#barnais

Her mind was dozing off – Aisling started to realise as she shook her head, a mere, useless effort to pay attention to class. Her gaze could barely focus on the empty tea cup in front of her and on the book, all the letters mixing in the page in a frenzy. A blank expression, eyes blinking many (too many) times. Ah, yes – she was supposed to decipher what mystical message the tea-leaves were hiding in that porcelain cup. Her fingers would gently tap on her reddened cheek (”focus, focus!”), she bit her lower lip as she slowly flipped the page. Well, this was taking more than she had expected. “it’s pointless”, she kept mumbling and sighing, trying to stifle her huffs and yawns – Chiara jokingly hit her knee under the table with a softest kick. The Irish girl would just scrunch up her nose and pull the book near her. (The dare!) She hunched again a bit more on the table. Chin resting on the palm of her hand, Aisling lifted her gaze; out of boredom, or out of exasperation, or out of frustration – she surely could not name it, the sigh that deeply filled her lungs and heaved her shoulders. It sounded quite hopeless. And her eyes would meet Barnaby’s figure on the other side of the classroom. He was quite occupied - she could tell. Talking and moving his hands excitedly, Talbott was in front of him trying to listen (Aisling could not tell). He picked the cup in front of him, probably trying to point at some mysterious figure he had spotted, to prove his point. Aisling envied Talbott a little bit. Yet, Chiara voice did not bring her attention back - the Gryffindor Headgirl was too interested - trying to understand Barnaby’s words, or at least watching him. (Chiara too did turn around a tad to see who had caught Aisling’s eyes– only to turn back again to face the Irish girl with a knowing giggle – that Aisling would not hear, again.) “… Look, look here…” - the Irish girl thought she could hear. And he looked so serious, almost convincing as he kept speaking and gesturing, sometimes flipping the pages of his book almost too quickly, Aisling thought he would rip them soon. “…Star…” she had then caught more clearly his voice among the chatters of her classmates, “… circles…”, she pointed to the cup with his index finger. (What had she seen in her cup, instead? Was that a tree? A flower? The cup had been resting long forgotten near her book, waiting in vain under Chiara’s amused gaze.) And Aisling suddenly straightened her back against the backrest of her armchair – her cheeks flushed to a darker shade of pink (they felt pleasantly warmer under her fingertips), as she realized Barnaby was looking back at her. At first unaware of her emerald eyes on him – then curious – then probably delighted. He had dropped the cup on the table – a soft thud she could not hear. An enthusiastic wave of his hand, a mimicked “Aisling!” she could read on his lips (and could not mistake for another name – so many those times she had heard him telling her name, just a whisper or louder). And he had chuckled at her reaction, grinned and then so tenderly smiled (she had pushed behind her ear an untamed lock – unable to look away despite the embarrassment). Nothing else. Neither Chiara’s soft chuckle, nor Talbott’s questioning look as he turned to see who had distracted Barnaby from his monologue. (Guilty as charged.) She ever so lightly leaned towards his direction, slowly waved in response, such a natural gesture she probably was not even aware of – her lips, slightly agape in surprise, spreading in a soft smile. She was glad class was about to end.

