Three months later …
donnel went to Luana’s cairn at dawn. He walked alone, carrying a spray of heather, his boots crunching over the frozen ground. It was a still morning. The clear sky promised a fine, if cold, day ahead.
It was not long before Mid-Winter Fire although at least three more moons of chill weather stretched before them after that.
Donnel climbed the slope to the row of burial mounds and made his way to Luana’s cairn. It had been a while since he had visited this place, but it felt right to come here this morning—on the day that marked Luana’s death two winters earlier.
The year before he had stood here, in the same spot, filled with black rage and a need to wreak vengeance upon the world. Only twelve moons had passed, and yet he felt completely changed—and as such the world seemed different too.
Last year this row of cairns had been a depressing sight that had filled him with a bleak hopelessness. Now though, he felt just a gentle sadness, mingled with a feeling of peace. His father, Alpia, Maphan, and Luana—he stood here amongst the dead. They had let go of this world. They did not rage, grasp, and bicker like the living did.
Donnel moved close to Luana’s tomb and placed a hand on the icy stone. “I don’t suppose you thought to see me back here,” he murmured to her. “You probably guessed I’d get myself killed before now … and I almost did.” A soft smile curved his lips as he thought of how Luana used to tease him. Yet his memories of her were not quite as sharp as they had been. Her face was slightly out of focus, and he struggled at times to recall the sound of her voice.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I’m happy again, Lu,” he whispered, “but I don’t want that to mean I’ll forget you. I never want to do that.”
He clenched his fist against the stone, fighting against the knowledge that, with each passing year, his memories of Luana and their time together would slowly mist and dim. But that was the way of things—you could not hold onto the dead. They wanted you to let them go.
“Talor has your eyes,” he said after a long pause, “although I’m unhappy to report the lad has inherited my stubborn nature. I really hoped he was going to take after you.”
It was true—with each passing moon Talor had more and more to say for himself. He now adored Donnel although he did not like being thwarted. Just a day earlier, Donnel had been forced to reprimand him. Donnel had been about to leave for a day’s hunting with his brothers, and Talor had thrown a tantrum because he had wanted to join them. The boy’s rage had amused Galan and Tarl although in the end Donnel had been forced to sling Talor—now screaming with rage—over his shoulder and carry him home.
Donnel glanced down at the heather he still carried. Luana had loved this plant, had worn it in her hair at their handfasting. He stooped down and laid the herbs at the entrance to the cairn. When Talor was old enough to explain things to, he would bring his son here on this day. He had already told the lad much about Luana. He wanted her memory to live on through Talor.
As he straightened up he could have sworn he felt a light touch on his arm and a gentle caress upon his cheek. He tensed. There was no breeze this morning. What had touched him?
A sense of peace flooded over Donnel then, the sensation so powerful that his breathing stilled. Despite the cold morning and the glittering frost that covered the world, a gentle warmth soaked into his limbs. He knew then—without understanding how—that Luana was with him.
The sensation was fleeting, gone like a butterfly that settles upon a leaf for a moment before fluttering away, and yet he was sure of it.
His wife, who had been so cruelly ripped from him, had just given him her blessing to start afresh.
Donnel kissed the palm of his hand before laying it flat on the rock guarding the entrance to the cairn. “Be at peace in your long sleep,” he whispered. “You are remembered, sweet Luana.”
He left the burial mounds and made his way down the slope toward the fort. Up ahead, he spied plumes of smoke rising from the roofs of the roundhouses inside the walls and from the great broch itself. As the sun slipped over the edge of the hills to the east, the world around him sparkled, as did the flat surface of Loch Slapin.
Donnel walked home through the village, returning to the dwelling he now shared with Eithni. It looked vastly different to a few months earlier—for he had built another hut next to it and knocked out the wall dividing them. In the past moons, Eithni had extended the garden too, preparing beds for the spring. Donnel had built her a coop for fowl. The birds were already awake, pecking around on the frosty ground as Donnel walked up the path.
He opened the wattle door, his gaze settling upon the scene within.
Eithni sat beside the fire pit, frying oatcakes on the griddle. The sweet nutty aroma of baking wafted toward Donnel making his belly growl. Next to Eithni sat a small boy, his chubby hands coated with butter and honey as he plowed his way through a dish of oatcakes.
“Slow down, Talor,” Donnel greeted his son. “Save some for the rest of us.”
Eithni glanced over her shoulder, a smile spreading across her heart-shaped face. “There’s plenty for all,” she admonished him.
“You spoil the lad,” he replied, pretending to look cross when it was difficult not to smile. The sight of them sitting there in such easy companionship warmed his heart. Eithni had welcomed Talor into her life wholeheartedly, and the boy adored her.
Watching them this morning Donnel reflected on how fickle the gods were. They could be so cruel at times, and yet when you least expected it they could be benevolent. Happiness was fragile and fleeting. You could not take it for granted, not for an instant. With love came the risk of loss. He had not wanted to accept that with Luana, but he did now—and the realization was freeing.
Eithni flipped the oatcakes and glanced back at him once more. “Are you going to stand there for much longer?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “It’s freezing outside—you’re letting in a draft. Come in and pull up a stool. These are almost ready.”
Donnel smiled. He liked it when she was bossy. Eithni might have looked delicate and sweet, but he had soon learned this woman had a will of iron. It was one of the many things he loved about her.
“Aye, alright then.” Donnel stepped down into the living space and pulled the door closed behind him. “Talor, move over and make some space for me.”
The End
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