A/N: I'm back! Thanks for your patience; I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)
With each day that passed, Murtagh found his strength returning, albeit at an indolent pace. Bronwyn was very helpful in that respect; helping him to stand when he found it difficult; spending time with him to distract him from his melancholy. And within a week, he was able to rise from the bed of his own accord. His body felt so weak, but he soon found himself taking short walks outside of his little hut.
The maidservant—he never had caught her name—came daily to replace his linens and bring fresh food and water. When Bronwyn could get away, she would come see him as well. Mostly she came in the evening, as the sun made its descent to the horizon. She never really told him what duties called her away in the daytime, but he held himself back from prying.
In the middle of his second week in his enemies' country, she let him know it would be safe to go down the beach.
"The king has left Caton on business," she explained, putting some dried strips of meat and fruit on a plate and handing it to him. "He'll be in the western countryside for a few weeks, along with a vast majority of his military. It will be safe for you to go down to the beach, if you wish."
Murtagh watched her silently for a moment, trying to feel out if this was a trap. But there was nothing in her tone or manner that suggested he'd be in any danger. Besides, it would have been nothing for her to sell him out weeks ago, when she'd first found him. With every day that passed, he trusted Bronwyn more and more. And he found that he cherished the few moments they had with one another; looked forward to them, actually. In this strange land, away from his family and his wolf, she was a comforting presence that helped soothe the hurt in his heart.
"I would like that very much," he replied, giving her a small smile.
"We'll go after you eat then," she said, picking at her own food upon her plate. They ate in comfortable silence, and when they were finished, Bronwyn offered her arm to steady himself upon. He could walk well enough on his own, as long as he had the tall tree limb he'd found near the entrance to his hut. But dragging himself out of the bed was another story. For the hundredth time, he'd found himself grateful for the presence of the girl who'd saved him.
As they exited the hut, Murtagh looked about warily. As much as he trusted Bronwyn, there was always a chance she'd been followed, or her maid had betrayed them. But as he looked, and saw no sign of another living soul, he felt his shoulders relax and his breathing come a bit easier.
Bronwyn adjusted her pace to match his own as they walked, taking care not to pull ahead but keeping her distance at the same time. Murtagh pretended not to notice. He was not altogether sure himself the depth of his feelings concerning her. There was gratitude, to be sure, and friendliness... He dared not explore any further than that.
As they strolled along the shore, Murtagh felt his chest tightening at the silence between them. He stood everything to gain from her companionship and kindness, but what of her? What could he offer in return? He hated feeling useless, and he'd never felt more so than in the last fortnight. But what could he do? Until he was returned to his full strength, there was not much for him but to lay low in the hut, hoping a stray patrol didn't happen upon him.
Finally, he chanced an attempt at conversation. "What do you tell them," he began, "when you disappear?" He could feel her body tense up, though his eyes remained steadfastly forward.
"That I am gathering herbs," she replied carefully. "I am training to be a healer; they don't suspect anything."
"Your parents approve of your apprenticeship?" he asked, grasping at this small piece of information she'd yielded. Whenever they spoke, she tended to avoid any conversation about herself, or her family.
Silence pervaded again for a long moment, and he chanced a look over at her, only to see tears brimming in her eyes. "My mother is dead," she said quietly, "and my father is occupied with his own trade. He does not pay me any mind." She clamped her mouth in a thin line, her brow furrowed.
"I gather this doesn't bother you," he remarked. At that, she allowed herself a chuckle.
"No, it does not bother me in the slightest. And besides—" she turned her face toward him "—if I was not given the freedom I am allowed, I might never have found you." She offered him a small smile, sending his heart to fluttering.
"Then I am indebted to your father, it would seem." He'd expected at least a laugh or a smile, but was met with a frown. Bronwyn looked back towards the ocean, and heaved a labored sigh.
"I pray you never meet my father," she said quietly, almost that he could not hear her over the crashing of the waves. Murtagh wanted desperately to question her further about her life, but decided to drop the subject of her father and move on to something, hopefully, more neutral.
"Tell me about your wolf," he continued, hoping this subject would be less tense. "In Alagaësia, only the highest ranking nobles and clan leaders are allowed them. Is it the same in Oran?" She looked back over at him and shook her head slightly.
"No," she replied, "they are bought… for a handsome price. My…my grandfather bought mine for me, when I was young. Her name is Ùna."
"That's a beautiful name." Murtagh debated silently of whether to tell her about his own wolf and, by extension, the truth about his parentage. He'd kept his identity secret thus far, for fear of betrayal… but there was something unexplainable about the bond he felt with this woman. To owe her a life debt, and yet conceal something of that magnitude from her… Murtagh couldn't help feeling his father would be ashamed. "Bronwyn," he said quickly, coming to a stop and reaching out to grasp at her sleeve. She stopped as well and looked at him in concern.
"What is it?" she asked. The wind whipped her long hair about her face, and she quickly pushed it aside, drawing her shawl tighter about her shoulders.
