31. The Fallen
The Fallen
T he room is quiet, save for the crackle of the fire. Amelia sits near the hearth, her expression far off. There’s something about the way she carries herself tonight—sombre yet purposeful—that tells me her thoughts are far away, heavy with something that must be a great burden to bear.
Deidre gathered us here, emphasising the significance of listening to what Amelia has to say.
“Auntie, you requested an audience with us?” I ask, my voice breaking the stillness.
Her gaze meets mine, uncertain and vulnerable, a fleeting expression that looks misplaced on her face.
“There’s something I must discuss with you— with all of you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“The other half of the reason you’ve come all this way to see me… to prepare you for what lies ahead.”
She studies me for a long moment before speaking again, her tone carefully measured. “Do you feel as if you might be ready to hear everything?”
I nod, the weight of inevitability settling over me.
Our last conversation feels like it happened a lifetime ago, though only days have passed.
So much has shifted, so much uncovered. Finn, as if sensing my unease, places a steadying hand on the small of my back. The simple gesture quiets my own mind.
Amelia’s hands are tightly clasped in her lap, her shoulders stiff as though holding herself together by sheer will. She gestures to the chair closest to her, and I lower myself into it. Finn stays close, standing protectively by my side.
A small, wistful smile tugs at her lips. “Some could spend a lifetime searching for what your parents had,” she says fondly. “Their efforts would be most unsuccessful. I have never seen a man so devoted to another as your father was to my sister.”
My chest tightens at her words.
“Sarah learned she was with child just before your father was apprehended, as I have recounted, but what I refrained from mentioning was that she blamed herself for his capture.
For his death. For the loss of love and freedom of her country.
Your father fought to be here for you and for Sarah, even as the rope rung ‘round his neck. This beautiful face was undoubtedly the last thing he thought of,” she says, reaching out and pinching my chin between two fingers.
“Amelia, I dinnae think—” Callan starts, but she hushes him quickly.
“Your sister is tougher than you give her credit for. She needs to hear this.” She speaks in a tone that suggests she doesn’t intend to take Callan’s opinion into account.
I’m truly tired of fearing the truth. Of running from the pain of loss. Of facing sacrifices made for me. It’s not fair to do so in honour of those who have lost their lives.
“She’s right, Cal. What’s sacrifice if not spoken of? What good is it if we don’t learn from it?”
A life I hadn’t even known about has been ripped away, and nothing I could do—nothing anyone could do—would ever give it back.
“I tried so hard to care for her, your mother,” Aunt Amelia recalls, her voice trembling now.
“To protect her, but my father sent her away after Robert’s death, to live with good folk.
The bastard felt his image was compromised.
I went too, refusing to leave my dear sister alone.
But Cooper Penrose…” She pauses, her face softening.
“He was a kind and noble man. His whole family helped care for her through the pregnancy.”
I try to imagine my mother—her world shattered, finding solace among strangers. It feels impossible, a story that belongs to someone else.
“But after your birth, a leanbh …” Her tone shifts, her words chilling to the core. “Your mother saw something, as I told you the other day.”
“She felt your significance the moment you took your first breath.” Amelia’s voice grows quieter, as if afraid to speak the words too loudly.
“That night, she had the first dream about what you were to become. She dreamt of you. In a different time, with a face that had aged.” Her lips quirk into a sad smile.
“She said you looked so much like your father. It was almost as if it were him she was looking at.”
She turns her face away, but not quickly enough to hide the single tear that escapes. A knot forms in my throat, as if the weight of her words has wrapped around it.
Amelia’s voice trembles as she adds, “Losing Robert was hard enough, but when Sarah realised she would lose you too… she couldn’t handle it.”
The words sink into my chest like stones.
She pauses, her hands trembling faintly as they clutch her skirts. “Sarah stopped eating, stopped tending to herself,” she whispers. “She succumbed to her sorrow one day, unable to hold on any longer. She let it take her, just as she said you both had been taken from her.”
Her words hit me like a physical blow, but Amelia’s gaze remains steady, anchoring me. “Your mother saw so much of the world’s pain, Triona. She carried it like a weight on her shoulders, and she didn’t know how to let it go.”
