6. Bea #2
I don’t answer, certain if I try to speak, my voice will shake and betray how afraid of this strange man I truly am.
“The Washwoman of the River Bàsail. The Bean-Nighe. Are you her?” His tone lowers.
The question has an obvious answer, and I want to snap back at him. Do you see any other women with blood-stained hands chained to this shore? I almost spit out the retort, but hold my tongue when his eyes darken.
“Are. You. Her?” He punctuates each word with a slow, deliberate step forward, his gravelly voice wrapping around my body and squeezing, rough and furious, demanding answers.
I press my lips together, and this time, he does draw his dagger.
In a breath, he’s standing in front of me, the tip of his blade pressed where the skin of my neck meets my chin.
He tilts the dagger, forcing my head back to meet his eyes, and the metal nicks my throat as I swallow.
I lean back, but I cannot escape the pressure of the weapon. “Aye," I say, my own voice barely a whisper. There’s no use denying it. I am the only one chained to this shore, after all.
He watches me, his jaw so tight, I think his teeth might crack. His chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, but the hand holding the dagger remains steady.
“Whoever you’re trying to save, I can’t help them,” I repeat.
The man narrows his eyes, his silence only setting me more on edge.
“Aye. I ken better than to expect help from monsters.” He spits the last word, but abruptly pulls the dagger away, and I almost sob in relief. I am so tired of being beaten. Of being an acceptable place for the grieving to come to release their anger.
He takes a second to appraise me, his steely eyes skating down my entire body until it reaches my chain.
It lingers there, where blood trickles from where the cuff has grown tighter with every attempt to escape, cutting so deep into my ankle my skin has begun to heal over top the metal.
After a long pause, he turns, placing his fingers in his mouth and whistling.
“Who are you calling? Why are you here?” I ask, searching the glen and the trees. I wait for more soldiers to come, but instead, a horse as black as night appears, overfilled satchels strapped on each side.
Even through my fear, my eyes snag on the bags. Could the items I need to complete the spell be inside? Maybe he has his naming pendant…
He pulls his sword from a sheath on the saddle, and all thoughts of the spell dash from my mind. A tremor wracks my body as the memory of the last time a sword was plunged into my chest flashes through my mind.
“If you’re going to hurt me, get on with it,” I say, voice shaking. Any attempt at begging for mercy in the past has only spurred on my attackers, like ignoring my pleas gives them an extra thrill. I do not want that from this man. Not when he has so much magic and a heart full of hate.
It’s in every line of his face. The tension in his posture. The way this stranger despises me is so visceral, it feels as if his rage is wrapping around my heart and gripping, trying to stop its steady rhythm.
“I willnae hurt you,” the man says gruffly, stabbing his sword into the ground and grabbing a canteen.
Disbelief courses through me. Is it possible he’s telling me the truth? He hasn’t asked me a question. So if not to hurt me, why is he here?
“You won’t…” I say, watching his rigid, calculated movements. The sword is still too close for my comfort, and I learned long ago never to trust a man at his word. I take a subtle step away from it.
His jaw bunches, and he rubs his forehead, but he doesn't look at me. “There’s no valor in attacking a woman in shackles,” he says.
The statement gives me pause, because if he means it, he is the first in a century to think so. I have been harmed more times than I can count, and each time, my attacker clearly felt it justified.
He eyes me as he takes a swig of water. His throat bobs as he drinks deeply, the muscles in his neck contracting as he swallows.
It only emphasizes how strong he must be.
The pain he could inflict on me if he decided to do so.
The man puts the cap back on the bottle and tosses it onto the ground with a thud.
His gaze settles on my split lip and bruised temple. “What happened there?” he asks, wiping his mouth.
“Besides another man coming to assault me?” I snap before I can consider if my anger might cause him to reconsider his words.
His lips curl in disgust, and it stokes the fire deep within me. Will nothing ever be enough for these men who come here, seeking revenge for something out of my control?
