SEVEN

"Come back to me, lover."

He'd been staring out the window, mesmerized by the sun rising to shine against the new fallen snow, creating a sparkly white world. Just the night before, the ground had been brown and lifeless, the gnarled, leafless limbs of the trees reminiscent of a haunting place beyond death. Now, the snow had breathed vibrancy into the landscape. He thought it funny that he would associate winter with life, it was not often thought of in that way. But as he turned to gaze at the woman that called to him, he knew why he felt so alive.

"Brenna," he whispered, making his way back to the old bed. "You've wakened."

She sat up, holding the furs to her neck with one hand while rubbing the tiredness from her eyes with the other. He sat by her, feeling the warmth of her beneath the furs reach into his own body. He caught a glimpse of her shoulder – perfectly round and white. He leaned over and kissed it.

"Good morning to you, too, Tristan." She gently pulled his head up and covered his mouth with her own. Her kisses never failed to send him shudders of delight. When they broke free, her vivid green eyes stared him down in curiousity. "What was so interesting that you'd stand at the window for so long?"

"Nothing as beautiful as you." Tristan replied with a grin.

"I never tire of you saying things like that, but… really."

Tristan chuckled. "The snows have come. I was just admiring the landscape."

"Do we have enough wood for the fire?" she asked, always the practical one. He shrugged and then crawled over her, making sure to brush against her. As he lay down at her side, he felt a lump in the furs.

"What is this?"

"What?" Brenna reached under the furs and then laughed. "It's the cat."

"The cat? Really?" Tristan patted the lump. "You've traded me for the cat?"

Brenna smiled widely, her eyes crinkling up in delight. "Never." She lifted the blankets and seconds later the cat, a black and white ball of fur, lazily came trotting out, stretching forward on its paws so that its behind and tail rested far in the air.

"Shoo, kitty, shoo." Tristan picked up the cat and gently placed it on the floor beside the bed. It scrambled away, hungry probably. "Now I can take my place." He wriggled under the furs and snuggled close to Brenna, the heat of her bare skin enough to drive him over the edge.

"We need wood for the fire," she said, thwarting him in his efforts for a more pleasurable morning welcome.

"I'll use my magic to warm us," he slipped his hand downwards, warming it on purpose, emitting a gasp from Brenna's mouth.

"Can we be serious here, for just one moment…" she wriggled free of him, much to his annoyance. He tried again. "Maker, you are making this really hard…"

"That's what you do to me…" he whispered in her ear. He had her now, he knew. There would be no more talk of firewood for the next little while. Her laugher echoed through his mind until he realized he wasn't really there. It was only a memory. Something was drawing him away from it.

No, please, let me be.

…

He was no longer fevered, but his dreams brought him pain. Siofra watched helplessly as the planes of his face transformed from peaceful to troubled in only seconds. She placed her hand on his cheek, hoping that somewhere inside himself, Tristan would recognize it as a calming gesture, a gesture meant to bring peace to his mind. After a moment, he stilled and his features relaxed once again. If only he would awaken, she thought as she removed her hand.

She felt a cold breeze briefly enter into the aravel. Glancing over her shoulder, she viewed the lithe form of Anwen entering, holding a bundle of sorts to her chest.

"I am sorry for disturbing you… the women…" she held the bundle to Siofra, offering it to her. "…they asked me to give this to you."

Siofra accepted the bundle. As she unwrapped it, the smell of newly baked bread wafted upwards and the hunger she had been ignoring returned in full force, rumbling through her stomach almost painfully. She quickly wrapped it back up. How could she eat when her son could not? When he could not even open his eyes?

"Thank you, Anwen, but I cannot eat," Siofra explained when Anwen regarded her quizzically as she put the bundle of food to the side.

"They worry for you." Anwen said.

"It is not me they should worry for, but my son."

Anwen had no answer to that. She only lingered in the small space, her eyes wandering over the still form of Tristan, until she noticed Siofra's eyes upon her. Anwen quickly looked away, flustered it seemed. Siofra wondered what was so interesting about the ground beneath, for that was always where Anwen gazed. She knew the woman was shy, but there were other more interesting places to gaze upon.

"He is…" Anwen began tentatively. She managed to meet Siofra's eyes. "He really is the Hero?"

Siofra nodded, her gaze leaving Anwen's to linger onto her son. "His real name is Alim. When I gave him up, I thought it for the best. I thought he had died on the road somewhere, all alone. But the gods had a purpose for him and they kept him alive to end the Blight, to make a difference in this world. I refuse to believe that purpose is over."

"Do you think he would have fulfilled that purpose, had you not… given him up?" Anwen asked, a flicker of curiousity in her strange violet eyes.

Siofra sighed deeply. She wasn't really sure how to answer that question. She had often thought, or had often come to the conclusion that she had done the right thing. After all, he had ended a Blight. But she realized that it was her way also of shirking from the guilt that hung around her. She should have been there for him. She should have raised him, cared for him, loved him. He should not have grown up alone in the world. "Would that there could be a world in which I could have had both my sons by my side without putting the world in danger as a result."

A faint smile overcame Anwen. "You have them both by your side now."

For how long? "Until the next danger comes along, until adventure comes beckoning…" Siofra closed her eyes, exhaustion heavy in her lids. She had not slept since they had brought him here two days ago. Until he wakes and decides that this is not home…

"You should get some rest, lady." Anwen ventured quietly. "You should eat also. I would be honoured to watch over your son while you do…"

"You are kind to offer," Siofra said, "but I need to be here."

"I understand. I will sit with you if you wish…"

"You wouldn't rather sit with Ronan?" Siofra asked, noticing the slight blush creep upon Anwen's cheeks.

