I have walked a stair of swords,
I have worn a coat of scars.
I have vowed with hollow words,
I have lied my way to the stars.

— Songs of Sapphique

Étaín didn't believe in ghosts, but had decided after many long years that memories could haunt a person so completely that they'd end up wearing the scars of their transgressions. It wasn't as if she couldn't understand such a concept, but had discovered earlier on in her career that there were some people she preferred dead and others that were too incongruous to have been given the opportunity to live in the first place. But this hadn't been the point she had been trying to make. If there were such things as ghosts, she knew that hers were particularly nasty ones, because in all honestly, she had never been without them. It was this that made her wonder about the Brotherhood's customs—the brand seared onto her left hand's ring finger, the leap of faith—and understood for the first time that these things had been conceived with that thought in mind. To serve the light, one must work in the darkness, and it was this phrase that drove the ghosts from her mind.

Although her heart was heavy, Étaín found herself standing in front of her father's estate for the first time in four years. The house seemed to have collapsed inwardly on itself somewhat, like a loaf of bread taken out of the oven too soon, individual shingles stuck up in places like wonky teeth. In the high winds of the season the old house could be heard to creak as if in its death throes, and she sorely wished that it didn't have to be that way. It used to be a grand place in its time, back when she had been small, but her father had insisted that beauty couldn't last and had abandoned it before she had turned sixteen.

There was still some life left in it however, but she couldn't find it in herself to take part in it. Instead she stood in the shadows of an oak tree beyond reach of the window, watching the remnants of her life fall into place like stained images in an old picture book. It was a nice enough picture, a little boy sitting by the hearth, warming his toes and eating a bowl of gruel. There in the corner was old Marta, her family's kitchen maid, pounding dough with great enthusiasm as if the bread itself had offended her in some way. But Étaín hadn't gone unnoticed. Marta shuffled around the counter as if it were an everyday occurrence, slapping her hands against her thighs to rid them of flour. She hollered at the boy, telling him to stay put, and dashed outside in a stupor.

"Étaín O'Shea!" she called out, shambling round the corner in her own haughty gait, "you've a lot to explain!"

"Aye, that I do."

"Just like your father I'd reckon."

Étaín tried not to make a face, but Marta noticed nearly everything and frowned, gripping her chin with one solid, calloused hand. It was hard to stare into her eyes, those deep set, heavy lidded, sharp little eyes, black as currants and as impenetrable as a solid, stone wall. There was nothing she could do about how she felt towards her father, but Marta simply heaved a great sigh and released her, patting her cheek for good measure. "You're your father's daughter alright! You've got his spirit, that's for sure, but you shan't go disrespecting him. He'd do a lot more than scold you, lassie."

"And I know that all too well," she said, peering around her shoulder, "let's speak of other things. I have much to say."

"What in God's name do you mean? You just arrived!"

Étaín hated the look that rested on her face, the one that seemed permanently ingrained in the wrinkles and folds of her skin, so pronounced that it was hard to tell what she must have looked like as a young woman. Perhaps she was once admired, courted and coiffured. Now she just looked like a balloon almost bereft of its helium. She rested her hand on Étaín's shoulder and laughed, a bitter laugh, something that originated from the back of her throat. It reminded Étaín of the past, back when her mother would hackle and curse, a babe in one arm and a kettle in the other. It wasn't what she wanted to remember, not now, and as she moved away, Marta tisked, shaking her head.

"You're off again, aren't you?"

"It's not what you—"

"Oh aye, lassie, I know more than I ought, but tis' expected with your family and all," said Marta, eyes moving up and down her person, observing her robes in distain, "you took up what I had hoped you'd leave behind."

"You understand then. I won't be back."

Marta stared at Étaín with something reminiscent of disappointment in her eyes. It managed to crawl beneath her skin unlike anything she had been privy to so far, a type of warmth she was unfamiliar with. She didn't know how to describe that sensation, but after awhile she didn't have to. It lay like snow over every other emotion, greying her spirit, tainting all that could bring her relief.

Marta, still playing the role of a wizened old crone, looked away. "He that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow, Étaín."

"Such pretty words," she retorted, trying to rid herself of that feeling, "but I didn't come here to be scolded. I wanted to say goodbye."

"And you have, lassie, that you have," she said, placing her hands on her hips, fingers still white from the flour she had been using minutes before, "but what about Breandan?"

Étaín glanced in the window, watching as the boy grasped his spoon with renewed fervour, staring at the gruel lumped on top with mild interest. He was perfection in coffee hues, hair and eyes the colour of dark roasted beans. He had that shy look teens often get when they've grown too much too fast, like they aren't sure about being a man just yet, but he was defiant and determined where most people would have been otherwise. She wanted to ignore the innocence he seemed to convey, the remnants of a time lost to her, but she had no use for the past and only wanted to protect him from their father's legacy.

"I refuse to tell him about this. He can't know, Marta," she pleaded, staring at the woman in desperation, "as far as he's concerned, I don't exist. Let him live in peace."

She looked reluctant for a moment, her conscience burning brightly through that strange, impenetrable gaze of hers, but even then she could see the necessity of such a secret in a world where the truth had been wrought so thin. "Aye, if that's what you want," Marta stated slowly, wringing her hands, "but such a great injustice won't go without penalty, lassie."

"Then let it be so. God save him from such a plight."

"I told you as much afore your sixteenth birthday, but you wouldn't listen either."

"Then when the time comes, he'll have to make a choice. You forget, Marta, that I wasn't given any options, lest you should forget it," said Étaín, removing her gaze from Breandan to look at the woman she had cherished once, before the world and its problems had lead her astray. These were her ghosts, the remains of a life she had known so little of and had forgotten. The brand on her finger had sealed the burden she had been destined to bare, the prospect of peace and normality as far flung as a distant moon. It was the least that she could do for the boy, but somewhere deep inside her heart she knew that he'd discover the truth one day and she was sorry for it.

"If you must tell him something, tell him only fools want what they can't have. He'll look upon you in confusion, but one day, when he's older, he'll understand," she said, grasping Marta's wrinkled hand.

"Where are you to go?"

"I don't know," she replied, letting the old woman's hand fall from her grasp.

Marta blinked away tears, her lashes stuck together in clumps as if she'd been swimming. "May the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back," she choked, tears trailing down her cheeks and chest, melting into the clothes she wore, "may the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your path. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of his hand."

And she left. Each step was a relief, as if she had managed to unravel the string attaching her soul to the people and places that had haunted her dreams for years, but even that hadn't been enough. It would never be enough, but she felt as if she had done something good for once, saving her brother from a life spent waiting for something to happen, for a figure to appear on the horizon, a saviour, a loved one. It wasn't much, but it would suffice. Her conscience had been momentarily relived, but the weight of that transgression would leave a permanent scar across her heart, one that would never completely heal.

A/N: This chapter contained quite a bit of context, but it was necessary! I'm not going add any historical notes (although the saying Marta uses is a traditional Irish blessing). Other than that, I bid you all farewell! Hopefully I'll have a chapter out next week, but I can't make any promises. I'm studying for midterms!

Valēte,

TeaAndWarmSocks