A moonless night. “Not a bad omen, not a bad omen”, Aisling muttered to herself, a distracting tapping of her fingertips on the table in front of her. The embers in the fireplace were slowly dying, dark reds and gold shimmering in that slow dance, casting long and vibrant shadows against the floor and wall. Uneasiness, restlessness: they were ever so loud in that big, dark, silent room. Aisling’s gaze went back to her husband, his elbows resting on his knees – forehead pushing against his head. Slowly, almost imperceptibly rocking himself back and forth. An insistent thought – to touch his shoulder, shake him, embrace him – she hesitated. Her nails scraped instead against the wood of the bench. Frustrated. He was nervous, she could feel it. Bit her lower lip as she deeply inhaled, mirroring Barnaby’s movement as his shoulders heaved (a touch of smoke, the scent of wood, home: how they both treasured it). His thoughts were loud – she could feel them at first as a distant discomfort, like a whistle, then she could feel them growing as time passed, like the winter winds howling. (A horrible, suffocating feeling. A pained wince she could muffle just in time with gritted teeth, she furrowed her brows in discomfort.) His leg was bouncing – as much as he tried, he could not hide the turmoil, the fear. (A lump in his throat, the air stuck in his chest, his heart pounding so loudly in his head.) Aisling’s hand was soon resting on his knee. Silent and still like a comforting shadow – he deeply sighed, lowered his gaze to her hand, few scratches on her pale skin, he felt his jaw tensing. Her touch was now firmer on his knee. (Ever insistent and stubborn.) He finally unclenched his fists. His knuckles hurt as he straightened his fingers. Slow, loving caresses, her thumb would smooth the rough fabric underneath. Steady, ever-present, grounding. He focused on the pleasant sensation – tensed so lightly at first, then he felt his back relaxing, hunching forward just a tad. It felt like awakening from a nightmare. Another deep breath. It still hurt a bit, but it was easier - that weight pressing down on his chest felt a bit lighter. “I’m here, I’m with you,” her touch would lovingly murmur. (And he could feel it.) “You are not alone,” the gentle squeeze silently whispered. “Trust me.” Not in defeat, but he needed to rest his head on her shoulder, even for just a while. She welcomed him – the softest chuckle, not mocking but understanding and so light and crystalline. Tingling. He could not help but slightly snort, shake his head. It tickled Aisling’s sensitive skin – yet he lingered and indulge in that soft giggle. He felt the weight of her head against his own, the rebel corvine locks like a curtain, tickling him in return (“She’s here, she’s with me.”) A soft, insecure smile, the glittering of her green eyes in the dark were reassuring and grounding as well, much as her overall presence. «Don’t worry, mo sholas,» she finally murmured. His hand gripped at her wrist with utmost tenderness (and need, and gratefulness), his thumb stroking her soft skin in return, following the pattern of some fading scars, «athair will be here soon, I’m sure of it.» And he nuzzled her neck with his nose, left a quick kiss on her cheek. His eyes were back on hers, searching and pleading and loving, and his grip on her hand was now stronger. Never vicious. He wanted to believe her (how he wanted to!), although her voice was low and trembling and sad. (Oh, but he was the fragile one, not her. Who was he even kidding.) A most sincere and heartfelt “I’m sorry Ash, I love you” (warm and soft and gentle and desperate) reached her mind, like a shy whisper. A plea. She smiled (and he wanted to taste her smile her so badly) - her head was not on his shoulder (and he wanted to just hug her, disappear and hide from the world), hand still on his knee, her soothing caresses not stopping (he could only stroke her skin with his hand in return, following and drawing imaginary labyrinths and patterns on her skin with his fingertips). «Is brea liom tú freisin.»

