mother of memory

“I can only imagine she does want you grinning at her the entire evening, your thoughts are written across your face. She is the same way, I believe she is more your niece than my own,” he remarks with a smile, eyes shifting over to where Fiona talks with the selkie woman. “Have you heard Aurélie’s worries on the selkie? I am unsure what to think, but look, if that is not a look I gave you once upon a time then…” He sighs quietly, a nostalgic smile on his lips as the pieces of their first meeting flicker to life in his head, breaking through the bolts he’s used to hide them away. It’s a relief to think of them without pain, to remember them without the fogginess of age, and he presses a kiss against the side of her head, laughing quietly as the melody changes. “I will not complain about a chance to escape with you for a few minutes. I daresay the party will live without two stuffy fae around,” he murmurs, lifting his brow. This gala is nothing like the events they’ve visited over the years, and he cannot find it in himself to be bothered at an excuse to escape the flickering emotions. Faolan steers her away from the swaying bodies to the edge of the dance floor. “Gardens, maybe, I am afraid the balcony feels a little full.” Less full, mostly too amorous for visitors right this moment, and he leads them outside to the open air. The sky is darkening slowly, too slowly, he feels it will be several hours yet before they can see the stars. “Do you remember when I asked to meet you  the night after we met and I took you to a glen to see the stars? Anyone else would think I’m mad asking a lass like you to meet me in the dark, but you were not afraid. A good shock will topple anyone.” He learned that in the course of their friendship and the romance to follow.

“Mm, I think Aurélie worries about everyone. The poor thing’s had a furrow in her brow the entire time I’ve known her.” Caoimhe dismisses quickly, put at ease by Fiona’s practically palpable joy. No cause to worry, not in her eyes. She hums happily at the feel of lips against the side of her head, though the sound is quickly replaced by a gasp of something akin to offense, her tone practically dripping with it, even as she laughs. “Stuffy? I’ll have you know, sir, we’ve never been stuffy a day in our lives.” Or, well, un-lives. Best not to mention that detail. “Doubt the folks at O’Leary’s ever would’ve called us stuffy. If they had the chance to, anyhow, given that we were quite banned. I’m certain we could put any dancing couple on this floor to shame. After I’ve gotten my bearings, that is.” She is, in fact, quite weary, and so the gentle arm of guidance is one she’s grateful for. The gardens she looks at with an appreciative smile, though it grows even more appreciative as she turns back to her husband, listening to the memory. “Ah, wasn’t I? Those lessons on empathy blocking must’ve stuck, because I was shaking in my boots the whole way over. Had a knife with me in one of those boots, in fact, but as it turned out, I didn’t need it.” Caoimhe confesses with a laugh and a shrug before her expression softens some. “That was a fine glen. You made it feel almost like home. It was the first place after I left the realm that felt that way.” She’s thoughtful for a moment before shrugging. “Suppose you’ve done that here, too, haven’t you?” It wouldn’t be home without Faolan. No matter if they have four walls or not, he’s always been the common factor. Caoimhe muses about that for a moment as she links their fingers together, strolling casually until the sight of a row of hedges prompts a thought. “You know, I’ve heard tell of a maze in these gardens.” In her youth, her mother had accused her more than once of a troublemaking expression on her face. Caoimhe imagines that’s the look she’s wearing now as she turns toward Faolan, stopping just short of waggling her eyebrows. “Don’t suppose you’d be especially keen on helping me find it. Too stuffy, aren’t you?” 

@lilysundara​

She’s itching to get to the stage, frankly, and take up one of those instruments and make genuine merry. The sort of music being played now is lukewarm at best, and really, this party could use a jolt. First, however, there are duties Caoimhe knows she must perform, faces she’s yearning to see. Near the top of this list is her daughter, whom she cranes her neck to try and see after splitting from Faolan. These last few months have been of the less than steady sort, lukewarm as the music choices as they try to form something organic far too late. It’s a fearsome thing, trying to find where the boundaries lie, where she can and cannot stand, trying not to push too hard whilst yearning so fiercely to break down these walls. This feels like a start. Caoimhe gasps softly upon the sight of her daughter, wishing she could embrace her. She’s not sure she has the right – so she settles for praise. “Lilavati,” She greets softly with a gentle touch to her daughter’s arm so as not to startle her. “You look... positively radiant.” Her daughter, this reflection of herself but even more so her father, looking tonight like the royalty that perhaps she ought to be. Too late, though. Far too late. “I’m glad to see you here, though I suppose you’re made to attend, what with council duties.” She remembers it all – the things Lily has divulged about her past, the details about the council job, even the glimpse of a bright yellow wall she’d managed to see upon walking her daughter home one evening. They won’t amount to the things she’d missed, but oh, it’s certainly something. Just then, the band finally decides to up the tempo and the volume, and Caoimhe sighs softly in the direction of the stage before looking to Lily once more. “Would you be willing to join me out on the balcony? I’m a talented dancer, I swear by it, and we can return in a moment if you’d like. Afraid the energy tends to come and go, but I only need a brief rest.”

