The Healer's Gift

by Vicki Firth, 1997

Disclaimer: Roar and its characters are the property of Universal Television and Sea Change Productions. No infringement on copyright is intended.

Please do not post or distribute this story without the author's permission.

***

Author's notes: I make no claim to anything in this story being historically accurate to the period in which it is set. If I've managed to get some elements right, chalk it up to lucky guesses. :) The remedies used by the healer in the story are actual traditional herbal remedies, but I do not know whether the plants would have been used or available in the fifth century in what is now Ireland.

This is a Conor story. I apologize for excluding the rest of the characters, but Conor intrigues me, the boy/man who has to bear responsibilities he never expected to be faced with. For those in the Conor/Catlin camp, I do like the idea of the two of them getting together, but I feel it's too soon for it to happen.

I hope you enjoy. :)

******

He should have listened to Fergus, he admitted, cursing his obstinacy in hindsight. His face set grimly to his task, he lowered his head and pushed on through the wind which blasted about him like a demon wraith, causing the cold drizzle to sting his skin like a swarm of angry wasps.

He should not have impulsively ridden out that morning, dismissing Fergus's recommendation that he wait one more day until the messenger sent by Ruaidhri was rested enough to lead him to Tor Sliabh. He should have heeded Catlin and Tully's entreaties that they accompany him, but he had impetuously set out alone.

Truth be told, though it seemed little consolation to admit to it at this moment, the responsibility thrust upon him had begun to bear down upon him overwhelmingly. To lead a people was not the duty of a second son, but of the father and the brother he was meant to follow. But their footsteps had been washed away from the trail life was now leading him down. Now he made those marks in the earth and others followed in his tracks. He had become the leader before he had even been made fully aware of what the journey was to entail and there were times when the mantle placed upon his shoulders began to drain his strength and even his convictions. At times like those, he longed for an opportunity to be alone with his thoughts, which was near to impossible in the sanctuary; even his personal chamber was hardly sacred with Fergus or one of the others invading it at all times to have a word with him. Now had been such a time, so when the messenger came from Ruaidhri bidding him to visit Tor Sliabh to discuss an alliance, he had hastened to be on his way, if only for the time alone with his thoughts that it afforded him.

He should have listened to Ruaidhri and accepted his hospitality for the night, but the gentle summer evening had given no warning of the gale to follow in its wake. He should stop for the night and find shelter from the storm as no enemies walked these woods; nature was his only foe at present. But although he was not entirely familiar with his surroundings, the journey from Tor Sliabh not being one he had undertaken many times, he suspected the river he had crossed early that day lay just ahead. With the rain that had continued to dampen the ground since the onset of nightfall, the river might rise to a level he could not cross, and his journey might be lengthened for several days until he could find a spot where the water could be forded. Though his obligations at times were a burden to him, he would not reject his duty.

A flare of lightening caused the horse beneath him to shy; he had not taken his usual steady mount, but had instead chosen a younger creature for its stamina in view of the hard ride he would demand of it. As the sky was momentarily lit up by the storm, he thought he saw a break in the trees ahead, indicating that his goal of the river had been attained.

He patted the beast along its neck and leaned down to whisper soothing words into its ear. Then he urged it ahead with a dig of his heels toward what he believed to be the woods' edge.

A play of light in the sky can be deceptive to one whose eyes have grown accustomed to riding through the darkness of the night and indeed he had miscalculated the actual distance to the river. For when he spurred his horse ahead he had been much closer to the water's edge than he had known. Fortunately, the beast's own night eyes were more adept and the creature attempted to halt its forward motion as it came upon the rocky incline leading to the rushing water. The wet ground caused it to slip and stumble, and despite his best attempts to hold his seat, the rider was thrown from the horse's back as it strove to regain its footing.

The blow to his head as he hit the embankment spared him the pain inflicted on the rest of his body as he tumbled down the ravine, unconscious.

***

A crashing of thunder had caused her to wake, but as she gazed into the fire burning on the hearthstone, the dancing of the flames caused her to dream.

The subject of this waking dream was not unfamiliar to her; she had seen him in her mind before, at other times when the images overtook her sight and her thoughts. Before, however, he had been strong and vigorous, not battered and bloodstained as she saw him now. He lay motionless atop the rocks at a river's edge, the crimson of his life's blood staining the lightness of his hair, his black clothing merging with the darkness of the rocks in the night.

She knew not who he was, but was aware that he held some meaning in her life, or else he would not have appeared in her visions. She wondered if what she saw in her mind was a portent of his death, but was confused by this as her visions had never shown the death of strangers. She would only see the fate of those known to her, or glimpses of those that the future would have touch her life. She had never met this man, so she could not be foreseeing his demise. The sight being portrayed to her was enhanced by a flash of lightning and she could see that the place where he lay broken and bleeding was at a spot by the river not far from her home. As she registered this, she became aware that the room around her had momentarily lit up, as the lightning outside coincided with that in her vision.

Abruptly, the sight that had come upon her dissolved and she was shocked with the realization that what she had seen was not a momentary view of the future, but was happening in the here and now. Without hesitation, she leapt from her pallet and grabbed her cloak, and ran out into the fury of the storm.

The moonless night did not hinder her dash for the river, as this small spot of the earth had been her home for so many years now that she knew every inch of her domain. She skirted around the large trees that loomed in her way, her bare feet skidding over the wet grass and moss of the forest floor. When she finally reached the riverbank, she paid no heed to the small stones which bit into her skin as she slipped down the incline to reach the figure that lay motionless at its base.

