Aeden despised human homes.

This one was, as far as he could tell, as cramped as any other: one room, a fire that filled the air with suffocating heat and smoke, clutter everywhere. In other words, no space. Within the first few minutes, he'd begun to think wistfully of the rolling fields outside. After finishing his conversation with Maeve, he lost patience and threw open the door. He longed to stretch his legs and run; instead, he settled for clinging to the doorframe as Maeve and the other two humans bustled about grabbing things. A gentle breeze rolled across the land, sending ripples through the grass. He tilted his head back and inhaled deeply. The air smelled of sea, wet soil, and cow manure. While not pleasant, the last was hardly enough to spoil his enjoyment of the weather.

If he looked closely, he could see one of the humans Maeve called family—Conal, or something—lingering beside a low stone wall some distance away. He was looking out across the field, where eleven or so cattle were grazing, but he continually turned to glance back at the house. As he did so for the sixth time within the past minute, Aeden lifted a hand in a wave. The young man flinched and swung back to face the cows.

As it turned out, he didn't need to. The human woman—the one Maeve called her mother—appeared in the doorway beside Aeden. She had a very imposing demeanour, for a human; her face was all sharp angles and self-assurance. Her blue eyes swept the grassy land before focusing on her son. "Conor!" she hollered. "Come here!"

Conor. Right. That was his name. Aeden shifted to allow some space in the doorway as the blond-haired man leapt away from the wall, sparing one last glance at the cattle before scampering towards the house.

"What's happened?" he asked, drawing up short before the door. Like his brother, Conor was tall: Aeden was forced to tilt his head back. Nervousness cracked through the man's movements, but there was a sort of worry that had settled into his eyes. He opened his mouth, as if to ask a second question, but closed it after glancing at Aeden.

Maeve's mother strode back into the house before explaining. Conor trailed along behind her, keeping a good amount of space between himself and Aeden. It was as if he thought that drawing too near or making eye contact would be offensive in some way. Aeden chuckled to himself, turning in the doorway to watch them but keeping the door propped open with one foot to feel the wind at his back.

"Ronan and Maeve are leaving," the older woman said. She plucked a small bag from the mantle of the fireplace and handed it to Ronan.

Conor folded his arms, chewing on his lip. He didn't seem very surprised; perhaps he'd been expecting as much. Aeden suspected that the man was sharper than his timid manner implied. "How long will you be gone?" he asked quietly, turning to Maeve.

She didn't look up as she cinched a knapsack closed with a rope. Several strands of reddish-brown hair had escaped her braid, hanging at an awkward angle before her eyes. She shoved them back with a freckled hand, lips pursed. "I don't know."

It wasn't hard to see the worry that creased Conor's brow. He glanced at their mother. "You will be careful?" A strained note lingered beneath the words. "I know I can't stop you, but..."

Maeve snorted. "Who do you think I am? Of course we will." She hoisted the knapsack over one shoulder and limped towards Conor.

Aeden watched her face closely, taking note of how her jaw clenched as she moved. He hadn't seen Niamh stab her, but he'd seen the wound. Maeve's leg wasn't just pierced, but torn open on one side. Aeden had received his fair share of wounds, but this was impressive even to him. She was in pain, no doubt, and a lot of it.

Yet she'd killed Niamh, and still walked. She was strong. Determined. And she seemed honest, which was unusual. Aeden tapped his bare foot against the floor, feeling the packed soil shift beneath his toes. She'd be useful.

"You know, Mae," he said, "we'll be doing a lot of travel, and that leg could cause trouble. I think I'll fetch you a walking stick."

The glow of the fire framed her head in orange as she turned to squint at him. She had striking amber eyes, with just too much gold and too little brown to betray her ancestry. She'd mastered the art of narrowing them. "Go on, then. You've been waiting for an excuse to leave, haven't you?"

Aeden grinned by way of answer and spun around in the doorframe. He raced out onto the grass, letting the door finally fall shut behind him, and slid into the form of a horse. The dirt was soft beneath his hooves as he ran across the field, angling towards a thick copse of trees. Finally, he was free of that confined, wooden room. Free of the darkness, the smokey air, the suffocating pressure of a close-knit family and a mother's love. It was all too close, too much.

Wind swept across the fields, tugging his attention away with it. It smelled of rain. The sky had been clear for most of the morning; now, clouds had come to swathe it in a thick coat of grey. That was good. Aeden loved rain. It dragged the scent of the earth and life from the ground to fill the air and gave the world a glittering coat of water. Of course, he treasured the sunlight a tad more. In Ríenne, that was a far rarer thing.