Spring Equinox Gala 2021: Caoimhe’s Outfit

@faolanmeadowes​

“Now, I know you say our dear Fiona is a bit forgetful,” Caoimhe gives a low laugh as she murmurs in her husband’s ear, trying to keep her voice quiet. “But I have a feeling she quite purposely forgot about us this time around.” Her head tilts in the direction that Faolan’s niece went, presently offering a drink to her newfound company – the selkie whom the wee thing had quite clumsily dodged around questions about only a few days ago. “Seems they’re rather keen on one another.” She gives a knowing smirk and a playful wiggle of her eyebrows before resting her cheek against Faolan’s shoulder once more. “Don’t suppose you and I were ever so covert – not about how smitten we were, anyway. As for the fae thing, well...” Caoimhe lets that sentence trail with another gentle laugh, knowing full well that they both recall that story. He’d been mere moments from the grave thanks to his supposed witchcraft when she’d jumped in. How long ago and far away that seems now, but still, she recalls it quite clearly. Another thing she recalls is the consequence of exhaustion – something she’s beginning to feel as the band’s slow song ends and they launch into another jaunty number. Caoimhe sighs, looking as regretful as she is weary while she straightens up to look at Faolan rightly. “I almost hate to say it, but I’m not quite sure I have another dance in me just now. Wouldn’t want to vanish, given I’m not sure they’ll let me back in once I’ve reappeared.” Instead, she takes her husband’s arm, giving him a gentle nudge. “Care to explore with me, my love? I like to think that I make fine company.”

Any brush of her lips against his skin is like the first time, and his grip tightens on her hand as their twirling becomes little more than a sway back and forth. How long has it been since he prayed? Maybe with Fiona, maybe with Gabe, though he hadn’t let the words fall from his lips, afraid of tempting the cruelty of fate yet again. “I’m here now,” he murmurs, brushing her hair away from her face. “We don’t have to fear the darkness anymore.” Some things they haven’t discussed: her long, long years alone in the darkness, punctured only by glimpses and his own memories of the day that changed everything. He dreads facing it, and someday he’ll have to find the courage to say pieces of it, to share it with the only person who deserves to know. The only person who deserves not to know, either. It’s a thought for another day, one he shakes off as the first bit of melody falls from her lips. Haunting. It brings pain, the kind that makes his fingers tremble on her back as the memories of them sprawled on the floor, singing off-key but happy, Bran changing the words to suit his needs. But the longer it goes, the less it feels like someone digging into his chest and the more it feels like Bran is standing between them. His eyes are closed. He can almost imagine the three of them are rocking in place together. It ends, slowly, and for once, his heart isn’t pinching with grief, but with a bittersweet happiness for a memory he had thought long gone.

Her melody ends – and the gasp rocks him back to the present. His eyes wrench open, eyes flashing to the doorway, bolted thrice, and then back to Caoimhe as she calls their daughter’s name. A nickname, at that, a punch to the gut as it falls from her lips. How many times did they call her that? Ten times? Twenty? Not enough, for certain. “Caoimhe,” he breathes. His eyes linger on the photo, crouching beside her with a hand settling on her wrist. Fiona is… the exact type of woman he always imagined Alanna to be, and he tries to remember if in the distant past he might have seen his daughter’s face in hers, or if he had blocked anything and everything away. No, she doesn’t need to explain. “I know. I… When you were… After, I do not remember what I did or where I went, but I do remember seeing you all wherever I turned. A woman with your hair.” Faolan brushes a hand over it once more, the curls soft beneath his hand. He settles on the ground, shifting to rest his back against the bookshelf. His hand rests on her wrist, but no more. “A boy who had the same choking laugh as Bran when he dive bombed you from trees.” Here he smiles, flickering. “Deirdre, I saw her in every child with her eyes. I saw Alanna in every newborn’s cry. I am sorry, A ghrá, I promised you no lies and it does not get easier.”

She’d never been the sort to cry with ease, even as a child. Any falls or scrapes were usually laughed off rather than fussed over, the pain subsided with fae magic and a smile. Blame the royal training, perhaps, for instilling in her that there was little room for such mourning. But that was a different life and this present one doesn’t allow for such levity. No, grief like this leaves room for little else, so all-consuming that Caoimhe doesn’t even bother to raise a hand to her cheeks and wipe her own tears away. She can only kneel there like a parishioner praying for forgiveness all too late at an altar that isn’t even in the right form. Not her daughter at all, no matter how hard she prays. That much is clear and is only made clearer by her husband whose presence she suddenly recalls at the sound of her own name and a warm grip on the wrist that lies above her trembling hand. Caoimhe gasps a breath then, something akin to a sob, the inhale of air feeling somehow necessary against this choking grip of loss. His hand against her hair closes her eyes though it does little to stem the flow of tears, which drip down off of her jaw with something like reckless abandon. Like a dam left to break and overflow. “H-How are we to manage it, then?” She finally manages, softer now and far more broken than she’d allowed herself to be since her feet hit solid ground, eyes wide open and searching. “How did you manage it for so long?” 

