It’s like flicking a switch. She increases her pace.
Her movements become more fluid, less a collection of pained jolts and more a single, flowing intention.
She’s not running from the pain anymore; she’s running with it, using it as fucking fuel.
The grimace on her face smooths out into a mask of pure concentration.
Her breathing evens out, still harsh, but controlled.
Cillian’s pace matches hers, his expression unchanging, but I see it. The barest hint of a fucking smirk at the corner of his mouth. He sees it, too. This isn’t about being broken. This is about being reforged in the fucking fire.
We break out of the woods, the weak sun hitting us. The college rises in the distance, a gothic silhouette against the grey sky. Her college. Her kingdom. She doesn’t falter. She doesn’t speed up for a grand finish. She just runs, a relentless, punishing rhythm that eats up the last hundred metres.
She crosses the finish line, the old oak, and stumbles to a halt, hands on her knees, head bowed. She doesn’t collapse. She doesn’t cry out. She just breathes. In and out. The queen surveying the kingdom she conquered twice in two days. Fucking magnificent.
“Again,” she says, straightening up and striding past me and Cillian as we glare at her.
“No,” Cillian says, putting his hand up to stop her, but I shake my head at him.
He grimaces at me and then her back, and his shoulders slump. He isn’t going to win if he digs his heels in. She will just jog on without him. She reaches the starting point and, with a deep breath, sets off.
We follow. What else is there to do? She runs, and we run after her.
Somehow, she makes it look easier this time.
The pain is still there, etched on her face, but it’s a passenger now, not the driver. She’s found a rhythm that works with it, a cadence of pure, unadulterated defiance. It’s a fucking pilgrimage. A religious experience dedicated to the god of Not Giving A Single Fuck.
When we reach the oak tree for the second time, she doesn’t stop with a stumble.
She slows to a jog, then a walk, her movements deliberate.
She keeps moving, walking in a slow circle, her hands on her hips, her head bowed as she sucks in air.
She will not fall. She will not give her body the satisfaction.
Cillian hands her the water bottle again. She takes it, drains half of it in three long swallows, and then pours the rest over her head. The water sluices through her red hair, plastering it to her pale skin. She looks like some kind of avenging Fae queen, drenched in water instead of blood.
“Again,” she says.
“Sorcha. No,” Cillian grits out.
She shrugs and pushes past him, moving to the starting line.
“I’ll get Ciar to forcibly remove you if you set off, and we both know he will hurt himself, but he will do it,” I say to her back.
She sticks her middle finger up and sets off.
“That worked well,” Cillian mutters.
“She is a law unto herself.”
He sighs and catches up to her. I’m pretty wiped out, but I push on. My wife has grit. True fucking grit, which she used to survive her crappy upbringing.
This third lap is a fucking joke. My legs are protesting, a dull ache that’s turning into a sharp complaint. But she just keeps moving. She’s gone past pain into some other realm, a place fuelled by pure spite and iron will.
Cillian is a machine beside her, his pace unwavering. He doesn’t look tired. He doesn’t look anything. He just exists, a steady presence at her side.
We break from the woods for the last time. She sees the oak, and something in her shifts. She finds a last, ragged reserve of energy and pushes, her form a mess, her breath a desperate, tearing sound. She’s not just finishing. She’s fucking annihilating her own limits.
She crosses the imaginary line, and bends to catch her breath. Her hands are shaking, but she brushes them aside and straightens up.
Before any of us can move, Ciar is there. He stalks across the lawn, his face a thundercloud of fury and something so fiercely possessive it’s fucking terrifying. He scoops her up and slings her over his shoulder. It must have ripped the hole in his chest wide open, but he doesn’t give a fuck.
“Enough,” he growls. He turns and carries her back towards the house, with her protesting weakly, but she is done. There is nothing left in the tank, and she knows it.
“Assert some control over your wife in future,” Cillian says, slapping me on the shoulder.
“Uhm, no thanks. I like my balls where they are.”
He snickers but jogs after them. I catch up after a few more seconds of trying not to keel over.
My wife. My stubborn as fuck, beautiful wife who will kick St. Brid’s arse tomorrow all on her own.
And there isn’t a damn thing any one of us can say otherwise.