Opening the front door was hard.

Fiachra couldn't decide if it was the guilt from his long absence, or the fear of what he would find inside, that that stopped him short of reaching for the doorknob.

He had envisioned what it would be like to return countless times since his grandmother had called. What it would be like to walk back into his childhood home, back into that warm living room. What it would be like to hug his grandmother again, and shake his grandfather's hand. How they would all sit together by the hearth and share stories into the night.

But as he got closer to home, those images had blurred and faded. Until finally, as he walked up the short path towards the cottage, they had fled entirely, leaving him alone with his guilt and uncertainty.

Truth was, Fiachra had no idea what lay beyond that door. All he knew was that it was an ending, and his hesitation was only delaying the inevitable.

His grandmother had sounded strong on the phone, asking him to come home and see his grandfather. But Fiachra had known from the strain in her voice what it was that she left unsaid.

He had dropped everything without hesitation, packed a bag and booked his ticket on the way to the train station. But now that he was here. Home again after so many years, he found himself reluctant to enter.

In his mind, his grandfather was still the same as the day he left. Spry, healthy, strong. The man who had led him across mountains. The man who knew every path, every pass, every spring, every cave. Every bend of every river.

Fiachra knew that this no longer the case. He knew that as soon as he walked through that door, all of those memories would be just that.

Memories.

Ghosts of a time long past.

The last remnants of who Domhnall had been would be shattered.

Fiachra didn't know if he was ready for that; seeing the truth rather than just being aware of its existence.

He closed his eyes and listened to the soft whispering of the wind as it caressed the stalks of wheat and barley in the carefully tended grove.

Home

Nothing more than a distant echo, yet it resonated with something inside Fiachra. An old memory stirred and he shivered with its passing.

The wind gusted, gently pressing into his back, urging him forward, then was gone again.

Fiachra reached for the doorknob and the world around him went silent.

~

Once his hand settled on the old metal, his knuckles brushing lightly against the age-worn wood, familiarity took over.

Everything was the same as he remembered;

The rough floorboards, worn smooth by the passing of generations.

The old rugs, faded with age, kept meticulously clean and unblemished.

The chairs clustered by the hearth, warmed by the low fire.

The hand-carved coat of arms hanging above.

The smells of childhood.

Fiachra could hear movement from one of the other rooms, the soft sound of his grandmother's voice drifting through the door.

He took a seat by the hearth and waited.

Everything is the same. Everything is different.

The thought was unsettling.

Fiachra stared into the fire.

I'm not ready.

He could see the truth of it now.

It lay in the low, reluctant flames. It was in the heavy silence that settled on his shoulders as he crossed the threshold. It had been in the soft bowing of the wheat and barley. The wind had whispered it to him as he stood in the yard.

His grandfather was dying.

He had finally come home, and it was time to say goodbye.

~

The door to the bedroom opened and Fiachra's grandmother stepped out, closing the door carefully behind her.

He stood as she turned, the silence between them as long as the years he had been away. She was older now, more worn; the hard work and toil of decades etched deeply on her face. But Fiachra noted with a sudden burst of pride, she still stood tall. Even his grandfather's long illness wasn't enough to break her spirit. Domhnall had always been strong. But Maeve was every bit as unshakable.

He hesitated, and took a tentative step forward, unsure of where he stood. Fiachra knew he should have come home long ago, knew that it was probably too late to say all of the things that needed to be said. He didn't even know where to start.

Maeve smiled, the same warm and comforting smile that he remembered so well, and in a few quick strides, she crossed the room and pulled him close.

Her hair smelled of heather and woodsmoke, scents accompanied by a sudden sense of dislocation. He was both a child again, clinging to her leg for comfort, and the man that boy had grown to be, standing tall over her.

'I came as soon as I could.' Fiachra's voice was low and cracked.

Maeve pulled back and held him at arm's length, looking him over.

'You've gotten taller, and more like your father too. You stand just like he did. But you still have your mother's eyes.'

She squeezed his shoulder, a fleeting shadow of sadness crossing her features.

'You're just in time. I don't think he has long. If he wasn't waiting for you...'

Maeve's voice faltered, and she looked old. Not just tired.

Another moment of dislocation.

He had always felt smaller in front of his grandparents, even as he had grown taller, that feeling had never changed. But now Fiachra shuffled awkwardly as he realised how much he loomed over the woman before him.

When had that happened?

Fiachra opened his mouth to speak, but his grandmother had gathered herself and was leading him towards the bedroom where his grandfather lay dying.

The door grew in his vision as they approached, stretching and expanding until it filled the world.

A hundred thoughts clamoured in his mind, each one battling for attention; surging and crashing against his consciousness before falling back into the muddled chaos.

His grandmother's presence became a distant memory, the barest awareness of her lingering at the edge of his senses.

