Maeve spun to glare at her, then back at me. “What happens to us when you’re done? What about our neighbors, our land? You don’t get to walk away from the world you leave behind.”
I felt the words slam into me. I tried to answer, but my tongue felt thick. “If we stay, we die. If not by English hands, then by hunger, or worse. You think I like it?”
She leaned in, voice a hiss. “And what of our souls? What happens when you rip us from the time God gave us? You think that’s better?”
Declan limped over, laying a gentle hand on Maeve’s arm. “Let him be,” he said. “He’s done what he can.”
She shook him off, but sat, glaring at the fire. Nora huddled closer to Catherine, who still said nothing. I stared into the dark, letting the guilt settle in my chest, heavy and cold.
Declan sat next to me, grunting as he lowered himself to the stone. For a while, we watched the fire together. I wanted to thank him for the rescue at the castle, for the healing, and for the map. Instead, I just stared at the smoke until my eyes stung.
“You know,” Declan said, voice low, “when I was a boy, I thought heroes were made by killing the right men.”
I glanced at him. “What changed your mind?”
He shrugged, the movement tight from the pain. “Killing’s easy. It’s the living with it that takes the work.” He watched the girls at the fire. “You think you’re saving her. But you can’t save someone who’s already given up on you.”
I felt the words bite, but I didn’t argue. He looked at me, real close, like a priest sizing up a confession.
“I can’t go with you, O’Toole,” Declan said. “Not to your tomorrow.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. I tried to process them, but he kept talking.
“My flock is here,” he said, gesturing at the wasteland. “Not in your time. These people need someone to bury their dead. Toforgive the last sin. Even if it’s only a handful left.” He looked at his leg. “This wound will fester. Maybe I’ll die in a week, maybe not. But this is where I belong. I can’t cross over. Not even if you ask.”
I didn’t know what to say. “You could start over. In the future.”
He laughed, a hollow sound. “Priests don’t start over. We just keep the faith until there’s nothing left.” He gripped my shoulder, strong even now. “You’re not a bad man, Sully. But you need to stop thinking the world is waiting for you to fix it.”
I nodded. He let go.
For a while, we sat in silence, just the fire, the wind, and the distant call of an owl hunting over the empty fields.
Maeve stood, stalked over to the edge of the clearing, and stared out into the dark. I caught her wiping at her eyes, quick and mean, before she turned back.
Catherine got up, too, but instead of joining me, she walked into the trees, slow and unsteady. I wanted to go after her, but something in me recoiled—the memory of her flinch, the way she hadn’t looked at me since the soldiers. I watched her disappear into the birch, her figure a ghost among the white trunks.
Nora came to my side, arms crossed over her chest. “She’s scared of you,” she said, not unkind. “We all are.”
I nodded. “That makes two of us.”
Nora sat at my feet, picking at the grass. “Why did you come back?” she asked.
I thought about it. “I wanted another chance. I wanted to do something right, just once.”
She nodded, as if she understood. “It hurts to be left behind.”
I almost laughed, but didn’t.
It was dark now, full dark, and the fire barely held back the night. I lay back on the rock, watching the moon carve the world into cold silver. I thought of the years in the future, the machines, the noise, the hum of things always just out of reach.I thought of how, even there, I’d never felt less alone than I did right now.
I must have dozed, because the next thing I heard was hoofbeats, coming fast. Declan jerked upright. Maeve was up in a flash, knife in hand. Nora scrambled to Catherine’s side. I rolled off the rock, crouched low, scanning for movement.
A horse burst into the clearing, foam at the mouth, the rider hunched and dark, face hidden by a battered cap. He pulled up hard, nearly falling off the saddle. His boots hit the ground with a squelch.
He looked at us—at me, at Catherine, at the ragged crew circled around the embers. His face was smeared with mud and blood. He carried a message in his hand, sealed with black wax.
He pointed at Catherine. “For you,” he said, voice hoarse. “From Kilbride.”