Moira watched him go, her throat tight. She returned to Brodie’s side, her fingers tracing the lines of his face, willing him to awaken and grant the permission she could not give.
Time passed—an eternity in minutes—until the door opened once more, admitting a hush into the chaotic space. The old man, Colin, entered, his presence commanding attention despite his aged frame. Women moved aside, their hands ceasing their work as if by some unspoken command, their eyes filled with reverence and perhaps a hint of fear.
With solemn steps, Colin approached Brodie’s bedside. Without a word, he sat, his wrinkled hand hovering overBrodie’s chest. A stillness fell upon the room, the air itself holding its breath.
And then, Colin’s hand descended, touching the fabric of Brodie’s tunic gently. A faint glow emanated from beneath his palm, subtle enough that one might think it a trick of the light. Moira felt a warmth spread through the air, a sense of something ancient and powerful unfolding. She said a silent prayer that the others in the room would not sense the same thing. They could not let the world know about the powers of the McClain clan.
It lasted but a heartbeat before Colin withdrew his hand, the glow dissipating. He did not speak, nor did anyone dare to break the silence that followed. But in his wake, a new energy seemed to pulse through Brodie—a slight easing of his furrowed brow, a deeper rhythm to his breath.
Colin rose, his gaze meeting Moira’s, imparting a silent assurance before he turned and left the infirmary as quietly as he had come.
*
Ailis leaned overBrodie’s prone form, her expert hands carefully unwrapping the bandages that had been hastily applied in the chaos. The infirmary was still thick with the scent of blood and herbal poultices, the moans of the wounded carrying the heavy weight of war through the stone walls. Moira stood beside her sister, her red hair a vivid flame in the dim light, eyes fixed on Ailis’s every move.
“Ye’ve done well here, Moira,” Ailis said, her voice tinged with surprise as she peeled back the last layer of linen to inspect the wound on Brodie’s thigh. In the flickering torchlight, the cut, though deep and threatening, appeared cleaner than one might expect from such a savage blow. “I could swear it looked far worse when they carried him in.”
Moira’s gaze softened, relief mingling with concern as she watched Ailis probe the edges of the injury. “I just did what needed to be done,” she replied, her voice betraying none of the emotions that surged within her at the sight of Brodie’s pallid face.
“Ye didn’t just clean it,” Ailis observed, her green eyes reflecting a knowing spark as she met Moira’s gaze. “Ye’ve cared for him with the hands of a healer. This could have festered by now, but it’s on the mend.” Her compliment, simple and heartfelt, held an underlying current of pride for her sister’s actions.
Moira nodded silently, her thoughts entwined with memories of the old man’s touch upon Brodie’s chest, the subtle glow that had seemed like a trick of the light yet promised something beyond their understanding. She dared not speak of it, though. Colin’s silent assurance was etched into her mind. He had told her without words that Brodie would walk again, and she’d clung to that hope.
“Let’s get this dressed properly,” Ailis said, breaking the quiet contemplation as she reached for fresh linen. Together, the sisters worked in harmonious silence, tending to Brodie with a meticulous care that spoke volumes of their shared strength in the face of uncertainty.
