All the times the Athraith had been seen in the forest, disaster followed: buildings collapsed, animals were lost, and illnesses and deaths stole loved ones away. They’d all been attributed to him. On the day she’d first seen Cormac in his Athraith form, he’d said, ‘Just because two things happen at the same time, it doesn’t mean one caused the other.’ Now she understood it.
“I never thought it was doing any harm.” He looked her in the eye. “The bad things that happened had nothing to do with me.”
“I know that,” she said, sensing he needed reassurance.
He looked away again, nudging a fallen leaf with his boot. “But I did frighten people, even if it wasn’t my intention, and I’m not sure that’s fair.”
Aoife lifted a hand, about to touch his arm, before thinking better of it and letting her hand drop. “You can’t hide who you are to make other people feel better.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t think I know who I am.”
Aoife wrinkled her brow; she wanted to ask what he meant.
“My parents chose to live here, amongst people,” Cormac continued. “Before that, they spent decades amongst their kind and amongst the Sheedar. They understand, in their bones, what it means to be an Athraith. They understood what it might mean when they agreed to your plan.”
A ripple had passed through the crowd when they appeared. Each person interpreting their presence in their own way. Each person deeply affected by their presence. It had stirred something in them.
“And Lugh,” Cormac said quietly.
The name hung between them.
“He died for them,” Cormac’s voice dropped to barely a whisper, “He died for me.”
The wind stirred the branches above them, scattering a few yellow leaves across the grass. He was right and wrong at the same time. Lugh had stood between Riona and the bullet, but he’d done it because he had faith in something greater than himself.
Cormac scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, I don’t know if I’m making any sense.”
“You are,” she assured him, fingers drifting towards his on the bench until their hands touched. “Lugh knew what he was doing. He made a choice to save your mother. You do him a disservice if you think he didn’t.”
“That’s the thing. Being… what I am. It means something. But I don’t know what that is.” He put his head in his hands, and when he spoke again, it was between the gaps of his fingers. “I’m just… I’m confused about who I am, who I’m supposed to be. I think…”
Aoife held her breath; the way he said it frightened her: the drop in pitch, the sense that he was struggling to say whatever it was.
“I think…” He exhaled slowly, removing his hands. “I think I need to find out.”
Her chest tightened.
“I want to go to the Otherworld,” he said, the words tumbling out of him.
Aoife sat in stunned silence.
Stay.
Stay.
Don’t go.
Don’t leave me.
The words fought in her chest, desperate to escape her lips.
She could see he was waiting for it.
If she said it, he might stay, but he needed this. It would be selfish to ask him to stay, but letting him go wasn’t entirely selfless. If he stayed, he might one day see how much she had changed.
It had been weeks since she had last seen Halverton face to face, yet still he haunted her. His voice surfaced whenever she faltered, sharp and correcting.
Worst of all, her body still answered him.
