14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Mac

A fter cleaning my supplies and setting the half finished piece aside to dry, I make my way down to Ennisvarra for dinner. As usual, the pub is warm and inviting, filled with happy patrons drinking and laughing after a long day.

As I step inside the pub, the familiar sounds of clinking glasses and cheerful chatter wrap around me like a cozy blanket. I spot Bridget's friends at their usual table, their faces lit with friendly smiles. They wave me over, and I make my way through the throng of patrons.

"Bridget won't be long!" Ryan, one of Bridget's friends, calls out. I settle into a chair, grateful for the warmth of the fire crackling nearby. Sean stands up, offering to fetch me an ale.

"Thanks, Sean," I reply, watching as he weaves through the crowd.

Nora leans in, curiosity dancing on her face. "So, are you looking forward to Samhain?" she asks.

"Samhain?" I echo, trying to connect the dots. "Oh, you mean Halloween?"

"Yes," she replies, her tone teasing. "Though it's so much more than just a celebration for costumes and candy."

My curiosity piques as she continues, "On Samhain, the veil between worlds is believed to be at its thinnest."

"That sounds… intense. Do people really believe in that?"

"Absolutely," she says, her brown gaze steady. "It's part of our history here. There are countless tales—some warn against wandering alone at night, lest you encounter a wayward spirit. Others tell of the fae, who might lead you astray if you're not careful. But then legend also says it's the night of The Wild Hunt."

Sean places the ale in front of me, taking a seat beside me as I frown at Nora. I vaguely recall my great-grandmother mentioning it. "The Wild Hunt? I've heard that term before, but I don't really know what it means."

Nora leans closer, while Sean scoffs at her, as though he doesn't put any weight behind the tales. "It's a legend that goes back centuries, rooted in the old world. Some say it's led by the fae, others claim it's the spirits of fallen warriors or even the Gods themselves. But all the stories agree on one thing: during Samhain, the Hunt rides."

The air seems to take on a buzzing energy around us as she continues. "On that night, they race across the sky, chasing souls. If you're unlucky enough to be caught in their path, they might sweep you away with them, into another realm. Those who disappear during the Wild Hunt… they're never seen again. Not in this world, at least."

A cold shiver traces my spine as I try to imagine what that would even look like. "But, do people actually believe in this?" I ask skeptically, looking around at the group as they watch my reactions in return.

Nora gives a small, almost imperceptible shrug, but her gaze remains intense. "Belief isn't the question. The Hunt is meant to be something more primal—an embodiment of chaos, of nature untamed. Imagine it, the sound of horses' hooves, the baying of hounds."

I stare at her, my heart beating faster. "And what do you do if you hear it?"

She giggles, flipping a strand of her hair over her shoulder. "Pray you're not in their path," she says simply, her gaze locked on mine. "The oldies used to leave offerings—food, wine, sometimes even personal belongings—anything to appease the riders and avoid their wrath. If the Hunt takes notice of you… running won't help."

My mouth feels dry, the eerie thrill of her words taking hold. "So what are you supposed to do? Just hide?"

A small, mischievous smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

"Enough!" comes a sharp, angry voice next to us, cutting through the laughter and chatter like a knife. I look up to see Bridget, her expression fierce as she locks eyes with Nora. It's the angriest I've ever seen her, a stark contrast to the warmth she usually carries. But as her gaze shifts to me, the fire in her eyes extinguishes, replaced by a kind smile.

"Don't mind her," Bridget says softly, motioning for me to relax. "Nora loves her old stories, but they're just that—stories." She shoots Nora another look, one that says she's had enough of the eerie tales for the night. Then, with a quick motion, she nudges Nora to move down the bench so she can take the seat between us.

"Sorry about that, I was delayed closing up the bakery," she says as she settles in, her voice lightening the mood. "How was your day?"

I can't help but return her smile, the tension melting away as I push the story out of my mind. "It was good! I got some work done on my second piece before heading down here. What about you?"

Bridget chuckles softly, shaking her head. "You wouldn't believe the day I had. Just as I was about to close, this frantic customer rushed in. She had spilled flour all over herself while trying to bake a cake for her son's birthday. I couldn't help but laugh!"

I lean in, intrigued. "What happened next?"

"She was still covered in the flour when she ran in, desperately needing a cake. So, I whipped up a quick one while she cleaned herself up. By the time she left, we were both in stitches, and I sent her off with some extra cookies for herself. You know, a little kindness goes a long way!"

She pauses for a moment, glancing toward the bar. "Oh, and on my way here, I stopped by to check the specials. Tonight, they have a seafood chowder that smells divine. But if seafood isn't your thing, they're also serving roast with all the fixings."

I nod, my appetite piqued. "I love a good roast. I might have to try that instead."

"Good choice," she says, her smile widening. "I'll have the chowder, then we can share if you want to try a bit!"

"Sounds like a plan," I reply, feeling grateful for her easy going nature. As the rest of the table engages us in conversation, the laughter and warmth of the pub wraps around us, and I can't help but feel at home here. Maybe Cianán was right. Maybe I need to stop trying to forget, but instead remember who I once was.