"I… I don't, I mean… he's gone off somewhere. Not that I wouldn't be here if he were here…" Anwen struggled to answer. Siofra smiled and then gestured for Anwen to take a seat, which she did swiftly. The girl was awfully sweet and obviously attracted to her son. She hoped Ronan would not do anything to hurt her, for it would be a shame for the clan to lose her.

"He's off brooding, no doubt." Siofra said. "He'll be back in no time at all, I am sure of it."

"You never worry for him? He seems to think that…" Anwen halted, closing her eyes in frustration. She probably hadn't meant to say that. Siofra was pained at the thought that Ronan would think she didn't care about him. It was almost too much to hear at the moment.

"It is a mother's duty to worry always for her children." Siofra said with a shrug. "Perhaps it doesn't seem so to him, but I probably worry about Ronan more than I do Tristan. He has changed much in the last few years. It is not easy for him to bear the loss of his hand. Nor was it easy for him to find out the truth about me…"

"What was he like before?" Anwen asked as she studied the floor boards to her side. The question almost seemed like an afterthought, like she was focused on something else.

"Is there something there more intriguing than my son?" Siofra asked.

Anwen reached over, grabbing something from the floor of the aravel. Much to Siofra's surprise, no blush had crept onto her face. Instead, Anwen held up a small leather pouch, blackened with soot. It dangled in the air, a mystery. "Something of Tristan's?" Anwen asked.

Siofra reached for it, Anwen letting it go into her hand. She wanted to open the pouch, to see what was inside, but she felt like she did not have that right. Why hadn't she noticed it before? She was pondering this, wondering what to do, when the cold winter air again reached inside the aravel. She put aside the pouch to find her husband and her son had entered the aravel.

Anwen scrambled up and excused herself with a whisper, muttering about it being too crowded now. She brushed past Ronan, who grinned and turned, about to follow her out, but was halted by the staying hand of his father.

"Ronan, give it to your mother." Silas commanded.

Ronan frowned, turned back inside the aravel and held out a small piece of the shrub. Siofra felt her eyes widen in disbelief. "Is that… felandaris?"

Ronan nodded as she took the piece from his hand, careful to avoid the thorns sticking out of the shoot. They had found it? They had gone out into danger to find it? She was grateful, yet she was surprised. That Silas, that Ronan would go out of their way to find something that might help her Tristan… she hoped they sensed how grateful she was because she could not form the words at the moment. Handing over the felandaris to Silas, a thankful smile crept upon her face, but it did not stop Ronan from turning away.

"Ronan, stay for a minute," she said, reaching out for him. He stopped, though he seemed reluctant to stay, impatient to be away. "I know you are angry with me, and you have every right to be. I never meant to hurt anyone by keeping all of these secrets." She couldn't help but glance at Silas, who sat in the corner, quietly preparing the felandaris antidote. He seemed to not be listening, but Siofra knew better than to think that. He heard everything, knew everything, and took pride in that, for it was his duty as Keeper. He'd known of Siofra's secret, had never said a word about it. She felt a stab of guilt that she did not love him the way he seemed to love her. He had never been her choice – he was her father's choice. Even so, he had given her Ronan – a ray of sunshine in the bleak years after she lost Rory, Alras, after she thought she lost Tristan forever. Now Ronan was anything but a ray of sunshine.

"Well guess what? You did hurt people." Ronan's voice intruded into her thoughts and she returned her gaze to him. He let out a sigh of frustration and then continued. "You know what? It doesn't matter anymore."

He crept toward the aravel's exit again and she stayed him again, this time placing a hand on his shoulder. "Da'mi, please stay. I want to make this right. I am sorry."

He hung his head low, his back still to her. "I forgive you. I am over it."

"Really?" she prodded.

"Really!" he replied, brushing her hand away and turning to stare at her, impatience in his eyes.

"I know how you are, keeping things inside of you." Siofra wrung her hands together in an effort to stop herself from reaching out to Ronan again. He clearly did not want to be touched and she did not want to anger him further. "You can talk to me."

"Well, I'm just like you then, aren't I?" he retorted, and then quickly continued, as if he were correcting what he just said. "With the keeping things inside…"

His words hurt her. He was so hard to comprehend at times. She was his mother, she should be able to know what was wrong. "You are not over it then…"

"I'm going."

"Wait!" this time she did reach for him, stilling him with a gentle hand. "There is a favour I would ask of you. You can refuse me if you like, but…"

"And there's a but." Ronan gazed upwards in annoyance before glancing questioningly towards his father in the corner, busy with the creation of the antidote, but surely listening to everything that was being said. "What is it?"

"You are the only one who knows where Brenna lives." Siofra paused, turning to glance at Tristan.

"Let me guess, you want me to fetch her?"

"Please, for his sake. He has done nothing to you. She has done nothing to you."

Ronan stared at Tristan for the longest moment and Siofra stood in anticipation, unable to breathe while her son contemplated her favour.

"Fine. If it will take me far away from here." Ronan said before spinning around and leaving the aravel so quickly it was almost as if he had never been there.

She closed her eyes in pain. She never meant to hurt Ronan. It was the last thing she ever wanted. She never should have kept everything from him. She should have told him the truth from the beginning. Then maybe, he wouldn't have resented Tristan so much, and maybe they could have… what? Been the best of friends? They were brothers, they shared her blood, but that didn't automatically guarantee a strong bond. She was foolish to think that. She just wished she could make Ronan understand that she did care for him, despite what he thought.

"It is ready." Silas said from his corner. "There is enough to make a tea, for a salve on his wound. If the gods are good, it will work."

She turned to him gratefully. "Ma serannas, Silas."