Portent

Eithne fell gently into the treetop.

She couldn’t describe it any other way. She fell as if sinking in water, surrounded by swirls of gray mist, just sort of drifting and touching down before the world came into focus. 

What? 

That… made no sense. Trying to understand her situation, she blinked rapidly and looked around. Immediately, she recognized where she’d ‘fallen’. The creek, the dike, the road, the ford… yes. She currently sat perched on a sturdy branch of the large oak tree that grew near the stream running through her parents’ land. She’d played here often as a child, though it had been years since she’d had time to stop by and climb the tree. Her fingers gripped the rough bark covered in crumbling moss below her as she frowned, trying to remember how she’d gotten there. Besides falling into treetops. 

Hoping that would give her a clue, she glanced up. She found nothing but typical April clouds and more branches. No answers there. So she looked around again, this time studying the rocky landscape carefully for anything that would stand out. 

Behind her, towards the town, she saw nothing but a couple of aspens and acres of rocky mounds just starting to return to life, completely normal for Ireland this time of year. 

She turned her attention to the creek below the oak. It looked… normal, running smoothly if a little quickly due to spring run-off. Several meters away, the shallow, cement ditch used to cross the creek sat innocently below the surface, currently filled with ten to twelve centimeters of water. It was all so familiar, a scene she’d long since grown used to, but she still couldn’t remember arriving at the ford… not the traditional way in any case. She also didn’t remember putting on the strange, white dress that seemed to billow around her despite only a mild breeze. Where were her jeans and jacket? And shoes. It was April. In Ireland. And yet… she didn’t feel cold. Why? 

More confused than ever, she thought back. What had she been doing before… this? Closing her eyes, she racked her brain for her last memory. Right, she’d gone for a ride with Ed. Her fiancé. Her heart skipped a beat in excitement as it did every time she thought that word. 

“Call me Ed. I hate my full name.” 

She loved that man. He’d come to study at The Queen's University where they’d met. After she’d spilled her morning cuppa on him. Because of course. He’d been frustrated, but understanding, which she’d appreciated. 

They’d decided to go on a few dates after running into each other a couple more times and… just hadn’t stopped. After a few months, she’d brought him to meet her parents. That had been the first time they’d gone riding. She’d promised to take him once she'd learned he’d never even been near a horse before, having grown up in the middle of Birmingham. He’d always been so lovely and kind and intelligent and… 

She shook her head. Thinking of her fiancé was a pleasant distraction, but it wouldn’t get her any answers. She wrenched her thoughts back onto the topic at hand. 

They’d come to visit her parents the night before and had gone out riding earlier that morning. It had been a little breezy, but nothing too bad. She’d ridden Ennis, her favorite mare, as she’d done hundreds of times before. Ed had taken her next favorite, Moher. The large stallion liked him better anyway, for some reason, despite only knowing him for a little over a year. 

The two of them had ridden over the well-worn trail through her parents' land, heading towards the nearby, rocky upland, one of their favorite trails. She remembered passing the old, dry-stone wall crossing the— 

An odd noise drew her attention. Her eyes snapped open, gaze immediately drawn to an unfamiliar woman approaching the stream. In a… costume? If she had to guess, Eithne would say the woman was her mother’s age, but she wore a patched, brown dress that came to just above her ankles. Over the top, a long, split tunic fastened around her waist with a red strip of cloth. She wore a headpiece and neckerchief (that wasn't a hijab), both old—stained yellow in spots—and fraying. Leather shoes that looked as if they’d fall apart any minute covered her stocking-clad feet. Under one arm, she carried a bundle of clothes, soaked in and dripping a dark liquid onto the rocks and grass behind her. 

Eithne gasped. Was that… blood? She put a hand over her mouth. Had there been an accident or something? 

The newcomer didn’t seem to notice her observer, who held as still as she could. There was something… off about this stranger, and it wasn’t just her costume or the potentially blood-stained clothes. The woman dropped her load by the water’s edge and knelt down. Plucking what appeared to be a random piece from the pile, she turned and dunked the material in the creek several times. She was… washing it? By hand? In a stream barely warmer than ice? Without any soap… Where had she even come from? The nearest town was a good twelve kilometers down the road. 

