“Huh. That was…odd.” Brannagh glanced over her shoulder as she entered the wagon, her husband looking up from making dinner.
“I was talking with the Dagda–”
“Talking to, you mean.”
“No, properly talking…” She quirked an eyebrow. “Like I was–”
“What? Tall, dark, and brooding strung together a sentence?”
“What are you talking about?”
“…What? You really mean he talks? I thought he went mute!”
“Puck, that’s not nice!”
“I mean it…”
“I do too! He’s a very nice man…and now I won’t tell you my story.”
“Wha–no! Hey, no, Brannagh, c’mon! I promise, I won’t even interrupt this time!”
“Nope, chance wasted!”
The Dagda sat in his grove, nothing more than whispers of winds singing through the pineboughs now. He had slipped up, but he could see her in there now, and how her face lit up….she was really there. Without a thought, he reached out, touching the nearest trees. His family, lost so long ago…his daughter, his fire, first casuality in that awful war…how his only gift of respite during that time was he could tell the Ladies their son was still safe, that his tree did not reside here beside hers…
He silently thanked the Faemother for bringing his Brighid back.