Awakenings

“Well,” J.T. said in an exceedingly dry tone as he came to the fire, “things are looking up.”

“Huh?” Davon asked, looking up from the mess of parts in his lap that he’d been tinkering with—pieces of a clock, if J.T. had to guess. “What’re you talking about?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Phelan?” Neve asked, setting aside the blanket she’d been mending, a look of alarm flitting across her expression. “Is he okay?”

“He remembered Jac,” J.T. said as he poured himself a mug of coffee from the pot that sat on the stones around the fire. “Things are looking up.”

“He did?” Neve leaned forward. “How? Did Seamus find Eriú?”

“Don’t know. Phelan just asked me to get her all of a sudden. He had a look that I’ve seen before.”

“On him?” Neve asked, sounding surprised.

J.T. shook his head. “On Thom and Cameron. Occasionally even on Thordin’s too, surprisingly enough. Do we know if he and Sif are…?”

“That’s even more complicated than Seamus’s love life,” Neve said, scrubbing a hand over her face. “I don’t ask. If he wants to talk about it, he’ll bring it up. At least that’s how I look at it.” She closed her eyes with a sigh. “Did Phelan say anything else?”

“Not really,” J.T. said, relaxing as he took a sip from his mug. “Just asked me to get Jac, which I did.”

Davon stared at J.T. for a long, silent moment. “Are you sure that leaving them alone together was a good idea? I mean, he’s got amnesia. He may not be entirely himself, right?”

“He’s himself enough,” J.T. said, frowning. “Why are you asking?”

Davon frowned and shook his head, looking back to the clock pieces in his lap. “Just asking,” he said quietly.

J.T. stared at him, brows knitting.

Why the hell do questions like that give me a bad feeling that I didn’t have before?

Phelan drew his blankets tighter and leaned back against his pillows as Jameson darted out the door. He watched the lamp’s flame flicker and swallowed against the bile that crept higher and higher in his throat.

“Jac,” he whispered, though there was no one there to hear him. “What did I let her do to me, Jac? What happened?”

His thoughts felt fragmented, slippery like fish, as fine as sand sliding from his grasp. The past felt closer than the present, which felt like it was long past, nearly beyond his grasp. He swallowed hard and watched the lamp, trying to quell the sudden panic rising inside.

Was it like this for Ciar, I wonder? He never talked about it. I never pressed.

“Maybe I should have,” he whispered with a slight shudder. He felt hot and cold all at once and tried to remember why. It refused to come to him and he growled in frustration, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

“Phelan?”

He startled slightly, eyes snapping open. Her hair was loose and she wore only her sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants.

“Oh,” he said, feeling hollowed out inside. “Were you sleeping?”

“It’s okay,” she said quietly, moving toward him quickly as he struggled to push himself back up into a sitting position. “J.T. said you’d asked for me. What’s wrong?”

His fingers tangled in hers as she sat down on the edge of his bed. “I needed you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Phelan,” she said quietly, “you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Jameson cleared his throat. “I’ll let you two be,” he said, slipping back out and closing the door behind him.

Then they were alone. Jacqueline stared at him, ran the fingers of her free hand against his cheek and jaw.

“Do you really remember?” she breathed. “Do you know me?”

“I know enough,” he whispered back before he kissed her.

Phelan closed his eyes and took a pair of breaths, trying to calm himself slightly. Just relax. It’ll all eventually come, right? All of it will come and everything will be fine.

He thought of the girl, with her eyes bright with unshed tears, her honey blonde hair pulled into a messy braid, as if she’d been rushed in fixing it that morning—or every morning. His heart gave that strange, painful double-beat and he shivered slightly. Jameson stayed quiet, leaning back in his chair—Phelan could hear the quiet creak of the metal of the folding camp chair as his companion shifted his weight slightly.

There’s something… His brow furrowed. It was like something out of a dream. Everything hurt, then she put her hands on him. They glowed, glowed like the first rays of dawn as they lit the world, soothed him as nothing else could. The pain ebbed even as he heard her desperate whisper.

“God help me, we can’t lose him. I can’t lose him.”

Jacqueline.

He sat straight up in the bed and swore as his back screamed and his body reported nothing short of agony from a dozen spots. Jameson stood from his chair abruptly, eyes wide. “What the hell, Phelan?”