Eithne’s lips turned down in puzzlement as she watched the woman’s upper body move up and down, gripping the dirty fabric in her hand firmly. After a couple more dunks, the woman squeezed out what appeared to be a hoodie and held it up in the afternoon light, inspecting the shirt closely. Even from where she sat, Eithne could see the dark liquid still staining the garment. A deep sadness she couldn’t explain began to bubble inside her, settling heavy and uncomfortable in her stomach. It took her a moment to realize she was holding back tears and had to focus on taking several deep breaths to calm herself. 

“I know you’re there,” the woman at the stream said suddenly, startling Eithne. “May as well come out.” 

Embarrassed at being caught spying, and more than a little wary of the stranger, Eithne cautiously peeked down from the familiar oak. Her hair tumbled down to dangle below her, looking particularly red in what afternoon sun peeked through the clouds. The tree probably hadn’t hidden her well anyway, as leaves were only just beginning to grow. The older woman paused in her washing and watched the younger expectantly. Eithne had to work to not shrink back at the stone-hard gaze. She didn’t know what about the newcomer set her on edge so badly. Yes, she was trespassing, and yes, she was washing potentially bloody clothes in a stream, but… She didn’t look too dangerous. Perhaps she needed help? Eithne decided to proceed cautiously. She’d feel bad if something had happened and she hadn’t at least offered assistance. They had a washing machine at the manor if nothing else. 

“Well, get over here,” the woman snapped after several awkward seconds. “Let’s get a look at you.” 

Swallowing, Eithne dropped out of the tree (she would have normally enjoyed how her dress billowed around her but was a little preoccupied at the moment) and slowly made her way over to the woman, stopping at least a metre back. Just in case. 

The woman’s wrinkled skin told of a hard life. Rough callouses decorated her deeply tanned hands, easily visible despite how hard she clutched the dark hoodie. The shirt used to be blue, Eithne noted, from the few spots not destroyed by the stain, but the blood and water had darkened it to near black. 

Bracing herself, Eithne gathered her courage and nodded at the clothes. 

“Is that… blood?” 

The woman frowned and tilted her head, as if she didn’t understand the question. “Aye.” 

Eithne swallowed, a hundred more questions racing through her mind. After a moment, she managed to focus on a couple. 

“What… happened? Is everyone alright?” Why was there so much blood? Someone had to be hurt badly. 

The woman just blinked at her for several seconds, eyes widening incredulously before sighing. 

“New, are yeh?” 

“N-new?” Eithne asked. “No, I’ve lived here my whole life.” 

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as the woman looked stricken for a moment before she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, lips thinning in… pain? Grief? Resignation? Why? 

“‘Course I’d be sent to give you the run-down,” she finally muttered tiredly as she turned and began to wash the clothes again. “One day I’ll find out who….” She sighed and shook her head. 

“I’m Liadin, by the way. And y’are?” 

“Eithne.” She’d answered before she realized and mentally kicked herself for it. 

“A good name,” Liadin said. “Old-fashioned. Given by a family you dearly love, I’m guessing.” Eithne’s confusion morphed into annoyance. 

“Of course I love my family. Why wouldn’t I?” The woman snorted derisively. 

“Why indeed?” she asked, voice so soft Eithne didn’t think she was supposed to hear. That didn’t stop the fact that she did hear. 

“A’ right, Ms. Liadin,” the younger girl snapped, temper and worry finally getting the better of her, “you’re on private property, here, and Da knows people. You should leave.” She’d deal with the guilt later. 

This whole encounter must have really gotten to her if she was calling her father ‘Da’. She hadn’t done that in years. 

If anything, her words made Liadin slump tiredly. “If only it were that simple.” 

Eithne opened her mouth to say something else, but the older woman cut her off. 

“That’s my first piece of advice, cailin. Don’t try to outrun it. The more you do, the more it’ll catch up to you and overwhelm you.” 