There was nothing epic in being the Hero of Hogwarts – Aisling mused as her legs carelessly dangled over the thick branch she was sitting on. Climbing had been an easy task, jumping down would be more difficult, but she was going to fret over it in due time – when maybe the sun would finally set behind the mountains. A deep, resigned sigh, her shoulder heaved and her lungs filled with cold hair. She lazily rested her head against the trunk. Not even caring about the damp wood, nor about the leaves that were stuck in her hair. Or about the smudged dirt on her hands and nose. This was going to be one of those gloomy days – the ones when she needed to be alone, even just for a little while, and clear the intricate and chaotic maze of her thoughts. She had left her friends in the Great Hall, brushed away Barnaby’s questions, asked him (“not too kindly”, she pondered as she felt a lump in her throat and her heart painfully clenching in her chest) to not follow her. Magnus was not replying to her letters, only the gods would know where he disappeared – was he in danger? Was he safe? Had he even showed up at their house? Her friends would not even listen to her. Everyone thought everything was okay – perfect after she (she!) defeated Rakepick. Were they in danger, again? Was she just being paranoid? (The thought had her grimace in discomfort and shame.) Another deep breathe had her shiver, she tried to get more comfortable in her sitting position – no one was going to help her, this time. Uneasiness made her more restless and nervous. (Barnaby had sensed it even before Aisling herself, tried to stay with her more often to cheer her up, to shake away her worries – but to no avail, stubborn and ungrateful as she was.) Flapping wings caught her attention, emerald eyes shone with magic for a brief second as a snowy owl carefully flew through the branches. Gently landed next to her. A soft hoot to claim Aisling’s attention, Skathi proudly ruffled her plumes, golden eyes attentively stared at the Irish girl (telling her “I searched for you for a really long time!” – Aisling could easily tell). «Ah, Skathi, I’m so sorry I hid in here,» she lifted a hand, softly scratched the owl’s soft head, a faint smile on her lips as Skathi softly hooted in response. «I was…» Aisling bit her lower lip, looked at the ground feet beneath them, snow covering it as a white blanket, «… brooding.» And Skathi hooted again, softly but insistently. Another reprimand? Indeed she really liked being the responsible one between them. She scurried closer, nudged the girl’s elbow with her head – Aisling noticed the piece of parchment that Skathi was diligently holding with her talons. Just a tiny bit ruined. (And she knew just one person who dared ask Skathi to bring her a letter.) Another hoot, louder, and the owl mischievously bit, most gently, Aisling hand, «yes! Yes! Thank you!» A laugh, an ouch Aisling managed to hide as she retreated her hand on instinct as soon as she carefully picked the parchment. «Did you behave with Barnaby?» Skathi looked at Aisling with such disdain – the Irish girl’s eyes flashed green again as the owl tried to bit her again, «Ow, by the crows of Macha! Skathi! I know you bit his hand just once! I was just asking!» Another hoot – the owl finally agreed, her feather bristled and then relaxed. Aisling opened the carefully wrapped parchment – with a little too much haste. Ignored a small cut on a finger, smoothed the corners of the paper. Like a caress, as if she could touch the sender. (She would do it in due time.) Not words, but hearts filled the space, colourful and various in sizes. She blinked twice. (”... What?”) In a corner, Barnaby’s name written as carefully as he could (and some more twirls), and quite an impressive drawing of a bunch of clovers, all the shades of green and perhaps a touch of magic made them look almost real, swaying under an imaginary breeze. Was this Badeea touch? Her teachings? A blush quickly spreaded on Aisling’s cheeks, the familiar fluttering of her heart ever persistent now. Ah, now she was feeling bad again. Yet so happy, and giddy. (“I’d pick real clovers, but they would quickly wither, and I don’t want to give you withered plants”, was written at the bottom of the letter) An heartfelt chuckle in her throat that could melt that heavy stone in her chest, a genuine smile brightened her face – her eyes ran to the castle, so many lights appearing behind those hundreds of windows, like a constellation. «Skathi… I need you to go call someone to help me, I can’t jump from here.» A flash of white flying away. Aisling drew the letter close to her, hid it against her chest.

