The Dead Resurrected, Sort of
An hour earlier
Ainmire sat upright on the bed. His hands trembled as he reached out to touch the apparition in front of him. She was a ghost. She had to be a ghost. Maybe he was still dreaming. As his hand met her wrist, he felt flesh. She was real. He was awake and she was real.
“Branna?” The name barely escaped his lips, as if saying it would make her disappear.
“You look worried, my dear Ain.” Branna cocks one eyebrow up and gives him a coy smile. Even when she was trying to be the most devilish, she still seemed too innocent. “What ever is wrong?”
“You are here!” Ainmire drew her into a tight hug. “You are really here!” He pulled her out in front of him and stared at her. “How are you here? You died!”
Branna laughed, a light giggle his ears missed hearing all these centuries. “You of all beings should know I can’t die.”
“But,” Ainmire dropped his head, letting his eyes linger on their joined hands. “But you gave up. You wished to die.”
“That I did.” A tear trickled down her cheek. Ainmire wiped it away.
“Then how?” He asked, staring into her glistening eyes.
“I went to Mag Mell. I could not leave. So I waited for you.” Branna ran her hand over Ainmire’s cheek.
“Waited for me?” He grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it. “You were in the Fae realm all this time.”
Branna shook her head. The smile on her face did not reach her eyes.
“Why did you not contact me?” Bewilderment descended on Ainmire. “I always kept the link open, even when I was in Mag Mell and you were here. Why did you not talk?”
Branna's face grew solemn as she thought of her years of isolation. The lovely house that she first dreamed of Ainmire and her occupying forever. She spent the first few centuries trying to reach him, but she could not. The veil around her small piece of “heaven” was too thick. She was alone, until she heard him call her name.
“I tried. Isolde’s enchantment kept me tethered to one area. It is beautiful though. Everything we dreamed of having. At least, she gave me that.” Branna ran her fingers through Ainmire’s copper hair. She wondered when he cut it so short.
“Isolde exiled you to Mag Mell?” Ainmire shook his head. “How? How could she do that?”
Branna grabbed Ainmire’s head and kissed his forehead. She rested her hands on his cheeks. “Isolde would do anything to ruin you. She still will.”
Ainmire kissed Branna’s palms and pulled them into his lap, bringing her closer to him. “She is banished now. She can no longer harm anyone.”
Branna shook her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “That can’t be true. Before I came to see you, she visited me. She told me she was finally going to devour you.”
“Her and Alroy are locked in the Iron Dungeon. There is no escape. She can’t even communicate. You must have imagined her.” Ainmire took in a sharp breath, realizing the curtness in his voice. “I’m sorry. It just couldn’t be her.”
“She was as real as I am to you now.” Branna frowned.
Ainmire cocked his head to one side, curiosity getting the best of him. “How are you here?”
Branna closed her eyes. When she opened them, she replied. “I do not know.” She shrugged her shoulders. “A few days ago, Isolde visited me. She was her cold, cruel self, taunting me with horrible images of Ciaran’s and your demises. She left as quickly as she came, vanishing into the air.” A chill ran over Branna’s body. “I sat in the house and cried. I have been crying for days. Then, I heard you call me. Clear as a bell, you called out my name. I ran toward your voice and was here.” She grunted. “Just here. No idea how I got here. I saw you sleeping and realized you must have called out my name in a dream. So I called you back. Then you woke up.”
“So after centuries of imprisonment, you were finally free?” Ainmire blinked his eyes, trying to reconcile the story. He then squeezed Branna’s hands and gave her a weak smile. “How is Isolde going to devour me?”
Branna freed herself from his hold and turned to face the window. “I don’t want to talk about it now.” She turned back towards Ainmire. “Can you just hold me for a while? I forgot what it felt like to be in your arms.”
Without a second's delay, Ainmire scooped Branna into his arms and laid her down on the bed. He wrapped his body around her small, soft figure. She disappeared in his hold. Branna let out a long contended sigh. She was where she belonged again, in her king’s arms.
The peace did not last long. Ainmire felt a sharp pain in his chest and clenched his hand over his heart. Branna furrowed her brow in worry, “Are you alright?” She watched as sweat began to form on his brow.
Ainmire tried to form words, but the pain was intense. He stuttered out a few syllables, then fell silent. Branna sat upright and cradled his head in her lap. She stroked his cheek and rocked him. His cheeks reddened and he closed his eyes, wishing the pain would disappear. When he opened his eyes again, the pain was gone, but a terrible foreboding had settled in his bones.
“You look as though you have seen death, my Ain,” Branna remarked.
“Something is wrong!” Ainmire could not pinpoint what, but he knew something awful had occurred.
“Where is the child?” Branna asked.
Ainmire stared at her. “What child?” He had many children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, great great grandchildren. There were many children. He repeated the question, “What child?”
“The one you love the most. Is he here?” Branna asked again.
“I love no one more than you and all my children equally.” Ainmire replied, perplexed by her question.
“Ah, you sentimental fool. I know you love me but you are kidding yourself if you think you love all the children equally. There is one, you will love more than me. Is Ciaran’s child here?” She rubbed Ainmire’s hand between hers.
“Ciaran and Quinn are here. She hasn’t given birth yet. She’s in the infirmary.” Ainmire wondered how Branna knew of Ciaran’s son.
“Then we must go see her. The child is in danger.” Branna pulled him towards the door.