Catlin sat on her bed surveying the items laid out before her. She aimlessly packed: folding, bundling, rolling, tying but her mind had wandered elsewhere... to earlier that day when Conor had held her face in his hands. She knew it was pointless. He was still in love with Claire-he was still in mourning. Catlin would never be anyone but a friend and a warrior. A hint of a melancholy smile touched her face. After all, she was happy. The girl who had lost her parents, her sister, her freedom had finally found a life. She was important, she mattered. Conor, Fergus, Tully, every person in the Sanctuary had given her their friendship, their love. They never pitied her - never looked down at her. If she never found love, she would still be content. Time had taught her that life was cruel. Time had warned her to be thankful for what she had. There was no reason to expect more, she was already more blessed than she had hoped or deserved to be.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear Fergus approach. He walked into her bedchamber and stood staring. A few moments went by, but the girl didn't notice the tall warrior.
"Catlin? Lass are you alright?"
She looked up suddenly, her eyes losing the misty, far off look of moments before. Her mouth hung open for a second.
"Fergus... I didn't hear you come in." She smiled up at the man.
He sat down at the edge of her bed, pushing aside the supplies. Fergus could be a brutal warrior, deadly in his skill and strength. Usually, though, he was about as brutal as a lamb. A booming baritone chuckle filled the silence.
"You're probably thinking about having to deal with Conor on a long trip... Better you than me." Fergus smiled at Catlin.
His eyes questioned hers with a measured stare. "So," he said conspiratorially, "What did you find out?"
Catlin smirked then turned away from the rugged face. Only one man in her whole life had been worthy of her total trust. Now, she felt as if she were betraying him.
"Fergus... I'm sure he's fine... we didn't even get a chance to talk before the riders came through."
The downward gaze was all Fergus needed to surmise the girl hadn't even asked him.
"You didn't ask him, did you?"
The question came out like an accusation. Fergus immediately regretted the tone. A flash of defensiveness, then a spark of anger lit her pale blue eyes.
"Fergus... I know he'd tell us if something were bothering him... He'll tell us when he's ready." She stood up resolutely and continued packing. "And I am not going to spy on him. He means too much to me."
Catlin couldn't catch herself before speaking the last thought aloud. Traitorous crimson lined her cheeks. She continued to busy herself with her work and didn't dare look at Fergus. The big man smiled. Over the past year it had become plainly evident to him that there were unspoken feelings between the archer and the prince. If it were that apparent to him, as thick skulled as he tended to be, why wasn't it obvious to those two? Ah, he thought, maybe this trip will clear the air. He stood up and clapped Cat lightly on the shoulder. She turned back and smiled at him as he left the room. Fergus had just stepped out the threshold when he turned and leaned back in.
"Catlin?"
She turned and faced him. His eyes darkened slightly and a look of seriousness clouded his face.
"Conor doesn't always remember that he's a leader... that he can't go taking foolish risks."
Fergus hesitated for a moment. Before he could finish the thought, Catlin's voice sounded with a determination and calm strength he had never heard before.
"I'll die to protect him."
Dusk had turned to a black and ominous night. Conor walked along a gentle stream in the woods near the Sanctuary's entrance. The temperature was dropping fast and he hugged his brown cloak closer around him. What am I doing out here? He couldn't seem to remember what he had been searching for so late at night, so far away from his bed. There was mist in the woods and the sounds of crickets were muffled. He heard, no, felt the approach of thundering hooves. He walked toward the sound. In a shallow valley clearing he saw Catlin. Bruises lined her cheeks. An arrow was imbedded in her shoulder. Blood streamed from cuts in her face. She stood surrounded on three sides. To her fourth a rocky path leading back to the woods. Conor urged his feet faster, but they were moving as if through mud. He drew his sword and locked his gaze on her, urging his legs still faster. Catlin let loose an arrow, toppling the only remaining archer in the guard. Conor slashed to his left, felling the centurion like a tree. Discarding her bow a metallic slither filled the night as Catlin drew her sword. Still moving closer - the prince slashed through guards as if they were ghosts. Not one attempted to fight back. 100 paces to her. Almost there. She finally turned and saw him. His eyes widened in horror as he saw how brutally hurt she was. She looked at him, her eyes gleaming with fire.
"Get back!" She yelled, gesturing toward their only escape to the East with a nod of her head.
