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Deirdre grasped his arm, pulled it until he whirled round. She was ready for him to shout at her. Instead he pursed his lips and gently tried to turn back.
"Talk to me!"
The words came out more forcefully than she had expected, but she couldn't deny that the frustration had built to the point where she wasn't sure that she much cared whether or not she was being forceful. She needed to talk to him, to understand what in the hell was upsetting him so much, and the only way she could do that was if she forced him to speak to her.
"What's there to talk about?" His voice was hard and bitter.
"What did I do?"
"You tried to kill me," he said.
So he had figured it out. It had taken him a while, and for a time Deirdre had hoped that her little secret would go with her to the grave. But it had come out. How could she ever hope to make it up to him, really?
But she couldn't think about that now. She just had to focus on making sure that she did what she could. If she lied—that wasn't an option. He would know. He wasn't stupid.
"That was—a long time ago. And you asked me to help you. I…" She stopped herself. There wasn't much excuse for what she was doing. None at all, really. Not if she was being honest with herself. She frowned. She had tried to kill him.
She'd ruined any chances with him before she'd even realized she wanted one, and now she was getting what she deserved. Deirdre nodded. She understood now.
"Very good," she said softly. Then she pushed past him, dropped her head down low as she walked, and started the way back home. It would be a long one, but she had time. Plenty of time to think about how bad she'd fucked up.
Gunnar watched her go. He could feel the anger in him still. It had cooled over the past days, but he knew that any little provocation might set it ablaze again, just as hot. Part of him wanted to be angry that she would leave. That she would deny him the satisfaction he deserved.
But mostly he felt… empty. What was the point? The only woman he'd cared about, these thirty-six years, had just admitted to plotting to murder him. She hadn't even tried to deny it. Just explain why it was alright.
But it wasn't alright. He sucked in a deep breath. It wasn't alright at all, and he wasn't going to take it.
He had abandoned his life back home. Had abandoned everything that had been part of him, and for what? So that he could be with someone who wanted him dead.
He sat down on a stoop and brooded. Sooner or later, someone would come by. They'd ask what he was doing there, and he would tell them. He was waiting for his opportunity to start right back where he'd left off.
But as the time passed, as Deirdre was hidden by crowds, and then by distance, he thought about the past weeks. She was right about it being a long time ago. Things had changed for him since then.
All he had cared about then was battle. Raiding was who he was, and when he healed so completely from every wound he'd taken, what was the point of gathering these stories he could never tell?
After he had lost control of the party, something had changed. Something deeper than just whether or not he could give people orders. He'd changed, he wasn't the same person as he had been any more. A month ago, two months ago, he would never have considered giving up the place he had carved out for himself back home.
Now he'd given up the chance to ever go home. He couldn't deny, the changes were bigger than he had realized. He stood up. It would be a long way, but it was only a matter of time until he caught her.
Deirdre's feet hurt. It didn't much matter. She would keep walking. She had a long way to go until she got home, and then she could curl up in her heavy blankets, and she'd let herself cry, and then she would just have to think about how badly she had played out the events since she had gotten captured.
How much of an idiot she had been the entire time.
She'd have an eternity to think about
what could have been, if only he hadn't realized, or if she hadn't been such a fool to have sided with Valdemar. All the death, all the carnage, it was all her fault.
Now Gunnar was who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what. Would he look at other women? She assumed he must have. Assumed that he must have had plenty of female admirers back where he'd come from. If he was lucky, he could go back.
Back, as far away from her as possible. She barely heard the footsteps coming up behind before she felt a hand on her shoulder, pull her, turn her around.
For the first time in five years, Deirdre was facing her teacher, and she realized she had been wrong.
Brigid hadn't aged a day.
Gunnar's body was still tired from the past week. He could feel the hunger gnawing at him again. He already knew that Deirdre had wanted to get away from the camp. He wanted the moment back, walking, to do it again. But if he had it all to do again, what were the odds he would do anything different?
He already knew the answer, though he wasn't happy about it. And unless Deirdre was a much more capable witch than he had realized, with much more fantastic powers, thinking about doing it over meant nothing. He had to go and deal with what he had done, regardless of what he wanted.