“Where is she?” He asked, hands fisting in the blankets. “Where’s Jac?”

“I—I think she said she was going to get something to eat.” Jameson blinked at him. “Do you remember her now?”

“Get her,” Phelan whispered. “Get her now.”

Gods and monsters, how could I have forgotten? He shivered violently and barely suppressed the urge to curl into a ball.

Nothing’s right. Everything’s wrong. Gods and monsters. What did she do to me? What did that little monster out there do to me?

“I need her,” Phelan whispered, staring at Jameson with desperation in his eyes. “And I need her now.”

Phelan moaned as he woke again, eyes blinking open to stare at wooden planks lit by a lantern whose flame flickered and danced as if worried by an errant breeze. His body ached more now than it had earlier and his head still spun from what he’d seen, what he’d heard.

Seamus is alive and he’s here—wherever here is. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

“Awake?” a deep voice asked. Phelan opened his eyes and glanced to the side, peering at the man seated at his bedside with a book in his hands.

“I know you,” Phelan murmured. “Don’t I? Then and now.”

“I punched you when you came here,” J.T. said. “And then told them that you were good people anyway.”

Phelan nodded slightly. “I—yes. You were her grandson. Mairéad’s grandson.”

“Yeah. You showed up too late.”

He squinted at him. Jameson. He’s…he’s…

“Bloody fucking hell,” Phelan swore, glaring at the ceiling. “It’s at the tip of my brain and I can’t quite wrap my fingers around it.”

“From what’s been said, it sounds like that’s not entirely uncommon in this type of situation.” Jameson shifted in his chair, his gaze intense as he stared at Phelan. “How do you feel? Other than frustrated.”

“I hurt,” Phelan said, unable to articulate it beyond that.

“That doesn’t surprise me. You were in a fight.”

Phelan swore under his breath and closed his eyes again. “The girl. The blonde. She—I—”

“Jac,” Jameson said quietly. “And yes. You’re a thing. I’m not sure how long you’ve been sleeping together, but you have been. You seemed really happy.”

His heart gave a painful squeeze. I’ve been looking for that for a long time. Didn’t think I’d found it. Now I have and something’s…something’s taken it from me. His jaw tightened.

No. I won’t let that be the way it is.

I can’t.

Seamus slid his arm around her shoulders and drew her tight against his side. “Talk to me, Leinth,” he murmured into her hair. “What’s bothering you?”

“How did she find us, Seamus? How in the name of everything holy and sacred did she find you?”

Seamus blinked. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”

“Shouldn’t it? I couldn’t find you. Phelan couldn’t find you.”

“You all thought I was dead,” Seamus said. “You didn’t know to look.” He suppressed a sigh. Truth be known, I suppose I didn’t want you to look. I wanted you to have the chance to happy. I was trapped.

Leinth leaned her head against his shoulder and he smiled faintly. “Is that supposed to be comforting, Seamus?”

“Give me some credit,” he said. “I am trying.”

She laughed and slid her arm around his waist, squeezing gently. “I know. I’m just uncomfortable, that’s all. And I wonder what my sister will do when she finds out all that’s happening—because you know that she will. You’ll be in danger, I suspect.”

He sighed. “I always have been, Leinth. I’ve never been truly safe.”

I want you to be, though. You and the kin we have because of what we were—what we are to each other. He thought of Cameron for a moment and sighed. It felt strange to know that he had a many-times over great-grandson—possibly one of many.

“What are you thinking?” Leinth asked as they walked deeper into camp, her eyes roaming, seeking Eriú.

“Do you know them?” he asked.

“Do I know who?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.   “Our…descendants. Do you know them?”

Leinth grew very quiet, her arm tightening around him again. He frowned, looking down at her.

“Leinth, if you don’t—“

“It’s not that,” she whispered.

“Then what?”

“I think that Cameron might be the only one left.”

His lover perched on the wall above the gate, staring out across the snow. She glanced over toward him at the sound of his boots on the snow and offered him a faint smile. “How’s Phelan?” she asked softly, gently.

Seamus shook his head. “Not good. Can you come down?”

Leinth hesitated a moment before she nodded, coming down from her perch and smoothing her robes once she had her feet on solid ground again. “What’s the matter?”

“I need your help,” Seamus said. “We need to find Eriú.”