Her vision had not lied to her, but viewed with her own eyes rather than in her mind his condition seemed more alarming. She quickly dropped beside him to place her ear to his face and was relieved to feel his breath whisper into it. She brushed the hair from his temple to examine the wound from which the majority of the blood covering him seemed to flow, and noted that the rush of that blood had abated to a trickle. Swiftly, she felt along his limbs, checking as she had been taught, to see if any bones had been broken. Then, her worry that death was at that moment beckoning to him having been assuaged, she sat back to ponder how she would get him to her cottage so that she could administer to his injuries more thoroughly.

As if in answer to her quandary, through the rage of the storm she heard the noises being made by his animal. Quickly, she jumped to her feet and crawled up the slick rocks of the embankment. The horse was nearby, obviously trained well enough not to desert its rider, and she held out a hand to it and clicked her tongue, inviting the animal to come to her. It trotted to her side, no doubt hoping she may be able to provide it shelter of its own, and she stroked its neck in comfort and spoke gently to it before rummaging through the saddlebags.

She found a length of rope and, bidding the horse to remain where it was and hoping it would assent, scrambled down the bank of the river once more. Reaching the stranger's side, she removed her cloak and managed to roll him into it. Then she secured one end of the rope around his chest and brought the other end back to the horse, which thankfully had heeded her request. She tied the rope to the horse's saddle and grabbed the reins, leading the horse behind her. It appeared content to follow her, despite the additional weight it bore; fortunately the rain drenching the bright moss that coloured the rocks along the riverbank had added to the slipperiness of them and the inert body slid up the embankment without too much trouble. Once the stranger was atop firm ground once more, she ran back to check on him and determined as best she could in the storm that her makeshift litter had not caused him further harm. She disliked having to drag him back to the cottage in such a manner, but given the size of him, there was no way possible that she would be able to get him on the horse and his wounds did need attention. His life did not seem in jeopardy at the moment, but that could not be considered an abiding condition.

Thus the man, soaked from the rain, chilled by the wind and covered in his own blood, was dragged by the horse, whose breath could be seen in the dampness and the cold. The horse was led by the woman, her dress muddied and torn, along to the small cottage where a fire still burned on the hearthstone.

***

He thought at first upon waking that his friends had found him and had taken him home. The crack and hiss of the fire, the smell of the fresh grass lining his pallet, the rough blanket atop him, were all familiar. But reaching out further with his senses he could tell that he was not in the sanctuary. The chill that was contained by the stone walls of that dwelling and the slight dampness of the air was not present here. He seemed to be in a smaller structure which harnessed the heat of the fire that he could hear. A light breeze from somewhere played across his body and scents that were reminiscent of flowers in the meadow combined with broth brewing on the hearth reached his nose.

Heavy from sleep, his eyelids resisted his wish for sight and when he did manage to pry them open his struggle was rewarded by a sharp pain lancing across his brow. He snapped his eyes shut and took several deep breaths before easing them open once more. This time he managed to focus on his surroundings.

He lay upon a pallet in a tiny cottage. A worn blanket covered his body and by reflex he reached for his sword, though he knew even before his hand encountered only the clammy skin of his thigh that it would not be there. From the walls beside him hung a variety of what appeared to be dried plants or flowers. To his right, not more than a few steps away, a figure was bent to the task of hefting a large pot from the fire.

Though her back was to him, he knew it was a woman from the size of her frame and the attire that she wore. A large shawl was draped over her head, allowing for no hint as to the colour of her hair. Her clothing appeared clean, though well worn and much mended. Judging from the shape of her body beneath the simple dress, she was not a child. Nor could she be an old woman, with the ease in which she hoisted the massive pot.

Trying to raise his head to take in more of his environment, he was compensated for his movements by a blinding flash of pain behind his eyes. He dropped his head to the pallet once more, unable to suppress a groan of anguish.

The sound alerted the woman to his wakened state and she whirled around to face him. Eyes the colour of the bright blue gems the Romans used for adornment and as an ostentatious display of their wealth met his, and held his gaze. Then she took the few steps that closed the distance between them, and dropped to the ground by his side.

"How do you feel?" she asked, her voice low, her tone soft.

"The horse...it threw me in the storm," he rasped, feeling like the fine stones from the riverbed had lined his throat and his words had to be forced past them. "Where am I?"

"In my home. You're safe here, don't worry."

He started to ask another of the many questions running through his mind but was racked with a fit of coughing so intense that he was gasping for air. Each cough, each breath, caused the pain in his head to intensify.

The woman's eyes grew wide with concern and she jumped to her feet and moved to scoop some of the contents of her pot into a cup. Returning to his side, and placing a supporting hand beneath his head, she brought the cup to his lips.

"Drink, it will help," she advised. He eyed her warily, lips still closed to the liquid she held before him.

"Please..." she entreated, "I'm a healer. I'm trying to help make you better."

He didn't think there was anything she could do that would make him feel worse, short of poisoning him, which would be a definite end to the pain. He took a sip from the vessel she offered, despite the beverage's offensive smell. After a couple more lengthy draughts he felt he was capable of speech.

She lowered his head back down and he moaned in complaint at his discomfort. "My head feels like Aodh the smith has gone to work inside," he said, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

A small, tentative smile graced her face in response to his quip.

"Now," he began, opening his eyes and turning his head toward her, "can you tell me where I am and how I came to be here?"

"The spot at the river where you fell is close by. I brought you here."

He gave her a speculative look as he gazed at her slight form. "Surely you had some help?"

