Moment Three: Light

It was a dream, but one of the greatest dreams he'd had in years. For the first time, Brendan wasn't dead or dying. His body wasn't being eaten by wolves, or beaten and bloody. He wasn't a slave in some land where no one knew how bright and inquisitive and talented he was. He was alive and grown, tall and strong and healthy, and clothed warmly in white. His blue eyes still sparkled with mischief and fun, but it was tempered with a sort of serenity. He smiled at Cellach, a smile devoid of accusation or cruelty. His hands closed around the old man's gently, suffusing the Abbot's icy fingers with warmth.

It was so real… But it was a dream. Even as Cellach stared at the man before him, he knew it couldn't be anything but a dream.

Still, the Abbot poured his heart out. He said everything he'd wanted to say to Brendan since the morning after the Viking attack. That Brendan had been right about everything, how Cellach had been wrong, how it was his fault, all his fault…

Not once did Brendan agree with him. Not once did that glorious dream descend into darkness. Instead, Brendan reminded the Abbot kindly that Aidan never really paid his skepticism much heed, and brought out the Book.

"The Book of Iona."

"The Book of Kells?"

It was a thing of beauty, a thing that could only exist in dreams. If he hadn't been sure it was a dream before, he knew now. There was no way anything so beautiful could exist. He'd broken down weeping at the sight, and waited to wake up, to have Tang shake him and ask why he was crying.

It never happened. Brendan gently took the book from him, closing it and whispering that Cellach needed to rest. Tang had gotten him settled, and as they both crept out, Cellach had glanced down and seen the white cat curled up at the foot of his bed.

He woke up to sunlight, the early morning beams making their way into the room. He sat up, vaguely surprised that Tang hadn't woken him. There was no cat at the foot of his bed. No indication that that beautiful memory was anything more than a dream that would, later that day, slip through his fingers like mist when he tried to remember.

Oh, he so desperately wanted to remember! The warmth of Brendan's hands, the timbre of his voice, the fact that he had been happy and there and so very alive.

But dreams weren't like nightmares. Happiness didn't linger; it flitted away like a moth, and soon Cellach wouldn't even remember it.

It should have made it easier, knowing that. But it only made it worse.

And then, he heard a small sound. So incredibly faint that, considering his age, it was a miracle he heard it at all. He looked to the side of his bed in time to see a large, fluffy white cat jump up and sit next to him. Her fey eyes, one green and one blue, blinked up at his stunned expression with what seemed like calm amusement.

What? She seemed to ask. Never seen a cat before?

Cellach reached out and touched her. She purred and rubbed into his skeletal hand, her skull small and positively delicate.

Where on earth had she come from? She looked like…

No. Impossible. It was a dream.

The door opened, and Cellach looked up, ready to question Brother Tang on this new arrival. His words caught painfully in his throat, however, when he saw that the man entering was not Brother Tang.

The man carrying the breakfast tray was tall and strong, with a red hair and beard, the same shade that Cellach's hair and beard had been so many years ago. His robes were white, but slightly discolored at the hem from travel, and his eyes were blue, with the same good humor and intelligence as…

As Eileen, his older sister, long dead. And the same as…

"Brendan?" Cellach croaked. The cat looked from the man petting her to her master.

"Good morning, Uncle." The man's smile was wide and cheerful. He didn't seem to notice his uncle's face as he turned his grin to the cat sitting in the old man's lap. "Good morning to you too, Pangur." The cat meowed a greeting.

"You should have been down earlier," Brendan continued, his eyes looking for a place to put the tray down. "The villagers were so shocked to see me. Some of them seemed to think I was some sort of ghost!" He laughed.

For Cellach, it was a shockingly wonderful sound. It was what broke his silence and made him sob.

Brendan turned sharply, staring at his uncle in shock. He put the tray down on the floor and rushed over to the bed, his hands covering his uncle's, his eyes wide and concerned.

"Uncle, are you alright?" He asked. Cellach shook his head.

"You're alive?" He gasped. "Good God, you're alive! But you can't be alive…"

Concern mixed with confusion on Brendan's face.

"Yes," the young man said. "You saw me yesterday. You knew that."

"That was a dream!" The Abbot rasped. "A dream! No, you were dead, or dragged off. I didn't know which was worse!" His hand reached up and touched his nephew's cheek, gripped his shoulder, verified that he was real. "You were gone, one way or another. And it was my fault! I locked you in that building, and it burned, and got overrun by Vikings. And the last thing you'd remember of me was my rage, my disappointment. But you weren't a disappointment, Brendan!" It was imperative that he knew that, one way or another. Cellach gripped the man's arm, staring into his stunned eyes. "You weren't! Even as I tried to hold you back, even as I tried to protect you, I marveled. I was proud. You were a remarkable boy, Brendan. An incredibly smart, talented boy…"

He felt the hands that gripped his own so tightly drift away. He sobbed, not wanting to look up and see nothing staring him in the face, mocking him, laughing at his weakness and insanity.

Then, he was pulled into a tight embrace. He opened his eyes and saw Brendan holding him, his shoulders shaking.

Both men laughed and sobbed as it finally sunk it for both of them.

They had not failed.

And they were not alone.