I'm not ready for this. How can I ever be ready for this?

A hand touched his shoulder, the faintest of whispers in his ear drifted up through his consciousness.

'He needs you Fiachra. He needs you to be strong for him. One last time.'

Fiachra bit his lip and opened the door.

~

He had been steeling himself for this, ever since he had gotten the call to come home.

But there was no way that Fiacrhra could have prepared himself the for the reality of Domhnall's illness.

His last memories of his grandfather were of a tall, proud man, whose feet owned the mountain paths.

The man sprawled on the bed before him was a shadow; gaunt and hollowed out by illness.

His grandfather shifted his head towards the door as he entered, his eyes narrowing in a struggled smile.

The old glint was there, even if it was dulled by pain.

Still strong.

Instant guilt and regret assailed Fiachra. His grandfather's body was broken and failing. But the disease had done nothing to crush his spirit.

I should have come home more.

He moved to sit by him, but Domhnall's head fell back against the pillow and his eyes closed as he drifted off.

'It must be hard for you, to see him like this,' his grandmother spoke from behind.

He turned to her, fighting the tears that were welling up.

'I'm so sorry,' was about all he could say. It was easy, it rolled right off the tongue. It didn't trip over the tears on the way out.

'No need for that now, boy, no need at all. He understood why you left, he was proud even.'

Fiachra looked at the man on the bed.

Domhnall had been the reason he left, nearly ten years ago now.

He had spent years trying to forget what he had seen that night, up on the mountain; the fear that had crept along his spine, the noises, the blood on his grandfather's cane. That insidious laughter. Her voice; both drifting on the wind and resonating in his bones.

But he could never shake those memories.

Growing up, he had always believed that he would follow in the footsteps of his grandfather. But that night had changed something in him.

It wasn't fear, even if some nights he still woke in a cold sweat, her infernal laughter still echoing in his mind.

And it wasn't anger. Even after he found out what had really happened to his parents.

Her irresistible presence had haunted him since that night, pulling him away from the life he had always imagined for himself. Pushing him towards something that was always just out of reach.

He still loved the land. It was in his blood. In his bones. Even the terrifying dreams that kept him up at night, images of war and death and suffering, couldn't keep him away from the mountains.

It just no longer felt the same to him. When he thought of what it would be like to walk the land, herding sheep and maintaining the boundaries as Domhnall once did, his vision of the future grew indistinct. What had once seemed inevitable, was now blurred and uncertain.

Fiachra had repeatedly tried to pry the truth of that night from his grandfather while he was growing up, but the answer was always the same firm rebuke. Some day.

That need to know had become a burning desire, fuelled and stoked by Domhnall's every denial. It had driven a wedge between the two of them; in the final years before he left, their relationship had been strained.

Not yet knowing the truth, Fiachra couldn't understand what his grandfather was hiding from him with such tenacity.

Why was his grandmother so scared when they returned?

What had laid waste to the farm while they were gone?

Who or what had they really encountered on the mountain that night?

He had finally confronted his grandfather on his eighteenth birthday, determined to finally get the answers that had eluded him for most of his life.

~

Domhnall had stared at him in silence for a long time before answering; his words careful and measured.

'There is no turning back from this, boy. Are you sure you're ready for what I have to say?'

Fiachra had nodded, ignoring the tight bands of uncertainty tightening around his chest. He had to know the truth.

'They killed your parents you know. To get at me.'

Domhnall had hung his head,

'And it worked, I left them alone, and they left you alone.'

Fiachra's grandfather stared absently into the fire, brow furrowed and eyes unfocused.

'That night on the mountain. What happened here, on the farm while we were away. That was a mistake. One that they paid dearly for, but in the end the truce was reinstated.'

'Who are "They"? I have no idea what you're talking about. None of this makes any sense.' Fiachra clenched his jaw angrily as he spoke.

'We called them the Faerie Folk, although they laugh at that name. They have little reverence for our language or history. Can't blame them I suppose, we are nothing but children next to them.

'They serve but one master, a god we buried long ago beneath the old stone circle up on the mountain. The one where even the sheep fear to tread. Nothing else commands their loyalty.'

'A god? What are you talking about? I asked for the truth and you're giving me a fairy tale?'

Fiachra had rarely seen Domhnall lose his temper, but he could see from the way the old man was sitting that he was right on the edge now.

'You should know better, boy. You've tended the grove. You've heard their silent whispers. You've felt the weight of their presence in the very soil of this land. You've supplicated yourself before them and asked them for aid. Even from those whose names you should have never uttered.'

Fiachra shrank back into his chair, feeling the burn of embarrassment on his cheeks at the rebuke. He knew about the old gods. That much had never been a secret. He had been raised to it, to the old faith. Had he ever truly believed though?

