Chapter 38: Chapter 38: Saoirse – Touched

A wave doused them. And rapidly, another, the water bracing. Using both hands, Aonair climbed up on a rock and, reaching down, with one amazing movement, lifted Saoirse to safety. On the flat top of the rock, they sat, the left side of his body touching the right side of hers. Her despair wept out of her. “The dragon wants me. It's here because of me.” When her uncontrollable crying threatened to unseat her, he wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her close to his body. At his comfort, his gentleness, guilt flooded her—and the sight blazed.

The stunningly clear sapphire blue of his aura surrounded her, flowed through her, pierced her clothes, her skin, her thoughts. His song was a low melody, haunting and sad, speaking of loss and hurt, of blame and self-hatred. Never had she heard the color sound as a complete song. She closed her eyes, listening, resting her head on his shoulder, her crying subsiding. Unbidden, her magic filled the space between them, swirling about her, about him. Entranced, he spoke, his quiet words engendered by magic itself. “You are not responsible for the actions of a dragon.”

His blue aura twinkled as if it was filled with stars that had fallen from the sky. She touched his face. He was half turned away her. Out of habit, he had placed her on his left side, so she couldn't see that ugly part of him. “Could you . . . could you turn toward me?” she asked.

He turned farther away.

“Please . . . you see . . . I thought your right eye had been burned, too.”

Reaching up, he touched his right eye. He turned to look directly at her. “Was it you?” His words were filled with amazement. “My right eye was burned. I remember the incredible pain. But that night, stars fell from the sky and healed it.” He glanced down. Gently, he turned over her right arm to see her sixteen birthmarks still twinkling like . . .

“It was you.”

Trembling, daring to hope, she reached up, touching his pink, scarred head. Tears running from her eyes, she imagined him, healed and whole. She shook with trying.

She breathed out only air. She pushed at him, but the stars twinkling on her forearm dimmed, turning into sixteen light brown, star-shaped freckles. “I can't do it! I can't do it!” Her face contorted in anguish. “This isn't fair! I'm going to die because of this . . . this”—she spat the word—“magic, and I can't even heal you.”

The sight swirled about her. The greens of the sea blinded her; the color sound of the sea deafened her. BANG! BOOM! It popped and sizzled, it clanged and clashed. She hid her face in his shoulder, and still the greens painfully flashed in front of her eyes. She convulsed, shaking from head to toe, her head whipping back and forth, threatening to break her own neck.

Instinctively, he hugged her to his body. “Please, please, don't die.” The tighter he hugged her, the more the blue of his aura quieted her world. The bashing and twitting and pinging faded; only his melancholy song sang to her. She breathed out the last of the frazzles and chirps, and breathed in the quiet, calming blue that was Aonair. When she could see, she lifted her hand and touched his head, his ear, his shoulder, magic flowing from her fingertips.

She tingled, not from the magic, but from the rush of her human senses. She gave into the thrill, and the magic gushed out of her.

“Oh . . . it stings,” he cried. Warmth rushed in and replaced the pain. He grinned. He threw back his head and laughed. Drunk and dizzy, giggling like a girl, he shouted, “WooWhooo . . . ” His head wobbled. And still she poured her magic out, on his scalp, his ear, his face and shoulder, his injured leg. His eyes rolled back . . .

“Aonair!” She grabbed him, struggling to hold him on the rock as he tipped toward the surf. “Wake up!”

His eyes popped open, grabbing her with one hand and the rock with the other; he engaged his rugged core and righted them. “What . . . what was that?”

“Magic.”

“Whoa.” He looked at her as if he was a lion and she his next meal. “That was delicious.”

She laughed.

He licked his lips, his eyes locked on her mouth. Need . . . hunger . . . he shook with the effort to hold himself back. “You are so beautiful.”

She lifted his hand, bringing it to touch his own head. “You are too,” she said.

Instead of puckered skin, he touched hair—long, curls of hair. He turned his head. “Everything sounds different.” He touched his ear. “I have an ear. An ear! You've healed me.”

“Now, you are Saoirse-touched.” Grinning, she raised her arms in the air and shouted, “I did it! I healed you!”

“And you were there all those years ago, when the dragon killed my mother.”

With his words, her happiness died. She looked down at the surf. “I am so sorry.”

Magic twinkled in his eyebrows, it glistened on his skin and sparkled among the strands of his hair. It traveled through his arteries to his fingers and the tips of his toes, to his tongue and his cheeks, to his mind in all its mysterious workings. It warmed him, strengthen him, calmed him. He spoke quietly, his thoughts looking inward. “No, I don't think it was your fault. The dragon called me by name. It was there for me.”

“Aonair, you don't think your mother's death was your fault?”

“No, I don't. I've never thought that. Eoghan made sure. From the first night when he carried me home, he cursed the dragon. He blamed the beast, not me. Never me.” Aonair leaned forward to place his chin on his closed fist, thinking out loud. “But, Eoghan always said that there is something I am destined to do.”

Saoirse tried not to stare at him. Magic had healed him, and the beauty it hadn't imparted the sunshine sparkling off the water and the blue of the sky endowed. Quickly, she scrambled to say something intelligent, something that would convince him that she was listening to him, and not merely staring at his face and his aura, and listening to the music of him, which was so terribly sad. Years of her mother’s training came to her aid. Outwardly, she nodded, and said, “A preemptive strike.”

