9. Memories Worn by Time
Memories Worn by Time
I find myself standing alone amidst the dark, veiled embrace of the forest. Tendrils of fear coil in my stomach. I am that frightened little girl again. A memory that has my consciousness trapped, and terrors of the past envelop my soul. A memory with odd familiarity.
Out of my direct line of sight, a butterfly with ethereal hues of a perfectly combined violet and black adorned in its wings seems to beckon me.
The light casts an ephemeral dance along its coloured scales, and I find myself captivated.
An otherworldly allure emanates from its delicate form, and against all wiser instinct, I listen to its siren call that compels me to follow it deeper into the forest.
I walk through dense foliage for some time, treading a path unknown. Shadows deepen and surround me in uncertainty. When the butterfly lands abruptly, on top of a large and rounded mound, the world falls into a chilling silence that portends danger.
It’s the jarring sort of silence that causes prey to heed warning that a predator lurks near.
The silence of the forest is shattered abruptly, and before I have any chance to react, a stone is propelled, and collides with the back of my head.
I crumble to the ground, screaming from the pain, mixed with the fear that’s taken over all senses.
My cries are the only sounds that can be heard until the faintest sounds of malevolent laughter rings out.
Death, a concept unknown until this very moment, asserts its presence. It's an intangible spectator that I can feel looming there, right on the precipice, ready to make its move on me.
Prey.
Just as darkness inches closer, a thunderous bellow rends the silence, and the fear and the darkness fade instantly, swallowed by a luminous surge of light.
I feel protected by a force unseen. When I find the courage to look up, an enormous white stag peers at me from across the clearing; standing guardian like a majestic sentinel.
As it approaches with deliberate grace, it gazes down upon me, and much like the butterfly, I find myself ensnared in two sets of golden eyes that reflect wisdom transcending mortal understanding.
A sense of tranquillity and peace descends over me, bringing with it a sudden drowsiness.
Whether from fear, pain, or the exhaustion of the past few minutes, I cannot say.
I extend my hand tentatively, and the stag responds in kind, as it nuzzles into my outstretched palm.
In that sacred moment, I am touched not only by the velvet softness of its muzzle but by an unspoken assurance—an ethereal connection and understanding between frightened mortals and benevolent guardians of the otherworldly realm.
My eyes shutter closed, and I begin to drift into the realm of dreams. The last thing my consciousness renders is the faintest whisper that sounds much like my name being called from afar.
Remnants of the dream cling to me like a fog that refuses to lift.
My body is tense, gripped by a strange unease as fragments of it float in and out of my mind.
The dark forest, the butterfly, the sharp pain from the stone striking me, and that white stag with its golden eyes—watching me, shielding me.
My fingers find the scar on the back of my head, in the exact spot it had been in my mind. The memory of the injury taunts me with its elusiveness. The thought unsettles me, leaving a restless energy crawling under my skin.
Once I’m ready, I find Dealla downstairs, seated in her usual spot by the kitchen table, a book resting open in her hands. She glances up when I enter, her expression brightening as she sets the book aside.
“Morning, Triona. You look… unsettled,” she says, her brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”
I hesitate in the doorway, unsure how to begin. The images that woke me still swirl in my mind, and I don’t know if I can articulate the strange mix of fear and familiarity gripping me. But the urgency bubbling inside me forces the words out.
“I had the strangest… memory? Nightmare? I don’t even know what to call it. It’s been clawing at me.”
She gestures for me to sit, her curiosity immediate. “Go on,” she urges, her tone gentle but concerned.
As I recount the things I remember, the images feel more vivid, but more unsettling. “It felt like something I should remember, but I can’t. It’s slipping away, and it’s… it’s driving me mad.”
Dealla leans forward, her brows knitting together. “You said it felt like a memory. Why?”
I hesitate, my hand drifting to the back of my head. “There’s a scar here,” I say softly. “Right where the stone hit in the… whatever it was. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember, but I don’t know how I got it.”
“You never asked about it?”
“No,” I admit, my voice dropping. “I just… I’ve never truly taken the time to think about it. But now? It feels as if it might mean something, as if there’s this piece of my life I’ve forgotten.”
“Well, you do have a shite memory.”
The tease lands, pulling a small laugh from me. It breaks the tension—just for a breath .
Dealla’s gaze sharpens, and her voice takes on a serious tone. “Why is this bothering you so?”