"No, I'm alone here." He was surprised that she would admit to her solitude without fear. He knew, perhaps better than most, that safety was hardly assured in these troubled times. Particularly for a woman alone. But she seemed unconcerned.

"I had your horse to help me," she continued. Her mouth turned down slightly in a small frown. "I had to drag you behind it by a rope. I hope I didn't cause you any further injury."

Considering his current state, he doubted she could have caused more harm. If she had, he couldn't tell; his body seemed to be encompassed by one large ache. He tried reaching out for the cup she had placed beside him, but his arm did not seem to be up to the task. She noticed the grimace upon his face and put her hand on his arm to stop his motions.

"I'll get you some more," she said, hopping back over to the cookpot.

"How did you know I was out there, in the storm?" he questioned.

Standing by the fire, the light of the flames danced over her face. The only hints of daylight in the small room were a beam of sunlight cast down from the smokehole in the ceiling, and a shaft of light that sneaked in from the partially open door near the foot of his bed. He thought he saw a shadow of alarm cross her face at his question, but it was likely only the dimness of the room contrasting with the dancing of the flames.

"I...I saw you," she said. "I saw you at the river."

He was puzzled by that. With the ferocity of the weather, he could not imagine anyone else being as great a fool as he to subject themselves to the gale.

She knelt down by his side and helped him drink until the cup was emptied. "I had a bit of trouble getting you inside the cottage," she told him. "It took me quite a while to get you through the door and over to the bed."

"How long was I sleeping?"

"By the time I got you back here it was almost daybreak. You've slept for one day and one night."

He was surprised by that, and more surprised by the fact that his eyelids were beginning to feel heavy again. As the warmth of the drink she had given him filled his belly, he felt himself begin to drift toward slumber once more.

The drink! "You've drugged me," he accused, his words beginning to slur.

She held up her hands in denial and then placed one palm gently on his chest, shaking her head furiously. "The drink will help you rest, and ease your pain. It's what you need right now. I mean you no harm."

Her expression was without guile, and he found it difficult to doubt her words. At any rate, he had no choice in the matter, as sleep began to claim him.

"What's you name?" he asked, groggily.

"Aisling."

His final thought before the drowsiness overtook him was to wonder why Aisling the healer wore her shawl so tightly drawn around her face.

***

Idleness was not her habit, but she found herself frequently paused in her chores that day, watching him as he slept. In her visions he had appeared more vibrant, more confident; in sickness he seemed youthful, more vulnerable. He was an enigma, this young prince, this Conor, as she had heard him called by his fellows in her dreams.

She knelt beside him and placed a hand to his cheek, ostensibly to check for fever. Soft curls ringed his face and dark lashes rested against tanned skin, which felt soft and smooth beneath her fingers. She brought up her hand to touch her own face, but did not yield to self-pity.

Though by outward appearances he seemed several years her junior, she instinctively knew that fate had handed him a man's burdens, before time had marked that weight upon his face. She had noticed when tending to his wounds that he bore several scars upon his body, brands of battle suffered not so long ago that they had yet faded to the ghostly white lines she was familiar with.

Destiny had indeed wrested any lingering innocence of boyhood from him. Now destiny had led him here.

***

When he woke again, twilight was softening the fall of darkness in its embrace. Aisling was already at his side.

"Is your head better?" It was indeed. Though he still felt very weak, the other pains throughout his body seemed to have diminished in intensity as well. It appeared she had not being lying to him; that awful smelling potion she had given him had helped ease his discomfort.

"Aye," he told her.

"Good. I need to change the dressings on you wounds." He watched as she withdrew a wet bundle of cloth from a shallow piece of crockery that stood among a few others at her side.

"Is that going to make me sleep again?" he asked.

The corners of her mouth quirked up in slight humour. "No. This is a poultice of agrimony which will help your skin heal and help to keep the wound from going bad." She unwrapped the cloth that was bound around his head and extracted another bundle, now dried. "This was yarrow, which helped to stop the bleeding."

Tossing that bundle aside and placing the new one on his head, she gently secured it into place with the length of cloth. "Can you sit up?"

He pushed himself upright and encountered only a slight wave of dizziness. She quickly unwrapped a cloth that was bound about his waist and examined several cuts where the rocks of the riverside had scored him.

"These don't need to be wrapped again. You can lie down." He obeyed her directive, settling into the pallet once more.

She dipped her fingers into a small pot and then began to rub a green-coloured salve drawn from it into the gashes on his torso.

"This is vervain," she explained, continuing with the explanation of her remedies. The words meant nothing to him, but she appeared to be very familiar with the strange dressings and balms.

Once she had completed her ministrations to the cuts on his chest, she drew up the blanket covering his legs to attend to the bandage on his thigh. She unwrapped it and eyed the wound beneath critically.

"This one will leave a mark, I'm afraid. I'm sorry I can't prevent that." She carefully applied some of the green salve to it.

That she seemed so remorse for not being able to prevent the addition of one more scar to a body already covered by several marks of battle puzzled Conor. That and the mystery of why she was going to such lengths to care for his injuries.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked her.

"The plants will help you to heal," she said, still in the process of attending to his leg.

"No," he said, and she turned to look at him. "Why are you helping me? I have nothing with me to offer you as payment."

"I do not ask for payment from you!" she said indignantly, her unusual eyes boring into him from beneath the head-covering she still wore.

In a softer tone, he asked, "But why did you rescue me at the river? What made you come to me there?"

"You needed me," she said simply. "You needed me and I came. You have to trust me, Conor." She held his gaze a moment and then turned her head to finish wrapping up his leg.