I used to be fun and have dinner outings with friends. I was happy and full of life. The old me would have asked Nora a hundred questions, wanting to know all the local tales and folklore. Just like I used to sit at my great-grandmother's feet and listen to all her stories.

As our dinners arrive, the table fills with enticing aromas. The roast is perfectly cooked and accompanied by a medley of vegetables. Bridget's chowder, steaming and creamy, looks equally delicious. We dive into our meals, savoring each bite while the conversation flows easily around us.

I share a piece of my roast with Bridget, and she does the same with her chowder. "This is fantastic!" I exclaim after tasting her dish. "You were right about the flavors!"

As we continue to eat, the chatter around us blends into a comforting hum. I catch snippets of other tables' conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the crackle of the fire. The evening wears on and a part of me begins to drift, suddenly eager for the peace of the cottage and the potential dreams that might follow.

I take a deep breath, savoring the moment one last time before I decide to bid everyone farewell. "This has been wonderful, but I think it's time for me to head back," I say, rising from my chair.

Bridget looks up, her expression softening. "Are you sure? We'll be here for a while longer."

I nod, a smile on my lips. "I'm sure. Thank you all for such a lovely evening. I can't wait to hear more stories next time!"

"Take care!" Sean calls as I wave goodbye.

Stepping outside, the cool night air greets me, refreshing against my skin. I start my walk back to the cottage, the sounds of the pub fading into the distance and replaced by the calm forest.

I don't know if I should feel bad for not staying longer with my new friends. They were warm and inviting, but as nice as their company was, there's a flutter in my chest at the thought of another dream like the one I had the other night—of Cianán, his presence overwhelming and intoxicating. I no longer wish for dreamless sleep, I want burning green eyes filled with a possessive light and elegant fingers that play me like the finest instrument in the world.

As I reach the cottage, the sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs greets me, a steady rhythm that soothes my thoughts. It feels almost like a heartbeat. The air is thick with the salty scent of the ocean, and I pause for a moment, taking in the sight of storm clouds faintly visible in the distance, their dark edges illuminated by the moonlight. They loom like a dark promise, and I can't help but feel a thrill at the thought of the wild weather to come.

Once inside, I flick on the lights, the warm glow immediately banishing the shadows that lingered at the edges of the room. The familiar surroundings welcome me back, and I breathe in the comforting scent of the space.

I slowly make my way to the kitchen, the thought of a warm cup of tea drawing me in. After filling the kettle with water, I turn on the stove, listening to the gentle hiss as it begins to heat. With my tea in hand, I head toward the bathroom. I fill the tub with hot water, watching as the steam rises in delicate swirls. I add a few drops of bath oil, the scent filling the air, calming my senses. My new routine is something I will need to continue when I return home, a way to settle my thoughts from the day before bed.

As I sink into the warm bath, I let the water work its magic, allowing the heat to unravel the tightness in my muscles. The floral-scented steam surrounds me, coaxing the last remnants of tension to dissolve. I close my eyes, trying to empty my mind, letting go of the stories from the pub, the laughter, the chatter.

Instead, I focus on remembering who I have always been, or at least who I was.

Before Nathan.

The thought presses itself into my mind, bringing with it a wave of memories I had long since buried. I was happy once—truly happy. There was a time before the suffocating shadow of my last relationship, when I lived with ease and joy, surrounded by the love of my family and friends. I recall the sound of their laughter, the way I used to feel free, unburdened by the heaviness that had followed in the years since.

Before Nathan, I had a good life. I had a solid job in finance—not glamorous, not creative like my painting, but stable. It paid the bills, kept me afloat, and allowed me to indulge in my art when time permitted. I wasn't yearning for anything more back then. I was content.

My weekends were filled with family gatherings, nights out with friends, where we'd laugh until our stomachs ached, like I had been laughing tonight in the pub. That carefree version of myself—had she really vanished? Or had I simply forgotten what it felt like to live without fear, without doubt?

Nathan had changed everything. His charm and confidence had drawn me in like a moth to a flame, but it hadn't taken long for that initial warmth to turn into something more dangerous. He was possessive, controlling, his words always laced with subtle manipulations that eroded my self-worth little by little, until I could hardly recognize myself anymore.

I had let go of friendships, distanced myself from the family that loved me, and before I knew it, my world had shrunk to just him. There was no space for me. For my joy, my art, my freedom.

The bathwater laps gently against my skin as I take a slow, deep breath, trying to anchor myself in the present. Here, in this cottage, in this moment, I am not that person anymore. I left him. I escaped that life. And with every day that passes, I feel pieces of myself returning, like fragments of a forgotten dream.

Finishing my tea I slowly rise, wrapping myself in a soft towel. The night is quiet, save for the sound of the sea beyond the walls. I drain the tub, watching the water swirl away, taking with it the heaviness of my thoughts.

The bed calls, but not with the heavy weight of exhaustion. No, tonight, there's an excitement buzzing beneath my skin, a quiet anticipation.

I want to dream again.

Slipping beneath the covers, I let the softness envelop me as I close my eyes. The sea outside is a steady presence, lulling me into the quiet space between wakefulness and sleep.

But it isn't the dreams I wanted that greet me.