Eoin’s lips thinned. “No, not how upset she was. She did something she had no control over. She let him feel Cathal’s pain,” his eyes glowed feral green. It was no trick of the fire. Seonaid shifted. Her hands bunched into the pleats of her dress as a chill raised gooseflesh along her arms.
“We cry when ye cry…” Fearchar tried to guess.
“But…?” Seonaid was struggling to follow along.
“Cormac’s heart gave out from the pain. He died where he stood, holding Niamh. Grannd called her a witch, though he knew what the Fyskar were capable of. He knew we could communicate like this. We are a peaceful clan because of it. When you can tell intimately what you can do to a person, in-fighting isn’t necessary.
Shortly after burying his brother at the Kirk, Grannd rallied his clan and declared war on the Fyskar. He called us Biera, witches, warlocks. He decided to not wait to send notice to Edinburgh, or seek council for prosecution against us. He took it upon himself to be judge and jury and to instigate his clan to be executioners. We are fishermen and artists, not warriors and barbarians. We are the last of our kind in the world as far as I have determined.” Eoin poked at his fire to send up smoke that danced menacingly in the space.
Fearchar rose to pace within the light of the fire, unable to watch the dancing heat. “Why dinnae I ken a’ this?” Fearchar tried to wrap his head around the concept. “Ye aren’t last a’ the Fyskar, aye?” Fearchar asked.
“The village has forgotten us, or supressed our memory. They weren’t aware of the Dalerochs’ scheming. The people only ever knew that one day the Fyskar were there, the next, we had disappeared. They do not wish to bring the evilness upon themselves. They silenced our name, our clan. You wouldn’t have heard of us, Fearchar. Magaidh was left, alive and forgotten… My sons, Callum and Albin, are still alive,” he supplied quietly.
“Sons,” Fearchar breathed. Around him flashed images of babies and young children, three brown haired children and a pair of white haired twins before Eoin was able to repress the leak of his memories.
“Bairns,” Seonaid wanted to cry.
“I was out at Widow Magaidh’s house. She lived away from the Fyskar village. The village was built near what you are familiar with as the Daleroch estate. They since leveled it, or took over some of the houses. My grandmother’s family tried to only loosely associate with the Fyskar, having married in and out of the clan numerous times through the ages. They would dissolve their incorporated ties on whims and realign with the next clan chief that sparked their fancy.
She and her sister had been raised away from the Fyskar. When Naimh’s husband died, Cathal brought her into the village proper so as to look after her. She was a great assistant as a midwife. Grandmother had always been a touch jealous of Naimh having the talent. Magaidh could not be convinced to move into the village, even when I was born with the talent and Cathal was not.
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