The hand on her wrist isn’t enough. Caoimhe realizes this with some haste and makes quick work of sidling up beside her husband, lacing her fingers with his from above and pulling his arm around her, resting it on her waist. Resting herself, too, against him, and the two of their backs against the sturdy bookshelf. Selfish as it may be, what with all he already bears, she fears that if she doesn’t prop herself up against something – someone – she’ll simply crumble. And perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, if only she didn’t wasn’t aware of the dark uncertainty on the other side. “It isn’t as if I expected the same world when I returned.” It’s a soft admission, delivered only after Caoimhe has wiped her own tears and dropped her gaze down, looking at their joined hands rather than Faolan’s worried face. “I wasn’t sure how the days were passing, but they were, I knew that for certain. And I’m hardly so naive as to think that the world would’ve waited for me. But... but this...” Her voice breaks and she loathes it. Loathes the rawness of it and the circumstance that has brought her to this foreign point, so fresh with grief. “This is a different world entirely. It’s quite fun, sometimes: learning these new things, meeting these new people. Until I remember our children aren’t here to experience it as well.” Her eyes clench closed again, hard, her head shaking with something like disbelief. “I can’t believe we only had them a decade. We’ve had all these years, and they had... they had so little. It’s so difficult to stomach, especially given that I... I cannot even begin to understand this world without our children in it. After only ten years.” Finally, Caoimhe’s head tilts up, eyes opening to look at her husband properly. She needs to look at him straight on ask the questions that have worried her so since the terms of her arrival became clear, no matter how it aches. “Who are we if not their parents? W-What are we meant to do with this time if not share it with them?”

Close to his chest was an awfully polite way to put it, and she didn’t seem the polite type. But it also sounded like something his wife would say about him, so that explained that well enough. It wasn’t his job to seek forgiveness for his father, certainly, but Gabe felt a pressing need to be forgiven by this sweet woman for being born. Sounded like he’d got it, so that was his Catholic guilt assuaged at least. “You’ll have to forgive me, I was about two steps from the priesthood when I met my wife. They did a number on my moral compass, stuffed in as much guilt as they could.” Gabe said, pondering just what he could ask. He knew vaguely what would be too much, even with the vast lot of nothing his Da had told him since they met. “Suppose we might have been, but we’ve time now. Things’ve been…well, I mean, I did die. So that was rough on him. But I’ve a feeling it’s more than that. You know how he is though, you can’t pry anything out of him if he doesn’t want it.” Too close to the edge, he thinks. Ah, but weren’t there tattooed names he’s asked about before, but gotten no answer? That seemed gentle enough. “Nothing’s ever like you dream it, but it’s nice. I’ve an aunt, an uncle, cousins and all that, but…ah shit. Da’s got tattoos of some names, won’t tell me anything about them. I’ve a hunch, but I’m afraid to ask him.” Not her though. She was softer than his Da, ever so slightly more open, and hadn’t it always been easier for him to speak to women about things on the emotional side? That nunnery childhood never did fade. “Bran, Deirdre, Alanna. Who were they?”

“So I gathered.” Caoimhe murmurs at the mention of his present condition, deadness and all. They’ve got that in common, don’t they, even if it shows itself in different ways between the two of them. It’s something that makes her swallow hard, her thoughts drifting toward her husband once more. She’d been privy to glimpses of the gravity of his loss during her own in-between years. But how expansive is it, really? Caoime isn’t sure she’ll ever know. “It’s a sensitive topic, the loss of children,” she murmurs, in some sort of defense, but it’s a weak one. For isn’t that hard to discuss on any front? No, to be more specific, she’ll have to air their griefs. Not something she’s too keen on – but she doesn’t have much choice. Not as Gabriel goes on, wide blue eyes looking so much like his father’s that she hardly has a chance to refuse him. Better her than Faolan to do the explaining, she imagines, what with the burden he’s already been forced to bear for so long. “Ah, well.” She starts, her own gaze wandering to the window, the expanse of sky easier to look at than those curious eyes. “Seems you may already know, what with your... use of the past tense.” Something she can hardly stomach, herself. Not when it still feels as if their boisterous trio of children may come circling around the corner any minute, their chatter filling these sickening silences. “Anyway, ah... they’re ours.” Somehow it’s delivered with a smile and Caoimhe’s eyes flicker toward her present company for a brief moment before settling down to her own lap. Safer that way. “Our wains, the three of them. Bran, the eldest, then Deirdre, then...” She wishes she could keep her voice from cracking, but it seems a futile effort. It’s a point of pride that she’s at least withheld tears – thus far, anyway. “Wee Lanna. Alanna, I mean.” What more is there to say? Plenty, highlighting their finer features – and all of them were so fine. Caoimhe would take even the worst moments, the fevers and the fights and the tantrums, over this. Sadly, it’s the logistics she suspects he wants. The worst of it. “Only ours for a decade before we lost them. Or, ah, Faolan lost us all, I should say. I went the same way.” Keenly aware of what Faolan’s son now is as well as the sensation of incoming tears tight in her throat, Caoimhe ceases the story there, with a smile, of all things. “It wasn’t the loveliest scene, I’m afraid. Quite sudden, and... well, you’ll forgive me for hesitating to share all of the details. But that’s the truth of it. They're our children, loved and lost.”

