Vasily came into view first, emerging from the thick tangle of thornbushes near the archyway where Phelan had performed Thom and Marin’s handfasting. Phelan’s breath caught in his throat, his heart starting to pound a bit faster—perhaps almost too fast.
He could feel her presence. He started to walk toward where he could see Vasily, toward the archway—toward his sister, who he could sense again, clear as day, for the first time in months. His throat grew tight and it was suddenly hard to breathe, must less speak.
Aoife.
He heard Sif swearing at him as he broke into a run, caught the crunch of her boots on the gravel behind him. He didn’t care. Let her catch up.
His sister was worried, angry, annoyed—a maelstrom of emotions pulsed along their heritage-born link, the bond of blood that tied them together. She was also almost close enough to touch.
Vasily blinked slightly as he met Phelan’s gaze, then stepped clear of his path. Phelan caught a glimpse of his sister a moment before she saw him and his heart swelled with a mixture of relief and pride.
She looked well, his little sister, if perhaps a bit thinner than he’d hoped. She was mud-spattered and a little bedraggled, bit clearly healthy and whole.
“Aoife,” he said. Her head snapped up.
“Phelan,” she breathed, as if his name were a prayer and a curse all at once.
His little sister rushed toward him and engulfed him in a hug. He buried his nose in her hair and held her tightly.
“Déithe agus arrachtaigh,” she whispered in his chest. “It’s good to see you, Phelan. It’s so good to see you.”
Phelan squeezed her close. “Not as good as it is to see you, Aoife.” He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, throat still too tight, emotions choking him. “Welcome home. Welcome to hope.”
Too bad I didn’t see this on Christmas. It would have been a perfect scene for that.