Work Text:
In the aftermath of the Northman raid on Kells, Brendan spends every second under cover hard at work on the precious book, losing himself in the swoops and swirls adorning the holy words on every page. One day, to his surprise and chagrin, he draws back to discover he's drawn the oak tree that he and Aisling climbed to harvest the inkberries in exquisite detail, complete with a familiar pair of eyes blinking out from the leafy canopy to scrutinize the reader with interest.
"Who is that?" Aidan asks when Brendan shows him the finished page, pointing straight to the one detail Brendan had hoped his mentor wouldn't notice.
He should have known better. Even with his vision fading, Aidan doesn't miss much. Neither does Pangur Bán, who perks up from her spot by the fire and pads over to inspect it herself.
"Uh--er--um--" It's too hard to describe what Aisling is and what she means to him, even though Aidan is the only person likely to understand, having encountered her wolf-form when they fled Kells. "A friend," he finishes sheepishly, blushing to the roots of his hair and hating himself for it.
"Ah, I see," Aidan chuckles, and lets it go. "Very well, then. We all need friends we can muster in these dark times, don't we, lad?"
Pangur Bán mews in recognition as she paws at the page, and for once, Brendan is relieved that neither he nor Aidan speak cat, and so this contribution doesn't give Brendan away.
***
"So this is the book you were so obsessed about," Aisling says, when a trembling Brendan hands it to her. More than two decades have passed since their last meeting, and Brendan is a man grown, but she hasn't aged a day--sometimes the white wolf guarding his footsteps, sometimes still the fey fair child who foraged for inkberries with him. She's not human and her reactions are swift and unpredictable, and yet he trusts her with this precious work, for none of it would have been possible if not for her, and he owes her this much and more for her part in it.
Even so, he holds his breath as she thumbs open the hefty cover that replaced the one the Northmen stole and skims through the pages, muttering under her breath in concentration. She can't read, but that doesn't stop her from gasping in wonder, the beauty transcending language and writing. She eventually settles on the page where her simulacrum watches warily from the massive oak tree, and pauses, tracing her finger across the illuminated tree trunk as comprehension dawns.
"Is this... me? You drew me?" she breathes.
"Yes," Brendan says. He should probably leave it at that, let the drawing speak for itself, but he can't help adding, "I... missed you, you know."
"'I have been a multitude of shapes,'" Aisling says slowly, reverently, as if quoting a poem. "A salmon, a deer, a wolf, a girl... But I have never been a word in a book before."
"Well, there's always a first time, isn't there?" Brendan laughs, trying to make it a joke. "Do you--do you like it?"
Aisling laughs and slaps the book closed with a thump, her smile exposing sharp little fangs. "Yes."