“We need to take it off,” Ailis said, her tone clinical yet tinged with fear. “The damage… I’ve not seen many walk away from such an injury. I’ll need my bone saw.”
“Ye will not take his leg,” Moira stated, her voice leaving no room for debate. She knelt beside Brodie, taking his hand in hers, feeling the faint pulse of his warrior’s heart. “We wait.”
“Moira, if we wait—” Ailis started, the healer in her battling with the sister.
“Wait,” Moira repeated firmly. Her gaze didn’t waver from Brodie’s ashen face. The healers exchanged a silent conversation, one laden with the weight of decisions that could mean life or death.
“Very well,” Ailis conceded after a tense moment. “Ye must clean the wound as well as ye can.”
Moira’s fingers deftly worked to clean and bind the wound with the skill of one who had tended to countless others before.
“Thank ye,” Moira whispered, pressing a kiss to Brodie’s forehead. The battle outside might have ceased, but within the stone walls of the McAfee Keep, a different kind of fight was just beginning—one for the life of Brodie.
Moira’s heart raced, watching over Brodie’s unconscious form on the cot. The infirmary air hung heavy with blood and pain-filled moans. Her gaze lingered on his bandaged thigh, the fabric stained red. “Ye will not take his leg,” she repeated, words anchoring her against consuming fear.
“Moira,” Fiona implored, her bow and arrows now forgotten in a corner, “he may never walk again if—”
“Then he’ll live without walking.” Moira’s voice cracked like a whip, silencing any further objections. Brodie had made her promise not to ask his grandfather to use his mysterious healing abilities without consent. Her word was her bond, stronger than the mightiest stronghold walls. She couldn’t break it, not even for this.
“Moira, we must consider—” Ailis began, only to be cut off by the steadfast gleam in Moira’s gaze.
“Wait. Just wait,” she insisted, her hand tightening around Brodie’s. She could feel the throb of life within him, the silent plea for patience.
Outside the keep, the clamor of war had dulled to an eerie quiet. Moira rose and moved to the narrow window, peering out onto the battlefield. The once-vibrant grass was marred with thescars of combat, bodies strewn about like rag dolls discarded by petulant children. The banners of the Stewarts, which had boldly proclaimed their intent at dawn, were now nowhere in sight, carried away on the wings of defeat. Their allies, too, seemed like specters melted into the mist that now rolled in from the glens.
“Is it…” Fiona joined Moira at the window.
“Aye,” Moira confirmed, a bitter taste of victory on her tongue. “They’ve scattered. The Stewart will find no more clans willing to bleed for his cause.”
“Then it’s done,” Fiona breathed, relief laced with sorrow. “For now.”
“Until the next time the Stewart finds men desperate enough to die for him,” Moira added, her voice hollow.
Returning to Brodie’s side, Moira brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. The battle had ended, but the war…the war was fought here now, in the quiet determination of waiting, in the silent prayers to God, and in the strength of her love that refused to yield before the shadow of despair.
“Come back to me, me husband,” she whispered, pressing another kiss to his brow. “Ye must come back.”
The infirmary hummed with groans and whispered comforts while Moira attended the wounded. She briefly pressed a cool cloth to Brodie’s fevered forehead, her heart tightening at his pale face as the infirmary door burst open.
“Moira!” Alisdair’s voice, authoritative yet laced with a tremor of urgency, cut through the din.
She turned, her gaze locking onto the two brothers striding toward her. Alisdair, with his handsome features set in a frown of concern. Lachlan, his blue eyes stormy and jaw clenched with barely contained emotion.
“We must speak with ye,” Lachlan said, gripping her arm and drawing her aside with a gentleness that belied his desperate grip.
“What is it?” Moira asked, her heart hammering in her chest, dreading more ill news.
“Moira, we need ye to clear the infirmary,” Alisdair implored, his eyes flickering toward the unconscious form of their brother. “We need to bring our grandfather here.”
“Ye know I cannae do that.” Moira’s voice was firm, even as her insides quaked. “I promised Brodie—And there are so many other men in need of healing. I cannae force them to leave!”
“Moira, please,” Lachlan interjected, his voice dropping to a whisper that only she could hear. “Ye ken what he can do. Ye ken what this might cost us if we donnae act.”
Their gazes met, a silent conversation passing between them, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears and the sacred trust of family bonds. Moira’s resolve wavered, but her promise to Brodie held her firm.
“Without Brodie’s leave, I cannot. And he cannot give it,” she said, pain and determination warring in her tone.
A moment stretched between them, fraught with the enormity of their plight. Then, without another word, Lachlan turned and strode from the room, his purpose etched in every line of his body.