That was the hell of it, she knew that Caoimhe felt such a way. Gemma, who doubted the motive of nearly everyone she crossed paths with, trusted Caoimhe more deeply than anyone else. So it didn’t seem trite that she wished Gemma had better, that she didn’t blame her for what had happened. Didn’t hurt less either, but it…well, she could accept it as truth. She shrugged off the comment that she didn’t have to stop shopping now, then takes the basket from Caoimhe’s hands. “I know it wasn’t. Nothing ever is, which is just absolute horseshit of the highest degree. But no, I only came in here for something I really don’t need. It’s fine.” Gemma lied, wanting to ease away from the subject and limit what pain it caused them both. Hers wasn’t as acute as Caoimhe’s but it was a match against sandpaper. That was a fire she didn’t want to light at the moment. What she wanted was to bask in the presence of her quasi mother, to feel a little of the solace she had felt in the time with her family years before. “I’ll have to ask your husband if he can sharpen up some of my knives. He never did trust me with any of his swords.” She said, loading up the belt with Caoimhe’s purchases. Her attempt to pay was met with a gentle swat and she sighed, but at least Caoimhe let her carry the bags. It was a simple question, but one that she didn’t quite like the answer to yet. Wasn’t sure if she’d stay there yet with the gulf of time between her and Lily. Still, she couldn’t lie to Caoimhe. “With my um…my sister Lilavati. Just for now, I’m looking for apartments in my spare time, but I haven’t been in town long. So, question, how did Faolan come up with such a cheesy name for his smithy? That kind of thing was always your forte, not his.”

She could fuss about the basket, the questions, the finer details about the years they’ve spent apart – but she doesn’t. No, by now Caoimhe knows confrontation is best saved for when it’s most necessary, or at least best suited to yield the results she’s hoping for. And this store, with its too-bright lights and overhead music, is hardly the place. So she lets it go, hoping for ease enough, even as she swats at Gemma’s arm with a scoff at the attempt to pay for groceries. Whilst fussing with a wallet, she recalls her own details, marked by a smile. “As I recall, he did trust you once, and... well, we nearly paid sorely for it.” More precisely, it was Bran who’d nearly paid, with his two feet dangling from a tree branch then having to be hastily pulled upward as the sword’s blade fractured and its shards flung about. But his name swells in her throat, too big a loss to voice with such ease. So Caoimhe leaves it at that, smile faded some now. It vanishes entirely as Gemma does, in fact, allow her some information. If blood still flowed in her veins, it would have drained from her face, Caoimhe is sure of it. Here she’d thought fate might’ve been done being so fickle with her, dead as she is. She was wrong, it would seem, for fate clearly hasn’t had its fill with her. “I... I don’t quite know.” She admits softly in answer to the trivial question, discovering too late that her own steps have stopped, her mouth agape like a child trying to fumble for an excuse when bound for a scolding. “You said...” Lilavati. Another name, a challenge to say for entirely separate reasons – mainly because she doubts she has the right. She’d relinquished it centuries ago. “You mean to tell me that... Lilavati, she’s your sister?” Those two girls raised in the same home, finding their way to her in different measures, by different means. The curse that Caoimhe murmurs in Sidhe is one usually reserved for special occasions – but this certainly feels special as she lowers herself to sit on a nearby bench, this shock quickly fatiguing. Now’s not the time to vanish. “You’ve known each other then for... for centuries. F-For how long, exactly?”

When they arrived to the exit, there was a thought that lingered Gwendolyn’s mind. The whole interaction she realized that this shade may have come in contact with a Riverborn just like herself. The question now is if they knew each other on a personal level? “Yes, that’s what we’re labeled as.” She then nodded and wasn’t sure what to say. The woman was being optimistic and further served no threat to Gwen. “You apologize too much.” she points out at first. “Prior to your departure, I am curious, do you know anything about the River Spirit? I mean ever since they came to be, we were able to see your kind and I just wonder if there’s a connection between both sides. I simply want to understand why I came to be in this…predicament.”

