|c.6|

 

The third day dawned with a heavy, oppressive air. Within Finlay’s chambers, Moira lay curled on his bed, her body trembling with pain. Her skin, usually luminous and glowing, had taken on a pallor that unsettled anyone who saw her. Her golden eyes were dull, clouded with hunger and anguish, and the sharp angles of her face looked more severe in her weakened state.

Finlay sat at her bedside, his broad hand resting lightly on her arm, unsure of how to comfort her. “Moira, lass, what’s happenin’ tae ye? Ye were fine last night.” His voice was low, filled with worry, but Moira didn’t respond.

Her breaths came in shallow gasps, and she refused the broth and bread he had brought for her. The smell of food turned her stomach, and her only solace was closing her eyes and pretending the world beyond her pain didn’t exist.

“Finlay,” one of the clanswomen called softly from the door, breaking him from his thoughts. “The laird needs ye doon at the hall. There’s a meetin’ with the other lairds.”

“I cannae leave her like this,” Finlay said, his tone clipped. He turned to look at the woman, his face lined with frustration. “I dinnae ken what tae do for her, and now ye’re tellin’ me tae go talk about treaties?”

The woman hesitated, glancing at Moira’s still form. “We’ll look after her, aye? But the clan needs ye as well. We’ll send word if there’s any change.”

Reluctantly, Finlay rose, placing a gentle kiss on Moira’s forehead before leaving the room.

---

The great hall buzzed with tension, the lairds speaking in hushed but heated tones about rumors swirling through the village. Whispers of curses and dark magic had reached their ears, and the MacLeods were divided on how to address them.

“It’s that MacDonnell lass, I’m tellin’ ye,” one older clansman muttered, leaning toward another. “She’s bitter as bile, and she’s nae shy about lettin’ the world ken it.”

“Curses,” another scoffed. “D’ye really think Ailsa could work such things?”

Finlay overheard the conversation as he entered the hall, his jaw tightening. “What are ye sayin’ about Ailsa?” he demanded, striding toward the men.

The older clansman shifted uncomfortably but held his ground. “There’s talk, is all. Ailsa’s been visitin’ the old crone on the edge o’ the village—ye ken the one. Claims she’s a healer, but some o’ us remember the stories.”

Finlay’s brow furrowed. He did know the crone they spoke of, an enigmatic woman who had lived on the fringes of the clan for as long as he could remember. While most dismissed her as a harmless eccentric, there were others who swore she practiced old magic.

“Enough,” Finlay snapped. “I’ll hear nae more gossip about curses. Moira’s ill, and that’s all there is tae it.”

But even as he dismissed the notion aloud, a seed of doubt took root in his mind. Could Ailsa have stooped so low as to dabble in witchcraft? The thought troubled him deeply, though he tried to focus on the discussions at hand.

---

Elsewhere, Ailsa sat in the dim light of her chambers, a triumphant smile playing at her lips. The crone’s warnings echoed faintly in her mind—Magic always demands its payment—but she brushed them aside.

“Payment, bah,” she muttered under her breath, arranging her altar with care. “Moira will ken pain as I’ve kent it, and Finlay will see her for the beast she is.”

Her altar was a chaotic mix of herbs, candles, and carved stones, each item meticulously placed to amplify her intent. Ailsa focused her energy, muttering incantations under her breath as she called upon the forces she barely understood.

The air in the room grew heavy, charged with an unnatural energy. The crone had warned her about the thin line between white and black magic, but Ailsa had crossed it without hesitation. Jealousy and rage fueled her, blinding her to the consequences of her actions.

---

By nightfall, Moira’s pain had become unbearable. Her hunger clawed at her insides, her senses sharpening to an excruciating degree. The steady thrum of Finlay’s heartbeat echoed in her ears, each pulse like a siren song. Her fingers twitched with the urge to reach for him, to sink her teeth into his neck and drink deeply of the life that coursed through him.

“No,” she whispered to herself, gripping the edge of the bed. Her nails dug into the wood, splintering it under her grip. “Not here. Not him.”

When the moon rose high above the village, bathing the land in its silvery glow, Moira could take no more. She slipped from Finlay’s chambers, her steps unsteady but determined. The fresh night air did little to soothe her, but she pressed on, her instincts driving her back to the safety of her home.

The journey was a blur. Her vision was clouded by hunger, her senses overwhelmed by the scent of blood from every living creature she passed. By the time she reached her family’s estate, her movements were frantic, almost feral.

Her father was waiting for her at the gates, his expression calm but his golden eyes filled with concern. “Moira,” he said softly, stepping forward to catch her as she stumbled into his arms.

“Father,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “I need… I cannae…”

“I ken, lass,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Ye’re cursed, but we’ll set it right.”

Cradling her like a child, he whispered an ancient prayer in their native tongue. His words were melodic, carrying a power that resonated deep within Moira’s soul. A warmth spread through her chest, and the pain that had consumed her for days began to ebb.

When the prayer ended, her father carried her inside, laying her carefully in a chair by the kitchen hearth. “Wait here,” he said, moving to retrieve a decanter of deep red liquid.

Moira watched as he poured the blood into a crystal glass, the rich, coppery scent making her mouth water. She took the glass with trembling hands, her thirst overpowering any sense of decorum. The moment the blood touched her tongue, she sighed in relief, the flavor bursting across her senses like the first rays of dawn after a long night.

She drank three glasses before she could speak. “It was horrible, Father. The humans, their scent, their blood… I couldnae focus. And the pain… it was like nothin’ I’ve ever felt before.”

Her father sat across from her, his expression thoughtful. “It was nae just hunger,” he said. “The curse weighed heavy on ye. It’s a dangerous thing, magic wielded with hate.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Moira asked, though the answer was already forming in her mind.

“Jealousy breeds folly,” her father replied. “The lass who was meant tae wed yer highlander—she’s dabblin’ in forces she doesnae understand.”

Moira’s heart sank. She thought of Finlay, of the life he had built among the MacLeods, and the danger this feud posed to him and his people. “What are we tae do, Father?”

Her father leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. “The MacLeod laird and I have spoken. He kens what’s comin’, and he’s made preparations. But this is yer battle as much as it is theirs. Ye’ve chosen tae live among them, tae love one of them. Ye’ll have tae protect him.”

Moira nodded, her resolve hardening. “I will.”

Her father studied her for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Rest now, lass. Ye’ll need yer strength for what’s ahead.”

As Moira finished the last of her blood, she felt her strength returning. The curse had been lifted, and her hunger sated, but a fire burned within her. She would not allow Ailsa—or anyone else—to harm Finlay or his clan.

Tomorrow, she would return to the MacLeods. And she would be ready.