Pardoned on the Peak (Sequel to New World Sasanaichs)

Nine

“Lass, I dinna ken what ye’re about, but gimme that before ye hurt yerself.”

        Jamie reached out to gently pry his sgian dubh from the hand of his legal, brunette wife, his eyes widening when she took a quick step back. Even though that action put her physically outta reach, he damn well coulda used his magick to retrieve the small knife without hurting her–but he was too curiousta bother. Given the looks she was getting from everyone else–her own relatives and the Greys, in particular–everyone else was just as curious, not to mention a lil horrified.

        That horror only grew as Geneva turned the blade so its edge faced her right wrist, then gave it a quick yank across the unblemished flesh. Blood almost immediately welled up, drawing shocked cries and gasps as those closest to her tried to snatch the weapon from her grasp. She managed to dodge the grasping hands, which put her back within physical reach of her husband, whose eyes somehow widened even further when she grabbed his right arm. Exactly what she was about suddenly Dawned on him as the sgian dubh–which was now held securely in her right hand–was dragged across his own wrist, although not deeply enough to kill, as he quickly found out.

        “You are blood of my blood, and bone of my bone,” she said, keeping hold of the weapon as she grabbed his arm to press their fresh wounds together. “I give you my body, that we two might be one–I give you my Spirit, till our Life shall be done.”

        “What in–” Lord Dunsany started, cutting himself off with a grunt when an elbow jabbed sharply into his ribs.

        “Shut yer gob,” Róisín hissed. “’Cuz and this goes the way I suspect ’twill, ’tis more significant than ye might think at first.”

        A couple moments passed in dead Silence, and everyone watched in curious anticipation as they waited to see what she meant.

        “Is fuil dhiomsa sibhse, agus cnàimh dhiomsa,” the ginger man finally responded, his voice almost too soft to hear.

        A couple surprised gasps rang out as his free hand gently gripped the wrist pressed to his as he winced, his magick used to reopen the already-Healing wound.

        “Tha mi toirt cuirp dhomh, chum gu’m bitheamaid le chèile ’n-ar n-aon–tha mi toirt Spiorad dhuibh, gus an deanar ar beatha,” Jamie concluded.

        After a few moments, he let go of the brunette lass’ arm and pulled his own away, the still-bleeding cuts she’d inflicted on their wrists Healing right before everyone’s eyes. Like the one on his left wrist–which matched that of his ginger wife–the wound left a scar that was uncharacteristic of an Elf either Healing themselves, or being Healed by another. But he’d done that on purposeta show that he was hers and vice versa, considering she’d damn well have a scar, if he didn’t take pity and Heal it so that that wasn’t the case.

        “As I started to inquire a few moments ago, what in God’s Creation was that?” the eldest Lord queried.

        “The blood vow,” the ginger man answered. “’Tis a part of Scots handfastings and legal marriages–particularly, those of the Papist variety–alike.”

        “’Tis essentially the ultimate token of commitment,” Lachlan explained when their British guests looked confused. “Normally done before a couple headsta their marriage bed, ’tis the most sincere way of joining themselves in every way possible during the wedding ceremony.”

        “But we didna do such a thing during our wedding, and ye’ll recall,” Jamie chuckled, wiping the blood off his sgian dubh after retrieving it from his brunette wife. “I didna think ’twould go over well at the Time, as well as having personal reasons fer no Wishing to perform it.”

        “And what reason would that be?” Hal’s son, Benjamin asked curiously.