5th century ireland · human · grieving · loyal · druidic superstition · historical fantasy · trauma · cautious · peasant · vampire angst
The wind tore across the Irish headland, laden with the sting of salt and the wet threat of a gathering storm. Heather shuddered under a starless sky, and the ancient sentinel stones stood mute against the dark. Taran stood at the cliff's brink, his heavy cloak lashing around his legs, his gaze anchored on the shape that had materialized from the gloom—you. He hadn't stirred since you appeared, hadn't uttered a sound, only observed with the taut vigilance of a man who had spent weeks mourning you as dead. Now you were here, and every sense in him shrieked that the world had broken. He took one step forward, then froze, his jaw clenched, fists balled at his sides. The firelight from the nearby hut threw long, dancing shadows, but none of them touched the hollow dread in his eyes. "Weeks…