Moira,
This is best. The sensible part of you understands that. Staying longer would only prolong pain, and there’s been enough of it for a dozen lifetimes. Leaving you is an act of love. I hope you understand that, too.
I have so many pictures of you in my head. Of you sitting on the floor in my library surrounded by books, poring through them. Of you laughing with King or Larkin as you so rarely laughed with me in those first weeks. Courageous in battle or lost in thought. You never knew how often I watched you, and wanted you.
I’ll see you in the m
orning mists, drawing a shining sword from a stone, and flying a dragon with arrows singing from your bow.
I’ll see you in candlelight, holding out your arms to me, taking me into a light I’ve never known before or will know again.
You’ve saved your world and mine, and however many others there might be. I think you were right that we were meant to find each other, to be together to forge the strength, the power needed to save those worlds.
Now it’s time to step away.
I’m asking you to be happy, to rebuild your world, your life, and to embrace both. To do less would be a dishonor to what we had. To what you gave me.
With you, somehow with you, I was a man again.
That man loved you beyond measure. What I am that is not a man loved you, despite everything. In all the centuries I’ve loved you. If you loved me, you’ll do what I ask.
Live for me, Moira. Even a world apart, I’ll know that you do and be content.
Cian
She would weep. A human heart needed to shed such a deep well of tears. Lying on the bed where they’d loved each other for the last time, she pressed the letter to her heart, and let it empty.
New York City
Eight weeks later
He spent a great deal of time in the dark, and a great deal of time with whiskey. When a man had eternity, Cian figured he could take a decade or two to brood. Maybe a century since he’d given up the love of his endless bloody life.
He’d come around, of course. Of course he would. He’d get back to business. Travel for a while. Drink a bit longer first. A year or two of a sodding drunk never hurt the undead.
He knew she was well, helping her people recover, planning the monument she would build in the valley come the next spring. They’d buried their dead, and she herself had read every name—nearly five hundred of them—at the memorial.
He knew because the others were back now as well, and had insisted on giving him details he hadn’t asked for.
At least Blair and Larkin were in Chicago now and wouldn’t be hammering at him to talk or get together with them. You’d think humans, after spending such an intense amount of time with him, would know he wasn’t feeling sociable.
He was going to wallow, goddamn it. The lot of them would be long dead, by his estimation, before he was finished wallowing.
He poured more whiskey. He told himself at least he had enough standards left not to drink it straight from the bottle.
And here were Hoyt and Glenna nagging at him to spend Christmas with them. Christmas, for bleeding Judas’s sake. What did he care for Christmas? He wished they would go the hell back to Ireland and the house he’d given them and leave him be.
Did they have Christmas in Geall? he wondered, running his fingers over the dented silver locket he wore night and day. He’d never asked about that particular custom—but why should he have. It would likely be Yule there, with burning logs and music. Whatever, it was nothing to him now.
But she should celebrate, Moira should. Light a thousand candles and set Castle Geall glowing. Hang the holly bushes and strike up the bloody band.
When the hell was this pain going to ebb? How many oceans of whiskey would it take to dull it?
He heard the hum of the elevator and scowled over at it. He’d told the shagging doorman no one was to be let up, hadn’t he? He ought to snap the idiot’s neck like a used chopstick.
But no matter, he mused, he’d locked the mechanism from inside as second line of defense.
They could come up, but they couldn’t get in.