Jack stood, staring at the door. Arched pale wood, an iron handle shaped like a leafy vine. When it finally creaked opened, he saw a guard. And then Niall appeared, standing on the threshold, grimy from the dungeons.
The guards unlocked the manacles on his hands, but they left the ones on his ankles, which would keep him from running should anything dire happen, like an escape attempt. Niall took a stilted step into the room, and the guards shut the door behind him.
Jack stared at his father, his heart pounding. He was waiting for eye contact, for a sound of acknowledgment. For anything, but Niall solemnly stared at the floor. His lean and haggard face was set like stone. His auburn hair was bright and tangled, his skin pallid from weeks without sun. He was freckled and scarred and covered with woad tattoos.
It was strange to stand in the same room with him. It almost felt like a dream that refused to break. This was the man his mother had loved in secret. The man who had defied his own laird to carry Adaira east. The man from whom his life had come. They were linked together by invisible blood-forged threads, and Jack could nearly feel them tugging on his lungs when he breathed.
Does he plan to stand there the entire hour? Jack soon wondered, with a twinge of irritation as the awkward silence stretched on. Why does he refuse to look at me?
But then it hit Jack as he watched his father rub the raw places on his wrists. Niall was anxious, ashamed. The last time they had seen each other had been in the arena.
“Would you like to sit?” Jack asked, indicating the table.
Niall finally glanced up, studying the dinner spread. “You didn’t have to go through so much trouble for me.”
“It’s no trouble,” Jack said, tamping down his emotions before they warbled his voice. “I wanted to see you again.”
I wanted to speak with you alone. I wanted to feed you. I wanted to ensure you have the confidence to win tonight.
Jack sat down first, hoping if he occupied himself with the food, Niall would feel comfortable enough to join him at the table. Slowly, he did. Jack could see him at the corner of his eye, approaching the table hesitantly. The clink of chains, his long shadow rippling over the floor.
At last, Niall reached his chair and sat.
“Hand me your plate,” Jack said, keeping his eyes averted from his father. He had seen Mirin do this countless times, fixing a plate for someone. Keeping her gaze focused wholly on her task.
Niall obliged. He took his wooden plate and extended it to Jack.
Jack accepted and began to fill the plate with food. He didn’t know how well they were feeding Niall in the dungeons, and the last thing Jack wanted was to make him ill on the cusp of a fight. Jack remembered his own time locked in the cell with Thief. The meal that had been delivered was better than what most prisons offered, even though Thief had left only a fraction of it for Jack.
Take this food and let it strengthen your body, Jack prayed over it. Let it nourish your soul, remind your heart of all the good things in life still to come.
“Here,” he said and held the plate out to Niall. He continued to avoid eye contact because it seemed to make his father freeze.
Niall accepted the plate. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Jack reached for the pitcher of water. It was still cool from the spring, and he poured them each a cup.
Now what did he do? Should he say something? Should he remain silent?
Jack took up his fork and began to eat, and Niall mirrored him. But Jack wanted to look at his father. He wanted to look at him closely, to study his face until Jack found all the traces of himself within it. He wanted to ask questions, if only to hear the cadence of his voice, to fill in the gaps of his knowledge, but the moment felt as tenuous as ice in spring.
He would have to move slowly, carefully. He didn’t need to treat this night as the last time they would ever see each other and speak, even though it very well could be. Jack needed to be confident that he would sit at a table with Niall time and time again, maybe in the west, maybe in the east. Maybe in a little cottage on a hill, at Mirin’s table. Surrounded by the ones he loved most.
The image made his eyes sting and his chest ache, as though a rib had splintered.
Jack said, “Did you know mainland fare is quite bland?”
He almost felt ridiculous for blurting out such random words, but then he realized that food was the safest thing to talk about. A touchstone for them because they were sharing it.
“I . . . no,” Niall said, his deep voice rising with surprise. “I’ve never had mainland fare.”
“I ate it for many years when I was at university.”
So began one of Jack’s finest performances, regaling his father with an account of all the food he had once eaten on the mainland. He had never rambled like this before, and his subconscious wanted to flare, mortified. But he quelled it, then found a seamless conversational path from food to music. He told Niall about all the instruments he had handled, and about the harp being the one to call to him. About the music he had composed, and about his progress from reluctant student to dedicated student to uncertain grouchy teacher to strict grouchy teacher.
Soon he felt Niall’s gaze on his face. His father was staring at him, listening. And yet Jack resisted meeting it. He kept talking about his music, about his harp, about his students, as he scraped the last potato from his plate. Then his account reached the moment when everything had changed. When a letter had arrived, summoning him home.
Niall was caught up in the story. He finally asked, “What brought you back to the isle?”
Jack smiled. At last, he lifted his eyes to meet his father’s.
“Adaira.”
He didn’t know what her name would do once spoken. If it would cast Niall back into his past and make him emotionally retreat again.
“You’re married to her,” Niall surprised Jack by saying.
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose I did do something right, if you’ve both found happiness with each other.” Niall suddenly stood, bumping the table.
Jack watched, stunned when he realized Niall was leaving. He was cutting the dinner short, and Jack panicked. This was not how he wanted their time together to end. There was still more he needed to say, wanted to say, and he rose in a hurry.
“Father,” he breathed, the word emerging effortlessly as air. “Father, wait.”
Niall stiffened. But he wheeled about to face Jack. There was a deep crease in his brow and tight lines at the corners of his mouth, as though he were in pain.
“Why did you want to see me again?” Niall asked tersely. “What could you possibly want with me after the things I’ve done?”
Jack blinked, startled by Niall’s bluntness. A flicker of anger warmed his blood, and he was eager to respond to such a ruthless statement. But Jack banked the embers of his ire. “Ever since I was a boy,” he began gently, “I’ve longed to know you. I’ve longed to see you, to speak your name. And now I finally have the chance and you ask me why?”