“She’s not entirely enamored of me,” Leinth said. “None of them are, really.”

Seamus winced. “That can’t be true.”

“I happen to think it is.” Leinth resettled her cloak across her shoulders and peered up at her lover. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Phelan has amnesia. Rather badly, too, it seems. Eriú may be able to help or at least give us some insight.”

Leinth frowned. “Are you sure?”

“She’s the only one who can tell us that for certain, anyway. Will you help me find her?”

His lover sighed and nodded. “Of course I will, Seamus. You know that.” She hesitated moment. “Have you talked to them about what the Hunt offered? About…about what they asked in return for your freedom?”

“No,” he said quietly. “We haven’t had that discussion yet. Once we’ve gotten Phelan…” He broke off, sighing and shaking his head. “I’ll talk to Marin again. She knows what they offered. So does Neve. We just haven’t…we haven’t talked to the rest of them yet. It’s a delicate thing.”

“I know it, but it’s an important thing.” Leinth touched his cheek with chill, bare fingers. “It’s incredibly important to the people who love you.”

“I know,” Seamus whispered. He leaned in and kissed her gently. “Don’t you think it’s important to me, too? I’ll talk to them. But we have to get through this first.”

“Right,” Leinth said, closing her eyes for a moment. “Well. Let’s get to work.”

“Obviously, there’s some memory loss at this point,” Seamus said quietly, glancing sidelong toward his sister, who grimaced and hugged a knee against her chest.

“Obviously,” she agreed. “The real question is whether or not we can do anything about it. Can we?”

Seamus stared at the fire. It was easier to watch the flames than try to meet anyone’s gaze just then. He didn’t want to watch their hope die a slow and agonizing death. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I never spoke to the Ridden Druid after what happened to him. I don’t know how he recovered, or how quickly that recovery happened. Phelan’s the only one who did.”

“Well, Phelan and us,” Marin said with a faint grimace.

“And Eriú.”

All eyes suddenly went to Matt, who glanced up from his cup of coffee, startled by the sudden attention. “What?”

“You said something about Eriú knowing,” Marin said. “Are you sure?”

Her brother hesitated a moment before he shrugged slightly. “I guess? I mean, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t there or was too young to remember most of what actually happened, but there must have been stories about it that Finn and Brighíd told her when she was growing up, right? Hell, maybe even Ciar himself. Have we thought to ask her if she’s got any bright ideas?”

Seamus stood up. “No. But it’s a damned good idea.” I’ve got to find Leinth. Maybe the girl…

Where was Leinth, anyway?

“Has anyone seen Leinth?” he asked as he came to the sudden, startling realization that he hadn’t seen his lover all day. While they hadn’t exactly been attached at the hip since she’d discovered him alive, they hadn’t spent much time apart, either.

“I think I saw her talking to your second,” Marin said. “Not quite certain what they were talking about, though.”

“Damnation and hellfire,” Seamus muttered, wrapping himself in his cloak. “I’ll go get her.”

“For what?”

“With Jameson tied up helping Jacqueline, Leinth’s the one with the best chance of tracking down that ghost. I don’t mean to wait. Let me find her and we’ll get this sorted. You’ll see.”

At least, I dearly hope so.

“Calm down, Phelan,” Seamus said. “You’re not dead.”

“But you’re dead. If you’re here and talking to me alongside Ciar and Brighíd, who are also both dead, how the hell am I not dead?”

“Shit,” the woman who’d been holding him said quietly. “Neve, Seamus, what’s wrong with him?”

“We were afraid of this,” Neve said quietly. “When Ciar came back to himself after he was sundered, he wasn’t the same. I guess amnesia is what—”

“Ciar had that, too, at first,” the voice that was Brighíd’s said. “It got better, but it took time and care.”

He looked at the woman with Brighíd’s voice for the first time and took a sharp breath. “You’re not Brighíd,” Phelan whispered. “But you…you are.”

She smiled weakly and touched his blanket-shrouded leg. There was a resemblance there, between the woman he’d once known and the woman before him, but an even stronger echo of someone else.

Teague and Maireád.

“Marin,” she said softly. “My name’s Marin, Phelan.”