“What? Angry he didn’t do worse? That he didn’t kill me?” I add, my instincts of self-preservation dashing away in my frustration. What’s the worst he can do to me? Nothing I haven’t already lived through.
His shoulders straighten. “It is my understanding that you, Washwoman, cannae die.”
My lungs constrict, the glen suddenly feeling too small.
“Who are you?” I ask again, but he remains silent, defiant.
Is that what it is? Is killing me a challenge for him?
“Is that why you’re here, then? To torture me until I beg for the death I cannot have?
To see for yourself if the rumors are true that only the Fates can end my pathetic excuse of a life? ” Revulsion churns in my stomach.
He crosses his arms across his broad chest, his muscles bunching and bulging, and an image of his hands wrapping around my throat flashes through my mind. He could break my windpipe. Do actual damage that would take far longer to heal than bruising. I straighten my spine when he doesn’t answer.
“If that’s why you’re here, get on with it then,” I say.
If I could be killed, the look he gives me would certainly do it.
“Let me be clear,” the man says, leaning down until his nose is so close to mine, I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheeks.
His body heat wraps around me, but even so, I shiver.
“I have no sympathy for murderers, but unless I am ordered to hurt you, I won’t.
My restraint, however, ends if you try to harm me or anyone else.
Do you understand?” He doesn't break eye contact as he stands back upright, and I let out a shuddering breath.
“Unless you’re ordered to…” I say, not backing down from his stare, even though confusion swirls in my chest. “Who would order you to? Who are you?”
He looks me dead in the eye. “Brennen.” It’s nothing more than a word—a name, but somehow, it feels like a threat. My heart constricts as he continues. “I was sent by the Fates.”
“The Fates— What?” I stutter, shock overriding my anger. The Fates have never sent anyone after me, so why now?
Nausea churns in my stomach, and my throat burns, because if they’ve decided to kill me now, I won’t finish collecting the objects for my spell, and any chance at redemption will be snatched away in a breath. And though entering the After is my deepest wish, I do not want to go at their hands.
“But… Why?” I ask, breathless.
The man appears completely unaffected, giving me nothing but an icy glare that says more than any words could.
That he is in control here.
Breathe, I remind myself, but the world spins around me, my mind racing.
The man turns, grabbing an apple from his bag and feeding it to the horse before unclipping the other bags from its side. There’s a bedroll, along with what looks like a tent, several weapons, and a sack of food.
“You’re staying here?” I ask, my eyes darting around, looking for some other reason he might be pulling out so many supplies.
“Do you ken other uses for a tent?” he spits.
I don't know if I'm blinking. I don't know if I'm even breathing. I’m stuck, frozen in a horrific, endless moment in time.
The horse whinnies as she’s set free to graze on the riverbank, and only then am I pulled out of my shock enough to notice the six golden stripes on the hilt of the sword strapped to Brennen’s back.
A Dìdeanair’s sword, adorned to show he is a general of the highest order.
And then at the base—a skull—a symbol that he serves Cailleach above all else.
A pit bigger than my fist forms in my stomach, and my eyes flick to his left wrist, where I suspect a dedication dàn will mark his skin. Just as I thought, the Cutter’s sigil—the Fate who sentenced me here—stares back at me, just below what looks to be a dàn of truth.
I was once dedicated to her, too, before I was sentenced here, and any dàn that adorned my skin were stripped from both my body and my mind.
I turn around, needing a moment to think. To calm my racing heart, but the hair on the back of my neck stands on end at the feeling of his eyes on my exposed back. That same hatred I’d felt as he neared only grows, pressing outward until I wonder if it will wilt the trees.
“Tell me why you’re here. Why did the Fates send you?” I whisper, unable to calm my racing mind.
His footsteps approach from behind, and the air crackles between us as he leans forward.
His breath tickles my neck when he speaks.
Too close. “The Cutter assigned a guardian to you to ensure you don’t escape.
But as to why I’m here,” he pauses, leaning even closer until his lips nearly touch my ear, his voice dropping to a deep, deadly rumble.
“I said I wasnae going to hurt you. But I am going to find a way to kill you.”