“The more what’ll catch up to me?” Eithne asked, louder than she would have liked. 

The woman held up the hoodie again, the back facing them. It looked a little cleaner, at least. It suddenly occurred to Eithne that maybe the clothing wasn’t from an accident… and that maybe Liadin was a wee bit more dangerous than she looked. Eithne had been curious before, and wanting to help, but the more they spoke, the more she realized she should probably just leg it back to the house and let her father know. In case Liadin happened to be a serial killer… or the like. 

“Some of us believe it’s purgatory,” Liadin said as she dipped the hoodie under the clear, stream water again. How were her hands even working after dunking them in cold water directly from the uplands so many times? “Some of us believe it’s our reward… or consequence. Some of us believe it’s just a natural order of things. I don’t really know what to believe, to tell you the truth. All I know is my job and that it’s better if I do it.” 

“Your job?” Eithne asked, backing away slowly, figuring if she kept the woman talking until she made a run for it, it might make for a good distraction. 

“I’m doing it right now,” Liadin said, holding up the hoodie again, expression dry. 

Eithne’s blood froze at the sight of the sweatshirt and the letters now visible across the front of it. That was Edward’s hoodie. His university hoodie. Because who else would have that hoodie, in that size, out here? Her hands clenched into fists, and all thoughts of running away dissolved as a fierce protectiveness rushed through her. 

“Why do you have that hoodie?” 

Liadin sighed. “Whoever it belongs to falls under both our influence.” 

“I’ve met his mother,” Eithne scoffed. “You are not her. Who are you?” 

The woman shook her head. “Liadin, as I said. To explain more it’s…” her face twisted in discomfort for a moment. “I don’t think there’s any easy way to tell you this, child but… you’re dead.” 

Eithne… hadn’t been expecting that. Of course not. Why would she? She took a step back out of sheer surprise. “What?”

 “You’ve become one of us: the Good Folk.” 

“Wait,” Eithne balked, “as in fairies, leprechauns, selkies, and the like?” 

The older woman nodded, then shot a pointed look at the younger. 

“And bean-sith.” 

Banshees. 

Eithne’s stomach began to churn uneasily. Then Liadin held up the wet hoodie again. 

“Or a bean-nighe.” The world seemed to slow down around them as Eithne made connections. 

“The Washer at the Ford…” she whispered harshly, eyes growing wide and mouth drying out. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to scream denials. She wanted to run—urged herself to run—but her body didn’t seem to want to listen. 

“You know I’m not lying, at least not 'bout what I am,” Liadin stated calmly. Too calmly. With no room for argument because… she wasn’t lying. Eithne didn’t know how she knew that, but she did. With a certainty she couldn’t deny. And that was, perhaps, the most terrifying detail of the entire encounter. 

The world seemed to narrow around them, and she heard her own harsh breaths speed up as implications sank home. She didn’t know if it took moments or hours to find her words again, but eventually, she did. 

“I thought people who saw a bean-nighe were supposed to die… not already be dead.” This had to be a dream. A very realistic dream, but a dream nonetheless. It couldn’t be anything else, no matter what her brain told her. 

The woman shot her a look of pity. Eithne didn’t know what to make of that. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what to make of that. Liadin opened her mouth to say something but cut off as Eithne whipped her head around. 

A rock tumbled noisily down the slope of the man-made dike on the opposite bank. For a moment, she watched it fall, then followed the trail it had taken back up. To her surprise, Ed came stumbling over the top of the mound. 

At first, she smiled in relief. Just seeing his familiar brown hair and dark eyes calmed her heart. Then she looked closer, and her smile dimmed. She’d never seen his skin so pale before, and he had tear-tracks running down his cheeks. He looked… haunted. In pain. And now that she thought about it, why hadn’t he come via the road, instead of several metres upstream? Like he’d come directly over the land from her parents’ home.

 Something twisted in her gut. She forcibly ignored it, focusing on her fiancé instead. 

“Ed!” she called, dashing across the ford. “Ed!” 