Tears blur my vision, but I keep my focus on her as best I can.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Auntie,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “For losing your sister. For carrying this pain all these years.”
Amelia stares at me, her lips parting in awe. “Oh, Triona,” she utters softly, her voice breaking. “How is it you… after all I’ve told you, you still have this strength in you to comfort me?”
“Because I see the love you’ve carried for her. You didn’t fail her. You gave her hope when she had none, and now you’re here for me. If that isn’t strength, I don’t know what is. ”
A deep sadness is present in her features, but something else lingers too—pride, perhaps.
“Sarah saw a strength in you, a grand purpose,” Amelia notes.
“One she knew was destined, though she could not see it fulfilled. And that is why you must not falter, a leanbh. You are her legacy, and through you, she lives on. I think you’ve felt it.
That pull to resist what is normal. The strength you once did not possess.
You might have even had dreams of your own… ”
I nod, many things coming to mind—being able to spar with Callan and Bran, besting both of them. The wounds on my back, healing in record time. Dreams of my fragmented past. Nightmares of chaos and ruin.
“You must try to listen,” she pleads, her voice trembling.
“With your heart wide open.” She pauses, gathering herself as though bracing for a storm.
“What I have to tell you won’t be easy to hear.
You won’t understand at first, but I’m asking you to believe the impossible right now.
I’m asking all of you to believe that. Can you do that? ”
My heart thuds painfully in my chest, but I nod, knowing I would do anything she asked of me.
“What is it?” I whisper. My voice feels small, like a child’s, desperate for answers but terrified of the truth.
Then, as if drawn by an unspoken oath, the men gather tightly around us. “You were never meant for normalcy in life,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You are something far greater than you realise.”
The room seems to draw closer around us, the flickering fire casting long shadows on the walls.
“Ireland wasn’t always the way it’s known now. There was a time when the land and its people were one, inseparable, intertwined in ways you can’t imagine.”
Deidre steps into the room, as if sensing Amelia’s unease. The faint clink of porcelain chattering breaks the silence. “Here, love,” she murmurs, pressing a teacup into Amelia’s hands. Their eyes meet for the briefest moment—steady, knowing—before Deidre steps back, fading into the background.
Amelia exhales slowly, her grip tightening around the cup as she gathers herself.
“Then came the Milesians,” she continues, her tone sharp, tinged with bitterness.
“They arrived with their ships and their swords, but they did not claim Ireland through conquest—not truly. They made a pact with the Tuatha Dé Danann. The kings of old, as they were known,” she says, her voice steady, “were bound to ériu herself—the very spirit of Ireland. You know this story, aye?”
I nod, and she presses on. “It wasn’t a crown or bloodline alone that made a ruler legitimate.
It was ériu’s blessing—her sacrifice. She gave herself to the land so that her kings could rule justly.
And when they did, the land thrived. Crops grew plentiful, rivers ran clear, and the people knew peace.
But when a king was unjust…” She stops, her gaze meeting mine, her lips thinning.
“The land withered. Famine and sorrow followed.”
A chill runs down my spine despite the fire’s warmth. Amelia’s storytelling has a way of making myth feel like history.
“That’s the version you’ve been told?” she asks, her brow arching.
I nod again, unsure where this is leading.
“Well,” she sighs, leaning forward, her voice dropping as if revealing a long-buried secret, “here’s the part lost to the destruction of time itself—ancient scrolls and tomes stolen or destroyed by those who seek to claim what is not theirs.”
Her gaze holds mine. “The Fomóire —or Fomorians, as they’re called in modern tongue—are hostile and monstrous beings that come from under the sea and deep within the earth.
They are personifications of chaos, darkness, death, blight, and drought.
And they have a singular purpose: to steal the very magic that works to keep their primal destruction at bay. ”
I swallow hard, the weight of her words settling over me.
“They learned long ago that they could never harness their own magic. But they discovered they could steal it—drain it from the land, from people, from anything tied to the earth’s essence.”