12Chapter Four:
"My laird! A scouting report from the west route."
Padraig rises from the table, pushing away a plate of food he's hardly picked at. "What's the report, Soren?"
Hearing the rumble of his father's voice, Asa pokes his head out from underneath the table, where he's been playing around Padraig's—and everybody else's—feet.
Soren inclines his head respectfully before hurriedly reporting, "We met Lady Moraine and her men on the western road, laird, accompanied by several others, some from Clan O'Haig, and more we did not recognize. Some of them appeared to need medical assistance, so I left Lars there to offer what relief he could while I came straight back to report."
Padraig feels as if he's about to choke on his heart as it leaps into his throat. "Are they safe? How far out are they? Do we need to send riders?"
"They're moving slowly, but they're close, my laird. They should be here within the hour. Shall I inform the physician?"
"Aye, do that and then find Bjorn and Egil. They'll be riding out with me to meet them."
"Ah, my laird, if I might be so bold, there's really no reason to—"
Padraig silences the young man with a glare.
"Aye, my laird. Bjorn and Egil." Soren hurries away.
"Papa?" Asa tugs on the hem of Padraig's kilt, raising his arms to be picked up.
Sighing, Padraig lifts him by the back of his tiny kilt and tucks the bairn into the crook of an elbow. "Good news, laddie. Sounds like your mother's coming home tonight." He licks his thumb and absently rubs at a dried smudge of mashed beets on Asa's cheek. "Come on then. Let's find Nurse and see if she can't clean you up while I go bring your mother home."
"Mama!"
"Aye, little one. She's coming home."
This part of the road has become so familiar to Mora over the years that it feels as if she's already home, even as the last light fades from the sky. It won't be long now; two more bends in the road, then the bridge over the deep ravine where the river has cut its way through the mountain, and then the road will broaden and the keep will come into view—a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky, windows shining with warmth and light.
"Nearly there." Lars glances at her with a reassuring smile.
"Aye," she agrees with a smile of her own.
"I still can't believe you found dwarves up here in the mountains," he notes. "Laird Padraig's been grouchier than usual—everybody knows it's worry over you—but I can't imagine his reaction when you tell him everything that's happened."
Mora lets out a soft laugh, "Not even I can predict that." She feels a twinge of anxiety flutter in her chest. Padraig must be out of his mind with worry, and she didn't send so much as a message back. It will be good to see him again, to feel his arms around her, to inhale the warmth off his skin and the musky, pungent scent of perspiration, sword oil, and those strange cinnamon sticks he's chewed on ever since he discovered them on their brief foray into the flatlands a few years ago.
It's always this last stretch of the journey home that makes Mora ache for him the most, when she isn't distracted with purpose and she finally realizes how much she has missed him.
She absently massages her shoulder, wincing a little. The wound was never deep, and Jules' foul-smelling poultice has not only cured the poison, but kept infection at bay. In fact, all the wounded are showing marked improvement. Mora has high hopes that they will recover completely with a few days of rest once they reach the keep.
Glancing over her shoulder, she notices Baz hanging back, holding a whispered conversation with Tagrit. It's been at least two years since she's seen Tagrit, who went home to the hills and the O'Haig clan not long after the wedding. And then there's Baz. Baz, who ran to help Mora as soon as that wraith thing bit her, but refuses to talk to her now.
It's probably for the best, she tells herself.
"What's that ahead? On the bridge there," Doren's voice interrupts her thoughts.
"Riders," Lars replies, squinting into the distance.
Three large figures have stopped on the other side of the bridge, sitting astride massive steeds that stomp and chuff impatiently. As Mora and the others approach, one of the riders dismounts. It may be dark, but she'd recognize that silhouette anywhere: those great black horns, the bristly bearskin cloak, and of course the missing hand.
"Padraig!" she shouts, spurring her horse forward. As soon as she's near, she stops Nosey short and drops to her feet, closing the distance rapidly, but it's not a pleasant reunion that awaits her on the other side of that bridge.
"Where the hell have you been?" Padraig demands furiously. "I sent you off two weeks ago!"
Mora stops cold, the greeting hitting her like a slap to the face. Collecting herself, she summons a bit of bite to her voice and retorts coolly, "Well isn't this a nice homecoming? Just start shouting at me, will you?"
"Why didn't you send word?"
"I couldn't spare anyone. You have no idea what we've been through."
"I would if you'd bothered to send word," Padraig points out.
Mora looks at the two men behind Padraig, Bjorn and Egil still on their horses, pretending that they can't hear them. She can hear the rest of her own little caravan approaching from behind. "I don't want to do this now," she growls in warning.
"Fine. When shall we do it then? In another two weeks?"
Padraig's tone sets her off, and she shouts, "Look, I did what I thought was best!"
"Best would be sending word home that you're alive!"