“He canna hear you,” Liadin called. 

Eithne ignored her and called out to her fiancé again. He stared straight ahead blankly, almost as if he didn’t—couldn’t—hear her. When he finally looked up, she’d almost reached him, clamoring over the rocky slope towards him. 

Then he froze, face somehow going paler as he stared past her… at the Washerwoman. 

“NO!” she yelled, waving her hands to draw his attention. “Don’t look!” People who saw the Washer at the Ford died… She had to believe that if he didn’t see the woman, he wouldn’t be cursed. That was how it worked, right? 

Right?! 

She jumped desperately, arms outstretched, hoping to cover his eyes but her hand went through his head. Followed by the rest of her. 

What…? 

For a moment, her mind refused to admit what she’d seen. She stumbled to a stop behind him, blinking in confusion. But… there was no other explanation. And she had seen her hand pass through him. 

Finally, her face shifted to horror as she stared down at her fingers. They looked normal but… 

Behind her, she heard Ed shout desperately. “Eithne!” 

Turning, she could only watch as he stumbled down the dike towards the creek… and Liadin. He eyed the woman warily, stopping on the opposite bank from her. 

After several uneasy moments, he looked down at an empty space next to him. 

“Eithne? Is that you? I… Is it really? I… Are you making that noise? I didn’t know you could cry like that.” From where she stood on the dike, Eithne could only stare in blank confusion and dread. 

“Hey,” he said gently, reaching in front of him, “it’s okay. I’m here. I—urk,” his voice cut off in surprise as he lurched forward, as if expecting something to be where she could only see air. 

“ED! NO!” Eithne shouted, racing down the dike towards him. He fell into the stream as if in slow motion, eyes wide and searching—surprised. He didn’t look remotely scared, just shocked. 

She heard the sickening crack clearly, though. 

He hit his head on one of the larger rocks, and his eyes fell shut. Then he splashed, face-first, into the water. 

Eithne screamed. 

She ran faster, practically flying as she stretched out to grab him, to drag him out of the river, but as her hand closed around his leg, his body vanished, leaving behind clear water and mossy rocks looking like they hadn’t been disturbed in years.

Eithne blinked several times, twisting around frantically as she searched desperately for her fiancé. 

“Edward!” 

“So, it has begun,” Liadin said sadly, once again drawing Eithne’s attention. She laid the now much cleaner hoodie on the bank near her and reached for something else from the bloody pile of clothing. 

Eithne could only stare at the other woman. “What?” she finally managed to ask. 

The two met gazes. “We are portents, Eithne—omens. ‘Tis our lot to foretell and witness. That is what many believe to be our punishment for whatever we did in life.” She looked down at the bloody jeans in her hand sadly—resignedly. “Though I suppose I ascribe more to the less popular belief of natural progression… if anything.” 

Eithne couldn’t put the woman’s words together in her head. She couldn’t seem to string any thoughts together at all. Not because she was incapable, but because it hurt too much—was too terrifying to think about. She didn’t want to know. 

She didn’t want to know. 

“What you saw will happen,” the older woman went on, matter-of-fact, “there’s no stopping it, no changing it, you can give no warnings. I’ve known those who have tried to do something to stop fate… it never ends well.” 

“I… I can’t let that happen,” Eithne whispered. The desperate sadness had filled her stomach and chest, leaking into the rest of her body as it just kept growing. It would burst out of her—through her if she tried to keep it in for too long. But she couldn’t let it out either. That would be acknowledging what Liadin had said, and she couldn’t. 

“And what can you do about it?” the older woman asked, not unkindly. “We can interact with the world only so far as we do not interfere with their destinies—those we warn. You will not be able to touch him. Any warnings will only lead to his death in another way, often more painful.” 

Eithne shook her head. “I… I can’t…” she couldn’t breathe. (Did she need to? It felt like she did.) 

Then Liadin was there in front of her, face far softer and sadder than Eithne had yet seen. 

“Let it out, child.” 

