55. Bea
BEA
Snow continues to fall, covering the purple heather in a thick white sheet.
Normally, this is my least favorite time of the year.
The months I spend frozen to the bone, my teeth chattering and my limbs shaking.
But with my dàn of warmth, I find I quite enjoy it.
The snow is beautiful, and it brings a peace to the glen I’ve never allowed myself to notice before.
I add a log to the fire, then lean back, reaching my palm out to catch the snow. The shimmering flakes melt on my skin instantly, leaving behind little specks of water that remind me of dew drops.
Brennen hasn't returned from hunting, and my skin tingles at the memory of him watching me.
I'd seen him long before I turned in his direction.
And yet, I hadn't said anything, wanting to know why he stood there, staring. Hoping that maybe it wasn’t just me who's been feeling this pull between us. It’d been thrilling, for those few long, tense moments.
But when I came up from the water, it hadn’t been lust on his face at all. It was disgust.
It had been physically painful to see, carving out a hollow spot where I'd placed the bits of hope that we were forming a friendship. Maybe something more. It’s why I’d told the mother fox Brennen hated me, even though I no longer believe he truly does.
At least, not in the same way he used to.
I’d said it because I knew it would hurt him.
Had wanted him to feel the sharp bite of disappointment, just as I had when I’d seen his face.
Is it possible I’ve been wanting his affection so badly, I’ve been seeing something that wasn’t truly happening?
It stings more than I anticipated, but I try to lock down the pain. The embarrassment that I’d actually thought I was beginning to matter to him, and remind myself that I’m merely an assignment. A prisoner.
I glance across the river where the foxes have curled inside a log, their bellies full. If nothing else, at least Brennen being here allowed me to feed them. Maybe they'll stay. Maybe, unlike my dragon, someday they will come close enough for me to touch them. To have some sort of connection.
I pick at the hem of my dress, trying to push the image of Brennen's appalled face from my mind.
There's a thud behind me, and I jump, turning around.
An already gutted and cleaned boar speared onto a thick stick lies on the ground at Brennen's feet, and without a word, he shoves two Y-shaped branches into the ground on either side of the fire. He picks up the hog, grunting as he fights to line the spear into the grooves. He doesn’t look at me, his movements fast and focused.
His hair is wild, his face tight, and I search it for emotions.
He’d sounded so sad when he walked away. So conflicted, but now he looks like he’s running on something primal. Like something is clawing it’s way out of the depths of his soul to escape his tight lid of control.
“What's this for?” I ask, my mouth watering at just the thought of roasted hog. “Did you catch it for the foxes?”
“No,” he says gruffly, wiping his sweaty brow with his forearm. “I caught it for you.” He picks up his canteen, his throat bobbing as he drinks deeply.
I suck in a breath. “For me?” He’s been here for months and has never once shared his kills with me. So why now?
Brennen’s jaw is set in a hard line, the muscle in his cheek jumping. He looks angry, but I'm not sure what I could've done to cause it, or why it would make him want to feed me. He rotates the hog on the spit.
“I knew you'd been starved, but I didnae ken you were starving now. You didn't tell me. I thought you had enough with your fish and your berries. You turned down food once, and you never asked for any of my rations. Hardly even looked at them. I thought maybe you didnae need to eat.”
Part of me wants to laugh at him. To tell him that, of course, I’m hungry. Always. But the heat in his eyes stops me. “Well, technically, I don’t. But you do, and your rations seem to be only enough for yourself.”
He tosses several logs on the fire, shaking his head as if my answer only fuels his anger.
I stutter, trying to think of a response. He’d brought me several things I needed, so why hadn’t I told him? “I didn’t think you would have given it to me if I asked,” I say, testing the waters.
“Aye, I would have, and I think you ken it!” he shouts, throwing his arms out as he finally turns, pinning me with a stare. The words echo through the glen, and a flock of curlews flies away in fear. Brennen’s chest heaves, and there's a fire in his eyes that frightens me.
“You’re right,” I say, keeping my voice strong, even though guilt scrapes down my spine. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was hungry,” I say softly. “I’ve asked other men who visit for scraps before, but they never oblige me.”
“Well, I'm no other men.” He stiffens. “And what do you mean, visited you?” His fingers curl into white-knuckled fists.
This question, I do not answer.
He already knows what I mean.
“No,” he shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “No.”
The word is a stab to the chest, and I bring a hand up to my sternum to rub away the pain, the stinging so much worse than the cold wind against my cheeks.
“I was beautiful, once, you know. Before the bloodstains. Men would come here occasionally, looking for a thrill. Could they bed the Washwoman?”
“Stop,” he says.
“Why? Most men aren’t as honorable as you. I didn’t let them, if that’s what you’re worried about. Or are you confused about how anyone could possibly want me? Is that why you were so disgusted when you saw my body?”
