Persistence is key when it comes to her father. (Her father, her father â still, the thought is new enough to stop and start. Almost unnatural. Almost.) Regret will keep her up at night later on, sheâs sure of it, but for now she pushes forward, arms wrapping tight for both of their sakes. Or so Fiona thinks, at least at first. His shuddering breath and rigid shoulders nearly send her reeling back, unleashing another bout of apologies until something caves. No way to be sure what comes first: the folding of his chest or the crumbling of the walls her uncle had taught her to assemble, but no matter which it is, Fiona is suddenly enveloped. By arms still so wrought with tension, by feelings that take all of her breath away, though she can only take partial ownership of them.
A belated answer is what she gets to more than one question, a glance of memory hitting her with staggering force even as she forces some begrudging distance between herself and Fionn. Sheâd hoped to hear him with more clarity, but instead sheâs handed a fluorescent hum, an unforgiving shriek of machinery, and a staggering silence afterward. And then the wailing again, his and hers. Grieving together. All of it in an almost undecipherable cacophony, if only she wasnât who she is. A familiar scene. One sheâs borne witness to more than once, each time with utmost regret. But never more than now as the fate of her mother occurs to her with the weight of a sinking stone. She could look into what preceded it. She could know. But unlike with the truth of her father, Fiona knows suddenly that she wants this bit of ignorance. At least for now. Not exactly bliss, but better than the alternate. âNo,â the girl finally murmurs, her fatherâs apology jarring her eyes open. Canât be sure when theyâd closed. Canât be sure when these tears appeared, either, but she can only shake her head against them. Her own arms have wrapped around herself as some simple means of consolation. Self-soothing. The means of a child left alone.Â
âNo, you shouldnât, um,â her bottom lip quivers and she shakes her head again, shame and tears leaning into her words. Arms unravel and cheeks are swatted at before Fiona gives another attempt. âIâm sorry.â Familiar territory. Makes it easier, even as watery gazes meet with so much between them, shared and otherwise. âI believe you. That she⌠that she loved me.â It aches to say, so sweet and so sore. Her sentence stammers in its midst, the foundation bowing under the weight of it all. âAnd I-Iâm sorry for you, and for Aurora. For, um, my mother. That you had to go through that.â Unimaginable, almost, the panic, the pain. Sheâd seen it from strangers at work so frequently. This suddenly intimacy with it, though, is deafening. âYou mustâve been so afraid.â And how can she possibly feel anything but pity for her father, then? (Her father, her father â who hadnât raised her, but whoâd held her. Whoâd maybe even loved her, brief as it was.) Pity and guilt, thatâs what it is. A baby to care for in in the midst of all that mourning. A burden even then. âIâm so sorry. For that, and um, for this. I-I shouldnât have asked that of you.â Retelling that story, or caring for her for that fleeting period? No way to know.
Thereâs a ringing in her ears still and Fiona initially tries to fight against it until she realizes itâs a welcome sort of sound. One thatâs staggering to her even now, so foreign, so wanted. Now is not the time, except for the fact that it lifts this shroud. It bonds them with something other than these bouts of loss. âThat thing you said,â her lips quirk with the approach toward the foreign sound, but she gives it a go all the same with how it echoes in her. âA cuisle. You, um, you called me that before, right?â Before. Before their separation, a quarter of a centuryâs worth, before sheâd started anew, before sheâd taken on a life that wasnât hers at all. It could be his memory, it could be shared, but itâs sturdy and sure like the arms that had held her as a child, even among the tumults of all of this pain. A cuisle. âDo you mind me asking what it means?â
How was it so difficult, and so... so unstoppable, at the same time? Take the wrong stone out of a wall - at least, the walls he remembered, stacked high between the sheep fields of home - and the whole thing came down. Even the sheep knew. Which was why they didnât jump; it hurt, to fall. Same reason Fionn hadnât said her name in... in nearly thirty years, apparently. Aurora. That long. Because it hurt to fall, and so his heart did, cracking and bruising all the way down. Believed him? Fionn sniffed, snuffled, eyes away. Why would she believe him? And yet - if anything, he was glad of that. If Fiona was going to make a mistake, tonight, if she was going to make the specific mistake of believing anything he had to say, believing in him, at least sheâd picked the truest truth he had to give. Her mother had loved her. Would have loved her.Â
Still did, if you believed in that sort of thing. Fionn could, sometimes. Only sometimes. Hallucinogens worked wonders, didnât they? A magic all their fucking own.Â
Hadnât he told her to stop apologizing? Hadnât she told him? Oh, they werenât going to manage it, between them. âNo, you - youâve the right.â Fiona did. She had the right to ask. âSheâd want you to know, anyhow.â No, Aurora would have wanted to tell her. How had he finished his drink so fast? More rightly, how had it taken so long, given the circumstances?Â
Fionn set his emptied glass down, tapped his fingers on the worn table, nervously, needy for distraction. A cuisle, echoed back at him, wasnât it. Stupid slip, that. Stupid. Sharp, too. He took a deep, deep breath, nodding, uselessly. âItâs -â his hand had found its way to those stitches, padded by thin, peeling, damp bandages. He pulled his damn fingers away, quick, curling them in on themselves. âAh... itâs Irish. Gaeilge. Thatâs - thereâs a fae language, you know -â except, she might not, and that was his doing too, âbut I... I spent a long while, in Ireland. Sounds more like home than anything else, so...â So what? Why would she care? âMeans my pulse. Like - like the beat of my heart. A cuisle mo chroi.â Didnât have to break it down any more than that, did he? Not that he could, at the moment, throat wrung tight and hoarse.Â
He should have gone the other way. Should have turned around and left town, stitches be damned. Stitches and all the rest. Fionn had pushed to his feet before he could pin himself down (easy enough, wasnât it?) swaying, hands braced on the table. Quick. Heâd have to be quick. âIâm...â he swallowed, a sick, shameful heat gathering behind his ribs, creeping up his backbone. Whispering. Coward. Bastard coward. âI just have to step out, a moment, aye?â Fionn slid off the bench, out into the bar, eyes on her. Eyes on eyes so much like his, Christ. His daughter. So much like her mother, like him. Hopefully not like him, at all. âIâll - Iâll be back.â Liar. He stepped back, wavered. âPromise.â That, with a weak, pale smile. Fucking liar.Â