Page 154 of Threadbound

Jamie didn’t understand, not really. But it didn’t matter if he understood. Bran’s commitment was clear in his thoughts. In an abstract way, Jamie knew that Bran was fighting not only for himself and his family, not only for the Sluagh, his people, but for something even more important—some fundamental core belief that Jamie couldn’t comprehend.

Balance,came the thought.

Jamie let his cheek rest against the top of Bran’s head, feeling soft hair and soft feathers brushing against his skin. He might not understand, but he would give Bran whatever he needed.

You.

Jamie let his arms tighten a little, not wanting to hurt Bran any further. Maigdeann had explained that Bran had several broken ribs, severe bruises and lacerations, and he’d re-brokenhis arm. Jamie didn’t want to make his pain worse, but he wanted to hold Bran as tightly as he could, use his own strength to convince the fae not to go back out into battle—even though he knew it would be useless.

I would stay—for you.

Hope surged through him, but it was quickly followed by guilt and shame. He wanted Bran to stay safe—but he couldn’t ask him to give up his family, his people, his whole way of life just because Jamie didn’t want him to die.

I would.

I know.

They both knew that as soon as he was able, Bran would go back to the fight. And Jamie would be waiting for him when he came back.

Bran’sbody was a mess of pain—not unlike after his encounter with thegeàrd soilleir, although without the sickness of the poison, which he supposed was an improvement. His ribs felt battered, his muscles ached, and a cold pain had settled into his arm—the familiarity of a broken bone. The same arm, in fact. He was also light-headed, which he was doing his best to keep from both Maigdeann and Jamie, although he was starting to suspect that Jamie knew anyway.

Bran let out a long breath, trying to ground himself through his feet and into the moss and stones of the infirmary floor.

“You shouldn’t go back out there if it’s this hard to stand up,” Jamie had pointed out before crossing the room to prepare more bandage and stitching for the injured who had yet to be brought to the infirmary. Bran hadn’t bothered looking up at him. Jamie wasn’t wrong—but Bran was still going to go back out on the walls. Not the field—Jamie had been insistent about that, and Bran wasn’t about to argue the point because he wouldn’t lastmore than a few minutes in melee combat, even if he drank anothercnàmh-droma an laoch.

He knew he should actually get up and dress, put on the thick padded tunic and mail shirt that had been cleaned of at least some of the blood he’d soaked them in, although there were still spots of dark tarnish visible against the silver links of chain. The padded under-tunic was stained with an alarming amount of brownish splotches, some quite large, and Bran’s skin crawled at the thought of having to put it back on.

But he had little choice.

A hush fell over the infirmary, causing Bran to actually look up to find Cairn mac Darach in the doorway. Bran met his father’s black eyes, and a faint almost-smile hovered for a moment over Cairn’s lips. But it disappeared again almost as quickly as Cairn walked into the room and began speaking to Eadar—Maigdeann had been called away to attend the bedside of Cuileann mac Eug.

Bran watched as his father sucked in a breath, his eyes widening, one hand reaching out to grip Eadar’s arm. And then his father crossed to where Jamie was working, his nimble hands stripping bandaging from larger pieces of cloth. Jamie looked up as the wight approached him, his features set in an uncomfortable smile. Bran knew that expression—Jamie was trying to be polite, but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do or say.

Whatever his father said to Jamie put the halfbreed more at ease, and the smile that flitted across Jamie’s lips was more genuine. They spoke softly, too quiet for Bran to hear all the way across the room, but the color in Jamie’s cheeks suggested that he was embarrassed—probably by some sort of praise or gratitude. For a man who was used to the human custom of thanking people—and being thanked—on a regular basis,Jamie was surprisingly likely to blush when someone expressed genuine gratitude for something he had done.

Watching his father and Jamie reminded Bran why he was going to stupidly go onto the keep’s vine-entangled walls to provide what magical support he could to the combatants on the fields below. Because the people he loved were inside those walls, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep them safe.

Bran pushed himself to his feet, earning glances from both Jamie and his father, and began to dress, moving as quickly as he dared in an attempt to convince both of them that he was in better condition than he felt.

Although Jamie’s disapproval was palpable, the halfbreed said nothing, worry etched across his features when Bran glanced in his direction.

Be safe.The fear was obvious in Jamie’s thoughts.

Bran didn’t send any thoughts in return—he couldn’t promise to be safe, not if taking foolish action might save the Court of Shades. He also didn’t trust his own thoughts not to betray his worry and desperation. Instead, he offered a weak smile, finished belting on his mail, and walked out of the infirmary, trying very hard not to turn around and look back.

Bran was crossing the inner courtyard, on his way to the twisting stairs that would take him to the top of the wall, when a voice spoke to him out of the shadows of an overhanging bough heavy with purple flowers. “Do you have an answer for me, son of Cairn?”

Bran turned, meeting white eyes set in an ancient, wrinkled face. “I do,Bean Nighe,” he replied calmly, even though she had startled him. But he’d been waiting for her to find him, sooner or later.

“And?”

“Jamie Weaver,” he answered.And what is it, child, that will make giving all that you have worthwhile?she had asked him,and, at the time, he’d had no answer for her at all, a lack of conviction that had bothered him more than he’d admitted even to himself. And now he had one. He would give everything he had—his life, certainly, but also his honor, his pride, his beliefs, and his soul. There was nothing he wouldn’t give—or do—for Jamie.

Bran had never before seen a genuine smile on theBean Nighe’s face—mirth, yes, but not the soft warmth that almost showed the younger women she must once have been, millennia ago and perhaps in another world. She reached out and touched two fingers to his cheek. “Your wish, little raven, has already been granted—although not by me.”

Bran felt his forehead crease in a frown. “I dinna understand.”

TheBean Nighenodded. “We never do until everything falls into place.” She smiled again, but this time the expression was wistful. “Don’t forget, Bran mac Cairn, tolivefor that for which you’d be willing to die.”

---