She kept looking – involuntarily bit her lower lip as a frown graced her face: a dull jolt of pain shot through her arm. A wince that Aisling could not bite back.   «You should have listened to me.» And here he was. Barnaby’s low voice came all of a sudden, like a resigned murmur, breaking the silence. (It was not unwelcome.) Not an accusation, nor a reprimand. (It was not unpleasant.) No, it was different. Aisling had no need to turn her head to the side to see his look. She could uncomfortably feel the weight of his deep gaze on her, the merciless -most gentle- scrutiny. Disappointed, even. With that veil of worry tainting his emerald eyes. But not anger. She hated it. She hated that feeling - the guilt gripping at her stomach, making her huff and clench her teeth; quite a strange reaction, pretending to be annoyed at her husband. She had felt it, sometimes, that urge to scream at him to not be so kind and understanding. She had asked him to hate her. And yet. Yes, he was there, by her side (promises, promises!), shaking his head (sighing) as he knelt near the bathtub, his arms resting on the edge. (An anchor.) Aisling had long lost the concept of caring. But she found it soothing – that nostalgic feeling she was not allowed to forget. A stark, harsh contrast to the adrenaline rushing though her veins, making her clench her teeth, run, jump. And then, making her feel empty. Restless but tired. Groaning. She could not help but find it numbing, and it would ease her pain – to think just about the present. No past and no future she could bask and indulge in – perhaps, they were not allowed in those strange times.  She would search for it – the danger, the fight – she would never hesitate when the Order needed a volunteer for another mission. Aisling tiredly huffed again, she let her arm fall back in the water – the surface delicately rippled, little droplets circles gracefully and fell back again, breaking the perfect stillness. The ghost of a giggle. «I guess so. Did you tell Mathair?» (Of course he did – Aisling did not need an answer.) She simply laughed, softly. It came out bittersweet – nonetheless enticing and calming to Barnaby (she was still alive, and that was enough, for now). But she had long lost the concept of caring. Barnaby was the careful and attentive one. He would always find her and bring her back home. He would wrap his arm around her waist and help her walking. He would whisper soothing words, he would calm her or just hear her screaming in anger. «I like to think I’ve become a good healer to look after you, but not nearly as good as her. She’s waiting for you in the kitchen.» Yes, it was nice. The dim light, the warm water – Barnaby’s soft and tender touch. (Could she hate it too?) His fingertips gently brushed over her skin, carefully examining the bruises blooming underneath. Yes, it was calming – Aisling could feel that weight on her chest lifting ever a tad. It was enough. Brighid could wait. With her eyes shut closed, Aisling could pretend she was swimming in the Boyne. The sloshing of crystal clear waters reflecting the blue sky painted by soft clouds. Or the soft waves under the cliffs of Moher – when the ocean is calm and still and the wind is but a soft breeze. Far from their hidden glen and their woods. From that almost invisible mound near the creek, where everlasting clovers would bloom. They would not talk about it yet. Reality could wait just a little more. «Do you want to tell me what happened?» Aisling scrunched up her nose ever a tad (a flash of pain that forced her to inspire deeply) as Barnaby gently pressed a more sensitive area of her arm, and she slightly stirred under his touch to ease the discomfort, biting an hiss (“stay still”, he would calmly say, ”I’m almost done”). «The usual,» a mischievous, adorable smirk on her lips, she playfully tapped the water surface with her free hand, «some curses, found an interesting object. Nothing lethal. Little Hangleton is quite a nice place, after all.» A scoff – it forced Aisling to open her eyes (a questioning look), his gaze still focused on her bruises. «Ehy, Barnab-ouch!» she whined, a high-pitched tone leaving her lips, and tried to pull away as he pressed again on her arm. «Serves you well,» so he lightly grinned, right before kissing her bare shoulder with utmost care and devotion – he did not meet her gaze. An outraged gasp – with the simple flick of her fingertips, splashes of water hit Barnaby. Still, he did not let go of her - his lips pressed against her pale cheek, lingered just a little more. And then, he delicately brushed away those untamed locks from her neck. (Perhaps it felt better than danger making her fingertips tingle in expectation.) His laugh – how she missed it. And how he missed her laugh. Her genuine, spontaneous, true laugh. No, she had not forgotten the concept of caring.  

