“Then leave,” she said. “And this time, do not return.” She threw a little force behind the last word, knowing it would aggravate him further, but unwilling to let the point go by unmentioned.

“It is not that simple,” he said, tossing the leaves back to the earth.

Yes it is. “Why?” If I must play this game.

“I am needed here.” He attempted some conviction, but failed.

“That has never been true.”

He turned swiftly towards her, his eyes burning. “You know nothing of it!”

“I know what you have told me and what I have observed and that is all. That is enough.”

Padric’s eyes went dead, his shoulders slumped slightly and his skin went ashy grey. Do not give up, damn you! Rosheen knew that his anger was the only thing with enough momentum to send him from this place. He needs to go.

“People hate me because of you,” he said. There was no malice in his voice, just resignation. “Eirwen hates me because of you.”

She loves you. Hates me. And herself. “She is foolish. A feckless cow. And nothing but a child.”

“We’re all children to you, Rosheen.” He walked wearily a few paces away and slumped to the ground, his back against a rotting log. She flew over slowly and landed a few feet away from his outstretched legs. His head rested on the water swollen wood, his eyes staring up into the branches overhead, but not to the sky beyond. He looked beaten, petulant and ill. Lost in his own miserable little life. Worthless to the world. Worth even less to himself. They waste so much on this foolishness.

She went over and hopped up onto his knee, began walking up his leg, then his stomach until she reached his chest. Here she sat, munching her honeycomb, and looked him full in the face.

“What do you want from here?” she asked.

His eyes flicked down towards her. Rosheen rode the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply.

She pressed on. “To jump the jug with that strumpet? To remain here, a farmer of little skill? Distrusted by your neighbors? Your father and mother…”

“Enough.” Padric snapped. “I know all of this.”

“Then catch up with that metal-peddling dwarf before it is too late. Get back on the road where you were at least content.”

“I was never content. I have no gift as a peddler.”

“And you are a capable smith? A fine warrior? Skilled minstrel?” she shook her head. “Stop looking for what you are best at and start living with what you are capable. Out there traveling, at the very least, you have not the time to whinge about. And you are never in one place long enough for your simple-minded people to cast their suspicions at your feet. Go to the places where being dubbed a Fae-friend is not a slight nor a cause to fear.”