* * *
The journey back was much longer than it had taken to get there, as without discussion, the two of them had decided to circle the woods rather than traverse through them again. Maeve was grateful; she didn't think she could stand seeing the blood that stained the soil. Anxiety about her own fate stormed inside her as her fear of being cast out reared up, but it was tempered somewhat by the overwhelming guilt and sorrow she felt when she thought of the dead men who now would never wake.
Had they wives? Children? Surely they had mothers or fathers, siblings, someone who loved them. What right had Maeve to take away their lives? Logically, she knew that it was her or them — no, more than that, she'd had to fight to protect the rest of the village and the rest of the rebels. But still, all she could hear in her mind were screams, the last dying sounds of men she herself had slain.
"How do ye stand it?" she whispered. "How can ye manage tae keep yerself from drownin' in it?"
She hadn't expected to be heard, but as the horses rode on side by side at a slow pace, Cailean answered, a thoughtful, pondering answer that she hadn't expected.
"A warrior fights, and aye, a warrior kills, but never for pleasure. It always hurts. It always comes with guilt. It's the price we pay for the power we wield." He spoke it as though it was rote to him. "We dinnae die by the sword, but the exchange is that we must live with it."
Maeve felt her eyes prickle again and a hard lump formed in her throat. Images of the fighting clambered in her mind, each more gruesome than the last. The way the men had cruelly taunted her, the way they'd shed her blood, only to be overwhelmed by her and Cailean working together. The identical look of terror in each man's eyes as he realized he'd lost and it was all over.
"How do we live with it, though?" she asked. "How do we get past the guilt? I ken that none of those men would have hesitated tae kill me; nae one of them would have felt any remorse at cuttin' me throat while I was defenseless. I ken at least two of them for sure would have done worse. Yet, I still feel…"
"A man's life is a heavy burden tae carry," Cailean told her quietly, "But it's the burden we both agreed tae shoulder when we dedicated ourselves tae this fight for justice. Anyone can declare that they would die for a person, but it takes the heart of a warrior tae be able tae live and even kill for someone. Even after all these years, I never take a life lightly — I never forget the face of a man who has died on me sword — but with time, ye learn tae balance it."
"How?"
Cailean didn't answer. They arrived back at the village some time later, but before he could dismount and inform the townspeople that the threat had been mitigated, he finally gave her the reply she'd been waiting for.
"Death is inevitable," he told her. "And when an enemy threatens ye or those ye love, ye have a choice tae make." He dismounted and hesitated. "I've made me peace with the death I sow tae those who have asked for it or earned it. I dinnae cry over blood shed by monsters."
"But…?" Maeve asked, sensing there was more.
Cailean sighed. "But… sometimes there are deaths that are not deserved. Sometimes people die, innocents die, because I stayed my sword when I shouldnae have, or because I didnae act quickly enough. Those are the deaths I cannae deal with. The ones I havenae figured out how tae process."
The two of them were quiet for a long moment, then Cailean spoke again.
"Wait here with the horses," he said. "I'm gonnae let them ken they're safe, and have them send out a group tae find and bury the bodies, then I'll be back."
Maeve blinked at the unexpected kind gesture. "Why?" she blurted out before she could think of another way to phrase the question.
Cailean studied her face for a moment, then shrugged. "Because we may be killers when we have tae be, Maeve. But we can never be made intae monsters unless we allow it."
* * *
As she waited for Cailean, Maeve remembered the taunts the men had been throwing at her. They'd mentioned her sister being taken in her place and gifted to Kyle Darach. Could it be true? A new kind of fear settled in her stomach, eclipsing all of her anxiety and guilt for the dead men.
Breana. It had to be Breana.
A memory flashed through her mind.
Maeve was eleven years old when she heard the quiet sobbing coming from her older sister's room. She herself was already having a terrible day; Nessa had once again blamed Maeve for something that Nessa herself had done, and Maeve had faced a beating for it. She'd intended to retreat to her room and feel sorry for herself, unable to understand why her parents never loved her as much as they loved Nessa, but hearing the soft sobs from Breana's bedroom changed her course.
She knocked on the door. "Bre? Can I come in?"
There was no reply, so after a moment, Maeve pushed the door open.
Breana sat on her bed, wearing her nightgown and clutching her stomach in discomfort, a look of sorrow on her face. She looked up when Maeve entered, and from the redness in the older girl's eyes, it was clear Breana had been crying for quite some time.
"What's happened?" Maeve asked immediately. Her sweet, kind older sister was a gentle, delicate soul, and even though Breana was already thirteen, Maeve felt protective of her. "Are ye hurt?"
"Me belly hurts," Breana admitted. "Oh, Maeve, it's awful. Me… me… me womanhood has come upon me. Already!"
Maeve frowned. She'd heard about the blood that came to women monthly once they were grown, but she hadn't realized it could happen so early. "Are ye sure?" she asked. She walked over to the bed and climbed up beside her sister. "Are… does it hurt?"
Breana nodded miserably. "It's like somethin' is scratchin' at me insides," she replied. "One of the maids saw the stain on me skirts and helped me clean up and place a rag. She says it will last for a week or so, and then…"
