The Ri left the next day to begin the circuit of the chiefs who ruled beneath him. He wouldn’t return for perhaps four moons. Four moons without him urging me for pictures from my life. Four moons without the awareness of him in the room.
Four moons before I could kiss him again.
In five moons, my brothers and I would be free, and they would be ready to return to Lacharra.
For the first time, my heart ached at the thought of traveling back with them.
* * *
I couldn’t just set the tunics aside those months. So I took the remaining nettle yarn and dyed it black with the ground shells of green nuts so I could embroider the tunics. Perhaps it was my way of drawing for the Ri while he was away. I embroidered each of my brothers’ tunics with my dearest memories of them—or my dreams for them:
I embroidered Aiden on a throne, with Lacharra established once again and Carrick nearby, waving his stick.
I embroidered Mael on horseback, his sword held high.
I embroidered Gavyn surrounded by the earth below him and the heavens above—all within reach of his curious hands.
I embroidered Declan with a harp in his lap and songs that poured from him like a river.
I embroidered Cadan on the lake’s edge, calling for me. And I embroidered the three swans from the Cynwrig crest flying away. Perhaps I put them there because Cadan was the most contentious of my brothers, and I hoped this prayer for my father would travel farther if it rested on Cadan’s tunic.
I embroidered Owain as tall as his brothers and with a beard. My twin was different; the change in his body was no smaller than the change toward me.
Every full moon, my brothers asked to see the newly embroidered tunics, exclaiming over each new addition. Once I was sure that my vigil with my brothers was respected by the people in Fianna, I brought Carrick too. Together, we kept watch as the last moons waxed and waned through spring and summer.
All the while, I embroidered the tunics. For years, I’d drawn with dirt and soot. Now, the yarn made each story permanent—hope that could not be erased with a sweep of the hand. Each tunic became a prayer sent into the heavens: This is what was. Let it be once more. Let me see my brothers again in the sunlight, with my own eyes.