11. Bea
BEA
Brennen’s anger doesn’t fade as he sets up his ridiculously large tent just beyond the hollow log, his mare set free to graze the forest as she pleases.
It gives me a sense of satisfaction, proving that I was telling the truth about how far my chain would allow me to go, though it’s hard to appreciate it with the pain still throbbing in my ankle.
I try to ignore it, focusing instead on my guardian. Every few seconds, his eyes flick to me, his hand going to his dagger, and my lips tip up in a smile.
It’s only grown more comical as the evening has passed, how seriously this man is taking his safety around me.
He spent hours overturning rocks, searching between stones and in bushels of heather for hidden weapons.
He’d even flipped over my pillow. My heart had lodged in my throat as he stared at the dirt, but by the blessing of Dìonadair, the goddess of protection, he hadn’t thought to dig.
Even with solid proof I cannot reach him, he’s on edge. It’s absurd, his fear of me.
Not to mention he’s covered in dàn, and I’m over a head shorter than him. Weak and exhausted, the only dàn on my body the one of immortality between my breasts. There’s no world in which I could overpower him enough to even leave a scratch.
He looks at me again, and I turn toward him, giving him a cheery wave.
“You’re doing a great job over there,” I say, trying not to giggle as the fury on his face intensifies.
He ignores me, driving the last stake for his tent into the ground, and I roll my eyes.
If he doesn’t want to be here so fervently, why did he accept this position? Why not pass it along to someone else?
Though I must admit, if the Fates were going to send a Dìdeanair to guard me, at least they sent one who’s pleasant to look at.
He looks like a god as he expertly ties the tent to the stakes, his brunette hair perfectly windswept, and his muscles defined in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen.
He’s undeniably handsome, so much so that not even his constant sour expression and gruff exterior are able to hide it. My stomach flutters, and I look away.
I bet he’s not actually handsome at all. Not really. I’ve been starved of company for so long, I’d likely find beauty in a horse’s arse. My eyes dart to the mare, and while I cannot see anything but her head peeking out between the trees, she is a stunning animal.
I whistle, and her ears perk up.
“Dinnae talk to her,” Brennen snaps at me, then gives the mare a stern look. “You ken better, Sable.”
The horse whinnies as if arguing, but turns and disappears into the forest, giving me a clear view of her backside.
Hmm... Not so beautiful.
I sigh and pick up a stick, drawing my half-finished dàn in the mud again.
I stare at it for a long moment, but as always, I’m unable to complete it.
With a groan, I stand. The light is beginning to fade, and while watching Brennen scramble to get his tent up before dark has entertained me for a bit, I’ve already grown tired of it.
I sense Brennen stiffen as I walk across the shore, searching for a flat pebble. I pick up a few contenders, pocketing them and moving upstream to nearly the end of my chain. Pulling out a stone, I turn toward the After, drawing my arm back. I hold my breath and let it fly.
It hits the surface of the water exactly where I hoped and begins to skip.
“One, two, three, four,” I count, my voice growing louder with every hop across the surface.
“Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one!” I shout as the rock disappears into the black mist. “A new record, Lolly!” I shout toward the sky, pulling out another rock.
I sense Brennen’s gaze on me at the use of my dragon's name. “Do you think I can beat it?” I ask, looking back at him. His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t answer, working on gathering firewood now that his tent is set up.
I grit my teeth, exasperated. Is he going to either question and torment me or remain completely silent his entire time here, with nothing in between?
I pull my arm back again, but this time when I throw the stone, it lands too far in front of me. “Eighteen,” I sigh. “That's usually about what I get. There’s not really enough space before the drop to get many more, though if I aim just right—”
“I dinnae care how many times you can skip a bloody rock,” his gruff voice stops me.
So he will answer me.
I place my hands on my hips, turning to where his hands hover over the mound of sticks. They ignite, smoke curling into the air as the flames grow taller.
I gasp. Not at the knowledge that he has a dàn of warmth, though I do tuck that piece of information away, but at the beauty of the flames, flickering blue at the base, the color morphing into yellows and oranges in the middle and top.
It’s stunning, and a sight I haven’t seen in so very long. Not since…
I shiver, forcing away the memory of flames heating my skin.
I clear my throat. “Would you care to try?” I ask, holding out a pebble, but Brennen doesn’t even look at me, sitting down and resting his back against a log near the fire. He pulls out an apple, some dried meat, and what looks to be a block of wood.
My stomach rumbles, but I'm too far away for him to hear. Either that, or he’s ignoring it.
I haven’t had an apple in years. Not since a half-eaten one came down the river in the apron pocket of a maid some time ago.
It had been the sweetest thing I’d tasted in so long, and my mouth actually waters at the memory.
He takes a bite, then picks up the wood, twisting it around in his hands. The sun dips below the horizon, and I drop the rock, moving back to my bed to stare into the flames, growing more and more vibrant by the moment.
“What are you carving over there?” I call. His eyes flick to mine, but he remains silent as ever.
“Goddess below,” I grumble under my breath. If the Fates were going to send someone to watch me, they could've at least sent a decent conversationalist. Someone who might make my endless days a little more entertaining.
“I never got into wood carving myself,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I used to enjoy sewing, though. You know. Embroidering little flowers on blankets and handkerchiefs. That kind of thing.”
Brennen scrapes his blade across the wood, a sliver dropping to the ground. I peer at the hunk of wood more intently, but I cannot seem to make out what it is.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to tell me what you're carving?” I ask, and his nostrils flare as he sucks in a deep breath. His frustration brings a smile to my lips. Maybe, even without him speaking, I can find some entertainment in his presence after all.
I sigh dramatically. “I don't have many hobbies out here, you know. The Fates didn't send me with dice or books to read. I do like to look at the stars, though.”
