[This post is from Marin’s point of view.]
I watched the sun come up from the wall near the Wild Hunt’s encampment, Lin cradled against my chest, the scent of rain on the wind, lingering from the night before. The grass was still damp with rain from the night before, sparkling in the first rays of dawn. I hummed softly to my son as I stared at the sky, watched as the sun painted it in pinks and purples and oranges and golds. It would probably rain again soon, but for now, there was nothing.
That was fine.
My sleep had been restless, though it hadn’t been because of the storm. Thom had noticed, tried to reassure me that all would be well, but all I had to do was look at the dark shadows under his eyes and the paleness of his face in the lamplight and every feeling of worry and unease that he tried to allay came flooding back.
He’s my husband. I love him. I won’t lose him—I can’t, and I won’t.
I hadn’t told Thom what the visions were about, the ones that had woken me, just that I’d had some. He hadn’t pressed, just held me and whispered that everything would be okay. I wanted to believe him—I wanted to believe him so badly I could taste it. But I couldn’t.
Nothing was that easy anymore.
How could I tell him that the visions of losing him had come back? How could he not already know that’s what I’d been seeing? Maybe he did and didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to make it real by talking about it.
That would be like him, wouldn’t it?
Lin’s fingers tangled in my shirt and I realized I’d stopped humming. Tears lay wet against my cheeks and I exhaled a shaky breath.
“Sorry, Lin,” I whispered. “Sorry, my sweet boy.”
I took a shaky breath, wiped my cheeks and eyes with the heel of my hand, and started to sing softly to Lin instead of humming, a song from long ago, one that made a hand tighten around my heart and squeeze. It wasn’t one of my songs, but one of Brighíd’s, though somehow, it just felt right.
Lin quieted in my arms and I stared at the sun as it started to crest the horizon in the east, the sky pink and red around it, heralding the coming of another storm.
There was always another storm.
