15. Bea
BEA
Each ragged breath is agony. My right ribs seize with every inhale, and I wonder if they’re broken or simply bruised. At least the added weight of Brennen’s hatred dims a bit as he disappears through the pines, boy in tow.
For the first time since he arrived, his loathing doesn’t feel aimed wholly in my direction. He’d been so angry with the child. Too angry, really. He was just a lad, and he’d only behaved that way because he learned it from someone else. Children are not born with that kind of cruelty within them.
But Brennen hadn’t seemed to even consider why the child would have behaved the way he did.
He’d simply reacted, acting as if it were an affront to him that the boy had attacked me.
Is it because he’s here to guard me? If he saw the boy getting to me as a failure, it would certainly explain his anger.
Would align with how he reacts when I speak about him hurting me.
There’s no honor in attacking a woman in shackles, he’d said. If I hurt you, it will be because you left me with no other choice.
Is it possible the Dìdeanair is actually an honorable man? One who doesn’t crave power? I didn’t think such men existed.
I shake my head, the pain in my ribs and back growing unbearable. I won’t figure out Brennen’s motivations right now. Not when I can hardly breathe.
As slowly and carefully as I can, I inch my way to my bed to lie down, biting my lip as I move to hold back the scream fighting to escape my throat. I’m still soaking wet, but it’s the least of my worries. I will dry eventually, but this pain will take far longer to fade.
Lolly roars as I roll onto my left side, the pain lessening as I finally still, and I flick my eyes up to see fire dancing across the sky. She's angry today.
It seems everyone is.
She disappears over the horizon, and I look back to the river, reaching out to place my fingers in the water.
“Please,” I say, “No deaths right now.”
The water ripples, caressing my skin, and I hope that’s her way of accepting my plea.
I close my eyes, taking stock of my injuries for the second time in the last few days.
While my ribs seem to bear the brunt of the damage, my lip is swollen, and there's a goose egg on the back of my skull.
My arm throbs, as does a spot on my lower back.
The boy had thrown the stones surprisingly hard for a child.
For an adult, even. A dàn of strength, Brennen had said.
But even worse were the things he said to me.
Insults that remind me the entire kingdom despises me. Not just the ones who show up at the river, desperate and grieving.
Everyone.
It hurts almost more than my battered body, knowing there is nothing I will ever be able to do to change what they think of me.
My legend will only grow, and who I really am, every last piece of me, will cease to exist altogether.
How long until I forget myself, too? Until I’m lost to my own mind and that very legend defining me?
The wind picks up, the river recoiling from my hand as if ashamed of her lie, and tears burn my eyes. I'm unable to keep my scream contained as I’m dragged to my knees by invisible hands.
My body sags, but the magic of the curse holds me upright, and for once, I’m grateful for the force that bends to its will. At least I don't have to use what little strength I have left to pull myself to kneel.
The river is freezing as I lower my hands into the water, and I shiver.
The scent of bog myrtle permeates the air, and the river turns brown with mud. The world tilts, and suddenly, my pain is gone. I take a full, deep breath, my vision steadying and dizziness fading.
I’m in a candlelit pub, the patrons around me several drinks deep and belting a lively tune, glasses raised. The melody scratches at my brain, but I can’t quite place where I’ve heard it before.
Come take off yer coat. Set yer boots by the door.
There's room at our table and a song or two more.
The night's in no hurry. The door’s still ajar.
And nobody's counting how long here yeh are.
There's wine in our mugs, and there's ale in our glass.
And no need to dwell on the sins of your past.
Our lives might be measured, but don't hold yer tongue.
For nobody's counting the verses we've sung.
A woman stands behind the bar, her pale cheeks flushed and eyes bright as she sings. A man leans over, beaming as she hands him the drink. He pays with a kiss, and my heart aches at the simplicity of it. The ease of their love. What would I give for even a crumb of something like that?
The melody shifts to the chorus, and they both join in, their eyes shining as they lift their glasses.
A song cannae tell you the time it will end.
As long as you sing, a new one can begin.
We hoped you were coming. We've waited all night.
Held off on the last verse until you arrived.
I pry my eyes away from the couple, eyes darting around the room. There has to be a reason I’m here. A reason I’m having these visions, but what is it? It’s hard to see through the dim lighting, but nothing stands out as unusual. I’m jostled forward, and I catch myself on the back of a chair.
“Sorry, miss,” a man says, and I freeze. Is this a clue? Is he the one who will die?
“Sir,” I say, my voice coming out hoarse.
“Yes, lass?” he says, and even though I suspected he'd be able to see me based on my last vision, I'm still surprised. My heart cracks at the kindness in his tone. If we'd met at the river, surely that kindness would be gone.
“Be careful tonight,” I say.
He lowers his brows, stepping forward as if to ask me more, but the scene fades, and once again the world tilts. My head swims, and then, I’m back at the river.
The pain returns, blinding, and I try to lie down, but my curse does not allow it.
Agony sears through each of my injuries, so intense, it makes me nauseous.
I dry heave, my stomach already empty, but the magic doesn’t give me even a moment to recover.
It presses against my skin, heavy and persistent, guiding my hands to grab the garments floating downstream, and I stop resisting.
I’m not able to see the clothes through the thick tears in my eyes, not only from the pain of my injuries, but confusion and shame. These visions feel wrong. I can sense it in my bones, so why am I being brought into them, and why can’t I seem to stop whatever is happening?
Is it as I thought? That the Cutter is torturing me, showing me someone’s life and joy before forcing me to wash their clothes? Is it to show me what I am missing here, trapped and away from the rest of the world?
Or is it something else entirely? Am I supposed to do something to stop these deaths that feel so wrong?
Is this a test? Could this be my penance for Am Breitheamh to judge me well and allow my afterlife to be peaceful?
Maybe if I can stop these visions—save these people who aren’t meant to die—I’ll be forgiven.
I hold onto that hope as I check the pockets and finish washing the clothes, closing my eyes so I’m not forced to witness the proof that I failed to save the man.
When I let go, the magic lifts, and I collapse back onto the bank, my cry of pain echoing through the glen as I fall, but I can barely hear it past the melody of the song still ringing in my mind.