30. Bea
BEA
Ilean back, the water now receding, and rest my cheek on the muddy riverbank.
It’s too dark to check on the items beneath my pillow.
The moon is blocked by thick, dark clouds.
Instead, I trace my fingers along the patch of skin where the dàn for warmth now sits, tingling with heat.
It’s a contentment I’m unfamiliar with, and it settles over me like a heavy cloak.
I forget that I’m wet, forget the pain in my ankle, and close my eyes, fatigue pulling at my body.
But along with that pleasant warmth, there’s a horrible guilt incessantly gnawing in my belly.
I have no right to enjoy the lack of chill.
Not when Brennen risked so much to pull me out.
Once again, I stole from him, even if it wasn’t intentional.
Is he freezing in the tent? He must be, seeing as he’s so unused to the cold.
With a sigh, I shove the guilt as deep down as possible. I cannot change that I now have his dàn any more than I can change the rest of my past, and suffering over misplaced shame will get me nowhere.
I close my eyes, and am only barely asleep when the prickling of hair rising along my arms wakes me.
There’s a groan. A shudder from the After.
It vibrates through the ground, traveling through my body until I’m not sure if it is the earth trembling, or me.
I pull myself to sit, leaning forward to peer into the black mist.
The groan settles, but the eerie feeling doesn’t dissipate. The After pulses, twisting as if unsettled, it’s long black tendrils reaching out further than normal. The mist thins as it stretches, and something appears. A shape, tall and thin.
Even the dàn of warmth can’t stop my blood from running cold.
In the After, a figure stands stone-still, watching me. Their gaze needles into my skin, pointed and intentional.
Is it An Glèidheadair come to take me? To allow me passage through his gates? Or has the goddess of love and madness returned with stolen songs and nonsensical warnings?
I glance toward Brennen’s tent, wishing he would appear. Did he not hear the groan or feel the realm tremble? I could scream for him, but what would the figure do?
When I look back, scraping my insides for the courage to demand it reveal itself, the figure is gone.
I blink, rubbing my eyes and squinting into the darkness, but all is as it should be. I am very much alone. There is no person standing in the mist. No pulsing, writhing shadows.
I lie back down, still watching the After. Was it just my imagination getting away from me? It wouldn’t be the first time I thought someone was approaching only for a rabbit or fox to scramble from the trees.
With a shake of my head, I try to clear the image from my mind, scrub the feeling of being watched from my skin, but sleep refuses to find me. My body is too alert, waiting for any indication that something is wrong.
I stare into the night, searching for shapes until the first hints of light peek over the ridge.
It’s not until the sky turns a soft, soothing pink that I’m able to relax.
In the light of day, I feel foolish. Not once in a century have I seen someone in the After, nor do I think a human could survive touching the black mist. I’m just tired from the flood.
From drowning, and I haven’t eaten enough.
Not to mention, I’ve been on edge since Brennen arrived.
That’s why I’m seeing things. Nothing more.
It’s easy to find monsters in the dark when you are one yourself.
I peek over my shoulder. Brennen hasn't emerged from his tent since he went inside last night to escape the storm, but I can feel his frustration pulsing from behind the canvas. The rain only stopped an hour ago. And while he’s probably dry, and I’m still drenched, I’m likely the only one of us who is not cold.
I stretch out my arms as dawn continues to fill the glen, and with just enough light to see, I finally move from my stone pillow.
Brennen must've thought me mad for remaining in the water, but the relief I felt when I’d found the rock still in place had been the sweetest thing I'd experienced in a long while.
I would rather drown a hundred times than lose the pieces of my spell.
Even if I'm not sure how or when I will use them, I have spent so long gathering each item, and the thought of beginning again is unfathomable.
I move the stone out of the way, digging down into the dirt, my relief only growing when I find my belongings exactly where they should be.
A reed pipe, a mourning brooch, and an adder stone.
Wet and caked with mud, but still, there.
A shuffling noise sounds from the tent, and I quickly pack the earth back over my treasures and return the pillow.
A flash of black peaks from under my sleeve at my wrist, and my heart stutters.