"There is something I must tell you." He couldn't be sure, but he thought he might have seen her take a slight step back. "I have not been honest with you, and for that I am ashamed."
He glimpsed her lower lip begin to tremble. "You're frightening me," she said quietly, eyeing him warily.
"You once asked me which of the clans I hail from," he continued on, fighting against the knot tightening in his chest, "and I lied to you, Bronwyn. I was of the belief that you meant me harm, and I needed to protect my identity to protect myself."
"Then you do not belong to the Western Clans." It was not a question, and Murtagh could practically feel her trust slipping away.
"No, I do not," he said with a shake of his head.
"Then to which do you belong?"
Slowly, he drew in a breath and ran his hand through his hair, tugging at it slightly. "I…" He paused here, trying to form the words that threatened to spill from his mouth. "Truth be told, I don't really belong to any of them." She shot him a look of confusion, so he barreled on ahead. "The eight tribes rule themselves independently, but they ultimately answer to one man… my father."
Understanding dawned on her face, and she really did take a step back from him this time, drawing her arms closer to her chest. "Y-you… you are the king's son?" she asked breathlessly.
"Well, bastard son, but yes…" He tried to keep his tone light, but the look on her face made it increasingly difficult. She drew in her breath rapidly, eyes darting to look anywhere but at him.
The longer her silence stretched, the more Murtagh's worry grew. Finally, she said, "Then you are in greater danger here than I'd previously thought." Her eyes found his again. "Our king hates your father with a passion. If you were discovered…" She let the thought fade into silence; neither of them had to give voice to the horrors that would befall him.
"I'm sorry I lied to you," he said, chancing a hobbling step towards her. This time, she did not move away.
But her head fell as she drew further into herself. "Murtagh," she said quietly, "I—" All of a sudden, her head snapped up and she looked beyond him, to the path that led down from the cliffs. Murtagh followed her gaze and saw a beautiful, silver-coated wolf bounding towards them at a blistering pace. So this must be her direwolf…
She strode past him and met the wolf halfway to the cliffs. They conversed for a few moments, and then she turned back to Murtagh, fear apparent on her face. "We must go," she said quickly, grabbing him by the wrist. A light rain began to fall, and the air around them had grown cold.
"What is it?" he asked, limping as quickly as he could in the direction they'd come.
"Soldiers," she said quickly. "Headed this way." At that, he quickened his pace as much as he could. His mind flashed back to his earlier thoughts of betrayal... but he quickly pushed them aside. If Bronwyn meant him harm, she wouldn't be leading him away from danger at this very moment.
By the time they reached the door nestled in the cliff, the rain was falling in a torrent, soaking through his clothes and plastering his hair to his face. Bronwyn hurried him inside and then spoke a few words to her wolf. Presumably at her prompting, the beast turned and headed back to the cliff path.
"I've sent her to throw them off," Bronwyn said quietly, closing the door and lowering the plank that served as a makeshift lock. The two of them drew further into the room, eyes trained on the door. Minutes felt like hours as they stood there in complete silence, afraid to even breathe too loudly for fear of the sound travelling. The air seemed to grow heavy around them, and Murtagh could suddenly hear the faint beating of hooves upon the sand.
Subconsciously, Murtagh looped an arm around Bronwyn's waist, pulling her closer to him on instinct alone. The hoof beats drew closer, sounding more and more to his ears like a death march. He thought his heart was like to beat out of his chest when they stopped and he could hear the movement and sounds of the horses just beyond the door. Bronwyn's hand flew to her face, clamping over her mouth to stifle a gasp, and Murtagh tightened his grip around her waist.
"What's this here?" a gruff, male voice said beyond the door. They listened in taut fear as the sound of boots hitting the sand reached their ears.
"Some old storehouse," another soldier chimed in. "Probably nothing there but rotting food."
Murtagh wished desperately in this moment that he had his sword, or even a bow. But if his father had kept to tradition, Murtagh's sword would be hanging in the king's study over his fire, no use to anyone. Not that it would have mattered; in his current, weakened state, he doubted he'd be able to wield his sword effectively.
His heart stopped when the door rattled, the soldier on the other side pushing against it roughly. "Hmm," he grunted, "somethin' blockin' it."
"Oy, Barst, come away from there! Nothin' to worry about but—" The man's voice was cut off by the screaming of horses and men alike. A vicious snarling filled the area, accompanied by the running of feet.
"Get that beast away from the horses!" someone shouted. The man who'd been at the door retreated quickly at the chaos, and Murtagh felt safe enough to loose the breath he'd been holding. Bronwyn relaxed as well, drawing away from him slightly and keeping her eyes trained on the door.
After a few more moments, the shouting subsided and the patrol party moved on, not even realizing the prize they'd almost stumbled upon. The two hideouts remained silent until they could no longer hear the patrol, and even then, they kept quiet for a few minutes after that. When they were sure they were safe, Murtagh allowed himself to fall against the mattress, trying to calm his nerves and still his racing heart.
