Óró sé do bheatha abhaile

The bard taps the open instrument case with her bow without saying a word. Mostly because she’s taking a drink out of her hip-flask. 

“If you take favors, this’ll be good for anything I can do for you.” He tossed it into the case and it lands with a surprisingly hefty thud. He then finishes his drink and motions for another.

“The curlew stood silent and unseen in the long damp grass, And he looked down on the road bellow him that wound its way through Beal Na m Blath. And he heard the young men shouting and cursing, running backward and forward, dodging weaving and ducking the bullets that rained down on them from the hillside opposite. Just as quickly as it started the firing stopped, And a terrible silence hung over the valley. A lone figure lay on the roadside in the drizzling august rain, Dressed in green great coat, leggings and brown hob nail boots, that would never again set the sparks flying from the kitchen flagstones as he danced his way through a half set. A hurried whispered act of contrition and the firing breaks out again. The curlew takes to flight and as he flies out over the empty sad fields of West Cork, with his lonesome call he must tell the world that the big fella has fallen and that Michael is gone...”

Ashes winced before turning to Gael.

It had been a month since Gael had sang her mother’s song for the last time in full. The song was precious to the two of them, and represented the only relationship they had before the two of them marched off to war. While the rest of the town was off celebrating the winter season, Gael sat at the bar with her life-long best friend: The Bartender, Sarah Kelley. 

“Remember t’at gift I gave ye all t’ose years ago, Gael? ”

“Ye gave me a lot o’ gifts. But I t’ink I know th’ one yer talkin’ about. Th’ year t’at I left Phointe Tosaigh, right?”

“T’at’s th’ one.”

“Why d’ye bring’t up?”

“Dunnae ye t’ink t’at singin’ ‘t would help ye out wit’ yer mo’er?”

“Nae. T’at song always made me cry.”

“Ye need tae cry, Christy. If not fer ‘er mem’ry, t’en fer th’ mem’ries ye dinnae get t’have wit’ her.”

“Fine. I’ll do’t. Lemme pull out me fiddle an’…”

“Snow is falling Christmas eve. Lights are coming on up and down the street. The sound of carols fills the air People rushin’ home, families everywhere. Putting candles in the windows, and lights upon the tree. But there’s no laughter in this house, not like there used to be There’s just a million little memories That remind me you’re not here.  It’s just a different kind of Christmas this year.

In the evening, fires glow Dancing underneath the mistletoe Letter left from Santa Claus Won’t be the same this year’ in this house because…

There’s one less place set at the table One less gift under the tree. And a brand new ache to take their place inside of me.

I’m unwrapping all these memories Fighting back the tears

It’s just a different kind of Christmas this year.

And there’s voices in the driveway Families right outside the door And we try to make this Christmas Like the ones we had before

As we gather ‘round the table. There is joy on every face And I realize what’s still alive Is the Legacy you’ve made

It’s time to put the candles in the windows And lights upon the tree It’s time to fill this house with laughter Like it used to be.

Just because you’re up in heaven Doesn’t mean that you’re not near It’s just a different kind of Christmas this year

It’s just a different kind of Christmas this year…

Gael struggles through the last few verses, but she finishes the song. Sarah wraps the bardess in a hug as she lets the tears flow freely.

           “…But give me a Ramblin’ Rover from Orkney down to Dover              We’ll roam the country o’er, and together we’ll face the world”

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“Who are you?”, Blis asked, still keeping himself to the shadows. It took him a moment to understand what the hell she said. Was she drunk? He couldn’t tell from here. He was forced to take a step forward, his body half bathed in the light now

“What i want, oh travelled bard, is all songs you know about… the Ice Witch, the betrayer….Lissandra.”, he let the word slide down his tongue.

“Yer bringin’ down some kinda cursed shite upon t’is land by sayin’ t’at name. I’ll tell ye what ye need t’know: Ye dun fuck with th’ frostguard. Ye dun go delvin’ into t’eir ruins. An’ ye damn-sure dun tell t’eir stories wi’out findin’ a knife in yer back, unless ‘t’s th’ version t’ey want ye t’ hear. 

“G-Gael..!” she stammered, clasping her hands at her breast. She stopped as she watched the woman continue on her own. She grabbed the rest of the decorations and followed Gael several minutes later. When she found her upstairs, she set her decorations aside and took Gael’s face in her hands.

“Forgive me…” she started meekly. “I did not recall your pain.” She kissed Gael’s cheek and nuzzled her nose, despite her guilt. “I was… inconsiderate. If you need assistance going back down, please let me know!”

The Bard blushes, turning her eyes to the decorations on the walls. “Jus’....don’t go focusin’ on me when ye ‘ave all t’ese guests comin’ in, aye? As far’s me leg’s been concerned, t’is’s been a good day. An’ I didn’t plan on showin’ up ‘ere t’ cause trouble aft’r all th’ work ye’ve put inta gettin’ e’erythin’ into place.”