This is Where I Haunt You | Brigit & Cormac
Brigit did not remember deciding to come to Lorcan: she only remembered being on the road, the rain needling her face like thrown gravel and the wind tearing at her cloak as if it meant to strip it from her shoulders. Cassimir’s words rang in her ears: ... Cormac’s idea ... a sensible match ... Finn Calleary ...
She had made her peace, however thinly, with Eithne’s fate. She had swallowed that bitterness because Eithne had chosen it, because she had weighed the cost and said yes with open eyes. But Aoife? Aoife, whose fate was to be decided by her step-brother and another lord who had no claim upon her?
Brigit would never allow it.
She wanted nothing more than to throw all of her anger towards Cassimir, but even she knew better than that. Cassimir was reveling in his victory and would not give in so easily, but Cormac Calleary, she was certain, would. And as it seemed he was the one who had the audacity to even suggest the idea, it seemed only fitting that he would be the one to face her fury.
She would deal with Cassimir later.
Brigit rode straight through the gates of Lorcan without waiting to be announced, mud splattered up her skirts, hair half-fallen from its pins and plastered dark against her cheeks. A servant called after her; another reached as if to stop her, but Brigit did not slow. By the time she found Cormac, she was soaked through, boots leaving dark prints on polished stone, and her eyes bright with a temper that would have made even stronger men hesitate.
“What right do you think you have,” she demanded, voice cutting through the chamber before anyone could find their manners, “to decide the future of my sister?” Brigit did not bow. She did not wait for leave to speak. She stood before him like a storm, rainwater dripping from her sleeves to the floor. “You did not speak to Eithne. You did not speak to Aoife. You did not even think to ask whether she would consent. And yet you plan her life as if it meant nothing."
She laughed then, sharp and humorless, a sound that startled even her. “Finn Calleary,” she said, “Your brother may be charming, Lord Calleary, but charm does not make a cage any kinder. And Aoife is not yours to offer. I have just endured watching my eldest sister barter her own happiness for survival,” Brigit went on, “And I will not allow you to set the same trap for Aoife.” Her gaze locked onto his, unblinking. “You will dissolve this arrangement. Today. You will tell Finn it was a mistake, and you will tell Cassimir the same.”
For a moment she said nothing more. She realized, dimly, that she must look half-mad with her loose hair and torn cloak. Good, she thought, Let him be afraid.
“If Aoife is to marry,” Brigit finished, “it will be because she chose it, with full knowledge and a willing heart. Not because you decided it suited you.” She took a step closer, “This is not a request, Cormac Calleary. It is the last courtesy I will extend.”
She had come. Already, Cormac was trembling, cringing away. In this light, the shadows cast eerie flickerings over her blood-spattered face (it was only mud and shadows from her mussed hair, but the redness of the torch gave it an evil appearance), her crimson eyes gleaming with half-demonic light.
"Cassimir," he whisper-screamed. His only hope...was that he would arrive...on time...
Only moments ago, before being plunged into this ruinous nightmare, Cormac Calleary had been cheerily half-singing a tune, uh dumm uh dee uh dum-dee-duh, bringing tears to his own eyes with a soaring beauty of the resonant words. He'd always fancied himself a musical man, he was congratulating himself, but a poet, too? Yet it was there, wasn't it, both in the flourishes of every sound, but also in the tonally-relevant song-sounds (as he dubbed them) which he had so cleverly crafted to sing. He felt triumphant, smirking to himself as he considered how jealous everyone would be -- only pausing to remind himself he must not practice any of this before Aoife until after the wedding day. She was content, for now, with his little brother but -- musician that she was -- he was certain she would throw herself at him were she to hear him now! After all, who could resist his siren song?
Such pleasant conjectures, however, were suspended when the doors opened and a servant -- Cillian, he thought perhaps he was, with his black mop of hair -- bowed in to announce a Lady of Malconaire (in truth, Cormac did not listen very carefully -- he never did when mere servants were speaking).
She heard! thought Cormac, his eyes growing wide in trepidation. Somehow, she heard, and she has come to insist that I, and not Finn, weds her after all!
He stalked towards the door with dread but, pausing, a brilliance came over him and, deftly, he undid his cravat, replacing the downy plumes he'd previously worn with something a touch less obviously appealing. I'll not torment the poor, dear girl any more than needs must...
When he darted into the room, however, to find the young woman barreling into the room before him, if was Brigit he saw -- and not Aoife. I have broken her heart, he thought. She's come to steal me away for herself! Trembling, a nervous half-laughing whine escaped him. Yet, when she spoke, he found his heart thawing. She was here to defend Cassimir! She had heard of his appalling behavior, and wished to remind him that Cassimir was Aoife's lord and master -- and no one else!
Oh, poor dear child! he thought, sympathetically, tears springing to his eyes. To love him so tenderly, even still, when he has chosen another! And her own sister, no less! It was a most touching display. He clasped his hand over his heart. She was yet too wounded even to speak his name, yet it was in every breath she drew, he realized, and his heart bled for her. Pressing his hand to his mouth, he began to weep.
Yet, her next words, sinister in sound, and seemingly less about Cassimir served to confuse and frighten him, once again. What on earth was she talking about? Cormac chewed his lip, a small whimper escaping him. "Guards!" he screamed, hoarsely. Not a soul arrived. (He screamed for them rather often...and rather often, of late, he had found -- they had failed him. It was due solely to his own blinding heroism, truly, that he had survived the past two harrowing fortnights of his life.)
She came closer. Squeaking his fright, Cormac backed up. Something slammed into him. I've been stabbed, he thought, screeching the louder. He turned; found he'd bumped into a chair. Athletically, he vaulted behind it, smugly placing the sturdy wooden obstruction between them. Cormac grasped its back tightly, knuckles turning white.
"My lady," he began, clearing his throat and beginning with a tremulous voice. "I do not have the pleasure of understanding you. I know it is common in women to come to hysterics, and I do not fault you for it, but please, do be seated. Have something to drink."
It was passing strange. Cormac had finally done something wonderful in arranging this splendid match -- and no one seemed delighted for him. He'd expected to have palms thrown at his feet, the peoples of Malconaire and Hanthom and Lorcan all coming together to bring him priceless treasures in thanksgiving -- so far, only Aoife had reacted the way he'd expected, over-awed into silence. But this? But, she was jealous, of course, he realized. She must have known she couldn't possibly sway either Cassimir or himself with her dubious temperament -- she must have set her cap, then, at the third. Relief washed over him at the revelation.
"You--you wish to wed Finn? My lady -- I did not know! Why did you not say so! But your sister," he hissed, cowering behind the chair, concerned that his next words might elicit another burst of hysterical rage. "How shall we prevent Lady Aoife from hurling herself from the highest tower she can reach? It was all I could do, I swear! Cassimir is already spoken for and I know she would have preferred me next, but -- oh, you mustn't tell a soul, my lady, it is yet a very great secret but -- so am I! She looked so crestfallen when I intimated this to her -- I knew something must be done! What was I to do? Finn is my only brother! Had I another, I should offer you him, but...Lord Boyle, I believe, is seeking a wife!" he cried, jubilantly. Finn had told him that Fiona would gut him with a fish-knife if he wed her to him, so why not pass him along to the next lady in need? "I believe he had taken rather a fancy to my sister, but...perhaps he might be persuaded to take you, instead? You never know! Perhaps you might be the one to provide him with the heir he so desperately seeks!"