“Leannán,” he whispered. His chest grew tight for a moment and he twisted toward the woman sitting behind him, the one who had been cradling his head when he’d awakened. His eyes stung. Honey-colored hair hung in a messy braid, wisps flying free around her face. His heart gave a strange double-beat. He knew her—his soul knew her.

Gods and monsters, why can’t I remember her name? He sucked in a breath and tried to get to his feet. Pain seared through him and he fell back, caught and cradled by the woman that was familiar and at the same time wasn’t.

“What happened to me?” he asked again.

“There was an attack,” the woman said as she held him. His back and shoulders ached with a dull, penetrating throb. “You were hurt and then…well. Then Thesan sundered your soul.”

“Oh,” he said in the moment before darkness swallowed him whole.

Consciousness came slowly, accompanied by a full body ache punctuated by sharper pains. Even breathing hurt a little and his senses felt like he was wrapped in cotton wool.

What the bloody hell hit me?

“Phelan?”

The voice was familiar—it felt familiar, anyway. The name was just beyond his grasp.

He made a sound that was half a groan, half a hiss, trying to shift his weight and lift his head—neither to any avail. “What hit me?”

“He’s awake,” she said, relief flooding her voice. Who was that? Why did she sound so familiar?

“Good,” another woman said.

His throat tightened. Brighíd. But she’s dead…am I dead, too?

Hellfire and ashes and monsters and gods.

“How did you know where to find it, Matt?” Neve’s voice. He would recognize his cousin anywhere.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to ask me that question,” the man his cousin had called Matt answered.

But that’s Ciar’s voice. What the hell is going on here? He struggled to open his eyes. It was like they were glued shut somehow, and they ached fiercely. He groaned quietly.

“Easy,” the first woman’s voice soothed. He found himself relaxing by degrees at the sound, relaxing even more as her fingers combed through his hair and brushed along the flesh of his face and neck.

But I can’t remember her name. Why can’t I remember her name?

                I’m the bloody Taliesin. It’s my job to remember these things. It’s the burden that Seamus gave me—carry the stories. Remember. Teach. Learn.

                Bloody hellfire.

“Is someone going to tell me what happened or not?” he rasped, fingers tightening in the blankets. He was warm, almost too warm, but a chill ran through his body right down to his core. It was the most bizarre sensation he’d ever experienced and he wasn’t sure if he liked it at all.

“You were sundered,” someone else said. “Now you’ve been put back together again. How do you feel, cousin?”

He sat straight up, eyes flying open and immediately tearing up at the light and the pain. “Seamus? Déithe agus arrachtaigh, I’m dead, aren’t I?”

His dead cousin—the Taliesin who had been—laughed, and for some reason, Phelan O’Credne didn’t find the sound comforting at all.

Gods and monsters. What in bloody blazes did I run afoul of and what have I gotten myself mixed up in this time?

The Shakespeare Garden was silent and still as Matt and I crossed through the hedge into the patch of ground.  Snow lay in drifting piles, half burying the wreck the space had become, providing the illusion that perhaps it wasn’t as damaged as I remembered.

Still, I knew better.

I could see the footprints in the snow where Phelan had undoubtedly walked, possibly with my brother trailing behind.  One of the stone benches had been cleared of snow, facing the ruin of the PAC and the burial ground.  I took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.  It felt warmer here, somehow.

Matt reached over and squeezed my arm, his expression grim.  “He’s here,” he said quietly.  “I know he is.  He must be.”

“That’s all well and good,” I said quietly.  “But how do we find him and bring whatever fragment is here back?”

Matt sucked in a breath.  “At the worst, I can remember finding something to hide in, something to inhabit until I felt safe again.  There must be something here that he’d do that with, right?”

I just stared at him for a long moment, brow creasing as I tried to make sense of his words.  “What?”

“Just…just trust me, okay?  Look for something that would have resonance for Phelan, something that would make him feel…I don’t know.  Whole.”

I stared at him for a moment longer before I sighed and nodded. “Right.  Safe and whole.”  My eyes skipped over the bench, the broken trellis, the dormant roses and the snow-covered stones toward the old, dark fountain with the Robin Goodfellow finial.

“The fountain,” Matt and I said in the same breath.

“Of course,” I murmured, picking my way through the hummocks of snow and buried debris.  “Fucking Puck,” I whispered.

As soon as I touched it, I knew.

We’d found him.