He reached the trees all too quickly and walked through them, keeping an eye out for any branches that would do. It took him a few minutes to find one he could use, half-buried amongst the leafy undergrowth. He shifted into his human form to pick it up, turning the wood between his fingers. It was smooth enough, thin enough, straight enough, and long enough—though in Maeve's case, it didn't really need to be that long.

Aeden hefted the branch into the air. It was a bit awkward: not because of the weight, but the size. He settled for holding it over one shoulder, though he struck the occasional tree if he turned just so. It was terribly boring to walk back without shifting or running, but that was the tragedy of a human form. Their bodies weren't suited for much action, but it was necessary if he wished to speak or carry something. He couldn't deny the usefulness of fingers.

Sidestepping an old pile of cow manure, Aeden made his way back to the farmhouse. Save for the occasional grove of trees, the land here was wide and open. The grass was tall enough to reach Aeden's thighs and stretched off in gentle, rolling waves in all directions. From the east came the scent of the ocean; from the west, smoke and sweat and the other distinct smells of a human town.

It was a small one, which was good—the larger cities had soldiers from one king or another, which meant laws and wanted posters, which meant he had to be wary about showing his real face. As fun as the occasional chase was, Shayne had given Aeden enough cause to run. Especially over the past few weeks—he hadn't been able to rest for more than a few days in any region before the old bastard caught up to him. Perhaps he'd found someone to help him with tracking.

Aeden sighed and scratched the back of his head with his free hand, raking his fingers through his hair. At least Niamh was dealt with. Unlike Shayne, she'd wanted Aeden dead—perhaps that was why she'd parted ways with her husband to chase him alone. He'd been leading her away to kill her himself, but things had worked far better this way. With that woman gone and Maeve's protection, he could turn his focus beyond running and figure out why it had all gone so wrong.

If only it didn't necessitate going back to Morrigan.

He shook his head; he'd reached the house. Shifting the branch on his shoulder, he fumbled with the door's handle—he hadn't bothered with one for some time—and pushed the thing open, hoisting a smile onto his face. A prickle of energy shifted across his skin as he crossed the threshold, passing into Maeve's home. The sensation was one he could feel across all of this town, but it was most concentrated in this place.

"I have returned," he announced with a grand bow. The stick caught against the doorframe with a hollow bang, forcing him to redouble his grip on it.

Maeve, who had been talking to her two brothers, turned. She looked him over, unamused, and held out a hand. "Give it here, then."

Aeden passed her the stick and watched her test her weight against it. Once again, he was acutely aware of the stiflingly narrow space inside the house; it felt as if the ceiling and walls pressed down on him. He bounced one foot against the ground.

"Take this." The voice gave little warning before a bundle of cloth was shoved into Aeden's chest. Maeve's mother stepped back, frowning at him. "We can't spare much else, but it should last you a day or two."

Aeden hastened to wrap his arms around the bundle, confused. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been given something. "What is this?"

"Food, of course." She sniffed, as if insulted by the question.

He blinked. "I can hunt, you know?" And steal. It wasn't too often he was unable to get food, one way or another, and he didn't need to eat as regularly as a mortal. Not that he wouldn't gladly accept a meal, but these didn't seem the richest of humans. Didn't they usually guard their food closely?

"Then you're a poor hunter." She gave his body a dispassionate examination. "You're thin as a starved mutt. Take the food."

Aeden couldn't help but chuckle; she was so strangely forward. It was hard to deny the similarities between this woman and Maeve—though he doubted Maeve would gift him such things, judging by the glare she was aiming in his direction. You'll probably take all of our food, she'd said.

Well, perhaps he would. He shifted the cloth in his hands, peering at the food hidden within: bread, vegetables, and some strips of dried meat. He tugged it closer to his chest and grinned. "I suppose it would be rude to refuse."

"Ma!" Maeve cried. "You've already given Ronan and I too much. What will you and Conor eat?"

The older woman flapped a hand in her direction. "Hush, child. We've enough money. Nor would our neighbours let us starve."

Maeve pursed her lips, but didn't argue. She glanced at Aeden. "You'd better make good use of it."

"My dear Mae, I would never waste food," he said smoothly, gathering the bundle up once again. If he weren't so eager to leave the cramped house, he'd have taken some immediately. How long had it been since he'd stolen a meal from that other town? A week? "Have you finished, then?"