«I won’t ask you to stay, it would be cruel of me.» Barnaby Lee knew better than that – loved her free spirit and that touch of wilderness. But Aisling Baskerville loved the sense of belonging she could feel around him as much as she loved her freedom. Aisling swiftly turned around – stood on her tiptoes. (And his fingertips would pull ever so gently at her untamed locks, wrapping them around his fingers, then placing them behind her ears.) «But Barnaby, I can promise you...,» his index finger on her lips silenced her all of a sudden – the disbelief in her gaze (the dare!) made him shake his head. «A bigger house.» (“What?”) «Like a cottage.» The confused and questioning look in her eyes was oh so adorable, Barnaby could not help but quickly peck at her nose. «In a forest. Maybe near a river. It would not be too far from your parents’ house.» And her heart was beating faster in her ribcage, almost annoyingly (to always love so, so much and to be so, so happy), and restlessly her fingertips grasped the sleeves of his shirt. «Ivies on the walls, maybe. It would look nice, wouldn’t it?» A sharp inhale – she tried to reply but to no avail. «And many rooms! And you would have all the space you need for all the relics you’ll find!-» «And-» she lovingly bit ever so lightly his fingertip, «you could bring home some of your creatures and look after them.» Again, again she could hear his chuckle (yes, she could listen to him everyday, and she was not going to complain). «Yes! And it would be our own place. But we can always invite our friends, your parents, even let Aleksia and Magnus stay for a while if you want!» Barnaby, always the mindful and gentle one – Aisling’s hands travelled to his shoulders, and her arms wrapped around his neck. A silent, slow waltz, as they swayed and swayed and the music of dreams and hopes. «Our own place, mh?» «Yes, ours.» Ours – it had an enthralling sound, coming from Barnaby’s voice and muffled by their sudden kiss as he pulled Aisling to him, cupped her face a little rougher than expected, his lips claiming hers - his thumbs lovingly tracing her skin. «This is a really long-term project, mo sholas, isn’t it?» She smiled in their kiss, lingered in the warmth of his soft lips – the soft growl as she, again, bit him. Barnaby shrugged (wasn’t it obvious?). «As long as we live.» A most loving murmur, a lover’s whisper. And Aisling had already seen it all, in her dreams.

Aisling woke up to an empty, cold bed. The sunlight was mercilessly filtering through the window, reverberating on the white blanket of sparkling snow that still covered the garden of the cottage. She unconsciously frowned at the sight that almost blinded her tired eyes, her hand pawing at the bedsheets as she pushed them off her, almost angrily: she could hate mornings with a passion, especially after a restless night. A hand ran through her messy corvine locks, and she pushed herself up on a sitting position, tightening Barnaby’s flannel shirt around her small figure against the cold air of the room. A minute, all she needed to gather again her balance, wince at the dull, pounding pain in her head and deeply inhale, begging for the light sense of nausea that had been afflicting her for now weeks to disappear. She was only tired, she was oh so sure of it: being a Scout for the Order of the Phoenix could be really exhausting at times, and lately Aisling had been noticing this was affecting her more than the usual. Molly Weasley, always the gentle and motherly one, had more than once told her to rest. “No one will blame you, my dear”, Molly Weasley had said before sending her home, an understanding smile on her lips but a look of concern on her hazel eyes. She had pushed in Aisling’s hands a small tray with a steaming cup of tea and a handful of scones on it, “I see you have been neglecting your meals too.” The woman would then just shake her head, without adding any word. A stuttered “thank you, you didn’t have to”, and Aisling sat on the nearest chair. With a deep sigh Aisling pushed on her hands and tentatively stood up - feet slowly trailed to the kitchen. She heard a soft thankful hoot in the distance, the clack of a window being closed. «Mo chroí,» she heard the soothing voice of her husband even before seeing him there, leaning against the wooden table. Dark circles were noticeable under his eyes, which did not look as bright as usual. And she could even picture the fond smile on his lips, his eyes focused on her. His soft chuckle definitely woke her up. «Hey,» she tiredly smiled back at him.  