Page 91 of Queen of the Shadow

He snorted. “Well, as you already know, I don’t remember ever being a child, but I was a terrible boy—almost drove my mother mad before I was even ten.” He shook his head. “The power of a god, even diluted by mortal blood, is not something mortal mothers are equipped to handle.”

Scáthach nodded. “My father would probably agree with you and say it’s the same for a mortal man trying to raise the daughter of a goddess. I’m grateful for my mother and glad she relieved him of my”—she paused and her hazel eyes sparkled in the firelight—“precociousness.”

Cuchulainn chuckled and took another drink of mead. When he returned the skin to her, Scáthach was studying him. He lifted one brow questioningly.

“I was just thinking that I wished you’d had that,” she said.

“That?”

“The love of your divine parent.”

“Oh. Yes.” He sighed and nodded. “It’s something that was impossible for me to imagine before knowing you. Since coming to Dunscáith I’ve seen the reflection of Béfionn’s love in you—in the way you love your daughter, in the understanding you show for your students, in the compassion you just demonstrated for Cynwrig and Enniaum.” His smile did not fully reach his amber eyes. “Here in this place of truth I will admit that I would be a different man had Lugh been capable of loving me.” His brows shot up and when his smile widened, it was reflected in his eyes. “Ha! I spoke the truth! It is a lacking in my father and not in me!”

“Did you not understand that before now?”

“No, not truly. Especially not when I was a boy. I longed for Lugh’s approval and believed if I was strong enough, fast enough, a talented enough warrior, I could make him love me.” His gaze went to the crackling fire. “It wasn’t me. It was Lugh.”

“Yes, it was Lugh. It still is, Sentanta. You have always been enough even though your father doesn’t seem capable of acknowledging that.” With an effort, Scáthach refrained from saying more. It was not her place to convince Cuchulainn that he could change his fate. He knew he could, but knowing a thing and actually doing a thing were vastly different. Instead she yawned and stretched. “It’s so warm and quiet here in our little camp.”

“Sleep,” said Cuchulainn as he stood and retrieved her cloak from a nearby rock. He spread it over her. “I’ll keep watch.”

Scáthach took his hand and tugged gently. “Sit here beside me. I’m not quite ready to sleep and we need not keep watch here. The realm has shrouded us.” She gestured to the circle of fog around them. “It won’t allow any of our light or warmth to been seen; the Autumnal Realm will keep all spirits away from us.” She scooted over a little and rearranged the travel pack she leaned against, folding her cloak so that the two of them could share it like a pillow. She smiled as he leaned on it, sighing at the softness of the fur. “It’s warm enough we won’t need to use this as a blanket.”

“I agree.” They lay beside each other, their faces little more than a handbreadth apart.

Scáthach caught his gaze. “Tell me why you don’t sleep.”

He didn’t answer immediately and when he did, he spoke slowly, carefully crafting his words with truth. “My mind. It won’t quiet. Instead of allowing sleep, it...” His voice faded. He turned his head and his gaze skittered away from hers.

She touched his chin gently, returning his gaze to hers. “You can talk to me. You can tell me anything, especially the truth. Instead of allowing sleep, your mind thinks of what?”

He swallowed, drew in a long breath, and on the exhale said, “My death.”

Scáthach went very still. Her hand moved from his face to his chest, where she pressed her palm against his tunic, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath. “Tell me, Sentanta.”

“My mind imagines my death over and over and over,” he said in a rush. “All the different, gruesome ways. I’m not easy to kill, so it will be horrible. A burning. A dismembering. A disemboweling. A beheading.” Cuchulainn closed his eyes and shuddered. When he continued speaking, his words fired quickly in short bursts. “I’m fated to die young, so it must be soon. But what is soon?” Eyes still tightly closed, he shook his head. “Do I die in days? Months? Years? I can’t have many more years. Every time I try to sleep, my mind imagines. And guesses. And shows me possible deaths. Over and over and over and—”

“Sssh,” she murmured as her hand went from his chest to his head. Gently, she smoothed back his hair. Then she sat and began to trace circles over his temples. As his eyelids fluttered to open, Scáthach pressed her hand across them like a blindfold. “Don’t open your eyes. Don’t think of anything except my touch.” Scáthach’s fingers sank into his hair and she massaged his scalp. “Think only of my fingers against your skin.”

He drew in a deep, shaky breath, and when he released it, his body finally relaxed, sinking into the soft fur.

“There is only now,” she whispered to him. “Only this moment. There is no need to think of the past or of the future. Neither exists here. There is only you and me here in this place of death and truth.” Then she took her own advice. She didn’t consider the past. She didn’t think of the future. She bent and kissed him.

His breath caught. His body stilled.

Scáthach lifted her lips only a breath from his. “I should have asked first. May I kiss you?”

His eyes didn’t open, but his lips tilted up. “Yes.”

Her hands moved from his head to his neck and his broad, muscular shoulders, and back. With sensual, languid strokes, she caressed him as she explored his mouth. He tasted of sweet heather mead and desire. She teased his tongue with hers and nibbled his lip. Cuchulainn moaned low in his throat as she kissed the strong line of his jaw before she returned to press her lips to his.

The flame of passion began to burn deep within Scáthach. He was so strong and beautiful and he was giving himself completely to her. She broke their kiss, moving away briefly, intending to peel off her tunic and then his. She wanted to feel his skin against hers—wanted him closer. Wanted him inside her.

His eyes had not opened, but at her absence, his lips parted—perhaps to beg her to return, to kiss him again. Instead what escaped his mouth was a long, loud snore.

Scáthach stared down at Cuchulainn. She had never seen him so completely relaxed. It seemed his bones had turned liquid as he melted into the furs. He snored again, softly this time, and she had to clap her hand over her mouth to hold in her laughter.

Cuchulainn was asleep.