“Until now,” Brigit whispered, and did not bother to catch the old woman’s tear that dripped down her face. Anu and Brigit had been a match for anything, even in the end the Unmaker.
“Oh Mother,” wrapping her arms about herself, she cocooned around the pain. It was not a plea—it was an accusation. But the Goddess knew the unspoken rest of it. Why did you let her die? As always there was no answer. Brigit hated that above all.
And still it was not over. She levered herself up from the chair, feeling the creak of bones like any other elderly woman. No Fey understood why she had allowed her body to decay, thinking it part madness.
Old watery eyes, that had once been bright and much admired by mortal and immortal a like, stared into the rekindled flames, seeing that long dead face still cherished and loved within. “You know why, don’t you, Anu?” The dead Queen’s face smiled at her, full of acceptance. “It is for your memory dear sister—to show that I had not forgotten you, even if others have. How can I have youth when you are dust?”
The taste of betrayal was as fresh as it had been all that time ago. The other Fey may have been able to wipe their crimes from their minds, helped by the frivolous round of pleasures Auberon encouraged in his court, but the wrong still burned deep within Brigit’s heart. They had not stopped their queen from going to her doom.
Brigit’s assertion that their salvation was in the human realm was all that remained, and she clung to it with tenacity. It was not such a foolish idea, but none now lived who could remember the time when humanity and Fey had joined together against the Unmaker.
Turning over her wrist, she looked down at the most shocking thing of all, a scar on a Fey body. Running her finger over the pale ridge of skin bought back that moment.
“Stand firm sister,” Anu yelled through the howling wind of the void.
The human bards were already overcome, most were whipped screaming into the Shattered Realm, even as they cast the last of their Art into the narrowing doorway. Brigit’s eyes were burning, her body was tearing at the seams. Never before had she held so much power. Anu was discernible as a flame of light to her left.
Ahead the Unmaker was thrashing, a dreadful pit of darkness desperate to be free of the Shattered Realm before the doorway closed. It was the heart of chaos and destruction, set only on breaking all the Goddess had made. It had moved beyond mere balance, and would now destroy human and Fey once free.
“It is too strong,” Brigit called, feeling her Art beginning to wilt, “I cannot hold.”
“Then we die, little sister,” her voice full of sadness.
Love welled up inside her for Anu then; she would not give up. With a little cry, Brigit ran forward, streaming Art and tears, and threw herself towards the darkness. Strangely it was a moment of utter peace.
The Goddess was near then, nearer than that primal force of destruction. Her mother’s light touch was on them, a blessing perhaps, and then there was nothing but darkness.
“Little one,” Anu’s hand was cool on her forehead. Brigit was lifted, and the healing Art of her sister wrap around her. When her eyes were capable of opening, the Between was changed, once more the still expanse of mist and quiet.
“Brigit, it's done,” Anu said hugging her, “but both of us will wear the scars. The Unmaker has touched both of us, and we cannot heal his wounds.” Hers was the same as Brigit’s, a pale mark on the perfect flesh of her arm.
“I will wear mine proudly,” she replied, “For no other Fey has one, and we won ours with courage.”
“And love, dearest sister,” Anu hugged her again, tighter this time.
Chasing the Bard Page 9