But Skathi was quicker than her new owner and reclaimed the Irish’s attention: she softly hooted again her “good morning” to Aisling, feathers of white with grey flecks ruffling as she basked in the warmth of the room. Snow was still on her paws and on the floor right under her. She looked so proud of the task she had just accomplished, considering how calmly she would lean her head into Aisling’s gentle touch. «Hey to you too, my winter goddess,» she weakly laughed, her hand patting gently the snowy owl’s head. And Barnaby could not help but snort, amused. He shook his head, soft brown locks now longer moving slightly. Stretching out an arm towards him, Aisling would again reach for him: he carelessly shoved on the table what was probably a copy of the Daily Prophet, near a still-steaming cup of tea. Earl Grey probably, considering the slightly pungent scent of bergamot that reached for Aisling’s now so strangely sensitive nose. Her stomach rumbled, displeased. Oh, of course he would not step back. Quickly, he closed their distance and caught her in a quick, too brief embrace, before releasing her again on her feet. (And the floor was oh so cold.) His thumb brushed lovingly over Aisling’s lower lip before his hand fell to her shoulder, slowly caressing what little skin was exposed. It was pleasant, his warm touch, Aisling innocently thought. «I see you stole again my shirt,» and he chuckled, claimed her lips in a soft kiss - she could not complain. In fact, she could not do anything but surrender, gently holding on his elbows and standing on her tiptoes. It looked almost a waltz, how they would slowly sway as Barnaby pulled her along with him - he sat on the nearest chair. «You were not in our bedroom.» She swiftly followed as he offered her a hand, his fingers finding hers and pulling her closer between his knees. «I’m sorry, love,» he whispered as he kissed her knuckles and softly squeezed her hand. «I did not want to wake you up.» Aisling could not help but scrunch up her nose as she rested her cheek on top of his head. «How are you feeling?» Barnaby lifted their still joined hands, brought them to his lips and kissed her palm, leaning in her soft skin. «You didn’t sleep well.» An instinctual gesture, her hand caressed his shoulder, thumb brushing soothingly the fabric of his shirt. He was so observant and caring. «Nearly kept me awake,» his low chuckle against her skin felt pleasant, Aisling could not help but think. «Ah, I’m so sorry Barnaby,» a soft kiss on his hair, «I didn’t mean to keep you awake.» A reassuring, tender caress on her hip was Barnaby’s answer. «You should tell Brighid… your mother could help you,» the warmth of his hands pressing on her hips sent a warm shiver. But the stubborn clover shook her head. «Not now. I don’t want her to worry about me.»  The newspaper left forgotten on the table caught her attention now, as the figures of the front page kept moving. Mass breakout from Azkaban, mayhem at high security prison, the title screamed in capital letters. Her eyes carefully scanned over the page, brows furrowing as words sank, one by one, in her mind. “The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban.” A murmur Barnaby could not hear (“it can’t be.”) “Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, confirmed that ten high-security prisoners escaped in the early hours of yesterday evening.” (Again, the very same coldness that had plagued her that night was crawling on her skin.) ”An escape of this magnitude suggests outside help, and we must remember that Black, as the first person ever to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to help others follow in his footsteps.” An annoyed snort, she tossed the paper on the table, not a single trace of her grace on her gesture. «Of course,» crystalline voice dripped with bitter sarcasm, «very… sly of them. Using Sirius as their scape-goat.» Moving figures would keep staring at her. Names that shouted “danger” in her mind. The first she noticed, a man with dark hair and a pock-marked face: Augustus Rookwood. Iomhar had led a wild hunt to chase him. Then, another man with black hair and a twisted expression on his eyes looked back: Antonin Dolohov. Another familiar name. But there, at the center of the front page, the picture of a woman stared back at her, gritting her teeth, a malicious snarl on her lips. Once graced with beauty, now she bore the sign of madness and years spent in the shadows, waiting for the Dark Lord’s return: Bellatrix Lestrange. «You must be kidding me…» she muttered to herself, shaking her head in disbelief. One hand was still resting on Barnaby’s shoulder, his head was resting against her shoulder, leaning against her warmth. Eyes quickly kept sweeping over the page in a frenzy: names and faces she had already heard. A familiar visage caught her attention again, her thumb scratched the paper. Another woman with features she had already seen. Somewhere, years ago. In someone else, much younger. «… the Snydes?» Barnaby deeply inhaled, his head moving in a sad nod. Quickly, Aisling’s gaze flew to Skathi. «We… we have to