35. Bea
BEA
The fire crackles as we sit beside it, Brennen on one side, me on the other.
It’s a physical divide, yet it still feels like something has shifted between us today.
His anger has changed. Not disappeared, necessarily, but morphed into something a bit less sharp.
He doesn't seem to hate me with every beat of his heart now, though I can still sense the anger bubbling beneath the surface of his calm exterior.
I try to ignore it. To ignore him, but my body won’t listen.
Every few seconds, it seems, my eyes flick to where he sits reading a book, a leather-bound journal of sorts, his eyebrows drawn together as if he’s thoroughly studying the contents inside.
But it’s not just me who seems to be unable to keep my eyes to myself.
Every so often, his gaze sears my skin as well. What is he searching for?
The sensation of him watching me prickles again, and I look up, but he quickly turns away.
His strong jaw clenches, and he rubs a hand across his scruff, his forearms flexing as he turns the page.
Heat flares deep within me, my skin suddenly overly sensitive.
The fire is too warm, and my dress scratchy.
This is foolish. Embarrassing even, the way my body has begun responding to his proximity. Maybe it's just spending so much time with someone after being alone for so long. Maybe I would feel an attraction to anyone of his age and physicality. Or, if not an attraction, an appreciation at least.
Brennen is a soldier through and through.
Strong in a way that speaks of hard work, his muscles defined and corded, honed by years of training and self-control.
It takes perseverance to become a warrior like that, and I wonder, if I’d possessed some of his fortitude, would my life have turned out differently?
Maybe my mind wouldn't have broken and caused me to do the horrible things I’ve done.
I think back to that night six years ago. What could've caused me to snap so severely? Was I afraid of something? Did I see a threat that wasn't there? Or is it really as I suspect? That the curse binding me here fractured my mind when I escaped?
The screams begin to echo as I prod my memory, and I wince, pushing the thoughts away. Every time I try to come up with answers, my mind betrays me once again. But is there an answer, hidden somewhere in the depths of my mind?
Even thinking about the memories causes the screams to grow to a roar, and I bite my lip, pushing the thoughts away before the pain of it can get any worse.
I grab some stones and begin to stack them, but only make it to four before they tumble to the ground.
They’re too round, and I search for more suitable ones, desperate for a distraction.
But Brennen’s gaze once again heats my face, and I abandon the search, fighting the flush creeping up my neck.
His lips tip down in what seems to be concern, and not for the first time, it knocks me off kilter.
This man, who’s sole purpose of being here is to kill me, seems to genuinely care if I’m hurt. If I suffer.
“Are you in pain?” he asks, his voice low and rough. His eyes flick to my ankle. “I can get you more willow bark if the cuff has been bothering you.”
I rub my temples. “No. It’s not that. It’s—” I pause, taking a deep breath. Part of me wants to be vulnerable with him. It’d felt good, earlier, to confess how I’d escaped the river. To confide in someone, and I want to tell him how much the bits of memory I do have haunt me.
“The screams returned,” I shake my head. “I was thinking of them. Of the people I killed.”
He leans back, studying me, as if surprised by my willing admission. “Do you think of them often?”
“Every day,” I say, picking up my hem and running my fingers along it so I don’t have to look at him. There's a hole I haven't gotten around to mending, avoiding having to ask Brennen to return my needle to me. It’s so big now, I can fit four fingers through it, and I need to fix it desperately.
“I, um… May I have my needle?” I ask, lifting the hole. “You said to ask if I needed it again. And I guess now’s the time,” I say, rambling. I don’t know why his presence makes me feel so nervous. Like everything I do or say is awkward and strange.
He stares at the hole intently, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest. Nerves bubble in my stomach at his silence, and I hurry to fill it.
“You see, when you only have one garment, you must take care of it. I know what I’m doing, though.
I can fix it easily. But I should do it now, before it gets any larger and—”
“You’ve really worn that garment for a hundred years?” he asks.
I brush my fingers against the worn fabric. “Aye. I think there must be some sort of magic that keeps it from falling apart completely. But I still must mend it.”
He looks at the multicolored patches of thread all along the skirt, fixed with whatever I could find.
His gaze shifts away from me for a long moment as he stares at the cut on his hand.
The one I haven’t had the courage to ask about again.
It looks intentional, even more so with the fresh wound overtop the scar.
One that hadn’t been present when he’d gone to his tent last night.
He closes his eyes for a moment, his jaw going tight, then reaches into his boot and pulls out a piece of folded fabric, and a laugh slips through my lips.
His eyes pop wide, then narrow.
“What?”
“You really hid the needle on your body?” I ask, turning fully to face him, pretending to pinch a needle between my fingers and throw it at him like a dart. “Were you afraid I would stab you with it? Aren’t you An àrd?”
He pins me with a stare. “I thought you might try,” he grumbles, tossing the bundle over the fire. I don’t miss his word choice. Not think. Thought. The word wraps warmth around me like a cocoon.
I stand and wander to my pillow, lifting it and grabbing a bobbin of thread from the top. Brennen is watching me again, and I hold it up.