He raised his eyebrows at her word choice and her tone. She spoke matter-of-factly, as if every day she discussed the battle strategies of dragons.

She continued, “So, Aonair Laoch, what are you going to do that is so dreadful, the dragon decided to kill you on your tenth birthday?”

Certainty lighted up his eyes. He sat up straight. “I am going to kill the dragon.”

She swiped at his head. “You are drunk on magic. No one can kill a dragon.”

He laughed, and nature, echoing the sound off the rocks of the cliff, laughed with him. The ocean crashing to the shore applauded his plan. The sun shone warm down upon him. “Yes, I am. I am going to kill the dragon.”

Fear churned in Saoirse belly. Her breath caught in her throat. “No! No!” she screamed at him. “No!” And the magic pushed out of her. He tumbled backward into the sea.

“Aonair!” Remembering Quinn, she looked over the edge of the rock, joyfully seeing Aonair's face emerge from the water. Still filled with magic, he seemed to leap from the water and land butt first on the rock.

He looked at her quite quizzically. “Do you object to this plan?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I object.”

“So, if I am not destined to kill the dragon, why did it come after me?”

Sounding so like Alyse, she said, “How am I to know the doings of a dragon's mind?”

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With the strength and grace of a mountain lion, he sprang to his feet. “I could fight a hundred men.” He stretched open his arms, lifted his face to the sky, and breathed in a great breath. “You have made me strong.” The spray hitting his skin was blissfully cool. Reaching down, he lifted her above his head. “YOU ARE SOOOOO BEAUTIFUL!” he shouted.

Again, her mother's training came to her aid. Though her heart pounded in her chest, Saoirse looked not the least impressed with his display of strength. She carefully examined his healed shoulder. “Hmmm . . . your new skin isn't as tan as the rest of your body.”

With his hands under her arms, he lowered her until her face was level with his, her feet not yet touching the rock. “So, Saoirse Togair, if I agree not to kill the dragon, what will you give me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I am supposed to give you something to persuade you not to foolishly throw your life away?”

He shrugged and placed her feet on the rock. “Very well. I will kill the dragon.”

She socked his right ear.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing his ear, “I just grew that back.”

Her smile shone brighter than the sun. He leaned toward her; she did not move away. He looked into her eyes; and she mischievously into his.

“If you would prevent me from trying to kill the dragon, come away with me,” he whispered.

“What? But the dragon can smell me, it will find me, and kill both you and me.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He picked her up again, twirling around. Abruptly, he tossed her into the air, catching her as she screamed, “Aonair!”

He tilted his head at a cocky angle. “But if we are to die. Let us die happy.”

Hope sprang anew in her eyes. “Are you daft?”

“No.” He brought her into his arms, holding her against the warmth of his body.

In all his tossing of her and twirling, she now faced the cliff. “Aoniar, the tide. I've been here too long.” She pointed. “See, the door is underwater. Loathsome as I am, they will still miss me and come searching.” She touched his cheek, then his newly grown hair. “I must return.”

He, too, looked at the cliff face. “But how?”

“Don't worry. We just have to swim under the water.”

“The door will still open?”

She nodded her “yes.” “The cliff face leaks water. Though the door is closed, the interior cave still fills.” She sighed. “Please, go home, Aonair.”

He placed her on the rock, holding her tightly in his arms. “Promise me that you'll return tomorrow.”

“No, Aonair.”

“Hmmm . . . then we shall need to fish.” He looked out at the water.

“What?”

“If we are to live on this rock.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Unless you promise to return, I'll not let you go.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes were fierce.

“The dragon killed my Nana; it killed my teacher, Murtagh.” Tears again filled her eyes and washed down her cheeks. “Everyone, around me dies. I don't want you to die, too.”

When at long last she lifted her head to gaze into his eyes, he repeated, “Unless you promise me that you will return tomorrow, I'll not let you go.”

She breathed in his certainty, his confidence. She breathed in the joy in his eyes when he looked at her, the blatant, unabashed happiness in his smile.

“I promise,” she said.

It was agony to say goodbye, to leave him and his happiness. “I'll have to be careful,” she said. “I may be late.” They entered the cave underwater, surfacing and swimming together across the long pool, coming to stand on the steps, she at the door, he two steps below. With the tide now at its peak, his feet were in the water.

“I'll wait,” he said. “I'll wait forever.”

She turned away and turned back again, to touch his face. “No, I shouldn't come. You'll die.”

“You have healed me. You have brought me more happiness in these brief moments than I have ever known.” He took her into his arms, holding her so tightly, she almost couldn't breathe. Yet, she would have stayed there, forever. “Promise me,” he again whispered.

“I promise.”

She breathed in; the magic filled her mouth and puffed out her cheeks. She breathed it out, onto his face, his head, his body. He closed his eyes, giving in to the delicious tingle that raised the hairs on his arms and sent a shiver down his back. “For the journey,” she said and dashed up the long, stone tunnel, leaving the door open and unbarred behind her.

 

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