No Fury

Now: Fifty Eight

A/N: Another update today because why not? Thank you for the votes and comments. I realize it was hard to read that Harry has been gone for 5 months . . . but I admit I laughed reading your comments; I worried I was making the war move way too fast! Enjoy this one, and as always, please trust me <3 Next update tomorrow, I think. *hides* ~Spark.

~~

I have no expectations that Douglas, Zayn, and Lord Tomlinson will be successful, but as I watch them ride out of the main gate, my heart twists knowing that Zayn may also be lost to the void of the wilderness.

But at this point, I have nothing to lose.

A fortnight passes, and slowly I stop thinking about the search party every second. Harry is still a constant presence in my thoughts, but life continues.

We make ale.
My daughter grows.
Slowly, the kingdom finds a limping routine without its king.

~~

I am awoken when the sky is black by a hand on my shoulder, gently shaking.

Blinking, I realize a figure is crouched beside my cot, whispering my name. I meet the dark, soulful eyes of my most trusted guard.

Throwing my arms around Zayn, it takes me a moment to register what it means that he has returned. Either they were successful, or they were not.

I begin to let out a tumble of manic words, but he gestures for me to be quiet, and not wake Mary as he carefully swaddles Anne in his arms.

"Go to the cottage," he whispers, lifting his chin. "Now. I'll watch her."

~~

Tears streak my face as I sprint, barefoot, down the long trail to James' cabin. I can barely hold in the emotions that threaten to spill from me as I prepare to face whatever I will find there: relief, worry, hope, terror, heartache. When the cottage comes into view, I see neither Harry nor James, but Liam, holding a lantern and pacing a swath in to the grass, several yards from the cottage door.

He is thin, and bearded now, with dark circles under his eyes, and ragged clothes that hang from his body. When he looks up and sees me approaching, his dark eyes transition from hollow to relieved.

Hurling myself into his embrace, I let loose the hysterical tears I have kept inside for so many months. I am weak from them, wracked by my own gasping need for air.

His thin arms are iron bands around my waist, his own sobs shaking his shoulders. "Catie," he says into my neck. "We are home."

I cannot form words; his proclamation, the we inserted there, makes me cry harder.

"Mary," he gasps. "Is she—?"

"She is fine. She is asleep," I assure him, unable to take in enough air, leaving. It leaves my voice thin and rasping. "Go to her!"

"I shall," he says. "I am barely able to stay away. But I needed to speak to you first."

He releases me and steps back, looking me over.  "Catie . . . you look tired, but you look healthy. Please tell me you are well. I cannot tell you how the news of your imprisonment tortured us both. How is the child?"

"She is well," I tell him. "We missed you all painfully, but despite it all, we are well."

His brows rise. "A daughter? Harry believed you had a son."

I do not like the past-tense he has just used. I cannot make sense of it in my thoughts.

"What do you mean, 'believed'?"