by Candace Sams
Something in his expression was so sweet. It was as if the last of the horrible weight he carried fell completely away. Kathy threw her arms around his neck and clung tightly to him. He lowered his head and kissed her deeply. Then, she pushed away from him and began to undress. “If these people can find a way, through all their fear, to celebrate life, then who am I to judge?"
For the thousandth time, he was reminded of her intelligence and tolerance. When she was undressed, he led her into the firelight and they joined the others. It was, as she said, a celebration of life. A way to deal with the sorrows of loss and tragedy. Nothing sordid or vulgar. In nine months, Tearach believed a great many new lives would spring from this night. Where there was life, there was hope. But hope had really begun for him when he kidnapped a captivating woman from the outside world and brought her into one of myth and magic. Forever was a word he cherished, because Kathy would be there with him.
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Shayla watched as Tearach took Kathy into the crowd and disappeared. Their handfasting would be a special occasion, marked by great celebration and happiness, as it should be. In the years to come, the Goblin race would know a great revival, and Tearach would be remembered as their greatest leader. The stars had forecast all this and more.
She turned away from the revelers and looked up into a window of the castle. A lone figure stood there, unable or unwilling to join the festivities. His life was shattered. Even from this distance, she could feel his pain and guilt, though the feelings were misplaced and unwarranted. Even those he loved had been unable to breach the wall he'd constructed around his heart. It would take a great deal of patience to bring him back to life. But mending hearts and souls were her specialty. His case would be a challenge. He'd done so much for others. Now, it would be his turn to have someone do for him. He was a proud warrior and would resent the help, but she meant to give it.
Gawain saw the Sorceress of the Ancients look up. The light in his room was out, but he knew she still sensed his presence. He slowly backed away from the window. Those who joined in the celebration couldn't begin to comprehend the hard months ahead. Shayla was allowing this night of merriment, before things became desperate, to soften the blow that the Order's financial losses would ultimately bring. All because he hadn't done his job right. He'd carelessly let the lapse of a simple safety procedure cause the deaths of nine good people. All he'd had to do was make sure the kiln's fuel lines weren't leaking. He'd neglected that small chore. The fuel had somehow come in contact with an open flame and that was the end of the Loft. At least those cleaning the remains of the Loft had surmised that was what caused the explosion and the fire. Gossip had brought the information to his door though he knew the Sorceress hadn't wanted him to know.
A right hand was a small price to pay for such neglect. His left hand stroked the lower part of his right arm to soothe the throbbing there. For some reason, he fashioned he could actually still feel his missing hand. The empty space actually hurt.
Phantom pain. That's what Owen told him it was. But nothing could equal the pain in his heart.
"Dance and be happy while you can,” he muttered to himself. “There'll be little enough when your stomachs are empty and no medical supplies arrive."
His left hand clenched. He lifted his head up and silently prayed the Goddess would find some way to repair the damage he'd done. The Craftsman, as they knew him, was gone. He could help them no more.
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