Where Faeries Live Still ...

Warnings:  None this chapter

“So long and yet too soon,” she whispered to Connor who snored on.

She dressed quickly, leaving him to his dreams.  Throwing her heavy cloak over top of her dress, she once again stepped out into the cold, making to barn to tend to the animals.  From its perch on the thatched eave, a crow cawed accusingly at her.

“Mind your tone with me!” she barked back, sharper and more biting than the cold that hung in the air.

The crow cocked its head at her for a brief moment before taking flight for the barn.

Aine slipped her way across the yard to the barn, wrenched the doors open to the welcoming greeting from the ponies.  The black crow beadily watched her as she went about her chores. As she had so many times before, she measured grain and poured the sweet smelling mix into the feed boxes.  Aine stepped lightly into the mare’s stall, turning her back on the unwelcome crow.  The sturdy chestnut mare rubbed her head against Aine’s shoulder as Aine ran her bare hands over the horse’s body and legs, feeling for heat or injuries.

“Have you not even a paltry offering to make for a Mistress?” Aine inquired sadly, a hint of her ire simmering in her undertone.  She straightened and turned back to face the silver-haired man who now stood near where the crow had perched.

“I offer only my service, Mistress,” Tiran offered with a deferential bow. 

“Now?  After all this time?  Now you present yourself – to be of service?” she gawked at him, incredulous and clearly angry now:   her eyes flashed green fire, color rose to her cheeks, her jaw clenched.

Satisfied that the mare was fine, Aine rubbed her itchy spots with affection before moving on to the next stall and the stallion.  He welcomed her with a loving nudge and attempted to nuzzle Aine’s free flowing hair.

“Now stop that,” she rebuked the animal softly. 

With a serious face, she began her inspection of his body legs, easily seeing that his left hind leg was swollen. 

“Let’s fix that, eh fellow?” she spoke to the horse, patting his neck as she moved out of the stall to her supply shelves. 

Without looking at him, she addressed her newest visitor, “I do not require your service, Tiran.  Return to Mother,” Aine hissed at him, masking her anger to avoid upsetting the animals.

“The Mother believes you do require service as you opened the cottage last evening.  She is concerned,” the silver-haired elf watched her closely as she mixed a poultice for the injured animal.  She busied herself with the clay, water and herbs until she was satisfied with the mixture, studiously refusing to speak.  She pulled down bandages, clean and neatly rolled before returning to the stallion’s stall.  She glowered at Tiran; her lip curled in a sneer.

“I require nothing,” she spat.  Pausing, she drew a deep breath to calm her emotions before approaching the animal for healing.  Tiran’s face fell when he noticed her shaking hands.  He blinked, crossing his arms protectively across his chest. 

“I can see you are well,” Tiran observed dryly.  “How fares your charge?” he pushed further as Aine thickly smeared the clay poultice over the stallion’s injured leg.  Satisfied, she reached for the rolled cloth bandage, only to have it placed in her hand by the ever-attentive Tiran.

“Thank you,” she replied, begrudgingly. 

“You are most welcome, as always, Counselor,” Tiran answered with a respectful bow – quite out of place in the lowly barn.  Aine countered with a disbelieving snort which startled the horse.  He jerked his leg up and Aine had to croon to him softly to resettle him.  Expertly, she wrapped the cloth around the poultice, leaving perfectly even overlapped margins as she worked her way down the horse’s from hock, over the straight cannon bones to the fetlock with sure yet gentle fingers.

Tiran admired her from outside the stall; proud yet concern showing in his normally stoic demeanor.

“A chroí, le do thoil,” he nearly pleaded.  “Your charge?”

“Sleeps,” she spat out between clenched teeth, demanding control over her emotions. Washing the fragrant poultice from her chafed hands in the straw of the stall, she faced him over the door. 

“Return to the Mother.  Inform her all is well.  Her lack of faithfulness angers me.”

“Unfaithful!” Tiran exclaimed defensively.

“She lacks faith in me,” Aine added coldly.  “Be gone.”

“By your leave, Mistress Ainerin,” he replied icily, his indigo eyes flashing at her in indignation, long fingers digging into the wood of the door that separated them.

“Do not direct your fury at me, giolla,” she began. 

Tiran visibly reeled from her address, backing away from her. 

“I only acted out of necessity.  You came on her orders, to assuage either her guilt or fears for her standing.  Go back! Let me not see you until the night of the return.”