She scoffs and whirls around. "I'm done here." Pulling herself back into the saddle, she turns to Varen, who has just ridden up, and snaps, "Varen, you tell him what happened. Maybe he'll listen to you."
With that, she spurs Nosey forward. Padraig catches the horse by the reins before Mora can pass, holding her there. They glare at each other in silence for what feels like an eternity before Padraig lets go of the reins, and Mora rides back to the keep alone.
"This is an unusual wound," Physician Senya notes as she treats Mora's shoulder.
"It was an unusual creature," Mora replies, closing her eyes and trying to concentrate on the warmth of her bath, the soothing hot water, and not the sting of Senya's needle in her skin.
"It seems to be healing well, at least. Have you had any other symptoms? Sleeplessness? Restlessness? Itching? Swelling?"
"All of that, and nightmares as well," she answers.
"Aye, well I've already heard the stories from the others that were wounded."
"Did they happen to mention—" Mora doesn't finish, interrupted as the door swings open to reveal Padraig. He doesn't enter; he simply stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame.
"The newcomers have settled in," he tells her. "Would've been nice to have a little more warning in advance."
"Are you really going to harp on that again?" Mora retorts irritably.
Padraig doesn't respond, waiting for Senya to finish stitching and bandaging Mora's shoulder before he pushes off of the doorjamb and comes nearer.
"Keep the wound dry and clean," Senya warns Mora as she leaves, hurrying out to avoid the building conflict.
"You could've been dead for all I knew," Padraig tells her as soon as the physician is gone. "Wraiths, Mora? What the fuck did you get yourself into?"
"Aye, well I'm not dead, if you've noticed, and I certainly didn't appreciate being dragged into a row in front of everyone else when all I was hoping for was a kiss and maybe a nice 'welcome home, I missed you.'"
Padraig snorts. "Forgive me for worrying. Shall I just ignore the fact that you seem to have forgotten that I exist and might want to know what's going on from time to time?"
"What is this really about?" Mora asks, rising from the tub and toweling herself off. "Go on. Get it off your chest."
"What part of 'I was worried you were dead' don't you understand?"
"I didn't have the time or the wherewithal to send a messenger, Padraig. I told you this already. I needed all the men I had to manage thirty dwarves and fight off bloodthirsty wraiths. But of course, poor you, having to wait for news, all warm and comfortable and safe."
"You don't get it, do you? My heart stops every time you walk through the gates, and I'm left wondering if this will be the time you don't come home."
"What does that mean?" she demands as she begins to dress. "You don't trust me to take care of myself, is that it? I'm not daft, Padraig! I'm not some reckless, irresponsible bumpkin!"
"The fact that you would even—" Padraig rages, his voice steadily increasing in volume. "It's not about recklessness, Mora! Things can happen that are beyond our control! That's how good warriors, skilled warriors, get killed!"
"How does sending you word help me not get killed?"
"It doesn't!" he explodes. "I just would've liked to know that you weren't already dead!"
"Why would you assume that I was dead in the first place?" Mora finishes dressing, straightening her tunic with a sharp tug. "I swear, you think I'm not capable of handling myself!"
Padraig crosses to her in two long strides and grabs her by the front of her tunic, lifting her off her feet and pushing her into the wall. "It's not about capabilities!" he roars.
Mora simply stares at him in frigid silence. Immediately he knows he's gone too far. "Put me down," she tells him quietly.
He sets her gently on her feet. She pulls on her boots, then grabs a cloak from the wardrobe and throws it around her shoulders. "If you need me, I'll be on the wall."
Some of the fight goes out of Padraig. "Mora, don't be daft. You need to rest."
"I'm too angry to rest," she retorts. "That's on you."
He throws his hand up in frustration. "Right, because everything is always somehow my fault."
She just slams the door behind her.
The northeast battlements are just as cold and unpleasant as they have always been, but that's what she likes about them. Nobody will come here to bother her, especially once she relieves the nightwatchman from his post, taking over. It may be the coldest, most unpleasant assignment on the wall, but it's solitary, and over the years it's become one of her favorite places to think, or in this case, to sulk.
She leans against the rampart, shivering. Why are her cloaks never quite warm enough? She should've brought the bearskin cloak Padraig gave her on the first midwinter they spent together, but she wasn't going to stand around searching through the wardrobe with him shouting at her.
Why the fuck should he care whether or not she sends messages back or not? Why can't he simply trust that she'll be fine? She's resourceful, intelligent, and she practices her swordsmanship every morning before dawn. Not to mention magic lessons with Mirros. And yet she still feels as though Padraig has no confidence in her abilities. He's always trying to protect her.
