Saoirse
“Cillian O’Sullivan!” Tristan screams from the courtyard.
I feel my heart racing suddenly. Which is ironic really, because the rest of me is frozen in place.
I’m numb and fearful in a way I haven’t been for a few days now.
I can practically feel the rage radiating off Tristan. He’s far away, but he seems larger than life somehow. Everything about him is threatening.
Can he see me?
He can’t, right?
Why does it feel that he can?
Then I remember: his eyes have been on me since I was a teenager. He’s been watching me my entire life.
Why did I think that would just stop because I’d managed to find Cillian again?
“That’s him?” Cillian asks. “Your… That’s Tristan?”
He can’t bring himself to use the word “husband,” and I’m glad about that. I don’t want that awful word to strangle me where I stand.
“Cillian O’Sullivan!”
I cringe as Tristan screams the second time. I feel like I’m in The Iliad, where Achilles arrives at the castle walls and demands to speak to Prince Hector. In the story, he stands outside, all alone, and screams Hector’s name again and again until the prince is compelled to come outside and engage in a fight to the death.
Spoiler alert: Achilles wins.
Then he ties Prince Hector’s dead body to his chariot and rides off into the sunset.
I’m sure Tristan would appreciate the narrative.
A third roar: “Cillian fucking O’Sullivan!”
Cillian rolls his eyes at the theatrics and throws open the window.
He manages to push me off to the side in the same breath so that I’m not in Tristan’s line of sight. He acts casual about it, but I know he’s just trying to shield me for as long as possible.
In this case, I appreciate the gesture.
“Is this the part where you ask me to let down my golden hair?” Cillian calls back, his voice carrying through the entire courtyard.
I’m still partly able to see Tristan.
I can’t see his face clearly, but I notice him tensing. He doesn’t like to be laughed at. Can’t stand being mocked.
“You have something that belongs to me,” Tristan growls.
A jolt of fury snakes through me like a lightning bolt.
“Don’t think so,” Cillian replies. “You’ve got the wrong Cillian.”
I can’t help thinking about The Iliad again. Except this time, I’m thinking of Menelaus and Paris.
Two men who wanted the same woman. The difference was that Paris really loved Helen.
Menelaus, on the other hand, just wanted to quell the laughter of men who thought he couldn’t hold onto his own wife.