Epilogue
Scáthach knew when he died—knew it immediately.
It took her by surprise. “It’s too soon,” she told the puppy that trotted beside her through the wildflowers and the swaying grasses of the Summerlands.
“A decade hasn’t even passed in the mortal world.
He must only have been . . .” She considered.
“Not even thirty.” Scáthach shook her head.
“So young. So much life not lived.” She sighed as she bent to pet the puppy.
“Wait here. I’ll be back with—” The stallion butted her with his head, and she almost fell over.
Standing, she pushed Chance aside playfully.
“Yes, I’m going to get him. As I was saying to the pup, wait here. I won’t be long.”
Scáthach lifted her hand, and the veil between Annwn and the mortal realm glittered.
Before she took it between her thumb and forefinger, the Goddess of the Dead paused.
She smoothed back her hair and swept a hand down her tunic—black and covered with silver sturgeons.
It was short and showed a pretty length of her long legs.
She particularly liked how her laced black boots set off the creamy color of her thighs.
Scáthach shook herself mentally. “Am I nervous? I’m not nervous.
No. I’m a goddess.” The goddess pinched the veil before her and pulled it aside.
The scene it revealed sickened her. Bodies surrounded a man-sized boulder.
As Scáthach strode through them, she touched each one.
At her touch the spirits lifted from their bodies and became corporeal.
Their eyes saw only Scáthach. As one they bowed deeply to her.
She gazed at them and felt the weight of their deeds—those that were honorable, and those that were horrible.
As she passed each of the spirits, she murmured either “Summerlands” or “Autumnal Realm” and then breathed a sigh of relief when she saw none of them carried the blight of spirit that would condemn them to the Winterlands.
At her spoken word the spirits disappeared through the veil she’d opened.
Finally, she faced the last body. Someone had chained him to a rock so that even in death he stood. His hand hadn’t released his sword. She did not see the Gáe Bulg and was glad of that.
Cuchulainn looked terrible, and not because of the blood that covered him or the many hacking wounds that had ended his life.
Cuchulainn had lived twenty-seven years, and Scáthach knew if she’d seen him before this last battle she would have thought him decades older.
His handsome face was lined deeply. His tricolored hair was almost completely gray.
His body was still strong, muscular, tall—but even through the gaping wounds and gore and pallor of death, she could see the multitude of scars that crisscrossed it.
She ached for him and for the beautiful young man she’d known who had still been able to embrace joy.
She reached out and gently pressed her palm to his bloody chest. His spirit lifted from his body and became corporeal. He stood before her, blinking and staring at her.
Scáthach saw his deeds—his mistakes, his victories, and where he belonged.
“Hello, Sentanta,” she said.
“I knew you’d come,” he told her. His smile was dazzling. “It’s why I made them chain me to the stone.” He pointed his thumb back at his body, but Sentanta didn’t so much as glance behind him. His entire being was focused on Scáthach. “I wanted to be standing when you came to collect me.”
She raised one tawny brow. “The battle could have lasted longer had you not done that.”
His gaze locked on hers. “I didn’t want it to last longer.”
She cocked her head and studied him. “You weren’t afraid to die?”
“I haven’t been afraid of death since I learned there was a new Goddess of Death.” He paused and then added, “Wait. You’re not taking me to the Winterlands, are you?”
She saw in his amber eyes that he was only half teasing. “No, Sentanta. There is a horse and a puppy who are looking forward to welcoming you to the Summerlands.”
“That’s a relief.”
She held her hand out to him. “Ready?”
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. He kissed it and then rested his cheek against her hand. “I’ve missed you so,” he murmured.
She stroked his hair, which had returned to its youthful tricolor. “And I you.”
He threaded their fingers together and began walking by her side. “I won’t have to miss you anymore, though, will I?”
“No, love. Never again,” she said. They fell into a familiar step—one beside the other—so close that their shoulders brushed.
Scáthach smiled at him. “Mortals will remember you for thousands of years. An entire country and their descendants will shout your name as they battle their oppressors. You will inspire people to be warriors for uncounted generations.”
He said nothing for a few strides, and then very quietly said, “Lugh will be pleased.”
“And you?” she asked before they stepped through the veil together. “Are you pleased?”
He shrugged. “I’m pleased it’s over.”
“Regrets?”
Sentanta met her gaze. His amber eyes had lightened to yellow topaz as his expression filled with joy while his spirit spoke the absolute truth. “Everything except you, my love. Everything except you . . .”