“Afraid I'll garrot you with this?” I ask, and a smile flirts at the corners of his lips. My heart stutters, and my neck flushes with heat. I silently curse myself, embarrassed. You’d think a man had never smiled at me before, the way my body’s reacting to a half smile.
Not even a half smile. It’s the barest hint, so fleeting, I may have imagined it.
But in truth, I don’t think it’s that a man is smiling at me at all.
It’s this man. My flush deepens.
“I think I can survive a bit of thread,” he says, turning the page, and I’m grateful he’s no longer looking at me.
I try to ignore him as I patch the hole with the deep purple thread, a stark contrast to the off-white of my dress.
“How long exactly have you been here?” Brennen asks, resting the book in his lap.
When I look up, he's studying me again, and I wonder what he’s looking for.
He’s spent hours since he’s been here staring at me, like I’m a puzzle begging to be solved.
I look back down to my hem, unable to bear his scrutiny.
It makes me feel naked, looking at him. Like he can see through my clothes and skin down to my very marrow.
I pause my mending to lift the bottom of my skirt. “See these?” I ask, showing him the line of tiny stitches around the hem. “I make a mark every winter. I’ve seen a hundred and three of them from this shore.”
Brennen stares at the stitches. “And how old were you when you were sent here?”
Young. The word comes unexpectedly, as do the emotions that accompany it. I had so much life ahead of me, and yet I’ve done so little.
“Twenty-three,” I make several straight stitches through the hole. “But I stopped aging when the curse began.”
His brow furrows, and he nods, leaning forward. “You've lived through an Epoch, then.” My hands still, a shiver skating down my spine. It wasn’t where I’d expected his mind to go, and yet, it’s a fair question.
“I have,” I say. The words come out as a whisper. “Is that what you're reading about?” He closes the book.
“In part. What can you remember of it?”
I hesitate for a moment. It's not something I like to relive, yet it’s another answer I can give him.
“It started in the night. I saw creatures flying through the sky.
First, just a few. Then, hundreds. Brollacham dug up from the ground, and Cu Sìth raced through the forest in packs, howling endlessly.
“Did they harm you?” He asks. His knuckles go white on the book.
“No,” I say. “I don't know why, but they left me alone.
I could see them, but I'm not sure they could see me. It felt like it does with Lolly. They never came within my boundaries. Maybe the wards kept them out. But there was one day, when I saw a bodack. Wrinkled and old, with stringy white hair and onyx eyes and gnarled claws for hands. He stared at me. Right at me. I ran upstream to hide, and when I looked back, he was gone.”
Brennen seems unfazed by the horrors I witnessed. He’s in soldier mode, assessing. Planning. “How long did it last?” he asks.
“Near ten years. There were so many clothes to wash, and I saw each death in my mind. People were torn apart limb from limb. Eaten alive. I could hear the screams from Dalbàsail. I lost count of how many people died. Thousands.” I shiver, the memory making me nauseous.
“You know, the Epoch is the only time I've ever been grateful to the Fates.
The wards kept me safe. But I've always wondered, why not ward the villages throughout the kingdom completely?
I'm sure the Fates were safe in their impenetrable castles. But what of their people?”
Brennen’s shoulders go tight, his eyes narrowing, as if he’s angry I’m questioning his queen. But he doesn’t accost me for it, and I wonder if maybe he’s considering what I said.
“Will you be safe when it comes?” I ask him.
“As you said. I am An àrd. This is what I've trained for.”
“And yet I have seen monsters you have not. It would take twenty men to fight off a Beithir.”
He considers this for a moment. “Aye. Without the dàn I have, sure. But it’s no myself I’m worried about.
I’m worried about my family,” he says. His mouth snaps shut, as if he hadn’t wished to share his fear with me.
I don’t press him on it, returning to my mending.
My thread runs out an inch shy of completely fixing the tear, and I sigh, knotting the end and throwing the spool into the fire.
The flames consume it, the fire flaring and spitting sparks into the night, and in the orange glow, Brennen becomes more clear. He’s staring into the distance, deep in thought, his eyes haunted.
“You can bring them here,” I say gently. “Your family. The new wards still hold. I swear I will not harm them.” He looks up to me, his strong jaw tight. He considers me, but doesn't answer. Disappointment settles low in my belly.
He doesn’t know if he believes me.
“Here,” I say, reaching over the fire and holding out the needle. He stares at my hand, but doesn't take it.
“Keep it,” he says, nodding to my hiding spot.
Unease twits between my ribs from his knowledge of where it is, but even if he looked beneath the rock, all he would find are my trinkets.
The pieces of the spell, the things that really matter, he'd have to dig much deeper to find. And why would he, if he thinks he knows all that’s in my trove?
I drop the needle in my apron pocket. “Not afraid of me anymore, then?” I ask, my voice teasing. He looks up, his eyes traveling across every inch of my face. The weight of his gaze pushes against my skin, so intense it feels as if he’s actually touching me, but I do not look away.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I think I'm more afraid of you now than I ever was,” he says, opening the book once again and returning to his reading without another word.