I pull it back to get a better view. Seven arching waves stare back at me, roughly the size of my thumb. Another dàn.
Brennen’s dàn of truth.
My heart sinks. He’ll trust me even less now, without the reassurance of his magic. Just when I thought maybe we were getting to a place of understanding.
I quickly roll up my sleeves, examining every inch of my arms for more, then my legs. I freeze. There's a dàn on my calf. Memory.
I search my torso. Two more dàn rest there—one on my ribs, blocky and sharp—weapon accuracy. The other on my shoulder, creeping across my collarbone—warmth—fluid and soft. Dread pools in my stomach. The dàn for warmth I cannot help but feel grateful for, but to take so many…
Guilt rears its ugly head again, hot and thick. The rational part of my mind knows it's not my fault, but my body doesn't care. I stole from Brennen as he was risking his life to save me.
If not my life, then at least from hours of agony. It’s not the first time I've drowned, but it is one of the least pleasant ways I have not died, my body fighting for oxygen, my lungs burning until I’m unconscious.
I pull my sleeve back down as Brennen appears in the opening of the tent.
His hair is still wet, wavy and messy, tumbling in front of his eyes.
The thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders makes him look even larger than normal, demanding attention.
Even covered, his muscular build is obvious, but instead of it causing me to feel afraid, I find myself aware of him in a way I don’t think I should be.
The tension in his jaw. His fingers clutching the edges of his blanket.
The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.
Frustration rolls off him in waves, but there’s no anger mixed with it.
“Are you okay?” I ask tentatively. It's all I can think of to say. I expect an angry retort. Accusations. I brace myself for sharp words.
“I'll be fine,” he grumbles, “though I'll need to go into the village to get more blankets. Warmer clothes.” He stares at the place the fire had sat, doused by last night's rain. “I wish you'd taken a different one," he says with a shiver.
“I didn't mean to—”
“I know,” he says, meeting my eyes, and shock rattles through me. “Looks like it was four dàn this time.”
“I'll try to give them back, if you want. I mean, I don't know how but—”
He lifts his hands, interrupting my rambling. “I dinnae think you can, and I willnae risk losing more. Let’s leave it at that,” he says, marching to Sable where she munches on heather near the treeline. My shock grows into disbelief. He’s truly not angry with me about taking his magic.
He doesn't say a word as he mounts her, then disappears toward the village, I assume to find those warmer clothes.
I'm grateful he has that option. One I never did, because I know what happens next.
After the first rain comes the cold. A cold that will chill you to the bone. A cold that, if you can die, is likely to kill you.
I'm grateful for the storm as I wander along the river. The flood washed all sorts of debris through the glen, and I find more mature moss than I've seen in quite some time within reach of my chain.
Even though the temperature continues to plummet throughout the day, the sun remains overhead, and it feels like Hogmanay, a celebration ripe with gifts and good fortune.
I collect every bit I can find, along with kindling for a fire.
The one Brennen kept stoked went out in the rain, but with my dàn of warmth, I should be able to focus the heat enough to spark a flame.
Lolly soars overhead as I work, her roar a melody that calms my soul.
“I can’t believe it either,” I tell her, picking up stick after stick.
By the time I'm done, body aching from exhaustion, a stack of wood two feet high sits near my bed. Enough to last a few days, if not more. I pick up a few twigs, still somewhat damp from the rain.
My dàn for warmth flares to life, knowing my intention, and my hands grow hot.
The stick I’m holding steams, the moisture in it evaporating until it becomes almost brittle. I laugh, joy popping in my chest like bubbles in the river. I do the same to several more sticks, then make a pile. Focusing on them, I will them to ignite, but nothing happens.
I bite my lip, placing my hands on the bundle, but still, nothing.
I sit back on my heels, frustrated. Dàn are supposed to become a part of you—intuitive.
That's the magic. You don't have to be taught how to use them.
But maybe because they weren't given to me, because they were stolen from their rightful owner, it’s different.
A gust of wind blows my hair around my face, but I don't shiver. Instead, I listen to it, allowing it to guide my body forward as if I’m bowing to pray. My skin prickles as an idea comes to me, dropped into my mind like a pebble in the river.
