Luna Bleeding Heart

Chapter Nineteen

I quickly fetched the pack doctors while Tadhg watched over the unconscious Finna. They quickly escorted her to more comfortable accommodations and bade us to bed.

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Tadhg and I were simultaneously exhausted and wired. We kept each other company as we watched the last of the sunlight fall below the snowy horizon, with scarcely a word passed between us. But as the moon climbed higher in the sky, there was something I needed to do. Tadhg agreed to keep watch down the overgrown path while I took my time.

Great Aoibh, I don’t know what I’d do without him.

I take in a deep breath and kneel in front of Cillian’s grave, a sense of peace overtaking my aching bones. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe. The last time I was here was before I ever went to the Sanguine River dungeons…it feels like a lifetime ago.

I swallow hard. It’s only by a miracle that I’m still able to visit this grave. I should be dead, or worse, rabid. Instead, I can still mourn in peace.

“Hey, Ian,” I whisper softly, running a gloved hand against the snow-capped gravestone. “It’s been too long. Sorry about that…I’ve been a bit busy. You wouldn’t believe the month I’ve had.” I’m not sure what else to say. I don’t want to scare him with these horrific tales, as silly as that is. I suppose his wayward Wolf Spirit could be listening, anyways.

I fall silent, taking in the peace and sacredness of this moment. This is my one safe haven in the whole world. Here, hidden amongst the overgrown trees, thick snow, and sloping hills, I’m but a phantom among these forgotten bodies.

An intruder in my peaceful meditation snakes its way into the front of my mind. Sorcha’s grave is here, too, just a few paces down, nestled unceremoniously between other simple headstones. I suppose that’s one beautiful thing of this pack; status doesn’t lend you a pretty grave. Everyone dies the same, and so they are honored the same – without ceremony, without remembrance.

I sometimes wish I could forget my older sister. But every time I look in a damn mirror, her scar is always there to remind me of her. It’s hard for me to recall the happy memories of her, and how I used to look up to her. I wanted so badly to be just like her, and her compliments fed me more than meat ever could. Those memories feel foreign, like they belong to someone else.

I’m angry that this scar is the last thing we shared.

“Ahem—”

I spin around, blood pumping to my fingertips to sharpen my nails into claws—

“Master Eoin,” I sigh, swallowing my fear and giving him a curt bow. What’s he going to do? Will he report this transgression to the Luna? To Donnacha? My stomach shrivels at the thought.

“Relax, Your Highness,” Eoin reassures, “Mr. Blackshield let me through.”

Well, if Tadhg trusts that he won’t hurt me…

I force myself to take a breath, and I nod slowly. “Have you known? That I wander the grave sometimes?”

A warm chuckle rumbles from the back of Eoin’s throat. “I figured it out a while ago. I’ve raised hundreds of students from soft-pawed pups to warriors. I’ve learned how to read people well.” He approaches the gate but makes careful not to lean against it, lest he spread his scent on the metal. I reach to offer him some wolfsbane from my satchel, but he kindly refuses with a wave of his hand. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice my approach.”

It's only now that I realize my fingernails never shifted to claws. I’m again reminded of how weak I’ve been feeling, and I press an ice-cold finger against my temple. “I haven’t been well since I woke up from my…ailment.”

“I’m not surprised,” Eoin replies, his voice lowering to a fatherly tone of disapproval. I can’t help but shrink a little at the heated glare with which he pins me. “What were you thinking, Miss Graveheart?”

I feel exhausted having to talk about this again. I take another deep breath. “I…I knew the consequences of capture would be survivable at best…I wanted to spare myself, and the other wolves who were captured with me. I-I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You should have waited for rescue and proven yourself worthy in another way,” Master Eoin insists, the well-trained calmness in his voice far eerier than an outcry of anger.

“…I’m sorry,” I murmur, unsure of what else to say.

“Good. You should be,” he barks, his control slipping for only a moment before he sighs wearily. “Do you have any idea how dangerous the Mac Tíre Confach really is? Or did you read it in some dusty old library book and think it sounded like a fun time?”

I stammer. I knew what it was, yet I still wasn’t prepared. There’s nothing I can say, so I only hang my head in shame as he scolds me.

“What you did was far riskier than awaiting punishment from the Sanguine River – or our Luna. I understand your reasons, but you must know,” he steps closer, his glare unwavering, “your life has value too, my Princess.”

I suppress a snarl at his assumptions…and then his words sink in. Why have I been so reckless? So desperate to play the hero?

It won’t bring Cillian and Sorcha back, a voice says in my head. I can’t tell if it’s my own, or if it’s Saoradh. I slack defeatedly. A long, suffocating silence settles between us.

