37. Bea
BEA
Brennen’s gone to get supplies, so just as I have every other time he’s left the valley since moving his tent closer, I pass the time shuffling through his belongings.
While he still keeps his weapons past the hollow log and firmly out of my reach, the rest of his things remain scattered about as if he’s still here.
A half-finished carving sits on his desk, along with a haphazard stack of parchment and a pot of ink.
Curious, I flip through the pages. They’re notes on me. Things I’ve said and done, a catalogue of meaningless actions.
I toss them back on the wood, rolling my eyes as I slide my hands between the blankets stacked neatly in the corner, finding nothing.
I search beneath his bedroll. In his spare clothing.
If he has a naming pendant, it’s either on him at all times or, more likely, back wherever he calls home.
Nor can I seem to find anything I could even hope is a promise broken.
Lolly roars, and I peek out of the tent, lying down by the fire. She's less active today. Lazy, almost. Flying in long, swooping arcs as she circles the glen. Her presence has become a comfort, and even Brennen seems to have gotten used to her.
An image of him flashes in my mind, the pain on his face as he tried to find the words to write in the letter to Betty’s sister.
I still don’t particularly enjoy his rough exterior or his frequent anger, but I'm finding it difficult to hate him. It's undeniable he’s a good, respectable man. That he tries to do the right thing, always. I know better than to think anything he wrote will ease Lillian’s pain, but maybe it helped soothe whatever seems to cause him so much of it, instead.
I think of the picture of Betty’s parents, hoping An Treòraiche led her straight to them to be reunited.
I bolt upright. The picture. How had I forgotten about the picture?
A picture I’d brought back with me.
Anticipation burns along my skin, dangerous flickers of hope.
We hadn’t been able to come up with an explanation. I hadn’t really been there. My body had been here the entire time. Brennen confirmed it, but the picture had still come back clutched in my hands.
Can I bring anything I’m holding in the visions back with me?
My heart thunders against my ribs. This could be it. My chance to break the curse. How had I not thought about it before?
The visions seem to be getting longer. If I can find the last two pieces, hold on to them and bring them home, maybe after I complete my penance, I can finally do it.
Maybe that’s part of my penance. The goddess of death offering me a way to atone.
Find a way to stop these deaths, secure the pieces of the spell, and maybe, break this curse and go to my rest.
Maybe I can finally be free. On my terms, and no one else's.
I tilt my head up to the sky, throwing my arms out.
“This is it, Lolly!” I shout, spinning in a circle. My chain catches, and I stumble, but even through the pain in my ankle, I laugh—a real, joy-filled giggle. “It's finally going to happen.” Tears burn my eyes. I'm not foolish enough to think it will be instant, but this changes everything.
It gives me hope.
“What's finally going to happen?” Brennen’s rumble brushes against my skin.
I stiffen, turning around slowly, my heart rate picking up. “I— I was going to try to muster up the courage to ask you to bring me more thread to finish patching the hole in my skirt. I was going to be brave and ask for what I need.” He stares at me blankly, his scarred eyebrow raised.
“Um… Finally.” I force a smile, grateful Brennen no longer has his dàn of truth. It’s a weak excuse, but at least he doesn’t have proof I’m lying to him.
Brennen narrows his eyes, clearly not believing a word I said as his gaze flicks to my chain, but he doesn’t press me on it.
Interesting.
Why is he not suspicious, questioning me further? I don’t have time to examine why he let my blatant lie go so easily as he shakes his head and pulls a bundle from his satchel. It's yards worth of cloth, a sturdy, thick wool in a warm brown.
“You dinnae need thread.” He doesn’t shy away from looking at me as he holds the bundle out. “For you,” he says.
My mouth pops open in surprise. “That's enough cloth to make a whole new dress,” I say, breathless.
“No. It is a dress.” His voice is stiff.
Overly formal. “And a new apron and shift.” He hands them both over to me, and the weight of the fabric brings tears to my eyes.
I unroll it, taking in the details. The sturdy threads at the chest and thistles embroidered along the hem in soft tan thread.
“Why— I don't understand why you would do this for me.”
“I think a century in that one is plenty,” he says, flexing his fingers around the fabric.
“I know you think there’s magic holding it together, but it doesnae— Well it doesnae look to me like it’ll last you much longer,” he says, stumbling over his words, his nerves so at odds with his always-confident exterior.
“Surely the Fates aren’t so cruel they’d make me wash the dead’s clothes without wearing any myself,” I say, keeping my tone light.
For some reason, I don’t want him to know how much this truly means to me.
Part of me thinks he’ll pull back or shy away.
But part of me thinks, if I show him how deep my gratitude runs, he’ll see me even more clearly than he already seems to.
Brennen’s green eyes drop, gliding down my body as if he’s imagining my clothes disintegrating into nothing, but he clears his throat and quickly looks away, his jaw going tight.
Is it possible it’s not just me who has imagined what the other’s body looks like beneath their clothing? Just the thought makes my knees weak.
I shuffle my feet as a strained silence stretches between us, growing more taut by the moment. He shifts, his hands fisting at his sides as he clears his throat.
“You should go change,” he says, nodding toward his tent.
“Right.” The warmth in my cheeks spreads into my chest, thankfulness thick in my throat. I turn toward the tent, but stop myself. “You didn’t have to do this, you know,” I say. “Not for me.”
Brennen shakes his head. “You may be my prisoner, but even prisoners have basic rights. I want to apologize on behalf of the Fates that your needs have not been recognized until now.” He meets my eyes. “I— It wasnae right.”
A lump forms in my throat, expanding until I can hardly speak past it. This is a man who doesn’t speak without knowing precisely what he’s going to say, stumbling over his words. Apologizing for something he didn’t do.
My stomach twists. “I appreciate that. Thank you,” I whisper, and he gives me a sharp nod.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, not sparing me another look as he walks upstream out of the reach of my chain.
I walk toward the tent, unfolding the dress in my hands and holding it against my front. It seems to be exactly my size, as if it was made just for me. So does the apron, and my cheeks heat at the knowledge that Brennen is aware enough of my body to choose something that would fit so perfectly.
I run my fingers across the bodice, stilling when I find something in the pocket. Several needles and a spool of thread the same color as the thistle embroidery.
The lump in my throat thickens. You may be my prisoner, but even prisoners have basic rights, he’d said, but I don't think it was his duty to me as his prisoner that caused him to buy me this dress at all. He may have explained it away to himself as the noble thing to do, but I think it’s because, even if he cannot admit it to himself, he sees me now as more of a person than a monster.
He’s given me blankets. Called me by my real name.
Brought me something for my pain and wounds.
The dignity those acts of kindness have given me means more than the material possession of a new dress ever could.
I’m closing the tent flaps when Brennen leans down, and I pause, waiting to see what he’s found.
Tears sting the back of my eyes, my vision going blurry as they gather between my lashes.
Moss.
In his large, calloused hands is a thick sheet of moss. He bends down again, grabbing another, and that is when the tears finally fall.