tell Merula…, where the hell is she, damn…,» she tried to wriggle away from his grasp. «Aisling,» he softly murmured as he tried to catch her wrist. «…and... I-… where’s the quill…» «Aisling,» Barnaby pulled her near him, trying to calm her down. «…I… I need to write-…,» the incoherent flow of her thoughts, her hands grabbing again the newspaper furiously. «Aisling!» And her eyes were gazing back at him. Then at their now joined hands. His thumb was lovingly brushing over the garnet of her claddagh ring. He felt now cold against her warmer hands, again. «But… we have to tell-… » She looked again at the newspaper. Her thumb was now underlining another name that stood clear in the blur of all those words of black ink. «… so you knew it…» There was something more he dreaded to say. A name she was not ready to read yet. Aisling’s eyes widened in utter shock, she stopped breathing, a lump in her throat. Her hands instantly dropped the paper on the table as if it were burning her skin. She looked back at Barnaby. He avoided her insistent gaze. «When you came back home tonight…,» so suddenly the realization hit her, like a stab in her stomach. «Barnaby,» her voice murmured, no more than a whisper. And her husband had no need to guess what she was so terrified to say. He didn’t need to look back at her, follow her gaze and look again at that moving frame of a man with mad eyes, or to look at the name printed under it - the last name he too shared, and now Aisling too. «Yes.» Like a soft growl, pushing past his lips. «I was at Grimmauld Place with Leksi and Merric when it happened.» A faint flash of jade shone on Aisling’s eyes for a moment. The paper crumpled in Barnaby’s fist as he instinctively shredded the page. «Iomhar already knows. Alastor told him.» (The petals of a nearby rose fell.) And he tore his gaze away. He looked… desperate. Hurt. Helpless. Hopeless. Trying to hide the turmoil of emotions haunting his mind and not burden his wife. Purest Barnaby. Sweetest Barnaby. «Not even a month from our wedding.» He closed his eyes for a brief second, in pain, as he tightened his fist - slammed it against the table involuntarily. From the nearby chair, a sleepy Sjøfn lifted her head and meowed, outraged. «They’ll never let me live peacefully. Won’t they?» Skathi screeched, alarmed, wings flapping few times as she retreated to the window. (The leaves of the orchids in the living room crinkled.) «I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,» a sob that threatened to push past his lips, and his grip on Aisling’s hips felt a bit tighter, as he pulled his wife closer. «I don’t know… what to think. I don’t know what to do.» He hid his face against her chest, slowly his arms would wrap around her waist. «They’ll soon know-…» about us - his thoughts completed. The light shaking of his voice had Aisling lovingly run her hands through his hair. «They could already know!» The strain of his sweet voice – Aisling would move hell and highwater to not hear it again. (A gust of wind outside made the glass of the window slightly tremble.) «We… don’t know this for sure, Barnaby,» she lovingly brushed away a strand of hair from his forehead. Gods knew - how she was lying! To herself, to her husband. She bit her lower lip. «Athair… athair will know what to do… We should ask him.» Her gaze lowered to their joined hands. She could feel his fingers slightly trembling in her grasp – then they slipped away. Whether for fear or anger, she could not understand. «They will search for me. For us.» «Mo sholas-…» «Aisling.» And the deep baritone tone of his voice had her stop her own words. «You… you don’t know them,» his thumbs stopped their caressing motion on her hips, his grip tighter but still gentle. A deep, trembling sigh. And she understood. She understood that all at once, the mere thoughts of her facing his parents had tipped him into bone-deep dread. That having her in the middle of the battle, where he cannot keep her safe, had violently shaken the very ground beneath him. The mere idea of seeing her tainted with those very mud and blood she had dreamed of had shaken his core and set his heart to racing. She felt it, under her fingertips. «We are safe here, Barnaby. They won’t find us.» «Aisling. I know them,» slightly higher his voice rose, Aisling bit her lower lip, «they will not surrender.» Another strangled sob that he forced down his throat. His jaw painfully tensed. She shivered in his grasp, she felt her chest tightening at the sight of him in such pain. «This is what they have always wanted me to do. To follow their path and serve the Dark Lord.» «Barnaby, I-» «I trust Iomhar. I really trust him. But I fear what they could do to get back what was theirs.» «They can’t-» «BUT THEY CAN.» She jolted at his strained shout and instantly pushed away from him on instinct. Coldness