"Murtagh, I swear it— "
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "We were not discovered," he said quietly, "there is no harm done." Warily, she came up to him and knelt on the floor, placing a tentative hand over his own.
"I was certain, with the king away, you would be safe."
"They must have expanded their perimeter in his absence," Murtagh remarked, recalling his own training as Captain of the City Guard. "It isn't your fault; you didn't know." He chanced a look at her, and found her eyes trained on his own. There was something she wished to say; he could see it hanging on her lips, but stalled there by some unknown hesitation.
A shaky breath escaped her throat. "I have started upon a plan to get you home." It was not what he'd expected her to say, and he felt his heart jump into his throat at the thought of going home. How would he be received? And how would he even get there? As if she had read his thoughts, she said, "I have found a boat, not much larger than the one you arrived in. The journey from here to Alagaësia is short, so it will serve. As soon as I can find a way to bring it down here, I think it would be wise if you left."
For reasons he couldn't quite place, he made no response. Of course he wanted to go home—to return to his father alive and whole—and yet... And yet the sadness in Bronwyn's eyes spoke to the conflict within his own heart.
"Would your absence be noted tonight?" he suddenly blurted. She seemed taken aback, but shook her head all the same.
"No... no, it would not." She hesitated, waiting for him to speak his mind.
"With the patrol, it would not be safe for you to return home," he said, finally grasping her hand where it lay atop his own. "They will likely have recognized your wolf; if you're seen sneaking back into the city at this hour, it might raise suspicion."
She looked away from him, towards the door that was still barred against intruders. He thought she might have been conversing with her wolf, but he couldn't be sure. Finally, she looked back at him.
"You are right," she said quietly. "I'll go back in the morning, when it's safe." Murtagh felt some of the tension leave his body. She stood then, turning away from him and toward the supply basket her maid brought every day. She seemed to busy herself with sorting through the linens, and Murtagh continued to stare after her.
"I'll sleep on the hearthstone," he said quietly, gauging her reaction, "if you are—"
"No," she said quickly, turning back around to face him, "do not even think of it. You are still recovering... I will take the hearthstone." She came over to the mattress and took two of the animal skins, laying them on the hard floor in front of the empty hearth. Then she went back over to the table and took up a small, leather-bound book. "Shall I read to you?" she asked lightly. He didn't trust his own mouth not to release the many thoughts raging in his head, so he only nodded and laid back upon the straw mattress.
Her voice was soft as she began to read the poetry upon the pages, seeming to float in the air and soothe the tension from his shoulders. Every phrase, every inflection she placed on the words, served only to lull him further towards a dark and dreamless sleep. It seemed his soul was relieved at having told her the truth, for he hadn't felt this relaxed in... well, in many years.
A sudden wave of exhaustion swept over him, and his eyelids felt so heavy... Perhaps he might just rest them for a moment. As soon as he closed his eyes, a fog seemed to settle over him. He could still hear Bronwyn's voice, but she sounded muffled—far away, as though she were in another room. Part of him wanted to fight the sleep, if only to talk to Bronwyn a little more, but he was so tired...
Murtagh felt his breath even out, and then a hand was suddenly upon his face. He thought he might have heard a soft voice telling him to sleep—was it Bronwyn? He couldn't be sure... For years, his sleep had been void of any dreams, but as he drifted into the darkness, he found himself dreaming of sky blue eyes.
As soon as her spell had taken effect, Raina jerked her hand away from the man in front of her, stumbling back into the worktable and gripping the edge with shaky arms. She drew ragged breaths into her lungs, fighting for precious oxygen. But the air around her had grown heavy; closed in, as if the walls were like to suffocate her.
"What am I doing?" she whispered to herself, shaking her head quickly. The king's son... my father's sworn enemy... the king's son!
Raina, Ùna's voice cut through her thoughts sharply. You must calm yourself.
What am I going to do? she said desperately, trying to fight against her rising panic. If he is discovered... If I am discovered with him—!
That is not going to happen, Raina. She could hear the wolf snarling through their mental bond. When you return to the castle upon the morrow, we will find a way to bring the boat to the shore. And then we will send this boy home, and be done with it!
Raina's hands were still shaking, but her breath came a little easier to her chest now. I... I do not want him to leave, she whimpered pitifully. Besides Bridie... he's the only real friend I've ever had.
It does not matter, the wolf snapped. I do not say these things to hurt you, Raina. For your own protection, he must return to his home.
Against her will, a tear snaked its way down her cheek. She wiped it away hastily, but more were welling up behind it. I am torn, Ùna.
I know, little one. She sent feelings of comfort down the link, enveloping Raina in a warm calm. Her tears subsided after a time, and her arms ceased their shaking. Slowly, she curled up underneath the animal skins on the hearthstone, watching Murtagh rest peacefully under her spell.
In the morning, she would return to her father's castle, and devise a plan to send Murtagh back to his home. But right now... right now, all she could focus on was the pain in her chest and the aching in her heart.
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