Chapter 45: Chapter 45: One Last Goodbye

That same morning, Saoirse was waiting for Aonair when he swam in. He pulled himself up to sit on the large stone opposite her, drinking in the sight of her: the curve of her cheek, her skirts wet and clinging to her ankles, her bare feet, and her hair currently engaged in an all-out escape attempt from the meager bun imprisoning it. With his dream still reverberating in his mind, he had at first expected to see her scarred and carrying his child.

She chattered rapidly as if she was a squirrel rather than a seventeen-year-old girl. “I thought I might have trouble getting out, so I left early, but no one was about. The passageways are well lit in the mornings. I went through them rather quickly.” She gasped in a breath. “The ladders always take more time because they're old, and some of them creak if you step in the wrong place or step too hard, or try to go up or down too fast—down is the worst. Sometimes the tunnel is slippery, but today, no, dry as a bone.” Abruptly, she slowed down. “I-I-I thought perchance you weren't coming . . . that . . . that you'd changed your mind. I mean . . . a . . . a dragon is going to eat me, and probably kill anyone around me, like you. I mean sitting here, next to me, is . . . ,” she paused, “dangerous.”

I can't see his aura. Why can't I see it?

Closing her eyes, she listened for the color sound. Only the crash of the waves filled her ears. “Come away with me,” he had said.

Had that been the magic talking?

She looked down at the foam at her feet. “I wouldn't blame you if you had changed your mind . . . about going away.” Her voice shook. “I killed someone.” A tear wet a path down her cheek. “I-I did. I used magic to k-k-kill him.”

He jumped into the water between them and pulled himself up on the stone she was sitting on. She had chosen to sit on a small, cramped stone. At first, she had sat on the larger rock, the one they had sat together on yesterday. But when he didn't come, when she had waited, first one hour, then two . . .

She scooted away from him, making herself as small as possible. Wrapping her arms about her knees, she began to rock back and forth.

He found her hand with his and pried it loose, holding it in one of his large, warm hands. The other hand he put under her chin, slowly turning her face toward his. When her eyes found his, she babbled, “It was my fault. I lured him there. I told him that I wanted to be with him.” She wept. “I didn't understand. He hurt me. I just wanted him to stop.”

He took her into his arms, caressing her hair, her back.

“The magic burst out! It killed him!” Her words were more weeping than words, almost unintelligible. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

The sun was high in the sky when she exhausted herself, when her tears finally stopped. In the ocean, far from shore, Dara watched Aonair and Saoirse. He watched them talk. He watched her weep. He watched Aonair gently take her into his arms. Dara beat his fist against his forehead as he treaded water and sighed. “Oh, not a girl. Why did she have to be a girl, and young and lovely. I'd rather dragons than a girl. How am I to defend him against that?”

“Last winter, Eoghan, my oldest brother, was cheated . . . ” Aonair spoke so softly Saoirse had to lift her head, to bring her ear closer to his mouth. “Well . . . um,” he took a ragged breath. “Diarmuid cheated Eoghan . . . several times. First at cards, then Diarmuid offered to trade him, but the thing, the thing, it was just charcoal in a . . . in a sack, it was worthless. There was something else. Diarmuid mocked him in the village. He imitated him . . . made a game of it.” He shut his eyes, shaking his head. “It was really quite cruel. I saw Eoghan's face.”

Reaching up, she touched Aonair's cheek.

“So, of course, my brother decided to kill him. I understand for the theft alone, the punishment was death, and it wasn't a small amount, but . . . ” His head drooped. “It was after lauds but before prime; the sun wasn't up when he shook me awake. We dragged Diarmuid from his house.”

She put both arms around his neck and brought his forehead down to touch her own. He couldn't bear to look her in the eyes, or even glance at her face. Instead, he stared at the rock. “Eoghan took him up to the top of Mount Laoch. I knew the place. I volunteered to push him off so he would land on a . . . on a ledge, it was large ledge.” He looked up at her. “I was trying to save him. He-he . . . landed on the ledge, but when I went back to get him off it . . . ” He gasped repeatedly for breath. “He wouldn't let me help him. I got-I got too close.”

Aonair closed his eyes as if he wanted it all to go away. “He was so afraid . . . afraid of me.” He spat the next words. “The dragon-touched.” Weariness dripped off him. “He fainted.” His quiet words were almost taken by the sound of the surf. “He fainted and he fell. I keep seeing his eyes roll back in his head and his face turning white. I keep seeing him fall. I was too slow, too late. I couldn’t save him.”

He grasped her to himself uncontrollably weeping. All the tears he never shed, he shed then.

Diarmuid, oh, God. Diarmuid.

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Dara swam closer.

“Ahhh!” His leg cramped. He rolled over onto his back, massaging his calf muscle with his hand. “Eighteen verses. No twenty-four verses, the bards will sing of me.”

Aonair and Saoirse grew quiet. The day turned hot. Instinctively, she let dribbles and drops of magic flow out, soothing the pain in his soul. He closed his eyes, not really understanding, only feeling the pain slip away. When he opened them again, he looked into her eyes, her beautiful eyes, which looked fully at him. Even his brothers, even his father, carefully avoided looking at him. Now he was completely seen. The pain . . . the Diarmuid pain . . . he gave to those eyes.

“Come on!” Aonair stood up, then leapt from stone to stone until he came to the five-foot “beach” currently knee-deep in water. There he splashed water on his tear-wrecked face.

When she arrived, she splashed him. He turned away and when he bent to splash more water on his face, she pushed him over. On his knees in the surf, he turned to look into her mischievous face. “Oh, you think you can take me, do ya?”

When they were both thoroughly soaked, he said, “Come away with me.”

“Do you still want me? I'm a murderer.”

“You killed in self-defense. Diarmuid died because I didn't think it through. I knew he was scared of me. The whole village was terrified . . . ”

She pressed a finger to his lips. “You tried to save him.”

Like the dawn lighting up the night, his aura engulfed her in blue—pure, clear, radiant blue. The chains of regret, the chains he kept locked on his soul, fell away.

“We'll swim out,” he whispered. “My horse is on the beach; we'll be gone by sunset.” He took her hands in his. “Come with me.”

She looked back toward the cliff. “Alyse. I can't leave without saying goodbye. I won't be long. I'll return as soon as I can.”

Fear—or was it Saoirse's magic—sent a shiver down his spine. “No. Please, come now.”

“She's like my sister. She's the only family I have.”

He kissed her hands. “Listen to me. Something will happen. I know it. I can feel it. We've got to go now.”

“It won't take very long. I'll go to my room, say goodbye to Alyse, and be back here within an hour; no, half an hour; no, only twenty minutes.”

When he saw the resolve on her face, he said, “I'll come with you.”

 

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