Master Eoin’s chuckle pulls me out of my nauseating discomfort. “You know, I used to think of Sorcha as my daughter,” he remarks a little too casually. Again, my anger flares. He has no right to speak of Sorcha, nor to call her his daughter. She was part of my family, and I bear her legacy on my face.

But…my curiosity gets the better of me. “Really?” I inquire.

He nods, the lines on his face deepening with sorrow. Suddenly, he looks terribly old. “When I was a young man, I fell deeply in love with a beautiful woman. Raven-dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a face full of freckles – like splatters of paint on a canvas. She had the loveliest voice, too. So deep and mysterious, like the sea beneath a storm. And the way she walked…I swear, even the blades of grass bowed before her to make way. Not a scar on her body, but she bore the wit of a rogue, and the scarcely-bottled squall of a seasoned warrior. And oh, her skill with a flute could send chills down even the Luna’s spine. She loved to play in the middle of storms…the lightning illuminating her face in jagged streaks, the wind lifting her dress like tattered sails, the thunder keeping time with her sepulchral melody… I was so sure she was a Spirit given flesh.

“We wedded just before the full moon in the middle of summer, and on that same night, we hunted til we were full, and we—well…”

He blushes slightly before clearing his throat. “She carried a babe soon after. Our lives took on a new meaning. She would play her flute for our unborn child every night. I even argued with her about it, saying that she’d give our child nightmares in the womb. But my protests fell on deaf ears, and soon I had no will to argue, for I was too entranced by her music.”

His tale drifts off into the night, his jaw working as his eyes grow haunted.

“…She died in childbirth. Our daughter, too. She’s on the other side of the grave, buried with her baby on her chest. I wandered as a grizzled man, until your sister saw my sorrow and kept me company. She’d sit with me for hours after her training sessions, trying to cheer me up or get me to talk. She wore me down overtime, and she never judged me. I…she made me smile so often. When she died, she took so much of me with her.” He nods firmly. “But she still inspires me to be better…to do better. And so, I try my best every day.” He smiles, and I’m suddenly aware of how tense my shoulders are. “I’m not trying to justify what she did to you, nor am I attempting to invalidate your feelings about her. But I thought, perhaps, it would help ease your mind, to hear of her heroics towards an old man.”

That does sound like the Sorcha I knew as a child. Always laughing, always playing, always so quick to spend time with the sad. I never understood how, but even the most heartbroken people seemed to heal in her presence.

I shake my head and fight back my welling emotions. “…Your wife and daughter – why don’t you visit them in secret?” I ask, though it’s hard to speak.

He nods thoughtfully. “Every bone in my body wants to. But if I’m caught, I risk losing my position as Dojo Master. And as mystical as it may sound, I do believe that training the next generations is my calling. I wouldn’t give it up for anything.”

Another silence settles over us before I inquire, “Master…why do you go against Pack Law? You encouraged us to cry, and to avenge the fallen...isn’t that insurrection?”

“Is it?” he challenges with a small laugh. “I dare say, some of the other students heard something entirely different. Perhaps in my speech, I encouraged them to fight even harder for their pack and Luna. To make the deaths of their friends and family a war cry to be stronger.” His eyes turn almost playful. “But you, in your anger and heartache, heard otherwise.”

“And what do you want for this pack?”

Eoin pauses before speaking, and when he does, every word is slow and measured. “Sorcha…saw my vision. I wasn’t yet able to convince her, but she nevertheless respected my ideals.”

“What vision was that?”

Eoin pauses, his gaze briefly flicking to the side, just to make certain that no one else was eavesdropping. “…I’m not bold like you. I cannot stand up to the Luna and the Pack laws so easily. But if I can influence the minds of younger generations, then I can incite change from within. Yes, I believe this pack’s archaic ways need to perish. But I cannot do it alone. This is why I don’t visit the grave, and this is why I mustn’t jeopardize my duties.”

My brow furrows. “Won’t a student eventually report you?”

Master Eoin pockets his hands and takes a deep breath. “Most likely. But when that happens, hopefully the damage will have already been sown in the minds of those who can encourage change.”

I cross my arms and smirk. “Perhaps you should take your own advice, Master.”

“Oh?”

I capture his eyes with mine and retort, “Your life has value too, you know.”

He bursts out in weathered laughter and rubs the back of his head. “Damn…well played, Your Highness. Well played.” He looks up to the moon and the stars, and his lips move in a wordless prayer before he starts back down the path. “Goodnight, Miss Graveheart.”

I can’t help but smile. “Goodnight, Master Eoin.”

As he disappears around the corner of snow-capped branches, I turn back and tread through the snow up to Sorcha’s headstone. I kneel there for a moment, thinking of what words to say, before simply settling my palm on the icy stone.

“Goodnight, sis.”