With the chaos at the warehouse that had been caused by that sabotage finally restored to order, Hudson found himself with free time once again. Now, with his leg finally unbound, he walked slowly though the boatyards to the building that housed the L?ir Mothan. He had avoided the place since seeing Moira?s fetch there. Her Dream self, but not and never her reality. Sylvia had tried to claim it a second chance, but the Moira he loved was gone, and had been gone for more than a year.
And it was that year mark that lingered on his mind now. His own year of mourning was five months past, and even before seeing Moira?s haunt, he still sometimes tucked a memory away to share with her, or turned to touch her hands. Now it was fresher, rawer, as if she had died again. But the year was not his time, anymore. The heavy door to the building which opened to the water groaned in protest as Hudson rolled it open. He had to pause partway through and take a breath. The bandages were off his leg, but it would take time to strengthen the muscles again.
Sea air and the sweet scent of clouds in the sky mingled in the building with the scent of fish and netting; it was a moment purely of home. Closing black eyes, Hudson breathed deeply of the air. Then, with a roll of his shoulders back, he tilted up his head and once more opened his eyes. Black gaze turned out to the ocean, to the distant point where the ships sailed through the rift to Yransea. It was not his year. Finally, walking heavily, he picked up the small bundle he had come to the building with and hoisted himself up into the L?ir Mothan.
Parchment, ink, a pen, a smooth board to write on ? even wax and the stag?s head seal ? were laid out carefully on the mid-bench. Net-scarred hands carefully smoothed out the parchment on the board, uncapped the ink, dipped the pen. Finally, when all was laid ready, Hudson closed his eyes again and was still, surrounded by that which gave him comfort. If he did not feel comfort, how could he give it? Especially over so long a distance. Finally, with a sigh, he opened his eyes and began to write.
Mo Daor Caraid,
This will be no long letter, nor the story which I promised to you and your family; not this time. Now is simply for me to tell you that some months past, you gave me some comfort, with your company and your understanding, on the eve of my Moira?s death. Just the company, and the understanding, and it was enough to give me some measure of peace. Now I am a world away from you and I cannot reach out to give you similar company, except through this poor parchment and ink.
If a touch on your arm would be soothing, I would give it, and if there was only the need for silence and listening, so too would I give that to you. But I am not there, and so all I can give you are words. There are sayings among my people, caraid, as there are for every hard time, but this I would share with you. Caoinig? a'aingil thite, caoinig? na mairbh a chuaigh ar strae, agus caoinig? a chro? briste tr?ig, ach n? b? br?nach faoin bh?s, d?an c?ili?radh den saol. That is, mourn for the fallen angels, mourn for the dead who lost their way, and mourn for the broken heart left behind, but do not mourn the death, celebrate the life.
All I know of you says that your Kieran lived a life worth celebrating. Tell his children tales of the trouble he got into (for what small boy or man never got into trouble?) and tell them of his honor and his pride. Tell them of his anger and his joy, and especially of the love you had together. Hold the memories and make them live ? and then let them go into memory, mo caraid. I was drowning in my own memories, holding them too close and too fast; you touched my arm and told me what I did not wish to hear but needed. I cannot touch your arm, and I cannot give you peace; all I can give you is the certain knowledge that whatever you need, I will be here for you.
Di?ilidh,
Hudson
And it was that year mark that lingered on his mind now. His own year of mourning was five months past, and even before seeing Moira?s haunt, he still sometimes tucked a memory away to share with her, or turned to touch her hands. Now it was fresher, rawer, as if she had died again. But the year was not his time, anymore. The heavy door to the building which opened to the water groaned in protest as Hudson rolled it open. He had to pause partway through and take a breath. The bandages were off his leg, but it would take time to strengthen the muscles again.
Sea air and the sweet scent of clouds in the sky mingled in the building with the scent of fish and netting; it was a moment purely of home. Closing black eyes, Hudson breathed deeply of the air. Then, with a roll of his shoulders back, he tilted up his head and once more opened his eyes. Black gaze turned out to the ocean, to the distant point where the ships sailed through the rift to Yransea. It was not his year. Finally, walking heavily, he picked up the small bundle he had come to the building with and hoisted himself up into the L?ir Mothan.
Parchment, ink, a pen, a smooth board to write on ? even wax and the stag?s head seal ? were laid out carefully on the mid-bench. Net-scarred hands carefully smoothed out the parchment on the board, uncapped the ink, dipped the pen. Finally, when all was laid ready, Hudson closed his eyes again and was still, surrounded by that which gave him comfort. If he did not feel comfort, how could he give it? Especially over so long a distance. Finally, with a sigh, he opened his eyes and began to write.
Mo Daor Caraid,
This will be no long letter, nor the story which I promised to you and your family; not this time. Now is simply for me to tell you that some months past, you gave me some comfort, with your company and your understanding, on the eve of my Moira?s death. Just the company, and the understanding, and it was enough to give me some measure of peace. Now I am a world away from you and I cannot reach out to give you similar company, except through this poor parchment and ink.
If a touch on your arm would be soothing, I would give it, and if there was only the need for silence and listening, so too would I give that to you. But I am not there, and so all I can give you are words. There are sayings among my people, caraid, as there are for every hard time, but this I would share with you. Caoinig? a'aingil thite, caoinig? na mairbh a chuaigh ar strae, agus caoinig? a chro? briste tr?ig, ach n? b? br?nach faoin bh?s, d?an c?ili?radh den saol. That is, mourn for the fallen angels, mourn for the dead who lost their way, and mourn for the broken heart left behind, but do not mourn the death, celebrate the life.
All I know of you says that your Kieran lived a life worth celebrating. Tell his children tales of the trouble he got into (for what small boy or man never got into trouble?) and tell them of his honor and his pride. Tell them of his anger and his joy, and especially of the love you had together. Hold the memories and make them live ? and then let them go into memory, mo caraid. I was drowning in my own memories, holding them too close and too fast; you touched my arm and told me what I did not wish to hear but needed. I cannot touch your arm, and I cannot give you peace; all I can give you is the certain knowledge that whatever you need, I will be here for you.
Di?ilidh,
Hudson