“It’s not time yet, Uncle.”
He opened his eyes at the sound of Ériu’s voice, at the voice of his goddaughter from centuries long past. He took a deep breath and turned to look at her. They stood together on the shore where he’d found her so long ago, found her while out walking with Brighid and Finn and Ciar. He could hear the waves against the shore, smell the salt mingling with the heather and clover smell that he’d always associated with her. She was sitting in front of him, dressed in a white gown, skirts spread around her just shy of the crashing waves.
“Why is it that you always look like you did when you were seventeen?” he murmured.
Her laughter chimed like bells. “Why do you look like you haven’t aged since you were twenty-five?” She twisted to look up at him, her eyes luminous in his dreams. “It’s not time for you to go yet.”
“I know,” he said softly. “There’s too much to do. Too much is happening.” A faint smile touched his lips as he eased forward one step, then another. He didn’t hurt in the dream. That was a pleasant change. “But I’ve missed you, little one.”
She smiled up at him. “I’ve always been with you, Uncle. You know that.” Her smile faded after a moment. “You have to guard them, Uncle. There’s so much evil afoot now.”
He shuddered. “I realize that,” he said, tone dry. “Trust me. I have the terrible trio after me these days. They want revenge for what I did to their sister.”
“I would ask, but I know better. Did you finally manage to kill one of them, Uncle?”
Phelan gave her a hand up from the sand, smiling a weak, wry smile. “Not before she almost killed me.”
“Perhaps that’s where the hole in your soul came from, then.” Ériu rose from her seat with his help and then stepped closer to hug him. “It seems better.”
“I didn’t realize that it was there until you healed it,” Phelan said honestly. “Now that I’m aware of what it feels like…” His voice trailed away. Ériu squeezed his arm.
“You have the Spiritweaver,” she said softly. “He’ll grow into his gift. I’ll stay as near as I dare.”
“You frighten Marin,” he said.
“I know.” Pain briefly flickered through her expression. “I wish I didn’t. I would very much like to…to know her.”
“You already do,” Phelan said softly.
“I know,” she said. “I know her soul.”
“That’s all that matters sometimes.” Phelan folded the girl into his arms and held her tightly.
“Not in this, Uncle,” she murmured into his chest. “Not in this.”
He sighed softly and rested his cheek against her flaxen hair, watching the wind worry the silver trinkets woven into her braids. “She may warm to you yet.”
“Doubtful,” the girl whispered, though he could hear the smile in her voice. “But you were always the one with the hope springing eternally. And the devil’s own luck.”
“In some things,” he agreed. “Though not in others.”
She rocked back, peered up at him. “You’re still lonely.”
“Even surrounded by people who care about me, I’m alone.”
“That won’t last forever, Uncle,” she said, smiling up at him. “I promise you.”
He smiled sadly. “And how would you know that, Ériu? I’ve been alone for as long as you’ve known me, or near to. Friends only. Nothing more.”
“But nothing less,” she reminded him gently, then reached up to cradle his face between her palms. “And that’s important. You’ll not be alone forever. I promise.”
He managed to smile and kissed her forehead.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said.
She laughed.
