The man was downright overwhelming sometimes, and it was no wonder. He had over five hundred years of living, and loving and losing his loved ones, and being invincible. She felt a surge of concern emanating from him because she was trying to shut him out. Too exhausted to do more, she sent a burst of reassurance, then firmly corralled his emotions in a corner of her mind.
That was better.
Perhaps a walk would clear her thoughts, she decided, rising from his bed, where she’d been sitting since he’d left.
She strolled through the silent castle and ventured into the night. It was strangely quiet: there were no knights jousting in the courtyard, no children playing—war was grim business indeed. She didn’t have to worry about Circenn dying, but most families at Brodie had a loved one who might be mortally wounded in battle. An air of sobriety draped the estate.
Absorbed in her thoughts, she wandered to the reflecting pool and sank down on the stone bench. Tilting her head, she gazed up at the velvety black sky. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with a normal, mortal man? She’d been so happy with Circenn, but she was a realist, if nothing else.
She had some idea of what it would be like to age. She knew how she would feel when she was forty and he was thirty still. She could only imagine with horror how she would feel when she was fifty, yet he still appeared thirty. She could taste the fear of being sixty—when she would be old enough that most would think she was his mother, or worse—in this land where women had children at fourteen—his grandmother.
Oh, God. Her body would age and wrinkle, but his never would.
Lisa didn’t think she was a shallow person, but there was only so much a woman’s vanity could willingly embrace. Would he still make love to her? Would she be able to permit him to gaze upon her when her body was so aged? It wasn’t merely a question of vanity; the physical contrast between them would be a daily reminder that she was dying but he was not.
Take the years and don’t think too far ahead, a part of her offered hopefully.
But she knew herself too well. She wouldn’t be able to. She would be living in fear, watching her mirror, waiting for the inevitable.
And there was an even bigger picture to be considered.
Not only would she age while he didn’t, she would ultimately die, while he continued to live. He would be left without her, and she knew she would have to encourage him to love again when she was gone—and, God forgive her, she didn’t think she possessed such a noble soul.
Encourage Circenn to share such a precious, intimate bond again with some other woman? She was seized by hatred for her faceless, nameless successor.
But she would have to, because she knew him well enough to know that he shared her tendency for self-inflicted atonement. He would deny himself. He could spend thousands of years alone, refusing intimacy, and such stark solitude would drive any person mad. He must love again after she was gone, for the sake of his own soul.
Then, too, there was her intimate knowledge of what her death would do to him; because of their bond, he would feel every less-than-noble emotion she endured, and every bit of the pain. She knew what it felt like to watch a loved one die. It went beyond hell.
What if she had actually been able to feel her mother’s physical pain over the last few months? Her despair and her fear?
Circenn would feel every bit of hers, unless she could somehow hide it.
I can’t! I’m not strong enough!
Frantic, she lunged to her feet, driven to movement.
She walked swiftly, skirting the pool, gazing up at the heavens as if they might hear her and grant a prayer. Focused on the sky, she tripped and fell to the ground.
It was the final straw. Crying, she huddled with her arms about her knees and began to rock. After a few moments she realized that she had fallen on the side of the mound and was weeping in probable chamber-pot remains.
She went very still.
It is said that if you circle the mound seven times and spill your blood upon the peak, the Queen of the Fairies may appear and grant you a wish.
Recalling Circenn’s words, she slowly opened her eyes.
But what would she wish?
I cannot guess how many young lads and lasses have pricked their fingers here. Old, tall tales—this land is full of them. Most likely some prior kin once emptied the chamber pots here. It would explain how thick and green the grass is.
But she didn’t know what might happen next in her life. Why not try it? She could decide upon a wish later, if it worked.
Numbly, she stood and began circling the shian. Slowly at first, then picking up speed and determination as she progressed around the mound.