“It’s Moss…” the woman said, and Saoirse’s eyes grow small. Although she cannot clearly the woman’s face, something about the way her eyes gaze at Saoirse with intensity and her dark hair that brings back memories for Saoirse.

The woman’s eyes were so much like the eyes of Dubhdara, a powerhouse and powerful warrior, but he was so, so long ago. She loved that man once, but only for a season—Saoirse could never last too long with one man. But he left her a gift. Peaceful Arwen. Her beloved daughter that she gave up as a tiny babe. This woman looks so much like Arwen too.

Saoirse realized the woman was watching her, teary eyed, awaiting some kind of acknowledgement.

“Moss,” Saoirse said, and the woman looked relieved that she had finally spoken. “I knew a lass named Moss a time ago. She would na get on the ferry with us.” Brandubh was ill, his mind caught in a mad fae’s grasp. They took a journey to… Where? Much as she tried, Saoirse could not remember where the ferry went, only that they returned to a wedding.

After that, Saoirse grew wearing of traveling constantly. She went to live with Inra at the Hill of the Haven, helping her around the dugout, as much as Saoirse could do with womanly things. She never had a hand for sewing.

The dark haired woman was speaking again—she had such a nice voice. Apparently she was here to visit her, so Saoirse sat up on her pallet, and decided to try to listen. “Pardon, me, lassie, old Auntie Freedom was somewhere else. But I’m most happy t’see ya. Could ye tell me that again?”