50 paces. A guard approached quickly from the South. He ignored Conor who speared him in the side. Catlin's attention went back to Conor.
"Conor, go!" she commanded.
10 paces. Lead weights still bound his feet. Then he saw him. Pallid face. Wavy hair. Death. He stood right behind Catlin, pulling back with a long stick. Conor's mouth shaped the words but no sound escaped. Not even breath. 5 paces. Longinus thrust forward with the stick, sending it through Catlin's back. Her face twisted in a sudden violent grimace and her agonized scream filled the night. The force of Longinus' thrust sent the stick out through her stomach. Precious blood splattered across Conor's face. He looked at the object sticking out of her torso... it was the burnished black head of the Spear. The Spear he had destroyed. Catlin's face clouded with a hazy look as blood spilled from her lips. Longinus pulled the weapon out and pushed Catlin's body toward Conor. Still barely standing, she struggled forward and fell into him. His arms went around her wounded body and her head rested on his chest, limp and lifeless. He sank to the ground sobbing silently. He let loose a voiceless scream.
Conor sat up straight in his bed with a muffled cry. Shallow gasps escaped his mouth as he tried to control his breathing. The chill of the night had no influence on him: he was sweating from head to toe. Trying to shake the dream away, he got up and walked out into the crisp night air. It was just a dream. Catlin was fine. But the blood... he had felt it on his face. He had felt her lifeless body cradled against his own. His feet followed the familiar path to her chamber. He softly walked to her bedside and sat down. Catlin was still. A wave of nausea coursed through his stomach. She couldn't be dead. Hastily he reached down and stroked her cheek with his hand. She was warm. He then noticed her rhythmic breathing. She was just sleeping. His panicked heart started to quiet. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.
"Conor?" the slightly disoriented voice whispered.
His eyes sprang open to see her sitting up and questioning him with her eyes. There were dark circles under his soft brown eyes. His blonde curls were rumpled into tangled knots. His skin was pale and he was breathing shakily.
"Conor, are you alright?"
He gave her a half-hearted smile and tried to gain his composure.
"I'm fine... I... I didn't mean to wake you... Goodnight."
He stood up and started to leave. Catlin pulled back her covers and got up to follow him. She rested a hand on his bare shoulder and gently spun him round to face her. His skin was warm to the touch. Too warm. Sticky beads of perspiration clung to him.
"You're burning up," Catlin marveled as her hands wandered to his cheeks and forehead. She pulled him back to the bed. "Sit down," it was an order.
Disappearing into the darkened corner of the room, she soaked a tattered strip of cloth in her washing bowl. Conor heard the trickle of water as she wrung it out. The sound shocked him back into the dream. A vision. Catlin's blood pooling on the hardened earth. The hollow sound of dripping. Violently shrugging off the sensation he closed his eyes and let out another shaky breath. It had all seemed so real. The smell of the wet grass. The sight of her blood. The feel of her form as she fell lifelessly- No!
Without him noticing it, Catlin had returned to his side. Wordlessly, she pressed the cool cloth to his forehead and down his cheeks. Here he was, barging in on Catlin's sleep and she was consoling him, caring for him. He felt weak and foolish. Had his father ever been so scared so easily? Perhaps he was going crazy. Maybe he was just a raving lunatic. Conor placed his left hand over Catlin's right and pulled it away from his face. Slowly, his eyes opened.
"Catlin... I'm fine."
He tried to smile. Was he convincing her? Or himself? A measured stare studied his face.
Catlin recognized the hollow look in his eyes. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong... but she knew he wasn't going to tell her.
"Are you sure?" she offered as he stood up.
He turned back to face her and gently tucked some wayward strands of hair behind her ear.
"It was just a dream... I'll see you in the morning."
He touched her lightly on the shoulder, smiled and left. For a moment she contemplated following him, but thought better of it and stood inside the doorway, watching him leave. Conor walked several paces, then turned and looked back at her, as if expecting her not to be there. Blushing slightly, she smiled and waved at him. It was dark. She hoped he hadn't noticed the colouring of her cheeks.
Conor walked into the night. Hopefully she hadn't been able to tell how worried he was. This was Catlin, however, and she knew him too well. He cast a backward glance to her chamber and found her inquisitive eyes staring back at him. His face reddened as she waved. For a moment, he paused, smiling back at her. If he dreamt of her again, he hoped she would look as he had just seen her: smiling, happy, safe.
