Chapter 12: Saorla at the Well
After Saorla had given her last blessing in the Great Hall, she met with the Fair Sídhe to confer on battle strategy. She reinforced the incantations and spells that protected the Grove. After she had strengthened all protection spells, she went to the Sacred Well and spent the rest of the morning in silent prayer and meditation.
At the appointed time, Cathaír silently appeared at the Well. They looked into each other’s eyes and without words spoke to each other all of the love they felt for each other.
As they heard the soldiers breaking down the gate of the Sacred Grove, they knew the time had come. They could wait no longer.
Saorla pulled her small, jeweled dagger from her cloak and without a single word, plunged it deep into her belly. Crimson liquid bloomed on the front of her white linen tunic as blood poured from the self-inflicted wound. Within a few minutes, all color had drained from her face. Cathaír caught her in his arms as her body began to fall. He gently lowered her to the ground and rested her head on his thigh.
They said not a word. Cathaír simply stroked her lovely red locks and forced a wan smile to his lips as he looked into the emerald pools of her eyes. He pulled Saorla to him, bent his head, and touched his warm lips to her cool ones.
As the life drained from Saorla’s body, the spells and enchantments that protected the Grove faded too. Even the light began to change. It lost its soft quality and matched the harshness of the woods that surrounded the Sacred Grove. The air became cooler and the sun faded behind the gathering clouds.
The silence of the moment was broken as Saorla whispered her last word. “Sorcha.”
As the last breath passed from her lips, the golden torc loosened its grip around her arm and fell gently to the ground. Cathaír wanted to stay, to hold her and continue to stroke her hair. He wanted to plunge her dagger into his own chest to stop the ache that weighed heavy in his heart.
But he had made a sacred vow to his beloved. He knew what he must do.
He picked up the torc, still warm from her body, wrapped it in a linen cloth and hid it deep in the pocket inside his cloak. Cathaír gently lowered Saorla’s head to the ground, kissed her cold lips one last time then ran.
He ran as fast as he could run. He ran to the edge of the Grove, away from the Great Hall and the soldiers and Dughall. He ran and ran until he reached the edge of the Grove. He stopped to recite the spell required to lift the enchantment so he could get out of the tangle of vines and branches. But before he could recite the spell, he realized he didn’t need it anymore. After Saorla had departed, enchantments no longer protected the Grove.
Cathaír stepped out of the Grove and into a new world. It was a frightening world to Cathaír where there was no longer a link between his human world and the world of magick. The light was harsher, the air more acidic. Maybe it was, or maybe it was just his sorrow and anger that made the air he breathed taste like a bitter poison. He pulled his cloak over his head and tread out of that grove, never to return.
He slipped easily through the tangle of vines. He found his horse where he had left it. Cathaír rode as fast as his steed could take him. The wind whipped his hair and vines and branches cut his hands and face as he rode through the tangle.
As Cathaír rode, he heard the mournful cry of the Bian Sídhe. Her hideous screech cut through the air surrounding the Grove. Her cries only made him ride faster, away from the dead body of his love. Away from the woman that was the embodiment of the goddess on Earth. Away from the fallen Sacred Grove of Brighid.
He rode with a single-minded purpose. He must go to Sorcha.