#faolan 03

@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.”

It is hard to be truly familiar with a feeling until you have experienced it yourself. That is the realization occurring vaguely in the back of Fiona’s mind as she sits on the floor of her kitchen, her gaze on the same cabinet she has been looking at for nearly an hour. She has seen shock before in other people -- other victims -- but she has never truly begun to understand the depth of it. The vastness. She breathes only out of instinct, and otherwise, does very little. Blood has stopped flowing from the gash on her brow but thoroughly stains her skin and the collar of her shirt. Her right wrist is a mottled color, blues and purples in the shape of the fingers that had grabbed onto her. There is a dull throbbing in the back of her head but she barely processes that, nor does she truly try to wrap her mind around the sound of her front door opening. She hadn’t even thought to lock it; not amongst everything else. And perhaps she should be scared, what with the possibility of another attacker approaching. But Fiona just tunes into the sound of her own weak pulse, her eyes lifting almost lazily to look at the person who approaches. “Oh.” She blinks, as if confused, then speaks with an almost eerie calm. “Hi, Uncle Faolan.”