A pact, not a passion.
Perhaps I should have revealed my truth sooner… but I feared her wrath.
Feared betrayal.
Feared the gallows where men like me perish for loving rightly.
I could not risk the death of the man I cherished.
Not for honesty.
Not for pity.
And so, when word came of Ceit’s end, Ciarán and I returned. Not for mourning—but to mend what was left undone.
Oison greeted us with tears, then thrust Catherine at me as recompense. A child, offered like a prize. I refused him.
My stomach turned.
Enraged, he threatened revelation. And with that, I knew the truth.
Ceit had spoken of my true nature in bed.
Cornered, I acted. I sheltered Catherine—not as bride, but as ward. She would live under my roof, not beneath my body.
That, and nothing more.
What does one do with a girl so young she must still be raised herself?
As before, I paid for the daughter, bought her silence, and bid her father vanish.
To my surprise, he obeyed.
I never saw him again.
If he came round, his daughter met him outside the castle for he was not welcomed here.
Let him think what he will.
All that matters is his daughter lives here, safe, and with purpose.
She mothers my son.
And in truth, Catherine excels.
Where Ceit burned hot and wild, Catherine holds steady. She tempers her anger, learns restraint—a grace her sister never possessed.
She plays Lady when abroad, safeguarding us with performance and poise. She knows her role, and keeps it well.
For this, I would shield her, just as I shield Ciarán, and just as I shield Callum.
If not for my disdain of such unions, I might say Catherine would’ve made the finer wife—age aside.
She carries gentleness.
Compassion.
A soul fit to nurture.