Before I can respond, Casey saunters into the room, an impish grin lighting up his face.
He’s carrying a bundle of firewood, clearly mid-task, but the moment he spots us, his attention veers off course.
Whatever intention he had is immediately forgotten—his curiosity now far more interested in whatever conversation he’s just walked in on.
“Well, look who’s up bright and early,” he quips, flashing a quick smile at Dealla. “Good morning, Dealla. Ye’re practically glowin’ today.”
Then, with a smirk in my direction, he adds, “And Triona, still lookin’ half-asleep, even when ye’re upright. Truly impressive.”
I roll my eyes, but a small smile tugs at my lips. “Nice to see your sense of humour is still as questionable as ever.”
Dealla shakes her head with a playful smirk of her own. “Casey,” she scolds lightly, “if you spent half as much time being useful as you do trying to be clever, you might actually have found a bride by now. Someone else to taunt for eternity.”
“Ouch, Dealla! Right in the pride.”
I stifle a laugh, and he grins, completely unfazed. “Lucky for me, I’ve already got a bride to be under this roof,” he says, throwing Dealla a wicked grin. “Fair hair, bright blue eyes, alarming wit—ring any bells?”
Dealla arches a brow, lips twitching. “Oh please . You better hope your bride has poor taste and a high tolerance for nonsense.”
Casey beams. “Aye, and a thing for hopeless charm. I’m her dream, really.”
I snort. “If Dealla ever so much as glances in your direction with interest, I’ll assume she’s been cursed. Or concussed. I’d never let her succumb to whatever bizarre spell you’d have her under, you absolute bogle in trousers . ”
Casey turns, feigning fresh betrayal. “A bogle , Triona? That’s low, even for you.”
Dealla laughs under her breath. “I mean… if the boot fits.”
“You wound me, Triona. And here I was, planning to name our firstborn after you.”
“Ach, the poor bairn will be hexed from birth,” I mutter, fighting a grin.
For a few minutes more, it’s just the three of us caught in that easy warmth—the kind that comes from years of knowing one another too well. But as the giggles settle, something quieter creeps in. The kind of hush that follows laughter when someone remembers why we were gathered here to start .
Casey is the first to notice. He tilts his head, brows knitting slightly as his voice softens. “Alright then… what had the two’ve you whisperin’ like old hens?”
Dealla gives him a measured look. “You’re one to talk. You’ve done naught but squawk since you walked through the door.”
“Aye, but my squawkin’s charming. Yours is suspicious.” He leans forward, gaze flicking between us. “C’mon now. I ken that look on yer face, Triona. Out with it.”
Dealla scolds him lightly. “Casey, don’t you have work to do?”
“Not before I find out what’s so interestin’,” he says, grinning as he leans against the table.
I hesitate, chewing the inside of my cheek, then I sigh and begin recounting the fragments of the dream—each image disjointed but vivid. I mention the scar, and how I’ve never known where it came from.
The teasing drops from Casey’s face in an instant, replaced by concern. “You truly dinnae remember?” he asks, frowning now.
“Aye,” I murmur. “I can’t make myself any plainer, Casey.”
He shifts, his arms crossing as something in him goes distant—like he’s stepping into another time. “It was no a dream, Triona. We were playing—just runnin’ around like we always did. One minute, you were beside me, and the next… you were gone.”
“How did you find me?”
“It wasna me. It was Finn,” he says softly. “Shortly after he arrived here for the first time.”
The words land heavily, making me question how I could forget something so important.
Dealla’s brow furrows as she looks between us. “I’ve never heard this story.”
Casey glances at her, the teasing edge fading from his voice. “Finn’s father died. He didnae have anywhere else to go. Ma’s a distant relative of his, and they took him in without question.”
He pauses, shifting his weight, the memory clearly lingering. “He was only about fourteen. Thin as a reed. Quiet. There was a look in his eyes even then—like he’d seen more than a boy ever should. Seemed he was just… holdin’ it all in, tryin’ not to break.”
Dealla nods slowly, her expression softening as she absorbs the weight of this revelation. “I can’t say that I’ve ever thought to question the how or why of his presence. Him being here has always just felt so right.”
Casey nods his agreement. “Finn had only just arrived—barely said two words—but the second he heard you were missin’, he took off after you. No one asked him to. He just went. Like he knew where to find you.”