The evaluation earns a surprised laugh with Caoimhe, who raises her brows. She’s not offended, though – hardly. “And here I thought I was being polite. I... well, I was about to apologize again. So suppose I should just bit you farewell.” The question, however, halts her. The exhale she lets out is a noisy one, and Caoimhe shakes her head, sorry once more. “I wish I did. All I know is that after quite some time in darkness, there was... a doorway, you could say. And the only way out was headlong into the river. We’re connected that way, I imagine, through the water. Your... Riverborn sort and we who have managed to emerge through the veil seem to do so best through the water.” Whether this unreadable woman would like to be connected to someone like her, well, that’s another question entirely. “Beyond that, I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m happy enough just being here, but... answers wouldn’t be amiss.” It doesn’t take much evaluating to come to a perhaps risky conclusion: “I’m sure you would like them even more than I would.”

The front of his shirt is uncomfortably damp, a fact which is somehow making him more uncomfortable than the woman(?) before him. He aims for levity, finds it comes easiest; like a second skin (how many layers was he wearing now?) “Usually when folks say that to me it’s after greater slights than one ill-timed surprise.”

If I had a dollar for every drink owed…well…

Despite his discomfort, Gil keeps his distance. Bending at the waist to retrieve his laptop from the ground to give it a once over. The thin screen had a series of cracks spidering from the upper right corner, with a tsk he tosses it back to the couch before continuing with the conversation/situation at hand “It’s a trend,” he offers “Such ridiculous names with businesses, helps bring in customers–doesn’t matter the type of business, slap a catchy title on there and everyone will remember it. The modern day commercial jingle…” a sigh, and he circles out from around his coffee table to approach his unexpected visitor “You’re a couple blocks overshot,” he says reaching to brush aside one curtain, squinting at the influx of too-bright sunlight “That way.” 

A laugh breaks free, surprisingly genuine despite everything else as he returns his attention to her “As far as warrants go, that’s not so bad; I imagine at this point it’s merely a tally game–” a pause and he considers her with a new interest bordering on…uncertain “Can they…even arrest you?” possibly a foot-in-mouth question but well…she’s the one who barged in (???) uninvited and all “I mean…you’d just…” he waggles his fingers on one hand “Poof away, wouldn’t you?”

Caoimhe winces at the sight of the shattered glass – those devices are just one of the many things she hasn’t quite figured out, but she knows a broken object when she sees one. “Apologies for that,” the shade murmurs with a gesture toward the item the man so easily tosses toward the sofa. “I’d offer to fix it, but, well... I doubt I’m equipped, myself. Doesn’t look like the sort of thing a blacksmith could fix, either.” And thus her resources are drained. Shame, really. Her brows lift at the advice about business names, though they dip back down again at unfamiliar jargon. She’s prone to that these days, so it’s quickly pushed aside with nothing but a mental note to ask Faolan later about these so-called commercial jingles. “Right.” Caoimhe merely murmurs with the same polite smile, feigning understanding. The window is a welcome relief, familiar enough territory as she peers down the street alongside her company. “Ah! Well, that’s only a few minutes’ walk. Can’t say I did too badly, then.” She arguably shouldn’t be so puffed up, having landed in a stranger’s home like she has, but her navigation skills have indeed improved. “Maybe next time I’ll be lucky enough to land in the yard.” The inquiry about police furrows her brow once more, though it’s thoughtful this time and lets up quickly, after a slightly baffled laugh. “Suppose you may be right. Your guess is as good as mine, though really, I’d rather not be on the run from Lethean police.” Been there, done that – life on the run isn’t all it’s made out to be, she learned many years ago. “Anyhow, I’d best be on my way, before I go about breaking more things.” A gesture toward that unfamiliar device once more. “Though if there is anything I can do to help mend it, by all means, I’d be happy to help, what with its damage being my fault and all.”

Was it odd to meet a ghost lady? Sure. Was it a negative experience? No, not really. Not yet, anyway. And Caoimhe had better manners than half the people she knew.  “You can call me Cal. Everyone does” she said because there was really no need to be so formal. “‘Floating around’?” the witch asked with a raised eyebrow as she glanced at her unexpected guest. It kind of sounded like she hinted at the fact that she’d existed somewhere else until now but she wasn’t so sure that was what the woman meant. “Well, my mama raised me right” Cal said with a playful smile. Coming from where she came from, sorority had always been valued. Plenty of witches had suffered in various ways and their community had always been there to give a helping hand. Her mother would chuckle and smile when Calliope told her of her encounter with this ghost. “Hope you don’t think it’s rude I eat when you can’t” she told her peculiar guest before pulling out some chopped strawberries and Greek yogurt from the fridge. “And I might even need a second cup of coffee” she added with a chuckle. She served big spoonfuls of yogurt in a bowl, adding the fruit, and drizzling some honey. And then went ahead to get the coffee maker started for the second time today. “Shades, huh? A bit of an ominous name” she said as she closed the fridge with her hip and held up her bowl to start eating. “But no, this would be my first time interacting with a ghost. If they’re all as nice as you, I don’t know what people are afraid of”. Perhaps ghosts -or shades- had as bad a reputation with common people as much as witches did. Anyway, Cal had already disposed of any previous ideas she might have had about spirits. Better to shape her judgments on experience rather than mere hearsay or myth.

