[COMPLETED] The Vixen and The Thief

Chapter 20

Conn gazed dully at the black earth, cradling his head in his hands and wishing he could just die. He felt ghastly. Undoubtably the wost póit he'd ever had. And yet, he didn't recall drinking...

Cautiously, he raised his head and looked around the clearing. Darkness clung to everything, the trees nightmare black about him. A few feet away a bundle of rags lay amid the leaves.

There had been a lady....the pain in his splitting skull admitted that much memory. A lady fair as an icicle...strange as white fire...

Conn shuddered, trying to shake off the clammy cold that clung to his skin. Suddenly he wanted to put as great a distance between himself and the dell as possible.

Beibhinn was right, he thought ruefully. Though what she was doing sleeping on the ground there was anyone's guess -

Startled, Conn forced his eyes to focus on the bundle of rags. Not just rags. A pale outflung hand...a tangle of curls...

"Béibhinn." Conn slurred, Why had she come to the fort? She had not been here earlier...

"Don't be - sleeping  on the damp - earth. Get chill." he said.

No response.

Slowly Con got up and walked over, placing his feet down very gently. He'd a strange certainty that if he put his feet down too quickly he'd jar his eyes from their sockets.

"Béibhinn," he whispered, giving the shoulder a shake. Still no response.

Fear gripped him. Rolling the form over, he looked upon a bloodless face, which was not the face of a sleeper.

"Aíí!" he yelped. Marbh? 

Oh no. She couldn't be - not - not dead. The Sídhe! They had taken her. Conn grasped his head, fury and grief fighting within it and threatening to break out through his eyes. 

Fool, he hissed at himself, go n-iosfaidh an chait thú! And still that will be too good for you. Beibhinn. Had he ever done any good to that family?

Picking up one of the limp hands he gave it a rub; as though dispelling a mite of cold could pay the price he owed.

He it was who had stayed in the fort, despite her warnings. Her death was on him. 

Conn sat in the silence on the leaves, mind empty. A faint twitch he felt in his fingers and thought it was his own heart. But no - he still had Beibhinn's frail wrist in his hand. Startled by sudden hope, Conn shifted his grasp. The twitch stopped. It wasn't his pulse - no - was it..?

Please God, he begged, someone whom he had neglected to speak with for many a year. Please - a Dhia - a Mhuire - do not let her die. Not by my stupidity -

Conn held the wrist again - yes! It was a heartbeat! Faint, but definitely there. He sat back on his heels, letting out a great breath. Not dead. Not dead. he repeated the wonderful words in his head.

Not dead. Yet. But how long before the heavy air of this place finished the job?

Out between the trees he saw the sky had paled in anticipation of dawn. It was clean out there. Fresh with the sweet breath of morning. Fine good that was if she couldn't walk there. Conn's fuzzy mind wrestled with the problem. But - he had an idea. An excellent idea.

Stooping, he picked up Beibhinn, light as a rush doll she was, and carried her out beyond the ring of trees onto the cold grey hillside.

Halfway down he found a tree stump, propped Beihinn against it, and sat down himself, drawing in great gasps of fresh air to clear his spinning head. Beibhinn hadn't stirred in all the time. Somehow, Conn was rather glad of this. He had no doubt that her pride would resent such a show of weakness.

His head grew clearer as he sat on the damp grass, watching the eastern sky. White and pink reaching out from behind the hills, catching passing clouds and making them glow. About him birds started singing, tentatively at first, then more and more, a great tumult of sound. Joyful. That was it. Cheerful and merry. What the lady's music had lacked.

Beibhnn still hadn't stirred. Conn began to grow worried.

He still had the little bag with the foodstuffs he had brought. There was some water in there too, if it hadnt leaked...It had not.

 Taking out the flask he drank some, and poured most of the remainder over Beibhinn's head. "Psssst!" he hissed, poking his foster-sisteer's shoulder.

For a long moment the girl remained motionless. Them, as though heavily weighted, her eyelids dragged open.

"Better?" grinned Conn.

Beibhinn blinked groggily at the pale sky for some time without reply. She was still very white-faced, but the alarming corpse-hue was fading.

"Pale lady," she mumbled at last. Suddenly her eyes snapped into focus - on something.

"Pale lady!" she snatched at Conn's arm with frantic grip, "Her!" she cried, face clouded with terror, still staring at something beyond them.

"She is gone," said Conn firmly, detaching Beibhinn's hand. "Gone. For good."

Beibhinn's face relaxed, bending into a smile. Then she started to laugh. Quietly at first, then more and more uproariously. Conn's own smile disappeared. That was not a natural laugh, with its high, grating ring. So he slapped her across the cheek.

Beibhinn sprang to her feet. Eyes blazing she turned on him and returned a stinging blow.

"Beitheach!" she shouted.

"No, no!" Conn cried, "Beibhinn, it is I! Conn!"

And then suddenly it was Beibhinn proper, beaming smiles, pink coming back into her haggard face.

"Conn!" she cried, and her voice was a mingle of laughter, normal laughter, sprung of joy; and perhaps - but no, she was hardly...crying? "I am so glad. I though Ailbhe would take you away."

"Yes, well, 'course I stayed," said Conn, shuffling his feet. That was her - the woman - Ailbhe. He remembered better now. And the headache. He had a strong feeling that Beibhinn had a great deal to do with both, but embarassment kept him from askng any questions. "'Maith agat," was all he said, after a long pause.

Beibhinn grinned, a spark of old mischief, "Next time," she said, "I believe you will listen to me."

Author's note:

I hereby give this the prize for the worst written chapter so far.

Sorry.

Go n-iosfaidh an chait thú:  May the cat eat you. (A curse)(A bizarre one at that, but there.)

'maith agat:  Abbreviation of Go raibh maith agat. Essentially 'thanks'.