"Wait." That was Conor, surprisingly. He looked at Maeve, squeezed his eyes shut as if preparing to step into an inferno, and lunged forward to wrap his arms around her—gently, though, no doubt because of her leg.

"Ah—release me!" Maeve shrieked, nearly falling over. Ronan stepped back neatly to avoid her flailing arms, pressing a hand to his mouth. He was clearly hiding a polite smile.

The blond, now that Aeden thought about it, was the tallest in the room. He easily righted Maeve, his face still screwed up as if he expected to be hit. He probably already had been, with how much she was writhing. "If it's any longer than two weeks, you'd better send a letter!" he cried. "I'll starve the cows if you don't!"

"I see one so much as sick, I'll roast your fingers off!"

Aeden snickered and spun around, letting his smile drop as he turned his back on their bickering. Best to leave them to their farewells. He strode out of the house, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. It definitely was too much. A speck of cold brushed against his cheek, followed by another several seconds later. It was hardly enough to be called a drizzle, but it was a refreshing sensation.

He tilted his head back, closing his eyes. Behind him, he could hear faint scuffling and voices from the house. There was a peal of laughter as he listened, unmistakably a woman's. He hesitated, turning his head. The door was shut; there was only the worn wood and stone walls to look at. That hadn't been Maeve, had it? She didn't seem the type to laugh.

Then again, the bonds between a family could easily break past one's guard.

There's no use thinking of it. He twisted back around, one hand wandering to the hem of the woollen cape he'd been given. The material was thick and coarse between his fingers. It was dark green, shot through with lighter strands the colour of a tree's leaves in the spring. He clenched a fistful of it and moved his eyes to the bundled food he held. They were simple gifts, but gifts nonetheless. Maeve's mother hadn't demanded anything in exchange, either. Perhaps she'd forgotten to: neither humans nor sídhe would do such things for free.

He thought for a moment. Her price was no doubt the safety of Maeve and her son. It was no binding promise, but Aeden didn't plan on letting either of them die anyways. He needed Maeve's help. The human, not so much, but he'd been watching Ronan closely. The man seemed sharp enough and was skilled at tempering Maeve's attitude, which would no doubt come in use.

A few strained minutes passed as Aeden waited, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Mist clogged the air as the shower went on, slowly but surely obscuring the rolling fields around him. He could smell the sea in this place. If he focused, he could also hear the distant crash of waves on rock. It had been a long while since he visited the ocean. It was nice.

Finally, he heard the door open. Aeden spun to greet Maeve and Ronan with a grin as they left the house. The brown-haired man turned to exchange a few words with their mother, who remained leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed. He clasped her bony shoulder, nodded, and turned to follow Maeve.

She looked as grumpy as ever as she limped to Aeden, the walking stick punctuating each step with enough force for him to hear it. Her hair was mussed, and he thought he saw a slight flush spread across her cheeks.

"What wondrous weather to send us off," she declared, stopping before him. She leaned against the stick, all impatient, sharp focus. "Well? Let's go."

Aeden waited until Ronan caught up before he began to walk westwards. "We'll need to pass through this town of yours first, of course. Morrigan—that's my old friend, of course—is a wee bit reclusive. She lives on the side of a mountain. It's..." He tilted his head back, thinking. It was a shame, but Maeve's injury and Ronan's presence meant that they'd have to walk as humans did. "It's not too far from here, actually. I could make it there in a day. With you two, I suppose it would take... I dunno, three?"

Ronan shrugged his bag over one shoulder, glancing back at the house. Maeve's mother still watched them from the doorway, though they would pass out of its sight soon. In truth, Aeden was desperate to do so.

"Maeve." The young man shifted his gaze back to the path they trod. "Are you sure you can keep this pace?"

She stabbed the stick into the ground, which squelched in protest. "It's only pain. I can handle it."

"I can always give you a ride," Aeden offered.

"As a horse?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"What else would I shift into?" He smirked at her. "A cow?"

She sniffed. "Fine."

The ease of the agreement gave Aeden pause. "It must hurt a great deal, eh?"

"Like hell," Maeve growled out. "But I'll keep up. I have more questions to ask first."

He chuckled and unwrapped the cloth in his hands, taking a strip of meat and tearing a bite off. It was rather salty, but good. Since he couldn't shift alongside much more than his clothes, he figured he'd eat what he could while he had the chance. "Anything for you, Mae."