So perhaps it wasn’t the best choice of words. Caoimhe laughs all the same, though it’s tight and marked with a shrug. “Not quite sure how to phrase it, really. Easiest to say that I was... jammed between. For a long while, I’ve been told, so you’ll forgive me for not doling out all of the finer details. Don’t want to eat up all of your time.” The other woman earns a more genuine smile at the mention of upbringing. “Well, that’s all we mothers can hope to do, raise them well.” As soon as the words escape, so easy, they weigh down heavy and hard. That’s a private grief, though, and so Caoimhe swallows against it and manages another smile, waving off the food concerns. Certainly easier territory. “Oh, I hardly mind. Getting rather used to it.” As the woman fusses about with the food, Caoimhe cranes her neck toward the window, trying to pinpoint exactly where in town she happens to be. Doesn’t exactly intend to stick around for breakfast, now, does she? “Can’t say I chose the title, myself,” she murmurs, still with a wry enough smile. “It helps people understand, though, putting a name on it. I sometimes feel like I hardly understand, but I suppose whatever helps the cause along...” The smile turns to a grin at the compliment, and Caoimhe gives a grateful nod back toward her company. “I’m not certain that all of our sort are so kind. I like to think of it as a second chance, though, and really, what’s worth being bitter about when it comes to that?” That her chance is without her children, she supposes, but it’s not a thought she lingers on. Not now. “Now, have you the faintest idea how I’d manage to get back toward the center of town? I think I can manage my way back toward the smithy from there, and I suspect my husband may start to worry sooner rather than later.”

@johannakoning​

Many things have changed, but Caoimhe’s affinity for all things musical is not one of those things. That she has learned during these last few months, if nothing else. And so it’s no surprise that the harp in the window of the antiques shop stops her in her tracks. Caoimhe’s head tilts as she contemplates, then turns toward the door with a shrug. Browsing certainly won’t hurt, will it? That’s the thought in mind as she opens the door to the shop, keeping manners in mind – passing through would be easier, but it’s the sort of thing that tends to startle people. Her presence alone sometimes has the power to do that, so she’s glad to see the woman behind the register fashions a polite smile in her direction. She’ll take it. “Good morning.” Caoimhe offers, though her gaze is quick to wander back toward that front display. “Don’t suppose you’d be able to tell me more about the harp in the window? I’m not so sure how keen my husband would be on me bringing it home, but it looks to me like a fine instrument.” Golden in the light and... tempting. Depends if it’s playable, really. “If you’re even selling it, that is! If not, I’m just as happy to gaze at it from afar. Lovely instrument.” 

No fear,

Don't you turn like Orpheus, just stay here...

A base hospital on the Western Front of France.

Summer, 1917.

“Well, fuck assumptions.” Matt twists the end of his lips into a sneer. “Honestly, nobody really knows anything, but they still talk shits ‘cause if they don’t, they get scared shitless.” He speaks up rather genuinely. Maybe his morning (or afternoon) sleepiness got to him. “I know nothing about you other than your name and that you are in my bedroom. Ain’t got no assumption to make from there.” He shrugs before returning an easygoing smile. “Ey, nice to meet ya too.” As she steps (floats?) out of the room, Matt grabs a hoodie and a pair of shorts, getting dressed quick and dirty. He can’t find his phone, though. Must’ve left it somewhere last night. So the hunt begins… “So, this impressive smithy, do you know the name or the general location?” He asks as he goes over to the fridge, gets orange juice and drinks it out of the container. “Any landmark nearby? I gotta go find my phone so I can drop you off on the way, or something.”

Caoimhe blinks at the swear, feeling something between impressed and startled. Unexpected, but she’d take it. “People do tend to talk. I try not to hold it against them. Suppose a dead woman floating around would scare me as much as the next person.” She shrugs, generous with the benefit of the doubt. “I appreciate it.” Assumptions never suited anyone, and they certainly don’t nowadays. That thought is still in mind as she lingers out in the hallway, waiting for her new company to join her. Once he does, she tilts her head, humming with thought a moment. “Hm... well, I do know the name. ‘Heat of the Moment,’ it’s called, which I thought was quite funny.” No? Maybe not. “Suppose it’s near... the... other buildings.” That’s no help. “Ah, there’s a shop across the street. They serve drinks, I landed there once too, if you’d believe it... a café! That’s what the poor thing called it, when she was done being so afraid. Lackadaisy, which is a new word if I’ve ever heard one.” She shrugs. “I suppose that’s as helpful as me trying to find your phone would be.” Those she certainly hasn’t grasped. Not yet. Possibly not ever. Doesn’t feel like missing out on much, really.