Again, Eithne shook her head stubbornly, trying (unsuccessfully) to stop herself from sobbing. Moments later, rough fingers brushed her tears away gently. The older woman’s hands were still wet from the creek and smelled of iron. Eithne didn’t back away, though, appreciating—needing—the comfort. 

Something inside her cracked, but she held it at bay through sheer force of will. She didn’t know how long she could keep it up, though. 

Liadin had hazel eyes. She looked so normal, not otherworldly at all. “You are only hurting yourself,” Liadin whispered. “For no reason. You are here to mourn, child. So mourn.” 

It was the look in her eyes… the absolute empathy laced with pity and sorrow that reached Eithne. 

This woman knew. She understood. 

Whatever barrier Eithne had built inside herself burst at that realization, unleashing a bomb. The scream poured out of her tapping into her desperation, anger, and sorrow as it did. She didn't notice how the water trembled, or the trees shook at the cry. She finally accepted what she knew to be true and mourned. 

She mourned for herself—for the life she could no longer live; for a future lost. 

She mourned for her family. Did they even know what had happened to her? She didn’t. (She wasn’t sure she wanted to anymore, but it would come back… was already coming despite her wishes. She could feel it.) 

She mourned for Ed, her sweet, loving fiancé who would die… and she could only watch. 

Why? 

Why had she become… this? Who had made that decision? How had this become her reality? 

She couldn’t begin to guess at the answers. That just made it worse. 

Eventually, she managed to stop wailing, only to break down into sobs, collapsing by the side of the stream, her dress swelling and swirling around her. And Liadin—the bean-nighe, the woman who washed the clothes of those who would soon die, foretelling their death—held Eithne as she cried. 

“Oh, child…” she said softly. “The first time is always the worst,” Eithne clutched onto her like she would her mother, fingers curling in the fabric of Liadin’s old dress. 

“I-I can’t do this,” she finally stuttered. “I can’t watch people’s deaths over and over again. I can’t watch him—” 

Liadin sighed. “I wish we had a choice. I ran, once. Left the blood and laundry behind. It appeared in front of me again and again. Each time it grew larger. I don’t know if that was a punishment—if it caused more death—or simply my duties stacking up, but… I canna risk it again.” 

Eithne sobbed again, only able to look at the older woman in alarm. 

“How… how long… have you…?” she finally asked weakly. 

Liadin took a slow, deep breath. “I don’t know. It’s difficult to keep track of time like this.” 

“L-like this?” 

The bean-nighe shook her head and stood. “Dead.” 

With that, she turned and walked back across the ford. She didn’t disturb the water. Not so much as a single splash, though her feet sank through the cold, clear liquid. Once on the other side of the stream, she went back to washing the clothing. 

And in that moment, Eithne felt for her too. How long had she been forced to sit by the side of a random stream, washing the clothes of those who would soon pass, unable to do anything about it? 

The sorrow in her stomach rebuilt and she burst into tears all over again. 

Everything hurt. She couldn’t describe how much the knowledge she carried physically pained her. It left her in torment—an agony she couldn’t even touch. She may have stayed there for hours or days—moments or lifetimes—she didn’t know. She could only keep crying. It wasn’t enough. Would it ever be? 

“Eithne? Is that you?” a shaky but familiar voice asked. She looked up to see Ed’s chocolate brown eyes as he stood before her (when had he gotten there?!) and felt herself blanch. 

No… no, she couldn’t see that again! 

“Ed…” she gasped out. “Ed!” 

“I… Is it really?” he asked, staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. 

Or as if she’d come back from the dead. 

The memory snapped into place. Her horse stumbled as the hoof slipped. She’d gone along that trail a thousand times before. Why had that one time been different? 

“Ed, you can’t!” she started. “I… Are you making that noise? I didn’t know you could cry like that.” He said that with such a forced smile, but so much relief. It was a terrible attempt at a joke, and they both knew it. 

“No, Ed! You can’t be here! You can’t be here! Please… run away… go…” 

“Hey,” he said gently, reaching for her hands, “it’s okay. I’m here. I—urk!” Seeing him fall from a distance had almost killed her… again. She wished with all of her being that she didn’t remember. 