He remembered speaking their names on the mountain that night, begging them for their aid.

He remembered the moment he had invoked a name that he shouldn't have and Her attention turned towards him. It had settled across his shoulders, a dead weight, that he had never been able to shift.

He remembered her laughter and her whispered promise.

It had been a mistake to say that name.

And he had been foolish to disregard the significance of that moment.

'Which god then?' Fiachra's response was quiet, timid. His earlier anger abandoning him as quickly as it had stirred.

'A god with no name. Even the Faerie daren't speak it. They may not have been a god when we killed them, but we certainly made them one.

'For millennia we have kept watch, the Vigil as it came to be known. We would walk the land, renewing, maintaining the wards, the chains that held them in their prison.'

'The posts and fences?'

Domhnall nodded, 'Yes, they are part of that. That's why I used to take you with me, to learn the land, so you too could take up the mantle.'

'These Faerie Folk, they killed my parents? Why?'

'Because, like me, Aisling and Ciaran, kept the Vigil. The Faerie want their King back, and they thought to bargain for his return. Your parents put a stop to that.'

'What happened?'

Domhnall was silent for a long time, looking wistfully into the flames.

When he spoke again, his voice was cracked.

'They came for you in your cradle.'

Fiachra's heart pounded at his grandfather's revelation. He shook his head, denial pounding a futile rhythm alongside discordant emotions.

'Your parents managed to drive them off. But...they were wounded in the fight. Your father passed before I arrived. Your mother, she held on for two days, her body racked with fever and trembling with convulsions. The Faerie had poisoned their blades. There was nothing I could do.'

'They died...saving me?'

Domhnall nodded, a slow heavy motion that betrayed his weariness.

They sat together in silence for hours. Fiachra, silently grieving the parents he had never had a chance to know. His grandfather, lost in thoughts and memories he had deigned never to dredge up again.

Somewhere along the way, Maeve had brought them strong measures of whiskey, and when the glasses lay empty, Domhnall had shown Fiachra the family histories.

A old leather covered volume, faded and beaten by time. A record of his family's encounters with the Faerie, stories and forgotten folk tales carefully recorded for future generations. And at the end, a family tree stretching back millennia. Fiachra's own name, the last.

The only offspring of the previous generation.

'I'm the last?'

His grandfather had nodded. 'The Faerie live long lives, and our bloodline is weak in comparison. We may have won battles, more than our fair share even, but they are slowly winning the war.'

'The war?'

His grandfather had waved his hand in the air.

'The war is everywhere.'

Fiachra lent forward, listening intently, as his grandfather told him everything.

'The Old Gods are dying, and their death throes are violent...'

~

Fiachra had left the next day. Leaving his grandparents to keep the Vigil, while he hunted the world for his vengeance.

~

Now, ten years later, sitting by his dying grandfather's side, he realised what his anger and quest for revenge had cost him. Leaving his home that day, he hadn't spared a thought for the consequences.

All those lost years.

Years didn't matter to youth until they were gone.

~

He was broken out of his silent contemplation by the soft touch of his grandmothers hand on his shoulder.

'He is proud of you. There hasn't been a Warrior in our family for generations. Just the Watchers. Your grandfather met one once, when he was young, his first encounter with the Faerie. He never thought he would see another.

'When he was old enough to learn the truth, when his father told him of their duty, he believed that was his path. But it was never a path he was meant to walk. For Domhnall, watching over the land and keeping vigil was his calling.'

Fiachra looked at his sleeping grandfather, seeing the pain that haunted the old man's dreams.

'I didn't know back then, how important time is.'

'He knew, that's why he let you go.'

They sat together, watching Domhnall sleep.

'I'm glad I could be here. At the end.'

'He is too.'

His grandfather groaned, stirred and reached a hand out across the space between them.

'I never thought... I would see a... warrior...again.' Tears welled in his eyes as he spoke. 'And it's you...'

His voice was like charred paper, fragile and crumbling.

'She...she has her claws...in...you. Take...take care. She is a...harsh...mistress.'

Domhnall coughed, a harsh hacking that lifted his chest and shoulders from the bed.

Fiachra reached out and took his hand.

It was so light, the skin thin and translucent. It felt like part of him was already gone.

But Fiachra could still feel the strength that dwelled in those hands, the steel that had allowed Domhnall to keep his Vigil for decades. Until he no longer could.

Domhnall's eyes flickered open, and met Fiachra's.

Slowly he felt the strength leave his grandfather; flowing out of him like a mountain stream. It passed between them, settling in Fiachra's chest. A warm pulsing that filled him with pride.

And then Domhnall was gone.

Fiachra wept as his grandmother laid her arm across his shoulders.

All those years of absence seemed so heavy.

His anger, his vengeance, his cause, they had all been so easy to carry in comparison to the pain and loss he now felt.