50 years later

Nuala's golden dress whips around her, wisps of the sun hugging her legs as the wind blows about her, and the strong scent of salt water meets her nose as she walks along the beach, the sand falling away beneath her bare feet, ocean water frothing up to kiss her pale skin.

Abraham comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist lovingly, hugging her from behind as he rests his chin on her shoulder, and she smiles. Her wedding ring glints in the light cast from the sunset, the careful stitching around her waist shining in the shadows. Abraham releases her to take her hand, walking step by step beside her, and the pale scar on his cheek crinkles when he smiles down at her, just as it crinkles on her own face when she returns the gesture.

The white sand, warm against her skin, reminds her of their first daughter, mystical eyes with swirling colors of gold, blue, and purple within their shadowed depths, and a smile that lit up the room, hair as pale as the moon and skin as warm as an inferno. The memory pulls at her heart, reminding Nuala of things that she can't get back, and at the bittersweet thought, images of Red and Liz come to her mind, clapping triumphantly at Sierra and Trevor's graduation ceremony, beaming from ear to ear.

Sierra and Trevor.

The crimson arms limply dangling from the windows of that Jeep Wrangler, windshield smashed to pieces as the car laid on its side, tires spinning in the wind.

Liz's heart had died that day, Nuala thinks with certainty, and the memory of Liz comes, unbidden, with flashes of sorrow as they turned her over in bed, eyes wide open, hand halfway clutching her chest, face a peaceful mask. Red had nearly broken down, if not for Abe.

And then the thought of Red sends an angry jolt of pain through her. Red, with his graying hair and wrinkles, smiling up at them from a sunken face, the rot of the hospital wing pungent in the air, as he faded into a single monotonous beeping, a red line across a monitor screen.

Abe's pain, already burdened with grief, hurt Nuala more than her own sorrow, and it took a good decade for him to stop visiting their graves every month, curled in on himself on the cemetery ground, sobbing into the headstones as she hugged him. She made sure that their legacies never withered, telling her own children stories and making sure that they told their children, determined to keep their memories alive, and Abe watched them weave their tales with amusement, losing himself in his thoughts.

Their first daughter, Trinity, with her odd eyes and carefree smile, left a little boy behind her when she died during childbirth, leaving an empty hole in Nuala's heart, clutching Abraham in the hospital hallway, both of them sobbing into each other's shoulder. It wasn't until her husband was on his death bed, clutching their hands, did they find it in themselves to release her memory. The boy, Aiden, had his own children, and was just as adept at storytelling as Abe and Nuala's only son, Mark. Mark was all sharp smiles and pointed ears, a head full of dark hair framing his pale face, with one golden eye and one blue eye, large irises standing out, with a sense of raw humor to match Red's, who enjoyed the weekly visits from his nieces and nephews.

Mark never dated, never saw the lure in it, and Nuala found herself falling as she dropped the phone, a doctor murmuring on the other end, telling her that a drunken driver had crashed into their car, the very first time Mark had driven without them, his license fresh in his wallet, and then he was gone. Trinity had held them both close, crying with them as they sat in Mark's room, rocking back and forth on his empty bed.

Their second daughter, their third and last child, was a ball of energy, blond curls bouncing atop her shoulders as she ran around, clutching her butterfly kite for dear life as it floated in the air, her giggles echoing in the wind. The house had been void of children for years, Trinity's death too fresh for anything else, and Faolin, named after a certain elf reluctantly sitting on the throne of Bethmora, was just what they both needed. Abraham seemed to brighten when she was around, holding her close, spoiling her with his every move, and Nuala smiled at their daughter when she tugged on her mother's dress, golden eyes wide and curious.

Faolin grew, as all children do, and married, having six children of her own, and she lived out her years happily, growing slowly, always looking at pictures of her dead siblings, wishing that she had known their kind smiles. Abraham never let the opportunity go, of course, to tell his daughter all about them, and he taught her a few things about grief, and pain, and immense sorrow, which she finally understood when she outlived her husband, being half immortal. Her children, who grew slower than humans, had golden flecks in their eyes, sharp teeth when they smiled, and they outlived their mother to have families of their own.

Nuala thinks of car accidents, of heart attacks and cancer, of childbirth and old age, and wishes that she could get back what those things took from her, those precious faces she can barely recall now.

Abraham squeezes her hand, thinking the same thing, and Nuala sighs, blinking in surprise as children run past them, their small feet sending sprays of salt water and sand into the air, and their laughter is all too familiar. They turn, with golden flecks in their eyes and sharp teeth that glint in the light, one girl with a blue streak in her hair giggling as they fly their kites, making a game out of who can avoid getting them tangled.

Nuala will always be able to spot the descendants, their ancestry written all over their faces, and when the children look upon them, they don't flinch, not as so many people used to, not as they still do, because they were raised with mythical stories and legends that seeped into their dreams; mythical stories about a woman with golden eyes and a man with fins, whose love was so strong that it transcended time and lived on in the hearts of their children and their children's children, lived and breathed and thrived, until the very end of time.

The children run ahead, disappearing out of sight, and Nuala squeezes her husband's hand, flashes of faces pressing against her mind, and she breathes in, one big breath that she feels Abraham take beside her, and, together, they let it out, letting go of all of the faces of their past, long forgotten laughter dissipating in the summer breeze, the scent of salt water carried along with it as voices echo in the air.

Why are you following me?

Nuala closes her eyes.

I was not.

Abraham squeezes her hand.

Did my brother send you, to steal the crown piece?

She can feel his love, so overpowering and amazing that it brings tears to her eyes, a comforting constant in her ever changing life of eternity.

Your brother? You're sorely mistaken, I assure you…

He smiles beside her, watching, captivated, as the dying shine of the sunset reflects against her honey tinted irises, knowing in his heart that he would die a thousand times over for this one woman, this keeper of his very heart and soul, and Abraham feels himself falling in love all over again, remembering the sting of a dagger pressed to his throat like it was yesterday.

Then answer me truthfully; why were you following me?

FIN. I have this idea that, when you're cursed with time, you have a way of seeing horrible and awful things, yet still seeing the good in life, like Nuala and Abe. Of course, people die, (in various ways) and their children are no exception. ;) Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated!