Fyskar

Chapter 15

Eoin released Seonaid and Fearchar. His head throbbed behind his temples, and his stomach made to greet the back of his mouth. His hearing turned fuzzy, his vision tunnelling. He collapsed face-first onto the floor between the two. They looked down at him then to each other. Eoin ground his teeth with frustration and horror. That had been a terror he had not meant to revisit.

"Food?" Fearchar asked Seonaid. Eoin motioned with his hand in agreement. She nodded solemnly, extracting her skirts from beneath the leather figure. Standing up, she went about preparing a simple porridge. Something heavy on the stomach.

Fearchar sighed. It would not do to let Eoin lay about the floor. There was little enough walking room as it was. He dragged the physician up and deposited him on the bed. Eoin leaned against the wall, drawing in deep breaths. "Cummoen, Eoin, off with tha mask. Ye're nae goin' anywhere t'night." Fearchar unbuckled the straps. He peeled the leather off of sweating skin and tossed it onto the table, followed shortly by the discarded gloves. He fought with the brooch on the cape. It eventually came unpinned, the leather drooping lazily on Eoin's shoulders.

Seonaid shoved a bowl of porridge and a rough spoon in Eoin's hands, imploring him to eat. He brought the weak-smelling mush to his mouth and ate it without tasting. His mind wandered the hills of his memories numbly. He could barely fathom continuing the story through the night.

Eoin glanced to the door when Fearchar let himself out once more that day to retrieve peat turfs. The sun hung a scant inch past midafternoon. Wet grey-black clouds stood guard against the skyline. He washed down the porridge with a thin ale from the pitcher by the fire.

Setting aside the dishware, he motioned to Seonaid. She sat down on the bed frame next to him. I'm sorry for that. I don't like forcing my memories on people, forcing my will on you and your husband.

Seonaid stilled his hand at the bracers. "Whit's fur ye'll nae go past ye." She picked up the plates and took them back to the little tub she kept cleaning sands in.

"Feeling more alive, Eoin?" Fearchar asked as he gulped down his porridge. Eoin nodded slowly. Sleep would do him much good. Sharing too deep on exhaustion often led to fractured, uncontrolled memories and emotions, but he wanted to finish his story. The heavy snowfall would be the perfect cover for retrieving his sons' birthright, but he'd need to explain more to the husband and wife before Fearchar would help him.

"G'an, get yerself out'ta those fribbeties. Ye looked more comfortable in whatever the 'ell ye're wearin' earlier. Ah am nae pickin' ye carcass off'a floor again. Weigh as much as a seal." Fearchar motioned Eoin to his bags. Eoin thought for a moment on it. Fearchar's brogue thickened again. The doctor was losing focus. The handyman's accent always thickened the more exhausted Eoin was mentally, which made understanding his hired hand worse. He would feel better in the less confining garments, yes, but that meant having to get up.

Eoin pushed himself from the cot to find the floor with slow feet, the cloak falling into a soft heap on the bed. He made his way back to his pack and rummaged through it to pull out his trousers and shirt.

Eoin shucked himself out of his suit and jumped with the drag of a cool finger across his skin. "What are ye doin'?" He turned to Seonaid as she traced the long lines of his tattoos from his left hip up to his right shoulder. The doctor pulled his shirt in front of him as a shield. Fearchar watched the two, eyes half-lidded.

"What are these for?" She broke the touch with his clothes protectively in the way.

Eoin skittered away from her and quickly pulled on his pants and his shirt, carefully keeping out of touching distance from her. He looked back at Fearchar. I...um...I, he swallowed. Fearchar shrugged, approached his wife and pulled her into his embrace. She turned to him and kissed him on the cheek.