Thirty-eight – 05

Posted on May 25, 2018 by Erin M. Klitzke

[This post is from J.T.’s point of view.]

“What the hell are you doing?”

Thom jerked toward the sound of his voice, unbalancing and nearly falling. J.T. cursed under his breath and grabbed his friend before he fell.

“Christ, Thom,” he muttered. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Clearly not,” Thom rasped, forcing himself upright. He wavered, but managed it—barely. J.T. slowly let go.

“You should be in bed. You look like hell.”

“I feel like hell,” Thom said, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face. “Where’s Marin?”

“Not sure. Probably still at the main fire unless she’s gone out to the wall for a report. It’s starting to rain out there.” He eyed Thom for a few seconds, starting to feel queasy. Thom hadn’t looked this bad since a year before, when everything had come crashing down around them. It was disconcerting.

Worse because I have no idea what the hell is going on with him. J.T.’s lips thinned. Thom noticed exhaling with a huff.

“I have to talk to her,” he said, starting to move. His gait was uneven, unsteady. J.T. cursed under his breath.

“It can’t wait?”

“No,” Thom said, voice like ice. “No, it sure as hell can’t.”

J.T. cursed under his breath. His sword would have to wait. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m coming with you.”

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Thirty-eight – 04

Posted on May 23, 2018 by Erin M. Klitzke

[This post is from Thom’s point of view.]

There was only silence after the thunder, silence and the sound of his breathing, his heartbeat, and all three sounded far too loud. There was something to that silence, something that sent a frisson of fear skittering down his spine. His fingers fisted in the sheets for a moment as he sucked in one breath, then another.

Something felt wrong.

“I curse you, Brighíd. I curse you down through the generations. I will have my vengeance. You wait and see.”

“No,” he murmured. It’s just a fever-dream. That’s all. That’s all it is—all it can be.

It didn’t feel like a fever-dream, though. It felt like something real, something his soul had fought long and hard to forget, as if forgetting would make it less potent, would wash it away.

“Shit,” he whispered to no one. “Shit, shit.”

You have to. No one else can. No one else knows.

It wasn’t true, of course. Marin and Matt would know, perhaps even Phelan, too. The question was whether or not they remembered. Since there had been no mention of it, he wasn’t sure that they did.

And if none of them remember it, then—

A curse escaped his lips and before he knew it, he was lurching out of bed, stumbling and crashing to a knee alongside it. The room spun slowly around him; he felt light-headed, his heart beating fast, too fast. A chill sunk into his bones even as he forced himself to his feet, shuffling toward the dresser.

I have to get out there. I have to find her. Damn it all. He felt clumsy, uncoordinated. Waves of hot and cold crashed over him, arrhythmic and disorienting. He fumbled for clothes, for clean pants and a shirt. A pair of his sandals waited by the door—boots would be impossible.

It felt like it took too long to dress. The thunder was close and he could hear the wind now.

As he stumbled out the door, Thom prayed he wouldn’t be too late.

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Thirty-eight – 03

Posted on May 21, 2018 by Erin M. Klitzke

[This post is from Thom’s point of view.]

He woke, sucking in a soft breath as sleep fled and consciousness flooded in, though not quickly enough to erase the memory of the vision of another lifetime that had haunted his dreams. Thunder growled above his head and Thom stared up at the rafters of their roof, stared at the small lantern Marin had hung days ago, the candle within burning low. She never left him alone in the dark, not anymore. It was if the candle’s flame was some sort of talisman, a bane against the darkness and perhaps something more, something unspoken that frightened her. Whatever that was, he didn’t want to ask her. There was enough fear in their lives already.

He winced slightly as he shifted in the bed. His head pounded in a dull cadence that didn’t quite match up to the beating of his heart, nor the sound of the wind or the pulse of thunder in the distance, thunder he could sense more than hear. Something nibbled at the edges of his consciousness, just near enough to perceive but not close enough to fully grasp.

Thom closed his eyes, exhaling.

Another one. What the hell does it mean? Does it mean anything? He tugged the blankets closer. It was the middle of summer, and yet it seemed more like the depths of October, November. He wasn’t sure if that was a side effect of the wound that didn’t seem to want to fully heal or something else.

He was terrified of the prospect of it being something else.

Slowly, he rolled onto his side, the covers bunching around him. “It means something,” he murmured to the candle flickering above him, to the empty room. “But what the hell is it?”