Trust her. Oddly enough, he did. What was more mysterious was that from the first time he had met her eyes, he had felt an inexplicable connection to her, even though she was a stranger to him.

Even though she was a stranger to him.

"How did you know my name?" he cried, half in suspicion, half in puzzlement.

Her head snapped up and her mouth formed a small "O" for an instant, and then she blinked and replied, "You were mumbling in your sleep. You were calling to someone, saying 'it's Conor'. Is that not your name?"

Though he was not entirely convinced of the veracity of her explanation, he still felt an instinctive desire to trust her. "Aye, it's Conor," he acknowledged.

She had finished with his leg and had moved to gather up her little pots, and he sat up on the pallet, testing his stamina. The room did not tilt and spin, and movement of his arms and legs not longer caused intense pain.

"I'd like to get up," he said. "Where are my clothes?"

"You shouldn't put them on yet," Aisling told him. "The clothes will prevent the ill humours from being released from your wounds, and will not permit the good air inside."

It occurred to him that as he wore no clothing now, she must have been the one to take it off. Apparently, she seemed to have read his thoughts at the same moment, for he could see a faint pink flush begin to tint the skin that was not obscured by the shawl covering most of her face.

"You can wrap yourself in the blanket," she said, pointedly turning her back to him.

He rose from the pallet and swayed unsteadily for a moment before he gained his balance. His legs trembled from lack of use as he took a tentative step, but he managed to stay upright.

"I'd like to see to my horse now," he said.

"The horse is hobbled out behind the cottage; I've watered and fed it." She was busying herself with a pot hung over the fire, so he moved to go outside.

"Thank you for tending to him. Thank you for tending to me," he said, and slipped out through the doorway.

***

Nighttime had drawn a covering of stars across the sky, and their light was mimicked by the candles Aisling had set aglow inside the cottage. Conor had checked the horse for injuries and found none, and left the animal contented to chew on the grass Aisling had provided for him. He was not displeased when he noticed the bowls of steaming broth that she had placed on the worn table, as his own stomach was crying out for sustenance as well.

She bade him to sit down and handed him a wedge of bread warm from the hearth. He attacked his meal as would a man who had not eaten in days, which in this case was the truth.

Once he had feasted on enough to cease his belly's complaints he looked across the table to Aisling who was nibbling delicately on her piece of bread.

"I'll be leaving in the morning, but I would somehow like to repay you for your kindness," he said, wanting her to know that he was grateful for what she had done.

"You can't leave tomorrow!" she cried, her voice distraught. The flickering of the candle reflecting in her blue eyes reminded him of the churning of the waves during a storm at sea.

"I have to get back. My people will be worried about me," he explained in a gentle tone.

"I didn't save you at the river just to have you go out and kill yourself tomorrow!" Her speech rose with her obvious agitation. "If you try to ride tomorrow, that wound on your leg will open up again. If you loose more blood, you will die. Better that your friends worry for another day and find you returned to them hale and hearty than to find you several days later, dead in the woods. You're too important to your people, Conor!"

"What makes you think I'm important?" he said, his own voice rising slightly in response to her cries.

Her tone quieted. "If your friends are worried about you, then obviously you're important to them."

She knew more about him than she pretended to; he was convinced of it. She had known he was injured at the river, she had called him by his name before he had offered it to her, and she had spoken of him as being needed by his people. It was a mystery to him, and she an enigma. He wanted to find out more about her.

"When can I leave?" he asked, surrendering to her entreaty.

"Stay another day and night, and then you should be well enough to ride." She seemed somewhat embarrassed by her outburst, and picked at the crumbs of bread on the table, not meeting his eyes.

"All right, I'll stay. Aisling, thank you," he told her, laying a hand softly on her arm, "I don't know how to express my full appreciation to you for what you have done for me."

She looked up at him with a gentle smile. "Get well."

"I'm trying." He returned her smile with a wide grin. "Some more broth might help."

She took his bowl to the fire and ladled another portion of the liquid into it. "Have you always lived here alone?" he asked, conversationally.

"No," she replied, returning to the table with his broth. "I used to live here with a woman called Mairead. She taught me the use of the plants. But she died three years ago."

"Do you not have any family? No one who cares about you?"

She closed her eyes momentarily, as if the question caused her pain. He was sorry for that, but he had to learn more about her, this strange woman who had offered her help and asked nothing in return.

"There may be one," she said, "but I do not know if she still lives."

"Who would that be?"

"My mother."

"Your mother? Is she lost to you? I can help you find her," he offered, eager to do something for her.

Aisling shook her head. "She's not lost to me, not in the sense of my not knowing where she is. If she lives, she is in the village where I was born. But I cannot go back there."

"Why?" Conor's brow creased in puzzlement.

"It's not something I talk about," she said. Her expression was forlorn and she seemed to shrink back into the pool of darkness beyond the candlelight.

Conor knew full well what it was like to lose a loved one, and he felt compassion for Aisling's circumstances. But if her mother still lived, surely there was a way they could be reunited.

"Won't you tell me?" he entreated. "Maybe I can help."

"No," she said, turning from him, her face now fully hidden by her shawl. "You cannot."

"Please Aisling," he pleaded. "You asked me to trust you, and I have. Now I ask you to trust me. Tell me why you cannot return to your home."

Slowly, she turned her face to meet his eyes. "My dreams told me you were special," she whispered, more so to herself than to him.

He did not understand her meaning, but he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze, encouraging her to continue.

"I was born in a village a great distance away. My life was quite ordinary until I reached twelve years of age. Then I began having the dreams. I would awake screaming in the night, and my mother would have to calm me down before I could fall back asleep. Many nights I could not."