She sighs heavily. Maybe she shouldn't have been so hasty to come out here. It's a particularly chilly night, and she's already exhausted and still recovering. She hasn't been sleeping since the wraith attacked her. Jules tried to warn her about wraiths, but Mora let her confidence get the better of her. She'd slain a dragon, numerous Should Be, a witch. But that wraith…
She can still feel its needle-like teeth buried in her shoulder, as keenly as if they're there now, poison coursing through her blood, dredging up overwhelming and irrational fear. That's what disturbs her the most. The fear that overcame her as soon as that creature's fangs sank into her flesh was no ordinary fear. It was as if the monster had caught her on the edge of death, hanging over the abyss and staring down into its terrible maw and held her there, frozen at the brink, unable to feel anything but terror.
The thin breeze blows straight through her clothes, and she shivers. These are not thoughts to be dwelling on alone and in the dark. She may be irritated at Padraig, but she still wishes he were here. He always knows what to say, and when not to say anything and simply hold her. Her safe place within the circumference of his arms.
For some reason, she finds her thoughts drifting to their wedding night—a wedding she didn't even want to have. Not that she was unhappy with Padraig, quite the opposite; it simply felt unnecessary, a decision based on pleasing everybody else, fulfilling the wishes of her dead father.
Her heart still hurts a little every time she thinks of him. It was worse that night, though, when she should have been celebrating, enjoying the wedding feast, stomping across the hall in some semblance of a dance with her new husband, the man she loved, surrounded by family and friends who loved her.
But all she could think about was how happy her father would've been. He'd have laughed at Baldric and Duncan's inappropriate duet about all the complaints a marriage bed would have if it could speak; he likely would've challenged Rikker to a drinking match and suffered a terrible defeat; and then he'd have snatched Mora's mother in his arms and pulled her into a rowdy yet somehow still romantic dance.
But he wasn't there, and it was hard to imagine he'd even be aware of what was happening, wherever he might be, if he was anywhere at all anymore. Instead, Mora swore she could hear a hole in the applause and laughter that Baldric and Duncan earned with their song, a silence the same size and shape of Brian O'Haig. And Doren challenged Rikker to a drinking match instead and drank himself into a stupor and had to return to the barracks to be attended by the physician. And Mora's mother was left to her own devices, clucking and tutting about the sad state of the finger foods, rolling her eyes at the giants' rough and tumble antics, complaining about the darkness of the hall, the smoke from the torches and candles, adjusting Mora's dress every time she passed, licking her thumb and trying to smooth down her left eyebrow—the one that hadn't ever quite managed to grow back entirely, thanks to the dragon's fire.
Finally, uncomfortable in her dress, irritated by her mother, and overwhelmed by sorrow she hadn't expected on what was supposed to be a night of celebration, Mora ducked out of the festivities. It wasn't hard, despite the fact that as the bride she was technically supposed to be the center of attention. She'd always had a particular skill for disappearing from crowds.
Somehow she found herself up on the northeast battlements, shivering in her stiff, heavy dress, staring up at the aurora in the night sky, wishing she could believe that the filaments of green and pink light meant that her father was there and aware of her.
"I thought I saw you creeping toward the door." The voice made her jump.
She turned to find Padraig standing at the top of the stairs, fiddling with the sleeves of the richly embroidered tunic her mother had somehow cajoled—blackmailed?—him into wearing. It seemed she wasn't the only uncomfortable one.
"I couldn't stand it any longer," she answered, leaning into him as he approached and wrapped his arms around her.
"What is it, my love? Have you decided you hate marriage already?" he teased.
"No," she let out a weak laugh. "It's not that. I just didn't expect I'd miss my father so much. And, on top of that, this dress is squeezing the life out of me. I've been getting by on half-breaths all night. And if I have to listen to one more complaint from my mother, I think I'll—" She didn't finish, her fists clenched in anger. Sighing heavily, she looked up at Padraig and added, "I'm just tired."
He smiled gently. "Well, I can help with the dress, at least." Before she could say anything, he grabbed the back panel of her bodice and yanked sharply.
Thread ripped and beads scattered onto the stone battlements, and suddenly Mora had to hold the bodice to her chest or risk baring herself to the elements.
"Thanks for that," she retorted dryly, trying to be indignant, but the proud look on Padraig's face dissolved any shred of dignity she had left, and she laughed instead, joined by his amused rumble.
"Looks like we can't go back now," she noted with a wry smile.
"I'm sure they'll assume we've already retired for the night. Come." He wound his thick fingers through hers. "I think they can celebrate without us."
"Thank you," Mora told him as they walked along the wall, back toward the keep.
"For what, my love?"
"For looking for me. For fixing this ridiculous dress." She looked up at him. "For understanding."
He squeezed her hand in his and tugged her close. "Always, my love."
Back in the present, Mora sighs. It's cold and dark, just like her wedding night, except she's alone now. Everything has gone quiet, but it'll still be hours before daylight. She's not quite as angry anymore, mostly just sad and sorry, wishing she hadn't been so hardheaded. It's difficult not to get that way, though, especially when Padraig is just as stubborn and prone to shouting.