“You’re welcome.” It would be a waste of resources to even use it on a shade and for her, a waste of energy and power. She wanted a peace of mind for today and well, it seemed to have cut short with the other’s presence. At least it was a shade she could tolerate. “Sure.” she replied as she continued walking throughout the Silver Security facility. Gwendolyn lacked in the small talk department, she knew that. However, she was more of a listener and if needed be, she’ll talk. Therefore, the fact that the shade had a curious inquiry caused her to stop in her tracks and face her as she arched a brow, waiting for the response. “It is and I do…Most Riverborns like myself have that added to our…rep.” Gwen paused and narrowed her gaze on the woman, “But it seems like you’re all making yourselves known to everyone else. It shouldn’t be that hard to get in touch with your loved ones, regardless of who they are.” 

The woman isn’t keen on talking much – Caoimhe can sense that even without empathy. So she tries for brevity, getting to the point of the question with what she hopes is haste. “Riverborns.” She echoes with a nod. “I didn’t know the name, myself, but suppose it’s good to know.” There’s some bitterness there, and Caoimhe sighs, nodding grimly. “Apologies. I’ve made contact with mine, of course, but it’s not so easy for everyone. There’s a bit of an in between process that can be... troubling.” That’s putting it gently. “I’m sorry that your sort have gotten roped into all that nonsense. Hopefully it will ease up as people find their way.” Who knows if they will, but Caoimhe’s always been the optimistic sort. That much shows now, as she gives the woman a smile as they approach the door, despite their previous bit of malice and the fact that she’s got little idea where she’s going now. “Thank you, again, for your... restraint. And for seeing me out. Kind of you. Sorry for barging in.”

Spencer’s nerves had been on edge once the woman appeared out of nowhere. However as quick as he reacted the feeling had disappeared at seeing that she hadn’t been a threat. It was a relief considering he tried not to fight now. If anything she seemed more like a friend just talking to him about life than a threat. That alone brought an amused smile to his face. “It’s yours to use. “ He replied giving a her a nod. Spencer had to admit she’d had a point but he was a former which walking around like the living dead, so he could handle a lot. “I honestly didn’t mean any offense by it. I just understand the whole living dead thing. “ He explained before feeling foolish, His ears must have been messing with him because as soon as she explained where she needed to go, Spencer knew exactly what she meant. “ Wow now I feel ridiculous. I’m Spencer by the way. My sister Ivy works with him, I can take you back there if you want?” He replied grabbing his keys in case. It was ultimately her choice but he wanted to be polite. Delilah was home so he knew it’d be safe to leave Rowan with her for a couple minutes. “ I mean if you want to save your, traveling in case you end up somewhere else again? “

“Oh, don’t fret. I’m hardly offended. Nice to have something in common, I suppose.” There are more ideal things than deadness, but she’ll take anything she can get. Friends are few and far between when you’re a specter, and after so long in solitude, she’ll happily receive any of them. “Ivy! I’ve heard the name.” Can’t quite place it to a face yet, so she arguably shouldn’t be so pleased with the recognition, but she’s confident she’ll get there. “Pleasure to meet you, Spencer. If you’re willing, I’d certainly appreciate the guidance. As you can tell, I’m not the best at it, myself.” Caoimhe laughs it off with ease. After all, an appearance in an unwanted location is becoming commonplace. Another laugh at the man’s contemplation, and she nods. “I appreciate the consideration. I think I will, in fact, save my traveling. A walk may be nice.” Not that it feels much like walking, but really, that’s a technicality. Once they’ve ventured outside, Caoimhe turns back to her present company with a smile. “D’you live with all of your siblings, then? Must be a fun household.” She speaks from experience, now long gone.

I. BASIC

FULL NAME: Caoimhe Meallán / Caoimhe Ó Muireadhaigh NICKNAME(S): A ghrá, M’fhíorghrá DATE OF BIRTH: Autumn of a year long since forgotten NATIONALITY: Irish-American OCCUPATION: Bookkeeper at Heat of the Moment Blacksmithery RELIGION: Polytheistic GENDER IDENTITY: Cisgender female SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Heterosexual ETHNICITY: Fae (aes sídhe), Irish (adoptive) SPECIES: Shade, previously Otherlander Fae

II. APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: Caitriona Balfe HEIGHT: 5′10″ WEIGHT: 130 lbs HAIR COLOR: Dark brown EYE COLOR: Blue DOMINANT HAND: Right SCARS: A large one on her throat, remaining from the vampire attack that took her life. TATTOOS: None PIERCINGS: None

III. BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN: The Otherlands CURRENT RESIDENCE: Lethe, Washington FINANCIAL STATUS: Upper Class EDUCATION LEVEL: Only formally educated through fae royal training.

