Chapter 37: Chapter 37: A Bitter End

When Saoirse woke, in the long, dark tunnel, the sight greeted her. Along the moist stones of the floor, a small crab, no larger than the tip of her little finger, scurried sideways, its color the green of Alexander leaves in the summer. She pressed into its aura, and the crab sang to her. Its song: a single note, the low vibration of a bow drawn across a string. A weak smile flitted across her face. With a gentle finger, she reached toward the creature. “I won't hurt you.” A glittering fleck of light left her finger and settled on the creature's back. At once, it turned in a circle, and with a burst of speed, darted up the long, stone tunnel.

At least I can do something right.

She lifted her head.

It's better this way.

She drew a ragged breath, the weight of her decision pressing like a great stone had been laid on her chest. Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. Lifting her chin, she stood. Meticulously finding two dry places on the damp floor to place her feet, she lifted the beam and opened the door. Before her, steps led downward into a large cavern a hundred feet high and a hundred yards long. It smelled of the sea, and life, glowing so brightly she squinted and turned away. At low tide, the cave would be nearly empty of water, dotted with only small pools a toe’s width deep. Now the water was thigh-high. She breathed in and breathed out. The sight dimmed.

She took off her boots and her stockings, leaving them behind on the steps. Holding up her skirts, she crossed the slippery cavern floor, the water blissfully cold against her overwrought body. The bright morning light, coming in through the cracks around the far door—the sea door—made for it a yellow-white halo so different from the quietly shimmering green magic-light of the pool. The door, cut to look like part of the cliff from the seaward side, was irregularly shaped, and so the halo was crooked. Crossing the cave, she tucked the ends of her dress into her bodice and using both hands, lifted the beam barring the sea door.

Fearing the beast, fearing she was too late, that it was waiting for her just outside, she pulled open the door with hands poised to slam it shut again, to see not a beast, but the glorious morning.

Her breath left her in a great sigh. “No dragon.”

At low tide, the area adjacent to the door was a small, five-foot-wide, sandy “beach.” Surrounding this “beach” were huge stones. Between them, a narrow sand path led to the adjoining beach some two hundred yards away. Now with the tide half out and half in, the “beach” was underwater. All her efforts to keep herself dry were immediately lost when a wave crashed into her, drenching her from head to toe. She laughed. Like a child, she climbed up onto a rock, out of the reach of the surf. Overhead, the cliff jutted out, hiding her from view. Even from the turrets, she couldn't be seen. Raising her arms high above her, she danced a jig, and for the first time since the witch had come, she breathed, she truly, deeply, breathed.

Ill-fated. Doomed, doomed to a bitter end.

The words crashed into her—an invisible wave extinguishing her joy. Jumping from stone to stone, she left the safety of the shallow beach. She ran her fingertips over the twelve stars now twinkling on her forearm. She crumpled into a heap on a stone.

“I'm so sorry,” Murtagh had said. “You were right. The dragon is coming for you.” Sobs shook her body. “Come!” she shouted at the waves. “Come! I'll not be dragon food!”

Around her rose the color sound from a thousand sea creatures, each singing a different song, the melodies flowing together, intertwining. Opening her eyes, she invited in the colors—and they rushed upon her. Greens, so many greens, dazzling her eyes, until the rocks, the sky, the sea disappeared behind their radiance, until the auras blinded her, and the color sound, singing sirens' songs, blaring on horns, and drumming ancient rhythms, drowned out the roar of the surf.

Her head wobbled from side to side. Which way was up? She fell face down in the water between three large rocks, sinking into the churning pool, bubbles escaping from her open mouth.

Aonair jerked at the scaping of wood on stone. “What?” The door, so carefully disguised, disappeared into the rock when it shut behind her. He stared, trying to find again the seam. Where was it?

Her legs, young and supple . . .

Find the door . . . The opening is about an arm's length from . . .

Her hair was like Spanish silver . . .

He knew her; of course, he knew her. She was Saoirse, the beautiful, platinum-haired daughter of Lord Togair. His breath caught in his throat. A smile of wonder flitted across his lips.

She is the morning . . .

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He stared, transfixed by her beauty as she scrambled up on a rock. He imagined it, how it would be to place his lips on hers, to touch her cheek, to slide his finger down her neck. She danced; he smothered his laughter with a hand clamped across his mouth. He shook with his silent giggles, frantically grasping at the rocks as he almost fell from the ledge.

Unbidden, unwanted, his thoughts traveled down a familiar road. Diarmuid. Dragon-touched. The smile vanished from his face. She’ll never let me touch her. He scooted backward, pressing his back against the cliff face. If she turns . . . He was but eight feet from her, about three feet above her head. He closed his eyes, dreading the moment she saw him.

“No, no,” she crumpled onto the stone.

“What?” He scrambled to his feet.

On her arm, lights appeared, colors twinkling like the stars of heaven had fallen and were clinging to her. She teetered and fell into a pool between the great stones.

Leaping from rock to rock, he jumped into the sea beside her. Treading water, he lifted her body, turning her over as another wave hit. Shielding her, he turned his back to the waves, cradling her head against his chest, trying to give her space and air to breathe. Her eyes were open, but her stare was as blank as a blind man's. “Can you see me?” he cried. Another wave doused them. With one arm, he held her; with the other, he tried to grasp the rock to pull them up. Madly, his feet churned against the stone. His toes found a crevice—no, he fell back into the water.

“Breathe! Please, breathe.” His heart leaping in his chest, he bent forward and placing his lips against hers, blew air into her mouth.

In her world, a world of color and color sound, the sapphire blue of his aura engulfed her. He breathed, and the warmth of it rushed into her mouth. The blue magic puffed out her cheeks; she swallowed it down. Like opium, it calmed her; it was magic of the rarest kind. She opened her mouth, longing for more, and he complied. Blowing out air. Again, she breathed in the aura of him, the gorgeous blue. The color sound faded, and the sight calmed. Gazing upon his face, she said, “You are so beautiful.”

He grinned sheepishly and looked away. “Have you been drinking?”

His aura was the strong wine that intoxicated her. His eyes were honey-brown, his hair, dark, long, and curly. His skin was dark, too, as if he'd spent a thousand summers in the sun. She lifted her hand, touching his head, his hair.

Aonair froze, waiting for her scream.

Her hand found his nose, and his right eye. As her fingers found the place where his right ear should have been, her eyes opened wide. “Aonair!”

“Yes, it is I.” He fumbled. “I'm sorry. I know you'd rather not have me touch you . . . but you were drowning . . . ” The more he spoke, the more he shook, and rambled like an idiot. “You see, I was over there, on the rock, and I saw you fall in. I mean, I know I probably shouldn't be here, but . . . it's a good thing, I was—” His hood had fallen from his head. His scars, the awful, puckered, pink skin that covered the hairless right side of his scalp and his burned off right ear, all of it was visible, yet she smiled at him.

She interrupted his ungainly speech. “I know you.”

“Yes, I'm the . . . the . . . the dragon-touched.”

She tried to stop the tears that gushed out of her. She sniffled. The strange hiccupping came. “Aonair, I was there. I saw what happened.” She trembled with her need to tell him, to tell someone. She blubbered it out. “I'm the reason, Aonair. I did that to you.”

“What?”

“I hurt you.” Tears spilled from her eyes. “It's my fault. I'm bad.”

“No, a dragon . . . ”

His words, the kindness in his eyes, brought the sobs gushing out of her. “It's me. The dragon wants me. I'm mm . . . mm . . . magic. You should have let me die.”

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