“Disgusted?” he says, his voice lowering dangerously, pulling the hair on my arms to attention.
I do not look away. I know what I saw, and I will not back down. “Aye. I saw your face when I came out of the water.” I put my hands on my hips. “You were standing there for far longer than just the moment the foxes appeared.”
“You think I’m disgusted by you?” he growls, his voice bringing gooseflesh to my arms. “That I dinnae think anyone could want you?” He stalks forward, grabbing my wrist over my sleeve.
He leans down, his fingers squeezing my arm, so hard it’s almost painful, and when he speaks again, it’s nothing more than a low rumble.
“It’s not you I’m disgusted with. I'm disgusted with myself.” He lets go, beginning to pace.
“Because I saw you, and I wanted you.” He shoves a finger into his own chest. “Because it’s not the first time I’ve wanted to wrap your curls around my hand.
To examine that dàn between your breasts with my tongue, and taste that beautiful mouth you never stop talking with.
Because you are nothing like the woman I thought I would find here.
You're smart and sharp-witted. As beautiful as you are strong, and somehow, even after all you’ve been through, you’re bloody standing. ”
He stops abruptly, rubbing his forehead, then turns and meets my eyes. Eyes replete with what I can only describe as utter devastation.
“You’ve become the searing heat of flames against my skin, growing stronger each day, devouring all the oxygen in your wake, consuming everything you touch.
Every fiber of my being, until my mind can hold nothing but you.
I can hardly breathe in your presence for my wanting you.
That is why you saw disgust on my face. Because I was sent here to kill you.
Because I have to kill you. And instead, I want you more than even the breath I cannae find. ”
My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out everything but Brennen. His anger and frustration. I’m frozen, as if I’ve forgotten how to move completely.
He wants me.
Me.
My chest tightens, something dangerous unfolding inside it. A need I don’t recognize. A yearning to be looked at like this forever. To be wanted by a man like him.
No, not a man like him. Just him.
He holds up his hand, his scarred palm lined with black.
“How weak of a man am I,” his voice cracks, defeat in every syllable, “that I still want you, even when I have no choice but to end your life.”
Tears sting my eyes, even as I have to press my legs together to ease some of the ache building between them.
“I told you, it's okay. I know you have to kill me. I won’t try to change that. But,” I swallow.
“But until it’s time to finish what you came here to do, you can allow yourself to want me, too. ”
The words feel dangerous as soon as they leave my lips, wisps floating away like dandelion seeds in the wind, but it’s too late to take them back.
He steps back as if I've burned him.
“You dinnae understand,” he says, his voice pained. “If I'm going to—” he cuts off, his jaw tightening. “I need to hate you, but I can't. I don't.”
His confession carves straight into my heart, a deep sorrow for the battle he’s fighting over what he views as right. Tears sting my eyes, blurring the edges of him.
“Then don't,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes, shaking his head as he drops down by the fire. I follow him, placing my hand on his sleeve, begging him to listen to me with my touch. “If you have to kill me, so be it. It’s what I’ve wanted, Brennen—rest. You’d be easing my suffering, in the end.”
The words should feel heavier than they do, but they don’t. It has been a long time since the thought of dying scared me more than the thought of living forever, but I feel it now, creeping into my chest.
“You could ease my suffering now, too,” I say, somehow brave and terrified to speak the words aloud all at once.
He doesn’t answer, his chest heaving as he continues to stare at my hand like the touch is too much and not enough in the same breath, but something in his eyes tells me he wants to say more. That he’s holding back.
My heart aches at the war he’s clearly fighting, and I scoot closer. “It’s been a very, very long time since anyone has looked at me with anything other than hatred and revulsion. Just as long since anyone touched me with anything other than anger.”
I scoot even closer when he doesn’t respond, my knee now almost touching his thigh, and he looks at that inch of space between us.
“You don't need to hate yourself for whatever it is you're feeling. For your vow. Or for wanting me.” A flush creeps up my neck, and I have to look away, afraid that if I see his resolve to hate me strengthen, it will destroy me. “Because even knowing what you have to do, I want you, too.”
He closes his eyes, breaths shaking. “You’ve really only been touched in anger for over a century?” he asks, his voice rough.
I don't answer. I don't need to. I know what was in that journal he read, the details of all the ways people have tried to kill me. That's not the half of it.
His hand lifts, the space between his palm and my cheek almost nothing, as if he’s going to damn it all and touch me. My breath catches, my heart pounding, but his fingers curl into a tight fist. With a slow exhale, Brennen shakes his head.
He pulls his hand away fully, grabbing his wood carving from the ground and squeezing it in his fist, as if he needs something to hold onto, anything, other than me.
And it hurts more than anything written in that journal had.