I lift my chin, take a deep inhale, and then, focusing at the base of the sticks, I blow. Softly. Tentatively.
A spark ignites, and the twigs catch. The fire grows warm in an instant, the orange glow lighting up my smile.
It is not dark quite yet, but it will be soon.
Brennen will return before night comes, and when he does, I can at least offer him this.
Some sort of warmth as an apology for stealing what was his.
It’s not long before the sound of hooves echoes through the glen, and Brennen emerges, saddle bags full. He’s wearing a thick cloak, but even with it covering his body, I can see the outline of his broad shoulders and corded arms.
My belly flutters, my cheeks heating, and I look away. What is wrong with me? A few days with a man in my glen and suddenly I’ve lost all sense?
He removes the bags and saddle, feeding Sable a few sugar cubes. My mouth waters as she crunches on them, Brennen stroking her nose. Shame and embarrassment heat in my gut.
I’m envious of a horse.
“Wasted no time using my dàn, I see,” Brennen rumbles, clearly cranky from the cold. “Though really, you don’t need it. The magic will keep you warm with or without it.”
“I um…” I stutter, inexplicably uncomfortable. “Well. It feels nice. I’ve been cold for quite some time. But actually, I built it for you.” My blush spreads down my neck, and I twist, trying to hide it from him. “The weather is turning, and it will get colder through the night.”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, stubborn as ever, as he grabs another blanket from his satchel.
I sigh. “It seems a bit bullheaded to be cold for no reason, doesn’t it?” I ask, but he pointedly ignores me.
I study him as he unpacks, his movements stiff and tight. His frustration feels like a ball of snakes in my chest, and I rub at my sternum to try to soothe it. He won’t look at me and is making a point to stay outside of my chain’s reach.
“What’s wrong? Afraid I’m going to light you on fire?” I tease, and Brennen freezes, his grip tightening on the blanket he’s holding.
“More like you’ll steal more dàn if I get close enough.”
I lift my hands toward the fire, relishing the heat. “Och, hush. I’ve been close enough to touch you many times now, and I haven’t. It’s you who seems to be unable to resist touching me,” I say with a teasing smirk. Brennen’s jaw ticks.
“Why do you think it is that it’s only my touch that transfers magic to you?” he asks, surprising me.
I smile, relishing the fact that he’s having a conversation with me without accusing me of something horrid. “Now that is an excellent question. Maybe you subconsciously wanted to give them to me,” I say.
He huffs. “The last thing I want is to have less magic, or for you to have any at all.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve told you many times, you’re welcome to try to take them back.”
He crosses his arms, finally looking at me. “You’d really give up your first taste of warmth in a century for me?”
My lips twist into a small smile. “Well, I made a fire for you. I’d hope if I returned the dàn, you’d offer to do the same.” The flames rise and crackle as if in agreement.
Clouds drift over the sun, and the temperature drops further. Brennen shivers, unfolding the blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders.
“Fates, you’re stubborn as a ram. You can get closer. I’m not going to murder you. And I won’t take your dàn. I’ll stay on my side of the fire like a good wee lass and keep my hands to myself. I promise.”
Brennen studies me for a long time, statue still, his eyebrows drawn together.
The wind calls, and I rise with a sigh, washing the clothes of a man who will die in a brawl.
I place my hands into the icy water, but I do not feel its chill.
The feeling is indescribable. A gift from the goddess, and I almost yearn to dive into the river’s depths.
To see how far I can push the dàn’s power, but I still haven’t eaten and am low on energy.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I will bathe. I will take my time, not be rushed by the cold. I will catch a fish and cook it over the fire. My heart leaps at the thought. The river calms, and I say the prayer of the Three of the path, the clothes drifting away.
When I turn back, Brennen is sitting by the fire, his stern features illuminated by the flames. He watches me intently as I return to my side. I raise my hands in the air, exaggerating my intentions to stay far away, and his lips twitch up into an almost smile.
Only for a second, but it was there.
My heart leaps.
Maybe my dàn isn’t the only thing warming to me.