[This post is from Matt’s point of view.]
Phelan studied him for a few seconds, his brow furrowing slightly. They passed form the light of the torches nearer the wall and into the darkness between it and the tents, the cookfires. The Hunt’s camp was stirring, even at the early hour. They knew something was coming, just the same as Matt and Phelan did. They would be making ready for whatever was to come.
Of course, they’re also used to operating on short sleep and being ready for a fight, Matt reflected, then shivered slightly. How would the rest of them fare? Not as well as the Hunt, he suspected.
Though I would love to be wrong about that.
He met Phelan’s gaze, his brow furrowing. “What is it?”
“There’s more of him to you than I think you let on,” Phelan said softly. “Or maybe more than you realize. It’s hard to say either way.”
Matt shivered slightly, then shrugged. “I suppose that’s both good and bad at the same time, isn’t it?”
Phelan nodded slightly. “Aye. It is.”
“Are you hoping for one thing over another?”
Phelan smiled. “I wouldn’t say that. Cíar could be reckless when he wanted to be, when he thought it was warranted. He and his sister were very much alike—just like you and Marin are now.”
“Are we?”
He nodded. “It would be absurd of me to say that the two of you remind me of them, though. I mean—you are them, or you were, long ago. But the little things every so often—they remind me so much it aches.”
“I—I’m sorry,” Matt said, and meant it.
“It’s all right,” Phelan said. “It’s a good kind of pain.” He grinned. “Usually, anyway.”