"Nightmares," he said. "They can be terrifying."

"No," she responded. "Nightmares don't come true. My dreams did."

"You saw events that were to pass?"

She nodded, her eyes unfocused as she continued with her story. "I saw the birth of babes, and the death of villagers. I saw strangers that were to come. My mother told me never to speak of these dreams to anyone, and I did not. It was frightening, knowing of the future, although most of the time the dreams just afforded me a glimpse of events. I probably could have continued to live a fairly normal life in the village if the dreams had stayed in my sleep."

"But they didn't," Conor said softly, without reproach.

"I began to have the dreams at all hours of the day. They didn't come frequently, but came often enough so that several of the villagers noticed. Luckily, they did not understand what they saw, and just teased me for daydreaming." She shuddered slightly. "At that time, they did not know how truthful their words were."

Aisling swallowed before carrying on, and reached a shaking hand to her face. "I had a friend called Sabia. We spent all of our time together. One day, a horrible vision came upon me. I saw that Sabia's sister would bear a child, and that the child would die. I was so upset for my friend, for she loved her sister dearly. I went to her, crying, to tell her this tragic news. I said that Fionnuala's babe would die. Sabia didn't believe me and called me jealous, for I did not have any siblings of my own whose children I could love."

"Of course, my vision had been true, Fionnuala's babe died. It was then that Sabia told others that I had spoken of the death, and in her grief she accused me of having caused it. The villagers began to talk of my daydreaming they had witnessed, and my own father told of how I would wake up screaming in the night."

Her voice broke at this revelation and she choked back a sob. Conor reached across the table to touch her face, but she pulled back from him, though she left her hand in his.

"Aisling," he said, compassion evident in his tone. "Your people were wrong to think that. They were frightened of what they didn't understand, and they were wrong to make such accusations. Why you were granted such an ability is beyond our understanding, but I have met another like you, and I know there is no evil-doing in such a thing."

Taking a deep breath, she looked at him with eyes mixed with the pain of her experience and a wonder at his words. "That's not what the villagers thought. They brought me to the village's meeting place, and gathered around me. They said I was a demon walking among them. Then they began to stone me."

"Ignorant bastards!" Conor swore, feeling an anger at the people that had subjected her to such treatment.

"I managed to escape, run away and hide, but not before the rocks they hurled had torn at my skin and washed me in my own blood. My mother found me, knowing that I would go to a spot by the cliffs that we had sometimes walked along together. Though she loved me, she was not a strong woman, and could do nothing that would incur the wrath of my father, who was a brutish man when he felt his beliefs were being questioned. She held me to her and wept, and attended to my wounds as best she could. Then she bade me to come here, to Mairead. My mother had lived in these parts, before she met my father and he had married her and taken her away. She knew Mairead would take me in."

"The journey here was hard, but somehow I made it. I was near starved and very ill by the time I got here, but Mairead healed me. Then she taught me how to heal others. She was kind, and I was happy living here with her. Though she did not have the dreams, she was not afraid of them, and she tried to help me understand the visions that I'd see. Though I lived her with her for almost ten years, I did not foresee her death."

"Aisling," Conor said quietly, "take off your shawl. I want to see your face."

She grabbed at the folds of the fabric and drew it tighter. "No, you don't want to see it. I'm marked. I tried to cover my face when the rocks were being thrown at me, but I could not protect it all. Part of my face is disfigured with the scars."

"No matter what your face looks like, you're beautiful. You have a kind heart, and a generous spirit, and that makes you beautiful. I don't care what you look like on the surface, but I don't want you to hide yourself from me. I want to see all of you."

Her jeweled eyes were filled with moisture but slowly, hesitantly, she reached up and grasped at the material covering her head. She bent her head forward, and pulled the fabric away, releasing a cascade of hair which made him think of the burnished red of the oak's leaves come autumn.

Reaching across the table, he took her chin in his hand, and raised her face to his. On both of her cheeks and trailing down to her neck, large silver lines stood out against skin browned by the sun. Some of the marks were jagged, some slender, some minute, and they painted a tapestry across her face.

He brought his fingertip to her face and she shuddered when he touched her skin. Her lips were tightly closed as she held in her breath and she drew her eyes shut against his scrutiny.

His soft touch followed the path of one of the scars. "This is for your courage to survive such an experience."

She made a small whimpering noise as she expelled her breath, and his fingertip moved to another mark.

"This is for the compassion that you can still feel for others in a world that has done you a grave wrong."

In a hushed tone he traced over every mark on her face, naming each for one of the attributes he bestowed on her. Bravery. Faith. Generosity. Strength. Kindness. Integrity. Trust.

"These are not scars of shame, but marks of honour. You should wear them proudly."

He kept his hands cupped to her face as she filled them with her tears.

***

Aisling had left the cottage afterwards, and ventured out into darkness, saying she wished to be alone with her thoughts. He had waiting long into the night for her to return, but despite his best efforts to stay awake, sleep had eventually claimed him, weak as he still was from his injuries. When morning roused him she was not present in the room with him, but there was food on the table for him to break his fast, so she had evidently returned home at some time while he had laid in slumber.

