[This post is from Seamus’s point of view.]
“What are you doing out here, my friend?”
Seamus took a slow, deep breath at the sound of Anselm’s voice behind him, though he didn’t turn. “One could ask the same question of you. You coordinate patrols these days. You don’t ride them.”
“Mm. They saw you go by and more than a few recognized the look on your face, old friend. Something troubles you.”
“A lot of things trouble me, Anselm.”
“Truer words are rarely spoken.” Anselm stopped next to him, followed his gaze out toward the lake, its waters rippling in the afternoon sunshine. “That does not change the fact that I am asking.”
Seamus exhaled, his hand curling into fists. Anselm kept staring straight ahead. These were signs the other man knew, recognized, and Seamus knew it.
Silence lingered between the pair for a long while before Anselm cleared his throat quietly.
“There is some whispering among the Hunt about her being here. They wonder how long it will continue and whether it is by choice or by artifice. Some suspect a coming betrayal.” Anselm paused, as if searching for the right words to phrase what he needed to say. “They have not forgotten what she did to the Ridden Druid.”
“I suspect there is far more to the story of her and Cíar mac Dúbhshláin than any of our brothers and sisters have dared to fathom,” Seamus murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. “You can assure them that she is here by choice—her choice—and that she has been welcomed by at the very least one of the Seers and my cousin, who has far more reason to distrust her than any of the Wild Hunt ever could.”
“I can say the words, but they may not believe them,” Anselm said, a hint of sadness to his tone.
“What would you have me do?”
“Do you believe it? Do you believe that she means no harm here?”
Seamus stared at the water, jaw tightening. That was really the question, wasn’t it?
But he’d seen what she’d done on the field and had to trust in that.
“They saw the sacrifice she was willing to make for us. They saw what Matthew did on the field.”
“They saw, but they don’t understand it.”
“Then their questions aren’t for me,” Seamus said, finally looking over at Anselm. “They’re for Matt.”
And powers only know if they’ll believe what he has to say—or if they’ll believe that he is who he is—or, more precisely, who he was.
“That does not change the fact that I am asking.”
Good for Anselm. That is the sign of a good friend.