"Aye," he said after a moment passed between them. "Tha' it 'twas. The lass with the raven black hair callin' out t'me again. I cannae make heads nor tails of it, Mother. What could she be tryin' tae tell me?"
His mother simply shook her head, her honey-brown eyes that so mirrored his own blinking back at him sadly. She patted him reassuringly on his shoulder, sighing.
"I want tae be a good, wise mother t'ye, lad," she said. "But, truly, there's naught that I've ever heard of that's similar to your situation. But, Iain... has the dream nae started since the tragedy? Do ye no' think it could be somethin' to do with—?"
"Mother, please," he said, harsher than he'd meant to.
But the damage had already been done. He already saw Seona's face in his mind, already felt the way her skin had grown cold beneath his touch. He saw the tiny, lifeless face of their newborn daughter in her arms, Seona's fingers still curling up against the back of the child's head. He blinked, willing the image away, but when he opened his eyes, it was still there.
It never truly went away, no matter what he did or how much he tried to drink it away.
His face had gone stark white, he knew; his suspicions were only confirmed when he saw the concerned look his mother wore.
"I'm sorry, my son," she said. “Perhaps ‘twould be best for ye to head out hunting tomorrow, get some fresh air on the moors. Maybe some time out in the wilds will help ye to feel yerself again.”
He knew that his mother was only trying to help, but he pulled away from her all the same. The wounding memories were too much to bear now; ithadbeen too much since that terrible night. He had been unable to digest the trauma at all and had barely even bothered to try. Losing his wife and child both on what should have been one of the happiest days of his life had rendered him half the man he had once considered himself.
The baby, his first precious child, had died in the womb at some point. Seona had lost too much blood, the birth went horribly wrong, and she had faded away in his arms. The image had followed him during his waking hours and had tormented him every day. He had tried everything to rid himself of the terrible memory, from drinking to solitude, but nothing had given him any respite. After a while, he had decided that they were his burden to carry, and remembering Seona and his daughter’s deaths could only honor the two of them.
I cannae move on; not now, nor ever, Mother. I'm sorry, but these thoughts, these memories... They need tae stay with me.
If not for Iain, who would carry on Seona's memory?
Iain felt his eyes become wet, and he blinked away the emotion, shoving it away. It still twisted inside of him, still hurt in places he had barely begun to touch. He put away the thoughts that stung his heart in favor of unraveling the mystery of the dream woman. It was slow-going at first, but the more he distracted himself from the pain, the better he felt.
He searched his memory again, thinking that perhaps he had seen the woman somewhere before, but no… She had such striking features. He would have certainly logged that beauty away in his mind. She would be easy to find in the crevices of his thoughts.
He stole a glance at his mother; her eyes were sad, and her breathing was soft. He knew that she was thinking of Seona and of him.
It bewildered and frustrated him, but he didn’t think that it had anything to do with his late wife, as his mother did. No, she and their daughter were sleeping peacefully in the earth. There had to be another reason, a deeper meaning to the dream that haunted him so often and so fervently.
"I just want tae see that bright smile back on your face, my son," his mother said, her voice soft. "I dinnae think I've seen a happy look upon your face in many months—years now. You used to be so full o' cheer."
Iain sighed, brushing his hair back. There was no use in smiling any longer, yet no one seemed to understand. While they could move on and forget the sightless eyes of his wife and child, he could not. His mother, though she had loved Seona greatly, urged him to put her memory away and stop cutting himself open with thoughts of her. Iain desperately wanted that peace, but it felt like a betrayal to do so; he didn't think he ever could.
He could not fault his mother. She only wanted what was best for her son; he knew what that felt like well enough. His mind re-visited him holding his daughter for the first and only time.
"Goodnigh', Mother," he said, his voice sullen, though he did not wish it to be. "I'm goin' tae head back up tae bed; see if I can get some sleep before the sun peeks its head o'er the hills. As it is, I cannae stay awake any longer."
He tried to smile at her, but he knew that it could not have been convincing. His mother looked at him with his expression mirrored on her face, a small smile that could have been happy if her eyes had not been so sad.
Iain turned then, not bothering for the whisky. The thought turned his stomach sour with bitter thoughts. Perhaps if he went to sleep, he would see that woman again. Perhaps she would tell him what she wanted with him, what she needed from him. In his heart of hearts, he craved her presence, was desperate to hear her voice saying his name again. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but she had a calming effect on him that was intoxicating. It was as though he was under a spell that he never wanted to be released from.
If he truly tried, perhaps he could attempt to move past this and pretend that the feelings that bloomed in his heart for her were but nothing but smoke and mist. Even as that thought occurred to him, he wondered if he would be able to forget her; a sizable portion of him doubted it highly.
He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to. She had been something of a comfort. When he was engulfed in the dream, she was the only thing that mattered to him. Hearing her voice was a balm compared to the dull gray monotony that had become his life. He craved to see her again, to sleep and fall into his illusion. It was the only thing that soothed the pain of living lately, though he hated to admit it to himself.
Defeated and with his head and heart-aching terribly, he crawled back into his bed, pulling the quilts up and around him. Iain tried with every bit of will in his body to relax his muscles and let sleep claim him, but it did not come so easily this time.
He tossed in his bed, trying to shut his mind against the onslaught of thoughts that plagued him. The only thing that calmed him was the image of her face; he let himself think about the blue of her eyes, the clear melody that was her voice. They felt like cooling waters over an aching wound.
Iain lay back, wondering if he would ever meet her in person, and then felt his chest rumble in a laugh. He should not get his hopes up, he knew; men do not meet women out of their dreams. His mind was birthing fantasies; the dream woman could, of course, not be a real person who he could see and touch. A wry half-smile touched his lips at his foolish desire to pull a woman from his own mind.
He shut his eyes tight but could not help but hope that he was wrong. Perhaps she really was out there somewhere, waiting for him to find her. Maybe she was closer than he knew.
Chapter Two
When Isla Robertson raised her head from her pillow, the warm sun dancing through the glass pane, she felt a tiny smile grace her lips. She let herself actually sleep in today, as opposed to rousing herself early for a morning ride upon her mare, Brigida. It was a perfect day to spend outside, and gratitude rose up in her heart; today, of all days, she had hoped to walk in the gardens and swim in her favorite loch.