hit them both. «My love…» He blinked at the sound of the stress in her voice, and he murmured, «No, no, I’m so sorry Aisling,» in a quiet murmur as he pulled her close again. Bumping his nose against her temple as he soothed her with a stroking hand down her arm. Unable to resist his instinctual drive to comfort her. «We can… we can get through this, Barnaby.» A sob she could not restrain. Arms that desperately clutched around his neck. It hit her like a wave, the strength of his pain and fear. The restlessness of his thoughts. She had sworn many times she wouldn’t use her Legilimency on him, but sometimes his feelings were so loud and clear, intruding in her mind almost painfully. She closed her eyes, arms wrapping around his neck, cradling him against her chest lovingly. And she was involuntarily pushed drowning in his thoughts. Green eyes that looked exactly like Barnaby’s emerald irises: they stared down at him, menacing. “Weak” like a growl, it resonated inside Aisling’s head forcefully. And once again, louder. An hurt wince – was it her? Was it Barnaby? Sobs that wrenched her heart to shreds. “Useless.” A tall figure covered by a black cloak blocked her sight - a long, lightly plumed tail of warm grey dangling lifeless from the couch. “Boy.” Someone gripping forcefully at his shoulder and pulling him back. Aisling saw warm tears trailing down the reddened skin of his cheeks. The long, thick body of a snake slowly slithered at her feet. A voice, high-pitched and cold, like a blade, came from the man cloaked in black. A hiss that almost pierced Aisling’s ears. Barnaby’s mother would stand back a few steps and keep her gaze lowered, his father would almost bow obsequiously at that man. Eyes as red as blood stared madly at him. Barnaby looked away. His small feet tried to trail away from that man, but someone pushed him back. Forced him too to bow. A small, warm hand brushing his cheek – another strike that painfully hit him, it still stung under his tentative touch. And his small body trembled with growing fear. And there was no one to hold him. Utter silence. Cold. Unforgiving. “Weak.” It echoed again. With the very strength of that violent strike, Aisling was abruptly pushed back as if she had hit a stonewall, her breath held back. «Mo grá-» A wounded sound that much resembled her voice, she covered her mouth with her hand. Her heart lurching frantically. And it was enough to jar him. «Aisling. Stop it,» softly, kindly, his voice stirred her from that storm and brought her back. He did not push her away, but she felt him raising his head and looking at her. His saddened smile was as painful as a stab. «You… don’t need to see that,» he reflexively murmured as his hands reached for her arms, gentle strokes following the path. And she tensed her jaw, her fingers would grip at the fabric of his sweater with more strength. He was worried, she could feel it in his touch, trembling and rougher. She could hear it in his voice, shaking and lower. «I would never let them touch you.» And his eyes were on her again: he gently forced her to look back at him. Determined. «I know.» A soft sigh, her chest filling with warm air, she cupped his cheeks, softly brushed his skin. (Where they did hit him.) «And I would not let them touch you either.» The phantom of his smile on his lips – but the fear and fury still lingered in his pained gaze. «I know,» he weakly chuckled, his lips pressed another tender kiss on the knuckles of her hand. «Barnaby,» she slowly stepped back from him, free from his tender grasp, and her hands would run from his hair to his shoulders as he stood up, following her. «Remember?» and his thumb brushed over her lower lip, gently. His gaze was so intense it almost made Aisling shiver. «”Now you are bound one to the other, with a tie not easy to break”,» her voice softened, «… our vow.» And with the same softness, she sighed. He nodded, «… to love and to honor through all that may come.» And love surged again, so warm in his chest – like a soft warm breeze Aisling could sense it in her mind and heart. He fondly looked down at her, his hand coming up to close gently around her jaw, before slipping down her throat with a slow, warm caress and then spreading over her sternum. «Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,» voice like a whisper, he leaned closer. She raised her hands to curve around his jaw and pull him to her again, tilting her head up to meet him - so soft the sound at the scrape of his stubble as his lips press to hers. He pulled back after a long moment on a soft, regretful sound.  So soft kisses pressed to her cheek, then her jaw. He leaned down and rubbed his cheek against hers. «I would do anything to protect you.» She hid her face in the crook of his neck. That was what scared Aisling the most. «Is tú mo ghrá, Barnaby.»