She shivers again. What she wouldn't give for her bearskin cloak, or, better yet, Padraig's warm embrace. But she doubts that'll happen. Not tonight. She really must have worried him to get him that worked up.
Mora considers fetching the cloak herself, but she can't bring herself to abandon her post, even though she'll probably just spend the rest of the night staring at the empty span of the mountain's face. It would be irresponsible, and to be honest, she feels as if she almost deserves to suffer at least a little.
She hears footsteps behind her, heavy and slow. She doesn't turn around, afraid to hope. It's probably just Wulf making his rounds, and she really doesn't feel like talking to the grouchy old miser.
A heavy cloak suddenly drops onto her shoulders, already warm from use. Arms steal around her waist, and Padraig's chin drops heavily to the crown of her head.
"I missed you," he whispers.
The warmth in his voice burns the vestiges of her anger away. She turns to him and buries her face in his chest.
"I missed you too, Padraig," she whispers with fierce emotion. "I'm sorry, I should've sent word ahead. Everything happened so quickly; I didn't even think you might be worried…"
He just holds her. "I'm sorry too, my love. I'm just glad you're back."
She stands in his embrace, enjoying the feeling of reconciliation for a moment, when it's hard to even remember why they were angry, just feeling stupid and apologetic and relieved all at once. After a few moments, she pulls back and looks up at him. "I have so much to tell you. You'll never believe it; it's like something out of a nightmare."
"Come to bed," he invites her, taking her hand in his. "You can tell me all about it over a sweaty, heartfelt apology fuck."
Mora laughs a little. "There's nothing I'd like more, my love, but I can't leave. I sent Regg away already. I figured as long as I was here, he might as well get some sleep."
"Well bring him back," Padraig growls.
"I'm not going to do that to the poor man. He deserves the rest."
He lets out a low rumble of a sigh.
"You can go if you want," she suggests. "There's no reason you have to suffer too."
"I think I'd suffer more, knowing my wife was finally home and I was leaving her alone on the nightwatch without so much as a kiss."
"You could kiss me now."
"Oh, I intend to." He cups her face in his hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb before bending and capturing her mouth in a gentle kiss. Mora has missed his kisses, those smiling lips, the teasing teeth, and a tongue that knows how to appreciate her without words.
They stand there together for a long time in silence, both looking out over the mountains.
"You once told me this was no place for a woman," she notes.
"That was before I knew what kind of woman you were."
"That I'm no delicate flower?"
He laughs. "That's right. You grow wherever you're planted. Even where you're not welcome. You're a weed."
"Hey!" she elbows him, but she's laughing too.
Grinning, he squeezes her hand in his. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
She quietly enjoys his presence, leaning into him, running her hands up and down his arms and over his bare chest. The big idiot has goosebumps. He's good at hiding his shivering, but she knows better.
"Here. Take this." She shrugs out of the cloak. He tries to protest, but she overrules him and presses it into his hand before squeezing her way between him and the ramparts. "Now hold me."
"Yes, my love," he murmurs with a smile, wrapping his arms and the edges of the cloak around her.
They spend the rest of the watch like that, shifting slightly every so often just to keep the blood moving. With Padraig wrapped around her to keep her warm, Mora tells him everything about the dwarves, the wraiths, Baz and her soldiers fleeing from Hadrig's land.
"Something is coming," she whispers. "I can feel it."
Padraig strokes her hair gently, teasing the wispy strands that stick out from between the burn scars on the side of her head, winding them around his fingers. "Then we'll face it together," he murmurs.
It seems so much less daunting with Padraig there beside her. But also a small part of her wonders if he'd be so confident if he'd seen what she'd seen. She stays silent, though. No reason to start another fight.
Finally relief comes just before sunrise, and they walk down the wall, stiff and sore and tired. Padraig peers up at the sky, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "You know," he muses. "We still have a few minutes before dawn. If we hurry, we might be able to squeeze in that apology fuck before Asa comes to wake us."
Mora grins up at him. "I'll race you."
She's halfway down the stairs before he knows it, but he's fast for a man of his size. He catches up quickly and snatches her by the waist, hoisting her over his shoulder and carrying her the rest of the way.
As soon as he deposits her on the bed and collapses beside her, they trade a few warm kisses, each one a little shorter than the last, before Mora touches his face and whispers, "You know what would be even better than fucking?"
"Mm, what's that?"
"Sleep."
Smiling gently, Padraig presses a kiss to her forehead and wraps her up in her favorite rabbit-fur blanket. "Sleep then, my love." He pushes her hair out of her face and then rises to his feet.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to keep our son out of your hair for a few hours," he replies as he crosses the room.
"Gods, that really is better than fucking."
Padraig chuckles. "I love you too."