With motions numbed by fatigue, he walked into the roundhouse. While it had some winter trash in the corner, the place seemed too clean for an abandoned roundhouse. He spied no holes in the thatch, nor any rotten places in the daub and wattle walls.
A whistling wind whipped through the open door and slammed it shut, making all of them jump. He turned to Tomnat. “Rest. I’ll take C-Conall and sit outside for a while. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. Not yet.”
He searched for Bran, but then remembered his beloved friend remained in Faerie, cared for by Grimnaugh. His heart ached for his friend, but the dog would be better off in the other world. With a few deep breaths to stave off the tears, he gathered wood for a small fire.
After he built the crackling hearthfire, he searched for other supplies he’d need. Grasses and fibers for making a new net, logs for carving into furniture and bowls, flat rocks for work surfaces. Tomnat still slept, but he’d fashioned a sling for his son to ride in on his back as he completed his tasks. The child slept, content to hug his back. Fingin had to smile every time the child tightened his grip.
Every now and then, he’d see something, like a rabbit warren, which brought Bran back to mind, and it would be a few moments before he could continue. Like any grief, the effects should lessen with time. However, it remained strong and raw for now. Odd how grief for losing his dog, his friend, his loyal companion, grew so much deeper than that of his own flesh and blood.
He’d mourned the loss of his brothers years ago when he first left home. They’d never been kind to him. He honored them as family but never counted them as friends. Still, it seemed odd not to feel more rage for their deaths. He had a score to settle with Bodach, though, regardless of his affection for his brothers.
Perhaps he should find another dog, someone to be a companion for him, someone to help protect Conall. He didn’t doubt Tomnat would be fierce enough for her own sake, but would a Fae mother be as strong a protection for her half-human children? He didn’t know.
Conall woke and began to fuss. He dropped the bag of stones he’d been carrying and swung the child around, holding him on his knee. He bounced a few times and cooed at the child, giving him a bright smile. His son echoed his smile with a gurgling laugh, which made him grin with delight.
The world fell away around him as he gazed into his son’s eyes. All the burdens and responsibilities of being a father crept upon his shoulders. He no longer lived just for himself, surviving day by day to eat and sleep. Now he had a family he must care for and support, teach and nurture, keep from all danger and despair. And if the Queen had been correct, Tomnat had another child coming.
He’d dreamt of having a family, with children at his feet and a small farm to support them. Somehow, though, he hadn’t imagined this. However, if his speech had returned, he would enjoy this odd new life for as long as he had it.
When he returned to the roundhouse with his latest load of stones, Tomnat had wakened. She held her arms out for Conall and fed the fussy child. This elicited another smile from Fingin, who set the stones along the edge of the roundhouse floor, to cut down on winter drafts.
Tomnat had said few words to him since the battle in Faerie. He wanted more than a silent wife. He wanted someone who would be a partner, someone to talk to. Fingin realized he must start any conversation. “We’ll have to take some t-t-time to make bowls and cups, but I think we can make this a c-cozy enough home.”
She glanced up as if surprised he spoke. “Why don’t you search through the packs? The Queen might have provided some items.”
He’d forgotten the packs. He knelt by the largest flat stone he’d found, one that he might craft into a table top, and emptied his pack on the surface.
Amongst packets of salt, flour, cured bacon, several carved bone spoons, and a set of lovely carved wooden bowls, he also found a small bronze cauldron and a leaf-shaped bronze knife. Another item peeked out from under the packet of bacon. He extracted the shiny object to examine it and caught his breath.
There, in his hands, lay the brooch. The intricately carved gold and silver brooch, with blood-red stones that his grandmother had gifted him so many winters ago. This same brooch she’d taken with her when she stole his voice. The same brooch he’d vowed to ask her for, but had to leave before he’d had a chance.
The same brooch that now grew so warm in his hands, he had to place it back on the stone.
Tomnat narrowed her eyes. “What in the name of Danú is that?”
“That, T-tomnat, is my legacy.”
* * *
Tomnat’s belly grew as the months passed. They’d emerged from Faerie in the height of autumn, and through the bitter winter, she’d grown more surly. Nothing Fingin did would cheer her spirit or convince her of his affection for her.
His energy came at a cost. Even the light tasks he used to love, like casting in the river several times a day, left him exhausted. With grudging generosity, Tomnat offered to help.
“If you only cast once a day, you won’t be as tired. I can speak to the fish.”
He rolled his eyes. “I c-c-can speak to the fish, too. Getting them t-to do what you ask is a different matter.”
She flashed him a knowing smile, almost mischievous. “Just watch.”
When he