IV. RELATIONSHIPS

FATHER: Raighne Ó Muireadhaigh MOTHER: Ailionora Ó Muireadhaigh SIBLINGS:  Willow Ó Muireadhaigh, Dempsey Ó Muireadhaigh FAMILY: Lilavati Sundara (daughter), Bran Meallán (son, deceased age 10), Deirdre Meallán (daughter, deceased age 5), Alanna Meallán (daughter, deceased age 11 months) PET(S): Faolan’s dog, Aoife

V. PERSONALITY

MYERS-BRIGGS: ESFP ENNEATYPE: Type 2, The Helper MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good TEMPERAMENT: Choleric HOGWARTS HOUSE: Hufflepuff ELEMENT: Air SIN: Wrath VIRTUE: Charity QUALITIES: Gregarious, warm, humorous. FLAWS: Childish, brash, dogmatic. SPOKEN LANGUAGES: English, Sidhe, bits of Irish/Gaelic. FEAR(S): Oblivion, abandoning others, further loss.

VI. FAVORITES

“Must you always accuse me of terrible dancing skills? You will never let me forget the mishap at Murphy’s - I rather think you just wanted to be carried home,” he replies swiftly, laughter in his voice. Faolan holds brings their hands to his chest, uncaring of the way the limbs are squished between them. Together, they sway from side to side, half following the beat. Home is where the heart is they say, and he supposes that’s the reason no building has quite captured the same feeling of comfort. His was buried in Ireland. A piece of it is here now, digging it’s way to its rightful place in his chest as Faolan dances with her around the living room. “Someone taught me well over the years, but unfortunately I am not sure she has seen the fruits of her effort. I shan’t say who, she might step on my toes in return.” Dancing isn’t a hobby he continued over the years, the feeling of faded without the familiar weight in his arms. Now she rests against him, cheek against his shoulder, and the memories of sunlight drifting through the open door and the sound of Bran with his flute hummed in his ears. Pleasant, and warm, and his fingers flex on her back, having forgotten the memory. “I did not think we would have this again - there is little that could make me happier,” he says, surprised at the truthfulness of it. Happiness has felt fleeting in recent years between the mayhem in Lethe, to Fiona’s disappearance, to Gabriel’s death. His lips press against the side of her head, sighing against her hair. “M’fhíorghrá. Do you remember the song we danced to in the spring of ‘73? Bran–” A slight hitch in voice, but he continues on, practiced in handling this particular pain. “He would change the melody every time. We danced to that, time and time again. I… I do not remember the words anymore. Just the hum.”

“Someone surely tried to teach you well. Seems to me she might’ve failed.” It’s all in good humor, and the laugh that hums through Caoimhe’s words proves as much. After all, it’s not true, and the way that they glide around the living room proves as much. In fine tune with each other, even after all these years. A lovely thing, she thinks. Lovely, too, to simply be held, warm and content in the light of the setting sun through the window. The sort of thing she’d taken for granted once. Never again, though. Not after those centuries in that horrible in-between, so cold, so distant. Now, she’s lucky – lucky enough to press an absentminded kiss to the corner of her husband’s jaw between lines of melody. “I didn’t either. Prayed for it, certainly, but hardly thought it would come to be.” She confesses softly, more pessimistic than she usually allows for. Still, it’s the truth, and hindsight now in the wake of all they have. Perhaps not entirely, considering all that they’ve lost as well. But they have each other. Caoimhe’s reminded of as much at the feeling of lips against her hair, the sensation making her lips curve into a smile, eyes fluttering closed. “Hm?” She merely murmurs in response to the endearment, though she pays more attention at the mention of their son. Their lively, musical boy. Caoimhe’s hand is quick to rub against Faolan’s back, hoping to reassure after the hitch in his voice. Despite it all, she manages another laugh, low and soft. “I do, quite well. In fact, I may remember the words. Let’s see...” 

They’d been raised in such a musical home, their children. Caoimhe had seen to that, with constant songs, fae and otherwise. This one in particular wasn’t fae at all, but an Irish folk song she’d found rather sweet. One she recalls now, sung softly to her audience of one, still with her cheek against his shoulder. It’s only when she reaches the end of the chorus and hopes to share a smile with her husband that she straightens, opening her eyes in the hopes to meet his. She doesn’t make it that far. Instead, her gaze latches onto a photo in the corner, put into a frame but not yet mounted on the wall. This particular spring cleaning project stops her in her tracks, halting the music she’d been providing and any semblance of a dance. Caoimhe’s hardly aware of her own gasp as she wrenches herself from her husband’s arms, moving with sudden haste toward the photo. “Lanna?” The nickname for a daughter lost makes its way to her lips as if she could really be calling her child. But it’s not. It’s not at all, and it’s only when Caoimhe is knelt before the photo and blinking back unexpected tears that she realizes. “Oh. No, no.” Her head shakes and she swallows hard, setting down the frame. “I’m sorry. No, it’s Fiona. Just Fiona.” Hardly ‘just,’ sweet thing that she is. But she’s not Alanna. Not their Lanna, long gone. “When the light hits her just right sometimes... it’s as if I’m seeing everything our girl could have been.” Finally, Caoimhe looks back to her husband. “I doubt I need to explain.”