52. Brennen
brENNEN
My heart pounds as I lie beside the Washwoman, my entire body buzzing, taut as a bow string. It feels as if I'm balancing on the edge of a cliff on a windy day, the loch below rough and deadly. The proximity is too much, and my palm burns with an intensity I cannae ignore.
I hear Marsaili’s voice in my mind. You would sleep beside the woman who took me from you? she asks.
But the moans and cries of pain outside the tent distract me from the guilt.
My dàn of warning has been alerting me to danger from the moment the dead appeared.
Right or wrong, I couldnae leave Bea out there alone, and should I have chosen to give her the tent and sacrifice my own shelter, I would freeze to death.
The smell of snow hangs in the air, and it's only a matter of time before it begins to fall.
I roll to my back, staring into the darkness. Bea’s warmth radiates through the blankets, a heat that begs me to shift closer, and I move another inch away, just to prove to myself I can.
The ghosts continue to wail outside, and I shudder. I picture Bea hiding, only a blanket between herself and the lost souls.
“Did they come every night I was gone?” I ask, sensing she isn’t asleep. Bea jumps at the sound of my voice, and my lips tip into a smile. At least I’m not the only one on edge. She’s as tense as I am, lying stiffly next to me, hardly breathing.
“No. Only the last few,” she says. “I saw glimpses before. Heard moans and saw figures, but I thought I was imagining things. The night I told you someone was in the After? That must have been one of them.”
Her words send a pang of pity through me. Had she been worried she was going mad again, alone here with no one to confirm she wasn’t just seeing things? “How did you hide from them?” I ask.
Her breath hitches. She doesn’t answer immediately, and when she does, her voice is tentative. “I— I slept in here. I know it was an intrusion, but I was so afraid—”
“No,” I say, stopping her before she can apologize. “I'm glad you did.”
She exhales in relief. “Do you think—” she starts, then clears her throat. She takes a deep breath, rolling to face me, but I do not allow myself to do the same. Her gaze tickles the skin of my face, and I know if I just looked at her, her bright blue eyes would be shining.
“Do you think if I can find a way to free them, my crimes might be forgiven?”
I close my eyes. The hope in her voice lands like a blow to the chest, and I want to block it out. “I dinnae think there is anything you can do for the Cutter to let you go.”
“No. Not forgiveness from the Fates. From the Three of the path. Do you think if I can save the women before they are taken and free the ones unable to enter the After, maybe they will forgive me?”
Yes. The word comes instantly, and I want to tell her, but instead I remain silent.
It’d be unfair to give her hope when I cannae promise her that Am Breitheamh would judge her well.
My chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, a war brimming behind my sternum, making my heart pound even harder.
“I dinnae know the answer to that,” I say honestly, and I sense her shoulders fall. “Do you still want to die?” I ask.
She's quiet for a long moment, thoughtful.
“Not right now. Not until we free those souls. Not until women are no longer being killed. But, once I've done my part, once I've made things right as much as I can, then yes. I've been alive a very long time, and most of it has been unpleasant. I should think I would like to finally rest.”
Her words should bring relief, but they don’t. Instead, my chest tightens, and my hands itch to reach out to her.
She continues. “I'd like to think Am Breitheamh would grant me peace. That he would forgive my broken mind, and let the lives I save balance out the ones I never wanted to take.”
My breathing becomes shallow. “I do, too,” I whisper, and I realize it's the truth.
I meet her eyes, not because I want to, but because the pull of her gaze demands it.
Just as I suspected, bright blue shines back at me, swimming with so many emotions, I can hardly process them all—regret and shame and hope.
She gives me a sad smile, then closes those eyes, and without that brightness, it’s suddenly hard to breathe.
Her own breaths begin to even, and my body relaxes a fraction, hoping that she’s finally falling asleep. I cannae lie here next to her while she is awake. When I dinnae know what thoughts are running through her mind.
“Brennen?” she asks, her voice sleepy. Those blue-grey eyes find mine again, and this time, I cannot place what’s in them at all. Or maybe I don’t want to.
“Aye?”
“I know you think I’m horrible for what I did. For killing those people.”
My mouth goes dry. I dinnae ken how to respond.
Of course, I'm angry. The act itself is horrifying.
Unforgivable, but also, part of me knows she would've never chosen to have killed Marsaili, or anyone. I’m as certain of it as the unbreakable vow on my hand.
So am I angry at her, or at the universe, for wearing her down to a point that broke her?
“I just wanted to say it's alright,” she says. “It’s alright that you think I’m a monster. And I know you still have to kill me,” she says, and in her voice, fuck me, is understanding.
Absolution.
My hand flexes at my side, and something in my chest shatters, but not for Bea. For myself.
Because I dinnae know how I will be able to kill her now.
The realization is overwhelming, a fist slamming directly into my stomach.
And yet, that wanting changes nothing. My vow is still carved into my flesh.
By Samhain next, either the Washwoman will be dead, or I will, my soul eternally a servant to the goddess of death.
And nothing can change it.