Gazing into the thickets of heather, he could see a childlike version of himself hiding amongst the weeds. A ghostly form followed, green gaze alight, his laughter echoing across memory.
The druid closed his eyes. He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to hear the sickening sound of Onath’s last moments, or to remember that the very same fate might await him in the morrow.
He wanted to enjoy it, to revel in the wind and the wood. But every hour the murmurs grew louder. Every minute the trees called to him.
He tried to ground himself—digging his toes into the silt. But a heaviness pressed in.
Why had he come there? He should have stayed in camp. Should have let his mind be lulled by busyness and distraction. Alone, he felt exposed.
Rustling disturbed the brush.
The druid searched the branches. For an instant, he thought he saw a shadow shifting between the boughs. His heart leapt.
The birds had gone silent.
The Fáoth was filled with many strange things, but this shadow was different.
He opened his mouth to call out, but the words that broke the silence weren’t his.
“By the flame and all God’s fire!”
He turned, finding the Vaich upon the bank, face twisted in horror.
“I told you, you’ll catch ill like that! What is the matter with you?”
The druid collected his scattered thoughts. The dim of the forest seemed at once to pull back, and the sunlight again glittered upon the surface of the water.
“I wished to bathe, and so I bathed,” he said. “Is it such an awful thing?”
“It is when the wind would curse you fast to your grave—and the water would quicken it.” Golden eyes raked over the discarded garments and the Vaich’s cheeks flushed.
The druid tilted his head, but the Vaich would not look at him. “Do you suppose I have never done so before?”
“Test fate and he’ll answer. It’ll be the death for you if you dinnae come up and put on your wear!”
The druid laughed, momentarily forgetting his discontent.
Was it joy he felt? Wonder? In any case he refused to move, and the Vaich, exasperated, came down the bank to correct him. He waded into the shallow water and gripped the druid’s wrist.
They both went still.
It wasn’t anger he touched with… and it wasn’t fear that made the druid quiet. His dagger lay somewhere on the shore in a rumple of fabric. He knew the man before him had the strength to kill him, and indeed, likely would have enjoyed to many days ago. But facing him now, he was certain of his safety.
They lingered there together. The druid as faerie as the mist within which he stood. He cast no shadow and might have been carried off at the slightest breeze. But the Vaich was grounded—a thing that took up space. A dark that commanded and eyes that fought, even at peace.
Silently, the Vaich reached up and unfastened his mantle. With a turn of the wrist, he braced it around the druid’s shoulders. When the smaller still did not move, he scoffed, sweeping an arm beneath his legs and carried him up the bank.
The druid said nothing, only watched in fascination. He neither rejected nor affirmed, and that seemed to drive the king wild.
A fact which endlessly amused him.
“You’re a mad one,” the Vaich muttered irritably. “I give you grace and look what you do with it. You’ll sooner kill yourself if I let you. This whole quest is a farce.”
“It isn’t,” the druid said easily. “I really must see this through.”
“Hogshit.”
The Vaich set him down beside his clothes and pulled the mantle tighter around him. It was thick and heavy, the fur of the collar tickling his chin. The dark fabric contrasted his pale skin, shrouding him like a warm shield. The druid felt himself swallowed within, followed by a desperate need to dig himself out.
