AA: Pera'lan

After the colourful festivities of Pera’lan, the Day of Mourning draws forward the sombre notes, to heed and pay respects for those passed. Without the bustle to mind, Inis sits with personal realisations from the previous year that had gnawed at them ever since. 

Inis thumbed at the flower in their hands, eyes cast over the pale lilies upon the river, the balmy darkness a comforting hand in their hair. Every year the ghosts would drift in the winding current, candles bearing names, memories, wishes for a soul’s respite. The ones Inis released then were for those well before them, departed and distant in heart. 

He’s still alive. 

Would it be in poor taste to mourn for the living? He must still be alive. 

A single year was no long time at all, and delayed words were par for the course in war. Their father, ever travelling, ever mending, must have been busied on the Empire’s shores. There was always so much for a healer to do. 

People are bound to fall through the cracks. They remembered his silver smile that turned up at the corners, fox-like, wishing theirs would resemble his. I want to be there to catch them, he said.

But who would catch him? 

Inis’ lily lingered by their hand, the cool ebb of water lapping at their palm like a clinging child. A single year was no long time at all, but the absence of a penned voice dug endless in their depths, spiralling as others waded the passing months with ease. 

What could they do? What should they have done then, when they’d heard news of the firefall, countries away? After flames had long passed, his letters with them? When they’d stopped their mother from her uncertain voyage, yet couldn’t take up the thread in her stead?

This year’s wishes were for one distant in body, but close-kept in heart. 
Ailbhennis had prayed to the gods for a change of pace, yet they were the one faltering to carry it on.