They never came without a reason, not the dreams, not in his limited experience. There was always a reason, but he usually knew more, had more context to piece together the meaning.

As thunder rattled the world around him, he struggled to figure out what the vision of a coming storm thousands of years before might mean in the context of the storm that seemed to be beginning right above their heads.

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Thirty-eight – 02

Posted on May 18, 2018 by Erin M. Klitzke

[This post is from Thom’s point of view.]

He watched in silence as she walked away, back toward the cluster of their companions. O’Credne wasn’t among them, he noted, not yet, though Finn suspected it would only be a matter of time before their longtime friend showed up. He always seemed to be there when they needed him, no matter what the cost.

Finn turned toward the coast, watching the clouds in the distance. A chill crept down his spine and the urge to turn away grew stronger, strong enough that he found himself beginning to do just that before he caught himself, forced himself to make an about-face to stare at those clouds again.

It’s not natural. He knew it to the marrow of his bones, but there was no proof. But then, there never is.

He lingered, watching it for a second longer before he finally allowed himself to head for his wife’s war council. There was a map spread out on a board they’d balanced over a stump and she was pointing out a few points on it, her voice low as she conferred with some of the senior warleaders among the clans that had sworn to her. Behind her was Cíar, blind eyes oriented toward his sister, the fingers of one hand buried in the fur of the wolf at his side. Finn skirted around the edge of the group, careful not to distract her, then came to the log where Cíar sat.

“There’s a storm coming,” Cíar murmured as Finn settled next to him. The druid’s fingers briefly tightened in his lupine companion’s fur. “I can feel it.”

“Aye,” Finn said in a low voice, watching Brighíd. This was one of those situations where he thought she was in her element, though he could sense her worry. Something about this enemy had her more concerned than any other ever had.

“It’s because of her,” Cíar said. “The enemy. One of her allies has the power of the storms. We will have to find a way to counter it, brother.”

Finn winced. “Have you told her?”

“No,” Cíar said. “She doesn’t need to worry about it. You and I—we will find a way to counter it. You and I, brother. No one else. That’s our task and we cannot fail.”

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Thirty-eight – 01

Posted on May 16, 2018 by Erin M. Klitzke

[This post is from Thom’s point of view.]

Waves crashed against the shore in the distance. He could hear them even standing here, miles from shore. A storm was rising off the northern waters. He could smell it on the wind, sense it in the movements of the animals, hear it in the whispers of the world, see it in the black clouds massing in the distance.

I hope we have time, Finn thought, watching the wind move the branches of the trees to the north. He chewed absently at the loose edge of a callus on his thumb as he did, pondering, measuring, calculating.

Her hand captured his and held it, tugging his thumb away from his mouth. He startled slightly, glancing toward her with a quirked brow, surprised to find her brow similarly arched.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I could ask the same of you,” Brighíd said softly, watching in closely. “You have that look, Finn. What is it?”

“Storm coming,” he murmured, intending to leave it at that. She didn’t let go of his hand as he’d expected she might.

“That much I can see,” she said, her voice still soft, though it was the softness that hid the strength he knew she possessed. “But there’s more.”

“There’s always more when it comes to you and I,” he said with a faint smile. His hand twisted in hers, squeezing her fingers. “Concentrate on the coming battle, my love,” he whispered. “Hopefully it will be over before the storm hits.”

“We choose the battleground,” she said, gaze following his to the trees. “Maybe this can be used to our advantage.”

His guts knotted. “No,” he said, the word coming out harsh, perhaps more harshly than he intended. She looked at him strangely, her jaw tightening.

“No?” she echoed.

“This is going to be one of those storms that’s there no controlling, Brighíd,” he breathed, staring at the trees again before his gaze drifted upward toward the sky. “Not something to tangle with, either. No. We need to be well under cover before it hits. There’s no other safe choice.”

He pressed a kiss to her jaw, then tugged his hand free of her grip.

“Even on another day, we’ll beat her. We will. This is your land now, Brighíd. We—all of us—will die to defend it.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” she whispered.

“As do I, my love. As do I.”

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Thirty-seven – 08

Posted on May 14, 2018 by Erin M. Klitzke

[This post is from Marin’s point of view.]

There were more people clustered around the fire now than there had been when we’d left—when I’d left and Phelan had chased after me, as he always seemed to do when I really needed it. It had been the same all those centuries ago when I’d been Brighíd, too. He was always there when I needed him.

I could only hope that he always would be.