She appeared at the doorway just as he had finished his meal. She paused before entering the room, and he sensed her trepidation. She had discarded her shawl and wore a lighter dress, which left her arms and her shins exposed, much more appropriate to the season than the long-sleeved garment which brushed her ankles that she had been attired in previously. The shorter dress exposed more scars along her legs and upon her arms and the marks on her face stood out starker in the brightness of day. But the scars did not give her the hideous visage she believed they did. Though she did not have the delicate beauty of his Claire, or striking features like those of Catlin, she was not an unsightly woman. She seemed to have been kissed by nature, with her hair the colour of the autumn leaves of trees, which towered up to meet the blue of the sky at sunset in her eyes.

He smiled and she came to him, presenting him with the small bundle she held in her arms.

"I've cleaned your clothes, though I'm afraid they're beyond mending. I'm going out to gather some plants and I thought you might like to come along. The air and the sunshine will be good for you."

He took the armload from her. "I'd enjoy it."

"I should change the wrapping on your leg before you dress," she said, and fetching a clean cloth from a pile folded neatly by the table, she knelt at his side.

He drew the blanket which he had wrapped around his waist up over his knee so she could attend to the task. Stripping away the bandage that was in place, she examined the wound which was blessedly beginning to heal over. The gash was shaped like a crescent moon, beginning above his kneecap and curving to the outside of his thigh.

As she applied a fresh rubbing of salve to the injury, she became very aware of the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers and of the corded muscle of his leg as her hand traced circles atop it. Tending to him while he had lain unconscious in his sickbed, she had not thought of much past the fact that he had been a victim of injury who it was her calling to treat. But now, with him standing tall and strong before her, she was realizing the full beauty of him, and her heart felt as though it had stilled in her chest. Though she had disrobed him and washed him when she had brought him in from the storm, her mind had been solely occupied by the healing. Now that his full vigour was almost restored, she felt an odd discomfort with this proximity to him, and with other thoughts that were filling her mind.

Abruptly, she backed away from him and rose to her feet, handing him the length of clean cloth.

"Wrap up your leg and make sure it's secured tightly," she told him, skirting around him to march out of the cottage.

Conor was baffled by her actions. The look on her face as she gave him the directive had held a touch of...not fear, but apprehension, perhaps? It bewildered him to think that his presence would be of any cause for alarm to her now, after she had cared for him over the past days and nights.

Perplexed by her sudden bolt from the cottage, he nonetheless wrapped his leg as she had instructed and dressed in his clothing, which she had wiped clean of the blood and the dirt. Abandoning his boots in favour of feeling the soft grass of the forest beneath his feet, he went to join her outside.

She waited for him by the stand of alders, basket in hand, her soft smile offering no indication as to what had prompted her strange behaviour moments ago. He decided not to question her; it was possible that the abruptness of her dash from the cottage had been in his imagination only, though he was not entirely convinced of this.

Sunlight penetrated the treetops with dapples of gold as she led him along a narrow trail that had been worn in the forest floor. He could hear the sounds of the river rushing nearby. Aisling seemed in her element here, pausing their stroll occasionally to inspect the leaves of low-growing shrubs or the blossoms of waving flowers.

A long-stemmed plant culminating in gentle pink buds caught her eye and she sank to the ground to cut at the stalks with a small blade. He sat down beside her, resting his back against a tree trunk, and felt the sunshine warm his face and the light breeze play around him.

"This is wood betony," she said, eyes still focused on her task. "It was in the drink I gave you to still the pain in your head."

"Was that what smelled so awful?" he asked, his nose wrinkling in displeasure at the memory.

The corners of her mouth tilted upward slightly. "No, that was root of valerian. It's what helped you to sleep."

"Are there many who seek you out for your remedies?" He was curious, as her home seemed a distance from any settlement or village.

"There are those who come, yes," she said, laying the freshly cut stalks in her basket. "Mairead was renowned as a healer, so many would come seeking her cures. Some still do."

"Do they bring you items in trade? Do you have what you need for your comfort?"

"Almost everything I need is right here," she told him, gesturing about her with a hand. "I fish from the river and gather the berries and nuts from the forest. I have a small garden plot and most that seek my aid will bring something in payment that fills the needs I cannot provide for myself."

She grinned knowingly. "The people respected Mairead, but I think they fear me, believe that if they do not provide me with something in exchange for my assistance I will use the black magic upon them." She shrugged. "There's nothing I really want for."

"Your skills are great, and I do not believe you would do harm." He touched the bandage on his forehead and gave her a lopsided smile. "I can attest to that."

Studying her carefully, he continued, "My people could use a healer of your talent."

"Do you not have a healer?" she asked, surprised.

"No one with as great a knowledge as you. We tend to each other as best we can when the need arises."

"I would think that the need would arise more often than it is wished for. Life forces you to walk with danger, Conor." She regarded him with a level gaze.

Her eyes seemed to peer inside of him, past the insubstantial tegument of the flesh, viewing his very soul. He was aware once again of that inexplicable connection to her, an imperceptible cord that seemed just beyond his vision but was felt so strongly that he thought if he reached out he could grasp its weight firmly in his hands.

"You've seen me in your dreams. Can you tell me what your visions have said?"

She leaned back on her arms and tilted her head to stare unseeingly at a point somewhere above his head. "There's really not much to tell. My visions of you have mostly been quick flashes which have left me wondering what relevance you would have in my life. That I still don't know. Perhaps I just saw you so that I would know to go to you at the river, that I was meant to give you aid. Perhaps there is a greater purpose..."

Her words trailed off and she appeared to be mulling over that thought. He was just about to ask her again precisely what her visions had shown her of him, when she continued.

"I've seen you in combat, and calling upon others to join you in your quest. I've seen the warrior who fights at your side and offers you counsel. I've seen the dark man, wary of you in the beginning, who has now given you his trust. I've seen the woman who follows you into battle, and follows you everywhere else with her eyes."