She’d clutched the reins as both she and Ennis tumbled down the side of the hill. She searched desperately for her fiancé as she screamed and fell, only seeing Ed’s face as he hollered after her, and then pain, swirling green, blue, and gray, more pain, and then nothing. 

Seeing him stumble from inches away as he literally fell through her… 

She felt her (non-existent?) heart stop. 

“NO!” she shrieked again, but her fingers swiped through his skin. She even waded into the stream to try and do something (she didn’t disturb the water either, she noted), but again, her hands just fazed right through him as his body splashed, face down, into the creek. 

He didn’t move. 

“No, no, no,” she sobbed. “Ed! Get up! Wake up! Come on! Please!” 

Minutes or an eternity passed as she sat there screaming at him, yelling, wailing. She could feel the power in her voice growing, but it did nothing to help. He still didn’t move. 

The world cracked open... or was that her heart? (What was left of it.) Her being? The emptiness growing like a bubble in her chest and stomach and spirit expanded. “Hurt” didn’t begin to describe it. Agony couldn’t come close. If someone had punched through her chest, it couldn’t have felt worse. Had someone? Did it matter?

Finally, finally, her tears dried up, leaving an empty husk behind. She fell silent, only able to stare at the body of her fiancé half-submerged in the shallow water. It still hurts. Wasn’t she supposed to go numb? Or did that no longer apply? 

More screams drew her out of the pained fog that had taken over, and she managed to turn and look over her shoulder. She noticed, vaguely, that Liadin’s dirty laundry pile had grown smaller, feeding the wet pile on her other side, but that… that hurt to think about, so she kept turning, focusing past the woman at her parent’s old farm truck. It had come to a stop just before the ford. 

Her parents had jumped out, leaving the doors open as they raced towards Eithne frantically. 

“M-mum? Da?” she stammered. 

They didn’t so much as acknowledge her. That brought an entirely different pain down on top of the sheer weight of what she’d just witnessed. Twice. In addition to the many revelations. 

“Mum,” she said, louder. Nothing. “Da!” 

They were pulling Ed out of the river, each trying to do so without slipping on the mossy stones themselves, their focus one hundred percent on him. 

“Get his arms!” her mother yelled. Her father nodded from where he stood in the middle of the stream, reaching down to grab Ed. She didn’t want to distract them. They were helping him, but… 

“Mum!” she yelled, not wanting to examine why she felt so desperate for a simple answer. Even just, a Later!’ would work. 

“They canna see you,” Liadin said. “They’re not close enough to their end.” 

Eithne shook her head, facing the older spirit again. “This… this isn’t right! Isn’t fair! None of this should have happened! If I’m dead, why am I still here?! Is that what happens to everyone?” 

Liadin paused again. “No,” she finally said softly. 

“Then why?” Eithne begged. “I don’t understand! Why did this happen? Why am I… this?!” 

She gestured to herself, her flowing dress that blew in the non-existent wind. Her too-red hair and… and the people behind her. Her parents had dragged Ed onto the shore and were trying to revive him, but she knew it wouldn’t work. She knew more certainly than she had about anything else… and it felt like everything inside her shattered again at the realization. Every breath was a shard in her gut. 

“I… know of several factors,” Liadin said slowly, “but not nearly all. For you, there must be a tie to old families—pure Irish descent. There must be great care for your family—enough to keep you from moving on, and a caring soul. For me…” She faded off, rubbing her stomach absently, the pants in her other hand drifting in the water. For a moment, she just looked so… lost. “It’s how I died… among other things I’d prefer to not discuss.” 

Her eyes cleared, but only seemed to grow sadder as she returned to washing her clothing. Eithne stared at her for several seconds, then looked back at her parents and fiancé again. 

“I…” Everything hurt now, not just her chest. Her very existence had become a black hole of pain and sorrow. 

“He won’t come…?” she couldn’t finish the question. 

“Not likely, no.” 

“And my parents?” 