Rory was the first to meet my gaze as I rejoined the cluster by the fire and his was measuring, appraising. I stared back at him, half wondering what he saw in my gaze.

“They didn’t see anything riding back,” he said quietly as I stopped a few feet away from the fire, close enough to feel the heat of it against my thighs and bare knees.

I glanced toward Stasia, standing nearby with her arms crossed. My brow quirked slightly. “Where’s Paul?”

“Washed up and took over the watchtower,” she said quietly. “Seamus is still out there and we saw some of the Hunt starting to filter in.”

Next to me, Phelan shifted his weight almost uncomfortably. I drew a deep breath, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke and falling rain.

“Good,” I said softly. My gaze scythed across all of them, more than a dozen of us gathered around that one cookfire. Tala was crouched between the baskets holding her twins, though she wasn’t looking at them, but instead at me.

“What’s coming, Mar?” she asked softly. “Have you seen something?”

“No,” I said softly. “No, this time we’re relying on the Hunt and our people on watch. They’ll sound the alarm but we have to be ready. Gather your weapons and get ready for a fight. We can’t be sure one’s coming but I’ll be damned if we’re not ready for one.” I took a deep breath. “And get ready in case the wind kicks up and any trees come down. We should be okay where we are but if it gets really bad we could be in for some nasty surprises. Get going. Spread the word.”

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Thirty-seven – 07

Posted on May 11, 2018 by Erin M. Klitzke

[This post is from Marin’s point of view.]

The first few drops of rain spattered against the dirt as Phelan and I headed back to the tents. Thunder rolled, growling like a creature warning that you were somehow about to violate its territory. The color of the sky had mellowed, though only slightly and only thanks to the clouds swallowing the sun—they were still a deep, dark gray. I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Phelan settled his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me gently.

“We’ll get through,” he murmured. I just nodded.

We have to. There’s too much riding on our making it—too many lives, too much future. A shiver crept down my spine, though I forced myself to keep my expression impassive. Phelan didn’t need to end up more worried about me than he already was.

I had no illusions. I knew he was worried and would keep on worrying until he was given a reason to stop. It was comforting and worrisome all at once.

Right before we reached the edge of the tent, he glanced at me, one brow arched slightly. “You good?”

“I will be,” I said, squaring my shoulders and scrubbing my hands over my face to make sure that all trace of the tears I’d shed were gone. “Have to be, right?”

He squeezed me gently and I mustered up a smile.

“Come on,” I said softly. “It’s war council, time.”

“Just in case it is something.”

We’re still pretending it’s not. Just because we don’t hear drums doesn’t mean that there’s not a fight coming. We’re not always going to have warning. There’s not always going to be a storm that they bring, or the sound of drums, or ultimatums before the battle’s joined. No. Sometimes there will be no warning, just an onslaught.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “Just in case it is.”

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Thirty-seven – 06

Posted on May 9, 2018 by Erin M. Klitzke

[This post is from Marin’s point of view.]

I choked on my protests and let Phelan hold me, his arms tight around me. He couldn’t be sure of that, could he? How could he know my visions wouldn’t come true? I’d let myself begin to believe that they weren’t real, that nothing was wrong, that everything would be fine after Thom accepted our magic as real, once he stopped denying the gift he had. The visions—the ones of him dying of him wasting away and fading—had stopped for a while.

“The visions came back,” I finally managed to say, my forehead pressed against Phelan’s collarbone. “I don’t know if it’s her doing or something else. But I’m seeing him fading again, I’m seeing him slipping again. I can’t lose him, Phelan. I need him—his son needs him. We’re supposed to have a future. That part—worrying about that part—I wasn’t supposed to have to do that anymore.”

“It’s all right,” Phelan murmured. “Déithe agus arrachtaigh, Marin, you know that I’d never let anything happen to him if it was in my power to stop it. This is like everything else. It’ll be okay.”

“Phelan, we can’t know for sure that it’s going to be okay.”

“When have we ever?” He pressed a kiss to my forehead, so tender that it almost brought on tears again. My heart clenched and I sucked in a shaky breath.

“Promise you’ll help me?” I whispered. “Promise you’ll help me save him?”

“That’s not a promise you ever needed to ask for, leannán. You know I will.” He hugged me again. “You know that I will. Now come on. We’d better get back before they send a search party—and before the storm breaks.”

Another shiver shot through me as I glanced up toward the sky, growing darker by the second. I nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.”

