asked.
“Of course, I will be fine, but I won’t go to Eriboll with you and Padraig. Do you understand?”
“Because you have to take care of the horses?”
Beyond speaking, she nodded.
“There’s only the one. Could you let that one go?”
“No,” she swallowed back the tears. “No, son. It’s best I keep him back here and you remember to go by Eban.”
“I don’t like that,” he grumbled.
“Just until I can join you,” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything and she knew exactly what face he’d be wearing. Mulish and angry, like his father. He needed someone to teach him better. A woman with a mother’s skills. A softer woman, who didn’t go racing into battle.
“Deian.”
“Aye, Ma?”
“Be quick. Padraig needs care.”
“I’m off,” he promised, and climbed onto Snip.
“Be careful, you’re more precious than life itself.”
“I’ll be careful,” he called to her, and rode out of her life.
Again, she looked to Padraig upon the ground, and lifted the fabric she pressed into his wound. The bleeding eased to a trickle.
“You watch over him,” she demanded of Padraig, because she could, because he couldn’t hear her and argue with her, over what she was about to do. “And yourself.”
Hoarse with tears, she hiccupped a sob. “You’re both more precious than life to me.” Head bowed, she lowered, kissed his lips.
“Goodbye, my love.”
CHAPTER 12 ~ SEPARATION
He’d prefer to have died, if this pain meant he lived. Or was this hell? Body ached so bad you’d rather piss yourself than move, head swollen to bursting? Not sure he could, he tried to open his eyes.
A small eye, green and shining with fury, looked right back.
“Deian,” he said, or thought he said. His tongue was so thick he wasn’t certain the word got past it.
“I donna’ want to be called Eban anymore.”
Fine, he’d deal with that. Sure enough.
As if he could take that on, when he couldn’t even find a pot to relieve himself, or the strength to do so. He’d not even bother to ask for something to soothe his parched mouth.
“I don’,” Deian grumbled.
“Is he awake?” A sweet voice sounded from behind the boy.
Delicate fingers lifted Padraig’s eyelid higher than he was capable.
“You’ll be thirsty.” She fussed and produced a wet cloth for him to suck on. That’s what they did for the wounded after battle, as though too much liquid would harm them. He wanted a full swallow.
Memories surfaced, the punch of an arrow, his tunic sopping up blood to saturation, then rivulets running down his back. Horses, voices, jostling of travel and, worst of all, the searing sizzle, acrid scent of his own flesh when they cauterized the wound. Pain sent him over the edge of awareness to blessed darkness. No memory after that, until now.
“More,” he rasped.
“Aye, in a moment.” That female voice again. “This will have to do for now.” She gave him another wet cloth to suck.
“Did ya’ hear me?” Deian pressed.
Padraig worked his tongue around his mouth, trying to moisten enough to speak. Deian didn’t budge.
“Your ma gave you that name.” He fought to get that much, fought to continue. “Not mine to take.”
“My ma’s not here.” The lad swiped his nose with his arm.
No, she wouldn’t be. She’d be gone. Left them behind.
He drifted back toward sleep when arms lifted him, put a cup to his lips. His throat rejected the bitter and foul brew, made him retch; but the lass held his jaw closed, worked his throat like some beast given a pill it didn’t want to swallow. He must be sick, to lose to a lass no bigger than a bairn.
Their battle over, he found the pain easing, his thirst abating. Padraig opened his eyes to find Deian sulking at the foot of his pallet.
“How long?” he asked.
“Have you been here?” his nurse responded. “Three days.”
“Three days?” If he could have, he would have yelled, but not with a throat raw as butchered game. “You
“Of course, I will be fine, but I won’t go to Eriboll with you and Padraig. Do you understand?”
“Because you have to take care of the horses?”
Beyond speaking, she nodded.
“There’s only the one. Could you let that one go?”
“No,” she swallowed back the tears. “No, son. It’s best I keep him back here and you remember to go by Eban.”
“I don’t like that,” he grumbled.
“Just until I can join you,” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything and she knew exactly what face he’d be wearing. Mulish and angry, like his father. He needed someone to teach him better. A woman with a mother’s skills. A softer woman, who didn’t go racing into battle.
“Deian.”
“Aye, Ma?”
“Be quick. Padraig needs care.”
“I’m off,” he promised, and climbed onto Snip.
“Be careful, you’re more precious than life itself.”
“I’ll be careful,” he called to her, and rode out of her life.
Again, she looked to Padraig upon the ground, and lifted the fabric she pressed into his wound. The bleeding eased to a trickle.
“You watch over him,” she demanded of Padraig, because she could, because he couldn’t hear her and argue with her, over what she was about to do. “And yourself.”
Hoarse with tears, she hiccupped a sob. “You’re both more precious than life to me.” Head bowed, she lowered, kissed his lips.
“Goodbye, my love.”
CHAPTER 12 ~ SEPARATION
He’d prefer to have died, if this pain meant he lived. Or was this hell? Body ached so bad you’d rather piss yourself than move, head swollen to bursting? Not sure he could, he tried to open his eyes.
A small eye, green and shining with fury, looked right back.
“Deian,” he said, or thought he said. His tongue was so thick he wasn’t certain the word got past it.
“I donna’ want to be called Eban anymore.”
Fine, he’d deal with that. Sure enough.
As if he could take that on, when he couldn’t even find a pot to relieve himself, or the strength to do so. He’d not even bother to ask for something to soothe his parched mouth.
“I don’,” Deian grumbled.
“Is he awake?” A sweet voice sounded from behind the boy.
Delicate fingers lifted Padraig’s eyelid higher than he was capable.
“You’ll be thirsty.” She fussed and produced a wet cloth for him to suck on. That’s what they did for the wounded after battle, as though too much liquid would harm them. He wanted a full swallow.
Memories surfaced, the punch of an arrow, his tunic sopping up blood to saturation, then rivulets running down his back. Horses, voices, jostling of travel and, worst of all, the searing sizzle, acrid scent of his own flesh when they cauterized the wound. Pain sent him over the edge of awareness to blessed darkness. No memory after that, until now.
“More,” he rasped.
“Aye, in a moment.” That female voice again. “This will have to do for now.” She gave him another wet cloth to suck.
“Did ya’ hear me?” Deian pressed.
Padraig worked his tongue around his mouth, trying to moisten enough to speak. Deian didn’t budge.
“Your ma gave you that name.” He fought to get that much, fought to continue. “Not mine to take.”
“My ma’s not here.” The lad swiped his nose with his arm.
No, she wouldn’t be. She’d be gone. Left them behind.
He drifted back toward sleep when arms lifted him, put a cup to his lips. His throat rejected the bitter and foul brew, made him retch; but the lass held his jaw closed, worked his throat like some beast given a pill it didn’t want to swallow. He must be sick, to lose to a lass no bigger than a bairn.
Their battle over, he found the pain easing, his thirst abating. Padraig opened his eyes to find Deian sulking at the foot of his pallet.
“How long?” he asked.
“Have you been here?” his nurse responded. “Three days.”
“Three days?” If he could have, he would have yelled, but not with a throat raw as butchered game. “You
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