The Sun Sídhe

17 - Open Wounds

Fear was a strange thing. It dug its roots deep into the mind, gnawed at the senses, curled in the heart—unfamiliar, unwelcome, shameful. Its touch was ice, sapping Aeden of whatever energy he might've been able to gather. He numbly followed Morrigan and the others, his thoughts as indistinct as the mists of Natír they traversed.

The aes sídhe were not supposed to fear. It was humans that held such roiling, fickle sentiments; by all accounts, his kind was not so easily swayed by emotion. And that was true, in a way. Unlike mortals, death was not something he worried over. It was a mere inevitability at the end of a long life. Aeden knew this—he felt this—he fully expected to be killed eventually. He was well aware of the reckless path he trod.

Yet he'd found far worse things to dread. It took much of his self control to keep himself from scratching the bandages on his wrists. Bound tight as they were, they echoed the sensation of chains. He'd rather let his blood run freely than be reminded of that helplessness, the blind fear of being restrained as he'd been forever.

He busied himself with the distraction of movement, now: the soft ground beneath his feet, the air in his lungs, the smells of the plains and forests Morrigan led them across. Even the burning pain in his wrists and shoulder—he thought he might've broken something within it, but he could at least still move enough to conceal it—was enough to remind him that he was in the present, in the open, with nothing to hold him back.

Yet he was so very exhausted: they were only walking, the four of them, but his strength had yet to return. His breath was sticky and cold in his chest, and his muscles ached. It took a great deal of effort to keep his breathing even and his pace steady, pretending not to notice the occasional glances the others gave him.

His vulnerability wasn't something he could show again. It was bad enough that Maeve had seen him as he'd been: out of control, frantic, too injured to stand. She wasn't a fool. She'd seen how deeply his fear ran, and it couldn't be merely blamed on the Ándúr Nimh. None of it could. He'd felt its presence only as she burned it from him—a flicker of unrest too wild for even his taste—but it had been a small thing. Its absence changed nothing. The terror and rage was his own, and all he'd done was regain enough control over himself to conceal it. Grimacing, he picked at his bandages.

"Aeden."

He started as Maeve's hand closed around his forearm. Her amber eyes narrowed as she scrutinised him. Free of its usual braid, her hair tumbled haphazardly about her shoulders. The wind had whipped colour into her freckled cheeks, and her fingers were almost painfully warm. It was one of many moments in which she reminded him of the fire she wielded: simple and harsh, yet so very alive.

"Stop fiddling with the bandages," she ordered, dragging him into a quicker pace. He hadn't realised he'd begun to lag behind the others.

"Anything for you, Mae," he murmured. He matched her pace, sweat beginning to gather at the back of his neck. He'd seen humans grumble of the fatigue that followed illness: if this was it, he understood why they'd complain. But he couldn't let himself be outpaced by a woman with a limp.

"Stop saying that."

"Hm? Why?"

"Because we both know it's not true."

Aeden fell quiet, staring at her turned back. No, it's not. There's nothing tying me to you. It had occurred to him that he didn't even need to follow Maeve any longer, supplying his strength to a battle far beyond himself. But she'd saved him, along with Morri and Ronan. That placed him in their debt somewhat.

He also had nowhere else to go. It was that thought which brought the most fear. Shayne still breathed: he was a single-minded man, stupid and insane. If he recovered, then he'd only come after Aeden again with that mad notion of protection.