But the ache in his heart at this moment was not about losing her, he realised. It was about losing Breanne.
She had made a wise choice not to witness the fight. But her absence was a chasm in his chest, an emptiness that filled him with doubts. He knew that he might never see her again, might never hold her. And it bothered him more than he’d ever imagined it would. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met. Brave and kind, she saw past his physical scars to the man he was inside. When he was with her, he felt as if he were the man he used to be.
Feann was donning leather armour, and his servant held a large wooden shield with an elaborately wrought-iron boss in the centre. The tangled iron reminded him of serpents, and Alarr was eager to begin the fight. At last, this was the moment he had anticipated, and he intended to win.
The clansmen and women of Killcobar were lined up in a circle, surrounding the fighting arena. Alarr approached, and Feann stared hard at him. ‘Where is Breanne?’
‘She had no desire to watch.’ He gripped his shield and took his position opposite Feann. She had not wanted anyone to know of her departure, but he was confident in her safety. Her mother’s guards would let nothing happen to her.
Feann reached for an iron helm. He held it a moment and asked, ‘What is it you hope to accomplish with this fight, Alarr?’
‘Justice,’ he answered. He knew that wounding Feann would not eradicate the past. It would not bring back his loved ones. But it would make him feel as if he’d done something to fight for them.
Feann’s face remained rigid and unyielding. ‘And I fight for Breanne’s honour. She deserved far better than you.’
Alarr did not argue with the man over that. It was why he had let Breanne go. Feann donned the helm, which covered his forehead and nose, leaving his eyes, cheeks, and mouth visible.
His brother offered him a helm of his own, but Alarr declined. He wanted nothing to hinder his view of the enemy.
He kept his shield up, his sword at the ready while Feann circled. The older man was wiry, his dark hair greying. A thin scar on his cheek had whitened over time. Alarr waited, never taking his eyes from the enemy.
Without warning, Feann struck, and Alarr deflected the blow with his shield, slicing his blade towards the king’s head. His enemy sidestepped, and the sword met only air. A slight smile tightened Feann’s mouth.
Once again Alarr charged forward and struck, only to come again at a different angle. The king kept circling him, slashing at all different points. He was trying to make him lose his balance.
It was a strategic tactic, but Alarr was careful to keep his footing. The longer he lasted, the more the king would tire.
‘For someone who wanted vengeance, you’re not fighting much,’ Feann taunted. ‘Are your legs bothering you?’
He countered by swinging his sword hard and slashing at his opponent. It felt good to fight, to unleash his raw frustration. Not only because of the wounds Feann had inflicted years ago, but also to avenge the deaths of Gilla and his father. Over and over, he swung. When his sword struck Feann’s shield, he let his mind go empty. The weapon became an extension of his arm, and he poured all his rage into the fight.
Feann renewed his attack, and this time, he used his shield to shove him back. Alarr stumbled, and the king swung his weapon lower. He dived to avoid the blade and rolled through the dirt. Alarr caught the flash of the weapon and raised his shield, scrambling to rise from the ground.
But then Feann’s sword plunged downwards. He tried to avoid the slice, but pain ripped through him as the blade met flesh.
Breanne dismounted from her horse and trudged towards her mother’s dwelling. She had ridden at a swift pace all morning and afternoon. Her body ached, but she was glad to have reached Dún Bolg. More than anything else, she wanted to fall asleep and forget about Alarr.
She pushed the door open, ducking into the small hut. ‘Treasa?’ she murmured. It was dark inside, save for the faint light of an oil lamp.
‘Breanne?’ Her mother rose and approached with a smile. ‘I never expected to see you. Are you all right? What happened to the Lochlannach with you?’
‘We decided to part ways,’ was all Breanne could say. Her heart was still battered from the loss of Alarr. The ache of loneliness weighed upon her, and she struggled to let him go.
Her mother came to embrace her. She gave no judgement, but only held her in sympathy. For a moment, it felt good to forget about the loss and take comfort in Treasa’s arms. The kindness made it hard to fight back the tears, but she did not want to reveal her feelings.
‘I am sorry,’ her mother murmured. ‘I know how you cared for him.’
I fell in love with him, she wanted to say, but didn’t.
‘It’s hard,’ was all she could manage.
‘Well, I am glad you came back to me,’ Treasa said, embracing her hard. ‘Are you hungry? Have you eaten?’
She was, but the thought of food turned her stomach. When her mother offered a piece of dense, fresh bread, Breanne took it. Though she didn’t truly want to eat, she tried a little, and it did seem to help.
‘I still would like you to visit Clonagh with me, if you will think about it,’ Treasa said. ‘You could see the place where you were born. There are some things that belonged to your father that he would want you to have.’
A sudden tightness caught her suspicions. ‘I thought you were in exile and were not allowed to leave.’
Treasa’s face softened in the lamplight.