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Thirty-seven – 05

Posted on May 7, 2018 by Erin M. Klitzke

[This post is from Marin’s point of view.]

“Mar,” Phelan started gently. I looked away, squeezing my eyes shut. He fell silent, then exhaled before he started again. “Come on. Talk to me.”

“I can’t lose him,” I whispered, the words barely escaping my throat. “I can’t, Phelan—I won’t.”

For the space of a few heartbeats, Phelan was silent. It was just as well—I’m not sure I would have heard anything he’d have said. I was too busy seeing a replay of those old visions in my mind’s eye, seeing Thom pale-faced and wasting, weakened and slipping beyond my reach.

I can’t let him die. I can’t. I can’t lose him. Not today, not tomorrow—not ever. I can’t.

All the other visions I’d had didn’t ease the fear. Things could change. I knew that, now. Everything he and I saw—it wasn’t written in stone, it wasn’t certain to happen.

But enough things were.

“What are you talking about?” Phelan asked softly. His arms closed around me again and I shuddered, swallowing back the bile rising in my throat. Thunder growled in the distance, though nearer.

It wouldn’t be long now.

I shook my head hard. Words wouldn’t come; they stuck in my throat, threatened to choke me. His arms tightened slightly around me.

“Leannán,” he whispered. “Please.”

I shuddered, pressing my forehead hard against his shoulder, gulping in air before I managed to make words. “Thom,” I whispered. “It’s Thom. I can’t—I’m afraid—”

He went rigid, then his arms grew tighter. “No. No, he’ll be all right, leannán, I promise. I swear to you, he will.”

“You don’t know that,” I breathed. “How can you be sure? I—I’m seeing—Phelan, they’ve started again. And he’s sick and we don’t know why. Maybe—maybe it’s something that’s meant to happen no matter what, the reasons just become different. But I—I can’t lose him.” I was sobbing, talking around gasps and hiccups that I couldn’t stop. The tears just kept on coming and it felt like there was a giant hand wrapped around my heart, squeezing it hard. “I can’t.”

“You won’t,” he said softly. “I promise you—you won’t.”

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Thirty-seven – 04

Posted on May 4, 2018 by Erin M. Klitzke

[This post is from Marin’s point of view.]

Phelan held his peace for so long I feared that he wasn’t going to say anything at all. Then, softly, gently: “What do you remember about her?”

A weak, broken sound escaped me. “Barely anything. But enough to know that she’s dangerous and she’s not going to stop unless she’s somehow forced to.” My eyes stung and I shook my head, hands curling into fists. “I don’t think that I can stop her, Phelan. I don’t know that any of us can.”

His arms closed around me and I leaned into his chest, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me as I buried my face against his shoulder. He held me tightly and I could feel the dam break, felt the tears coming.

He held me as I wept silently into his shoulder, rubbed my back gently and rested his cheek against my hair. “You were never alone,” he murmured softly. “Not then and certainly not now. You have us to help you and I daresay a brother that’s a lot more sane than Cíar was back then.”

I choked on a laugh and hugged him tighter. “Dammit, Phelan.”

I felt him smile. “Well, it’s true.”

I drew back, mopping at my eyes. The dread had ebbed slightly, but it was far from gone. “How am I going to pull this off, Phelan? I don’t even remember how I stopped her the last time, not really.”

“You told her she was unwelcome,” Phelan murmured. “With the tip of a spear.”

A derisive sound escaped me and I shook my head, jaw tightening. I stepped away from him, reclaimed my coffee cup from the old concrete bench that stood nearby. “Something tells me that’s not going to work this time, Phelan.”

“You might be surprised,” he muttered, watching me as I gulped down coffee and mopped at my eyes. “Besides, you don’t even know for sure that it’s her coming. It could be no one—just a storm.”

My gaze flicked toward the clouds above, twisting back on each other, dark like foul smoke in the sky.

“This isn’t just a storm,” I told him softly. “We’re fooling ourselves.”

“Then we’d best be mustering the troops instead of standing around out here, shouldn’t we?”

He was right—I knew he was right and he knew that I knew. But for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to go back, to face them. Not yet.

“There’s more eating you, isn’t there?”

I swallowed hard and nodded, tearing my gaze from the sky, staring instead at the trees in the ravine, starting to grow shadowed as the clouds overtook the sun.

“What is it?”

My mouth grew dry, my throat tightening again.

I can’t. I can’t say those words.

How can I tell him that I’m afraid that the vision I thought was dead is starting to come true?

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