Scrape.
“That one right there, those six that connect,” I draw with my finger overhead. “That's the Bonnie Milkmaid.”
His hand stills on the carving for a moment, and my lips twitch.
“And that one over there, that's the Kilted Warrior.”
He looks where I’m pointing for the briefest moment. “You're talking shite," he says, going back to his carving, but the scrape of his knife becomes rougher. A smile tugs at my lips.
“Well, of course I am. It’s not like I studied the stars before I came here. I don't know their real names.”
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The cadence grows faster. Sharper.
“That one over there, I like to call the annoyed guardian.” I point at a spot in the sky directly over his head, and I swear he actually growls.
A flicker of triumph settles in my chest, and I smile. I’m getting to him.
“That one—”
“Is there one called lass who doesnae know when to keep her mouth shut?” he asks, and I laugh out loud, a true, genuine laugh. It feels good. Another experience I haven’t had in the longest time. “No, I haven't spotted her yet. I'll let you know if I do, though.”
He shakes his head, gritting his teeth.
“That one over there—”
“I dinnae care what you call them!” he says, dropping his wood carving.
I lean back, unbothered by his anger. “You could tell me their real names.”
He huffs, snatching the carving off the ground, growing more furious by the moment, and yet, he clearly doesn’t see the humor in his behavior.
“Or do you not know them, either?” I tease, unable to stop myself.
I lay my chin on my hand. “That would make sense.
You're a warrior after all, not a scholar.”
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
“You could tell me something else. Anything would do, really.”
Scrape.
“Like the village. Dalbàsail. What's it like now? It's been so long since I’ve been there.” He freezes, narrowing his eyes as if he doesn't believe me.
“What? Not the village, then? What about you? Do you have a family? A lover perhaps?” I wiggle my eyebrows.
His hand jolts, and he breaks a chunk off the wood with the edge of his knife. He curses under his breath, throwing it in the fire. “Dammit, woman,” he says. “Stop talking!”
The look he gives me is anything but playful. I want to fight back, tell him to get used to it. That it’s not my fault he’s stuck here with me, but I bite my tongue. Something has shifted in his energy, and for some reason, it feels unkind to push him further.
For tonight, at least.
If he thinks I will remain silent for his time here, when I’ve had no one to speak to but myself for years, he's sorely mistaken.
I pretend to yawn, stretching out my arms. “All right, enough with your chattering. Who knew they'd send such a loose tongue to guard me? I’m sure this will be a shock to you, but I do need my beauty rest,” I say.
He huffs, and I can tell based on his fisted hands that he’s barely containing his retort.
I lie down and close my eyes, listening to the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs. The scraping of his knife on wood interrupts them, but I find the rhythmic earthiness of it soothing. I’m almost asleep when his rough voice pierces the night.
“Do you ever dream of them?” he asks, and I stiffen in shock, my eyes popping back open at his unexpected question.
He doesn't have to say who. I know instantly who he's speaking of, and I wonder, why is he so focused on the ones I killed? Is that why he was sent here by the Fates? To learn the reason behind my crimes? If so, both he, and they, will be sorely disappointed.
I pretend I’m him, and remain silent. If he doesn’t have to answer my questions, I don’t have to answer his. I owe this man nothing. Certainly not explanations. But he doesn't move, waiting for my answer, and the prickles of his eyes on my back make me restless.
I sigh. “I picture their faces every day," I admit, closing my eyes against the wave of sorrow suddenly threatening to swallow me whole.
He takes a few moments before responding, as if considering my words. “Do you know their names?” he asks, and once again, I’m thrown off guard. It feels personal to him.
“Where are you from?” I ask him.
The night goes still.
“If you tell me where you’re from, I will answer your question,” I say, keeping my voice measured.
He pauses for a beat, but he finally answers. “Fiodhchaol. The very edge of the village near the big hill,” he says, and I relax. It’s on the other end of the kingdom, firmly in the Weaver’s domain.
I steel myself to keep my end of the bargain.
“Helen, Hannah, Katie, Amanda.” A lump works its way up my throat, but I push past it.
“Patrick, and Marsaili.” My voice cracks on the final name, the last of my victims, and I sense him stiffen, but I can’t tell if it’s from the pain of hearing me speak each of their names out loud or surprise that I remember them.
Hatred emanates off him, pulsing waves that dig into my skin, needling beneath it, but I find it does not make my shame worse. He can't possibly hate me for what I've done more than I hate myself.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is rougher than before.
“Go to sleep,” he orders, the scrape of his knife on wood the only sound for several long moments before the crunch of rocks beneath his retreating boots tells me I am finally alone.
But even with the distance between us, his hatred doesn't dim.
If anything, it's thicker than before. Heavier and so potent, I wonder if he's only a hair away from coming back and breaking his promise.
If he will slice my throat to test if I really can’t be killed.
I hope he isn't.
It would take quite a long time to recover from such a thing.
I have not dreamt since I was a child. Not once since the day I was sentenced here at twenty-three.
Since the day I was cursed to this riverbed.
It’s as if everything froze. My body. Time.
My memories. I assume it’s all part of my punishment—an inability to escape, even in rest. A reminder that I will never see anything other than the trees that surround me and the sky that makes up my prison.
But tonight as I fall asleep, something’s different.
Faded, muted colors dance in my periphery, the beginnings of a painting. I reach to grasp them, but they're like fraying strings, and the harder I pull, the faster they unravel.
A noise swims through the thick, hazy fog in my brain.
A memory?
No. It doesn't tug at my heart the way something from my past might. I can’t make out the sound, but it’s soft and rhythmic.
And there’s a voice. A woman, I think, based on the pitch.
I reach toward it, tentatively this time, trying not to scare it away, but even with the gentlest prod, it shatters.