“While the riders gathered for the hunt, Ciar was approached by one of his brother druids, who told him that they were going to be holding a ceremony at an old ritual site not far from where the hunt was encamped. Being young as he was, Ciar jumped at the chance to play a role—any role—in the ceremony they’d planned.” Neve’s eyes fluttered shut. “He was so trusting back then, before it happened. He never quite…he lost that wonderful innocence afterward. Nothing was the same.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” I whispered. “They tricked him, betrayed him, all because he was naïve and innocent enough to trust them. I—she—his sister hated those druids for what they did, not just for the role they played in his possession, but for stripping that away from him. He never looked at the world the same way after that. It was so hard for him to trust again, even to trust the people who loved him the most.” My voice caught, throat tightening. It was as if Brighíd’s emotions were flooding into me with the words, words that bubbled up from some deep chasm of my soul, the soul I shared with a long-dead chieftain of the Imbolg.
Neve reached over and grasped my hand, squeezing tight. I looked away, swallowing hard.
“It hurt them all so much, Neve,” I said, my voice strangled. “You know that, right?”
“I do,” she said softly. “I do, Marin. That part I saw—that part I watched. I tried to help, but…” Her voice trailed away and the distance returned to her eyes. “He never really let me, no matter how much I wanted to, how much I reassured him.
“He wouldn’t let me help him as much as I could have, and that hurt most of all.”