Another pause. “I don’t know, but again, unlikely.” 

The pain was building again—the soul-deep sorrow that now seemed to encompass her entire existence. 

“But I’m stuck here.” 

“Yes.” 

Eithne’s voice cracked, and she had to swallow, not that it helped. “For how long?” 

The bean-nighe shook her head. “I wish I knew. Some barely last years. Others…” her voice quieted. “Centuries.” 

Eithne looked down at her hands again. They should look different. Why didn’t they look different?! 

“But… a banshee.” 

Liadin sighed, holding up a wet sock to examine. 

“Let me ask ye: Where do you think the myths come from?” 

Eithne didn’t know how to answer that. They were myths. She just figured banshees were people mistaking the howling of wind for a voice or… something. That felt wrong to say aloud, though. 

The older woman seemed to read her mind. “I know, I know. Yeh thought we weren’t real. And if any of us did exist, we’re all tricksters or… or evil. Well, cruel. That’s what the Good Folk are in most of the myths, after all.” 

“Not… all of them,” Eithne said haltingly. 

Liadin snorted, moving her final piece of clothing onto the wet pile lying on the stones of the bank. 

“Those myths don’t say an awful lot ’bout how we became what we are. Sure, there are a few, here and there, but half of ’em are wrong. They’re nothing but horror stories and warnings. Myths and legends. The Good Folk… we’re no longer human because we’re dead. The living assume we have no more feelings, or that any remaining only echo our lives.” She sat back on her haunches, wiping her wet hands on her dirty apron. “In some ways, that’s… not entirely wrong. But in others…” she pointed back to Eithne’s parents, who seemed to have finally given up as they cried over the loss of their last connection to their daughter, and one of the most wonderful people in existence. “It’s so far beyond wrong I canna begin to explain it. 

“I think we exist on a different… what did that teacher call it? Plain of existence? One of the others I ran into. He said there’s overlap with the living world. It’s why we can see them, but they canna see us unless something bridges the distance. Something like… death. Or whatever power we gain when we become like… this.” 

Eithne couldn’t take her eyes off of her grieving parents, and the tears came again. She thought she’d cried them out, but… she was wrong. Once again, a sob broke free, and she just couldn’t stop. Unable to keep the emotion inside, she wailed. Again. 

Of course, that was what her parents heard. 

“Cormic,” she heard her mother say to her father… somehow. She didn’t think she should be able to over her own cries. 

“It’s not real,” he said back, red-rimmed eyes glancing around uneasily. “There’s never even been a legend of a banshee ’round here.” Eithne cried harder. 

“Could it be—?” her father whispered urgently. 

“No,” her mother cut in, firmly. “No,” she repeated, softer, almost begging. She bit her lip as she shook her head. “Come, we best get him to...” 

“Town?” Eithne’s father said quietly. “Hospital,” her mother said, standing up. 

Eithne didn’t move. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t find the energy anymore. In the end, she could only sit there, in the middle of the stream, and scream. It was the single worst feeling in her entire existence… including her death. She could only watch as her parents left her behind, heading into town with the body of her fiancé. 

Around her, the world began to... not fade, per se, but fuzz? Blur? It didn’t feel real anymore. But then, nothing about the last two hours of her memories seemed remotely real. 

Eventually, Liadin clearing her throat drew Eithne’s attention. The woman stood on the bank, watching the younger girl morosely. In her arms, she held a bundle of far cleaner clothes. The same clothes Ed had worn. Unlike the world, Liadin looked vibrant and clear—almost sharp—against the blurriness surrounding them. 

“You sense it, don’t you. Our time here has ended. I must leave. And I…” words seemed to fail her. Finally, she just shook her head. “There’s not much else to say,” she said softly, “except, ’I’m sorry’.” 

With another slow, wistful shake of her head, she turned and walked away, form fading with every step until she vanished entirely. 

The newly born ban-sìth could only watch on as she cried, left behind to mourn and face what had become of her future alone. Both women wished the parting sentiment was—that it could be—enough. 

It wasn’t.

© H. A. England 2023