[COMPLETED] The Vixen and The Thief

Chapter 10

Time passed. Days perhaps, or weeks, Beihinn had no means of knowing. Her glimpses of daylight were infrequent, and even the timing of mealtimes seemed disordered, so they could not be used to set the pattern of days.

An Beitheach spoke with her little since that stormy meal, but he did not leave her alone. When she tried to walk the passages he walked with her, sometimes in front, sometimes behind or beside, appearing and disapperaring into the shadows without warning; until Beibhinn was afeared to spend any time outside her chamber that was not with Ruadhán. 

But even in moments when she was alone, she could never feel quite sure that she was rid of him, and the mere thought of his presence was enough to make her feel sick - like a charnel stench.

What whiff of comfort there was came from Ruadhán. Little by little, Béibhinn had purloined what she needed from the tables and brought them to him. Honey for wounds, that they might not be left to fester. Salt too, and water from the stream which she heated slowly over the torches to steep and soak his battered hands. Examination of the bed in her cell revealed, to her surprise, linen undercoverings which yielded bandage materials, and the woolen over-blanket she brought too, that he might have some defence against the damp.

And now this hour, which was perhaps evening, they sat  together upon the blanket, leaning against the cave wall in silence and hearing the irregular drip of water somewhere beyond their shallow pool of torchlight. Ruadhan coughed softly, and the sound echoed from wall to roof before it faded.

He is better, in some ways, than he was, thought Beibhinn, And yet...and yet...he is not. The vague sense of something out of place nagged at her. Can a body die, like a plant, from want of sunlight, and hope?

"How are you?" she asked aloud.

"Níos fearr," mumbled Ruadhán, "Much better. And you?" he seemed almost asleep, his head tipped back against the wall, which added a fresh layer of ooze to his hair.

"Oh, not b- What?!" Béibhinn broke off as Ruadhan started awake, his eyes fixed on the small opening of the cell.

He did not reply, his eyes widening in horror, Béibhinn followed them, neck tingling, but beheld nothing but empty dark.

"Pale lady," muttered Ruadhan

Beibhinn clutched his arm. No. No surely not...

Ruadhan shook himself suddenly, terrier like. Raising a chain weighted hand he passed it over his eyes. Then laid it on Beibhinn's arm.

"Oh. I must have slept." he said, as though coming to himself. But Beibhinn could hear a note of strain in his voice which was never there before. His grip tightened on her arm, but whether it was to  comfort her or him could not be guessed. For a moment there was silence. And the faint drip drip, now seemed like it might be the sound of footsteps slowly passing on the edge of hearing.

"Sionnachín," he said to her, with sudden flat frankness, "I think I have gone mad."

Béibhinn could but gape at him for a moment. "A madman would not say such," she said at last, "but what causes you to think so?"

"Because," said Ruadhan, his voice still flat, nothing like the bold, martial brother she knew, "My nightmares walk in front of my eyes."

Beibhinn glanced towards the door, a coldness creeping over her that was deeper than the chill of the cave. Her eyes turned back questioningly to Ruadhán. But in the depths of her mind came a suspicion that she knew what he referred to.

"I see a woman in my dreams," he said, "She wears  gown of grave cloths. Her skin is pale, pale like the stars."

"And her hair is banded with gold," whispered Beibhinn, "And her eyes are grey, and her voice...."