She lowering her gaze to meet his, concern evident in her expression. "I've seen you ride to the cliffside alone, sometimes in jubilation, sometimes in anger, and sometimes so that you could stare out at the sea, looking as though you either wished it would swallow you up, or bring you the answers on the crest of a wave."

"It's not easy, sometimes," he said quietly. He found understanding in her eyes and wondered if it was possible that she could somehow sense his feelings as she saw his actions in her mind. "I didn't ask for this role I have accepted."

"No one can choose the path destiny will lead them down." She unfolded an arm before him and slowly traced the scars that ran along its length. "We can only hope to follow its course as best we can."

"Sometimes when I stand on the clifftop and stare out at sea I worry that I am making poor choices, or not serving my people as best I could." His face took on a faraway look, as though he could see the turbulent waves crashing against the rocky shore. "I was not born to this, it was thrust brutally upon me."

"You serve your people well," Aisling told him. She reached out her hand to rest it lightly to his forehead. "You think here..." she moved her hand to press her palm above his heart, "...but you act with this."

Not moving her hand, she held his gaze with hers for a long moment. "Your life was always meant to accomplish greater things than you expected."

From the mouth of the woman before him, Galen's words echoed forth. You were born to a greater purpose.

"But today," she said, breaking the solemn moment with her smile, "you'll have to content yourself with aiding me in my lowly quest to gather the plants."

"I can think of many less pleasant duties." He grinned back at her.

"Tell me more about the plants," he requested, more so to enjoy the animated tone her voice took on when she discussed her work, rather than for the information she imparted.

"That's comfrey," she said as they ambled along, pointing to a bushy plant growing alongside the path. "It helps to mend broken bones."

"This is plantain, a poultice of it is used for bee stings." She paused to take a few cuttings of the leaves.

"Oh!" she gasped, her eyes settling on a large plant which grew beyond the plantain. "Elecampane! It's very useful for skin ailments and throat pains, but it's never grown around here before. I wonder how it came to be here?"

Her eyes were shining with pleasure at the discovery and the sun stroked her cinnamon hair.

"Maybe the faeries brought it to you, knowing that you needed it," Conor teased.

She laughed with delight at the thought and the sound of her merriment seemed an extension of the nature surrounding her. She dug at the plant with her blade, cutting the bright yellow blossoms away from the stem.

"The flowers have no use, but they are rather pretty," she said, holding the buds gently in her palm.

"Give them to me," he entreated, and she watched as he wove a garland out of the flowers, then slipped it around her neck.

She touched the flowers reverently, whispering, "Thank you." It pained him to realize that while it was so simple a gesture, it was probably the only one granted to her in kindness in a long time.

"Shall we go down to the river to have our meal?" she asked, and nodding, he reached out a hand to help her to her feet.

The sat on the flat rocks at the river's edge as they feasted on the berries and bread she had heaped in her basket. Aisling dangled her feet in the running water, while Conor, after finishing his meal, jumped in up to his knees.

"Conor!" Aisling exclaimed. "Do you want to take to your sickbed again! That water is cold!"

"It's not so bad," he told her, a devilish gleam in his eyes. "See?" He splashed a handful of water at her.

Aisling shrieked as the water hit her. "It is cold!" she said, laughing.

"It's refreshing!" he cried, sending another cascade of water in her direction.

"Stop it!" she commanded, in a fit of laughter. As he advanced toward her she began kicking furiously with her legs, splashing waves of water over him.

He darted around the deluge she created and grasped her about the waist, hoisting her so high over his head that she had to plant her palms on his shoulders to steady herself.

"I think that deserves a dunking," he said threateningly, turning and taking a couple steps toward the deeper waters.

"No!" she cried, "no, don't do it!"

"Oh no?" he said. "Well, will you promise to be good?"

"Yes!" she affirmed, still reduced to a state of giggling.

"Well...all right," he relented, and lowered her to her feet before him.

Her face was wreathed with a huge grin and tiny droplets of water clung to her thick hair. Where last night she had sat and wept as she spoke of the sorrows she had endured, she now looked happy and carefree. Her lips were tinted red from the berries they had eaten and he wondered suddenly if that's what they would taste of if he dipped his mouth to hers. He was conscious of the fact that his hands almost fully spanned her tiny waist and thought for a moment of what it would be like if he picked her up and carried her back to the forest, to lie down with her under a shady tree with the scent of the flowers in the air, and...

She kissed him on the end of his nose and backed away to rest on the rocks once more. He splashed his face with the cold water before going to sit by her side.

"I don't remember the last time I laughed like that," she said happily. "But I love coming here, to sit by the river. Sometimes I close my eyes and listen to the rush of the water and the wind in the trees, and imagine that those are the sounds of a friend singing to me, and telling me stories."

While she spoke of this memory with fondness, Conor was aware of the underlying loneliness of the statement that perhaps even she didn't perceive. It tore at his heart to think of her living in such a state.

"Come with me when I leave tomorrow," he said abruptly. "Come live with us and we will sing you songs and tell you stories."

She gaped at him in amazement. "I can't," she said, shaking her head emphatically.

"Why not?" he persisted. "Your skills as a healer would be valued and you would not have to be alone." He touched his hand to the scarred area of her cheek. "No one there will be frightened of you. You need not have worry of that."

"That's not the reason why I cannot join you," she said. "It's not that I don't want to live among your people, but that destiny pulls me in direction apart from you."

"How do you know that? I thought your visions didn't reveal what destiny had in store for me? Have you seen your fate in your dreams?"

