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“Stay here with me tonight.”
It wasn’t as if he had been planning to leave, but the sound of her voice had given him pause. An invitation instead of an assumption that he could. “Are you sure you’ll have me, a chuisle?” He breathed, a smile illuminating world weary eyes and tired features, the first honest smear of emotion to decorate his face in decades.Â
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"Is breá liom tú. Tá mé grá i gcónaà leat. Tá a fhios agat go bhfuil, nach tú?" [I love you. I've always loved you. You know that, don't you?] That whisper-sweet quiet morning voice of hers.
A smile tugged at his features, roused from sleep, he lay still, eyes still closed as he heard her whisper in his ear. “GcĂłnaĂ?” He murmured, reaching for her to place a kiss against her lips.Â
Siobhan clutches to him. Holds tight and never wants to let go. She's almost lost to the floor herself, feeling the press of his lips and the long since lost touch and comfort he brings. A choked sob, she wants to savor this moment. Even if if meant them toppling to the floor, she didn't care. All she wanted most was his arms around her. Secure. Warm. "Gan leithscéal a ghabháil. Just a shealbhú dom. Le do thoil." [No apologies. Just hold me. Please.]
Aeron pulled her closer, her head resting against his chest, his nose still buried in her hair. He was trying to hold himself together, to keep some modicum of his strength, but Siobhan had always been his weakness. She brought things out in him that he had thought long buried. A sob escaped his throat and suddenly he found himself crying.Â
A part of her doesn't want to give that forgiveness. But the larger part, the part that is winning -- is saying to forget everything wrong between them. The tears are pouring now, she can't hold them back any longer. Siobhan steps into him; pressing her face against his torso, whispering in their native tongue. "MĂ© chaill tĂş i bhfad." [I've missed you so much.]
73 years walking the Earth and the only one to ever make his knees weak nearly sent them both to the floor. He pulled her closer and pressed his lips to the top of her head, knees shaking with the effort to keep them both standing. ”Tá mĂ© chaill tĂş,” he echoed, reaching a hand to tangle in her hair. “Tá brĂłn orm,” his voice a whisper, an apology made far too late.Â
The nickname opens a wound long since closed; but not healed. She has to swallow down the tears that threaten. She /knows/ he hasn't changed, but deep inside she aches to be close to him again. It's been too long and she's miserable. Utterly. "It's me."
His mouth had long since gone dry and he swallowed hard trying to dislodge the sudden lump in his throat. He was paralyzed, stuck on the spot, unable to move and gods did he just want to reach for her. There were no words he could think of to bridge the gap between them; nothing he could think to say to break the ice.Â
“A chuisle,” he repeated, this time, his voice breaking with the effort it took to keep himself from shattering. When she had left, she had taken a part of him with her. And now they were face to face again, and he could do nothing but stare; and hope for forgiveness.Â
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