Wolf-Heart (The Mórrigan's Wolf, Part 1)

Chapter 7

Hardly any light shone through the windows the next time Faoladhean awoke, and she could tell from the constant murmur of voices beyond her door that it must be around dinner time. She sighed softly as she stared at the ceiling, feeling wrung out and exhausted but emotionally numb. Thank the gods for small kindnesses. Deciding she’d grown tired of being helpless, Faoladhean gritted her teeth and pushed herself upright, then slowly lowered her legs off the bed, wincing as every major muscle group in her body protested. Just as she was readying herself to push to her feet, a knock sounded from the door. It opened slowly to reveal a woman, this one clearly a Dane, with white paint on her face.

Faoladhean and the woman stared at each other in silence for a few heartbeats before the other woman broke the tension. She cleared her throat and hesitantly stepped into the room. “I was looking through the hoard, and…I thought these might…belong to you.” The woman spoke haltingly, “and…I thought you may want them back.” She walked to the bed and laid a large bundle on it beside Faoladhean. Her spear point was clearly visible poking out from within the tightly wrapped bundle.

Faoladhean hesitantly reached over and loosened the knot securing the bundle; inside was both her and Moireach’s leathers, bracers, and mail, and as Faoladhean lifted Moireach’s leather from the bundle, their thistle brooches lay nestled within the layers. She laid her hand over them and clutched her sister’s leather bracers to her chest, and a wave of tears began falling from Faoladhean’s eyes as her sister’s scent caught in her nose.

“Thank ye…” Faoladhean whispered hoarsely and looked through her tears at the woman, who nodded awkwardly before quickly retreating from the doorway.

It seemed that whoever had taken all of her possessions after the attack had bundled everything together from her and Moireach’s packs and bodies. An extra pair of trousers and short tunic, her riding cloak woven by her aunts, both Morireach’s and her own silver arm rings. The only things missing were the swords, shields, and seaxes. At least those are easily replaced…once I earn some silver. Then I will find my way back home…somehow...

With a newfound sense of resolve, Faoladhean carefully stood up. Her vision dimmed slightly as a wave of dizziness washed over her, but her determination held her upright until it passed. As she dressed in her tunic and trousers, she could feel the stitches on her belly pulling slightly; it was likely a good thing she wasn’t able to move as quickly as normal, or she’d likely regret it. Deciding to forgo her mail, Faoladhean carefully worked her leather cuirass on, then slung her spear holster over her shoulder. It was the most like herself she had felt since her first visit to Dunholm, and the comfort it gave her was indescribable. She refused to let herself think about how all of her clothing and armor hung loose on her frame as she sat back on the side of the bed and began to unplait her hair, gently detangling it with her fingers. She also did not want any thoughts to linger over how tender her scalp was, and just gave herself a simple three-strand braid that hung almost to her waist. She could coil it up later if she needed.

The momentary relief and comfort she found in having her possessions returned to her was quickly replaced by overwhelming fatigue, and Faoladhean struggled to pull the leather cuirass back off over her head. Another knock at the door came as Faoladhean became somewhat stuck in the leather armor, one arm sticking straight up over head. She froze, in a slight panic, the cuirass blocking her view of whoever was coming in the door.

A woman’s soft laugh drew closer to her, and suddenly, she was freed from the vest and face-to-face with Hild. The warrior nun attempted to hide the smile on her face and look stern, but failed terribly. “Brida was here, I see. You should still be resting, though. You are a warrior, hm?”

Faoladhean stared at the floor as Hild sat beside her on the bed. Faoladhean nodded slightly, afraid to trust her own voice in the fresh wash of grief as she thought, noe a very good one, obviously.