Aoife rose and moved through the courtyard. The next stretch blurred into a haze of blood and poultices, linen torn into strips, whispered prayers to the Shee, and trembling hands.Time lost its shape. The cries grew softer as exhaustion took hold.
The next few days would decide who survived.
When she finally returned, Cormac lay on his stomach, head turned to the side, eyes closed. Riona was working methodically, spreading a pale paste over the torn flesh of his back and covering it with linen. Aoife knelt beside her and helped tie the last bandage in place.
“I’m sorry we didn’t help more,” Riona murmured, low enough that no one else could hear.
“You did help,” Aoife said. “More than you realise.”
Steafan was nearby, finishing a rough stretcher from saplings and canvas.
Aoife brushed a hand across Cormac’s hair. “I wish he could stay here,” she said. “So I could watch over him.”
Riona gave a small smile. “He’ll mend better among his own.”
Cormac stirred, a faint groan escaping him. Riona handed Aoife a small twist of willow bark.
Aoife sank down to lie on the flagstones beside him, exhaustion making her limbs heavy. As she touched his cheek with the back of her hand, his eyes fluttered open.
“Here,” she said, holding out the bark. “For the pain.”
His skin was hot to the touch.
He took the willow bark, chewing slowly, his gaze still dazed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“… didn … win.” The words were too quiet for Aoife to hear clearly.
She shuffled closer, brushing sweat-drenched hair from his forehead. “What did you say?”
“You… didn’t…” he stopped to take a few steadying breaths, every word costing him, “let… him… win.”
For a moment she couldn’t speak, her throat tight, her chest aching with all the things she couldn’t say. She managed a small, unsteady smile. “That’s enough talking for now,” she murmured. “Save your strength.”
He tried to smile in return, his eyes already sliding shut.
Aoife took his hand, lacing her fingers through his, listening to the slow rasp of his breathing.
“Did I ever tell you why I was dancing barefoot at the harvest festival?” she asked softly. “Bríd stole my shoes. She’d outgrown hers, and Mam told her she’d have to keep wearing them; she couldn’t have my hand-me-downs until I outgrew them. She took them the night before the dance and added a few tiny stitches at the toes. When I tried them on that morning, they were so tight I told her she could keep them. I didn’t find out for weeks what she’d done.”
Her voice wavered, almost breaking into a laugh. “There was no chance of buying new shoes in time for the festival. I decided I’d watch, but they played my favourite tune, and I couldn’t not dance.”
His lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a grin.
She hummed low and quiet; a tune she’d known so long she didn’t remember learning it. It was a song her mother used to sing while she worked. She could almost hear her voice now, soft and sure above the chopping of herbs.
The melody settled in the still air.
Aoife kept humming until the last note. Cormac’s fingers went slack in her hand. “Rest now,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against his as his breathing steadied, the tension easing from his brow.
Riona’s expression softened as she watched them.
They stayed like that while the others finished the stretcher, Aoife listening to the faint hiss of wind through the trees, the last cries of the wounded and Cormac’s unsteady breathing.
When the stretcher was ready, Norin, Kian, and the gardener lifted him carefully. Aoife walked beside them, her eyes fixed on the rise and fall of his chest. She counted each one as if in doing so she could keep him breathing.
As they approached the edge of the estate, Lord Halverton’s voice carried across the field, furious and unhinged. He was raging at the boundary, calling orders no one obeyed, demanding the staff and soldiers return, swearing vengeance.