"No, I have never had a vision of my own future. But I know, Conor. I'm not meant to follow the path you do."

He was frustrated by her resolve that she could not join him, and live with his people. He felt the cord that bound them stretch taut, and wondered if the connection would be severed with his departure in the morn.

***

Curled up in her cloak atop a fur by the fire, Aisling resisted sleep. If she gave in to the slumber that beckoned to her, morning would be upon her the next instant, and he would be gone.

She wished with all her heart that she could journey with him to his people and live with them, or that he could stay here and fill all her days with laughter. But she knew that this could not be. She could see a faint outline of him as he slept on the pallet; she had insisted he rest there instead of taking the ground as he had far to travel come morning. By the dim glow of the fire she watched him sleep and tried to commit to memory what he looked like as he lay so close to her, so much more vibrant in the flesh than he had been in her dreams. She tried to grasp every last moment she had with him in her presence, but eventually, drowsiness overtook her.

Conor was awakened by her screams in the deep hours of the night.

He crawled over to where she lay writhing on the ground, her arms flailing about madly, the terror in her screams reverberating throughout the cottage.

Pinning her arms to her sides, he pulled her up against his chest, holding he tightly. Though she didn't immediately wake from her trance, her cries stilled as he rubbed her back and made soothing noises.

Finally, she quieted, and her eyes slowly drew open.

"Conor," she breathed, looking up at him with horror still showing clearly on her face.

"It's all right," he said softly, stroking back the locks of hair which fell wildly about her face. "I'm here. You're safe."

Her eyes were moist with tears but the magnitude of her fear held them at bay. "For how long?" she whispered, her body shaking in his embrace. "It was myself I saw in the dream. My body was being torn in two and there was blood everywhere. And the pain..."

She felt so small in his arms and despite the strength he had come to know she possessed within her, she seemed so fragile at this moment. Conor felt a rush of protectiveness toward her, and he couldn't bear the thought of her once again waking in terror, the next time being alone in the night.

"Aisling, you've got to come with me tomorrow!" he said fervently. He wanted to protect her from what he could, and offer her solace when ill fortune was beyond his power to prevent. "I can't stand the thought of this happening again when there is no one here to comfort you!"

"Conor, I cannot!" Her voice rose in agitation. "You of all people should understand! You know of destiny!"

He was frustrated with the need to convince her. He dug his fingers into her hair, palms cupping her face, and gently tilted her head so that she was forced to meet his gaze.

"You told me that you came to me at the river because I needed you, and I believe that to be true. There's a connection between us, Aisling, surely you can feel it too."

His voice was ragged with the anguish he felt at the thought of that intangible bond being broken. Despite the short time he had known her, he believed she was meant to be part of his life, part of him.

"I want you to need me!"

"Our lives were meant to touch in passing," she said, her blue eyes glowing with conviction and her voice steady, "they were not meant to be intertwined. I don't need you, Conor, not where my life will be leading."

She drew up her hands and placed them tentatively on his face. "But maybe..." she said slowly, "...maybe I could need you tonight."

The unseen cord wove around them, binding them together. Conor searched her face to be sure he understood the words she had not spoken. Her eyes voiced her need and her expectations.

His mouth lowered to merge with hers. When their lips parted moments later she uttered a soft gasp and he drew back to gaze upon her. She gave him a shy smile and twined her arms around his back.

He pressed her down gently against the soft fur and their connection became absolute.

***

When he awoke in the morning she was no longer in his arms, though he could still feel the lingering warmth of her on his skin. The fragile yellow petals of her garland that had been crushed between them in the night were scattered across the fur.

He dressed quickly and left the cottage in search of her. He found her outside stuffing some small packets into his horse's saddlebag. She greeted him with a glowing smile.

"I've given you some food for your journey," she said, fastening the bag closed and giving the horse a quick pat.

He stood where he was, not advancing toward her, a bit stunned at her haste to be rid of him.

She came to him instead. "You have to leave now, Conor," she said beseechingly. "Please don't argue with me about this."

Her tone softened. "I want my parting memories of you to be of what we shared last night."

His inclination was to throw her over his horse and forcibly carry her back to the sanctuary, but he could not dispute the look of serenity painted delicately on her face.

"I'll come back," he said, a bit thickly, "I'll return as often as I can to make sure you're all right."

"Don't come back; I won't be here." Her tone was hushed. "I have my own path to follow now."

With a heavy heart he realized that this cause was lost, that he could not be victor of this battle. He pulled her to him tightly, closing his eyes as he buried his face in her hair. He tried to imprint in his mind the essence of her, this unusual and extraordinary woman who had healed his body and tended to his soul, yet asked nothing for herself in return.

She drew away from him slightly and stood on the tips of her toes to plant a tender kiss on his cheek. "Be well, Conor. I wish you all the joy your life can bring." Then she stepped back, and out of his embrace.

Quickly, he slipped a small silver ring from his finger and placed it in her palm, curling her fingers around it. "I want you to have this," he told her, "in case you're ever in need." Then he grabbed the reins of his horse standing calmly nearby and vaulted astride the animal.

He turned back to look at her one more time. "I won't forget you, Aisling."

She watched him urge his mount forward and gazed after him long past the time he had disappeared beyond the break in the trees. A peace had settled over her that morning, as with the dawn had come an understanding of her dreams.

With a sense of wonderment she placed her hand on her belly. He had given her a gift far more precious than the ring she still clenched tightly in her fist.

She hoped destiny would smile kindly upon her child.

******

The End?

We'll see... :)

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