Brandon Prendergast had discovered that time behaved differently once it was no longer defined by a job.
When he was working, time had been parcelled out in half hours and deadlines, fenced in by meetings and coffee breaks. The routine had been something he lost, something he never quite had enough of. Now it sprawled. It lounged. It waited for him in the mornings, sat heavily beside him in the afternoons, followed him into the evenings like a dog with nothing better to do.
Being “downscaled” sounded almost gentle when HR said it. As if someone had merely turned a dial. Brandon had nodded, shaken hands, packed a cardboard box with a mug he didn’t like and a plant he kept forgetting to water, and walked out into a weekday afternoon that did not know what to do with him.
He told people he was enjoying the break. He said it was a chance to reassess, to breathe, to think about next steps. People nodded approvingly at that, as if reassessment were an activity you could schedule between breakfast and lunch.
The truth was simpler. He had too many hours and not enough to do.
The walking club was an idea he’d had one Wednesday at half past ten in the morning, when it occurred to him that it was too early for lunch and far too early to start drinking.
They met on Saturdays. That alone gave the week a spine.
The club was a loose collection of people who liked hills and fresh air and the vague moral superiority that came from having been outside before noon. Brandon liked that no one asked much of him. Names were exchanged, pleasantries made, boots laced. Conversation rose and fell without obligation.
He bought proper walking boots. A waterproof jacket with more pockets than he felt he needed but always seemed to find a use for them. He learned to read weather forecasts again, not just to know if he needed an umbrella but to see if the day itself was worth showing up for.
On the Saturday they walked Mountsandel, the sky was a pale, undecided blue. Brandon drove out early, radio low, there were a few dog walkers but the population had yet to kickstart itself into life. He parked with the others and sat for a moment before getting out, hands on the steering wheel, listening to the engine tick itself cool.
Mountsandel Fort rose gently through the trees, a shape that smelled of the old ancient history it had seen. Grass-covered, it did not scream I am old LOOK AT ME! … it just was. Brandon would have passed it without a second glance if someone hadn’t told him it mattered.
The walk leader that day was a woman named Siobhán, introduced as a local archaeologist. She spoke easily as they walked, pointing out where people once lived, cooked, slept. Six thousand years ago, she said, as casually as if she were talking about last winter.
Brandon tried to imagine it. Fires instead of kitchens. Skins instead of walls. The river closer then, wilder. People whose names were gone, whose arguments and jokes and small kindnesses had vanished so completely it was as if they had never been.
They stopped near the top, the group spreading out, some taking photographs, others catching their breath. Brandon wandered a little away from the path, careful not to stray too far. That was when he saw it.
A small flint lay half-embedded in the dirt, its edges sharp despite the years. It caught the light oddly, as if it were looking for someone to find it.
He bent and picked it up. It fitted neatly into his palm.
Siobhán noticed. She came over, crouched, took it from him with practiced ease.
“Arrowhead,” she said after a moment. “Mesolithic. Give or take.”
“Really?” Brandon said, surprised by how much that word could hold.
She nodded. “They turn up sometimes. Usually where they’re not supposed to be.” She smiled, handed it back. “Six thousand years old, if it is what it looks like.”
Brandon turned it over, then slipped it into his jacket pocket. It felt rude to put it back.
The rest of the walk passed easily enough. They talked about nothing and everything. Someone mentioned a new café. Someone else complained about their knees. Brandon laughed in the right places.
By the time he got home, he had forgotten about the arrowhead entirely the rest of the day passed without incident.
Brandon woke with the uneasy sense that something had already happened.
It took him a moment to place the feeling. The room was the same: grey morning light through the curtains, the faint hum of traffic somewhere beyond Nether Oak Close, the familiar weight of his own body insisting on gravity. And yet the air felt disturbed, as though it had been stirred and not allowed to settle again.
He lay still, listening.
There was a sound from the kitchen.
Not loud. Not exactly furtive either. A soft scrape, a hesitant footfall, the faint clink of something ceramic being touched and quickly released.
Brandon’s first, absurd thought was that he had forgotten to lock the back door. His second was that he should have worried more about that over the years.
He got out of bed quietly, every sense oddly alert. The floor was cold under his feet. As he moved down the hall, the smell of the house came to him, cleaning spray, coffee grounds from yesterday, the indefinable scent of a place lived in by one man who did not cook very much.
The kitchen door was ajar.
She stood near the sink, her back pressed against the counter as if the solid surface were the only thing keeping her upright.
She was small, Brandon thought distantly. Or perhaps it was only that she was drawn inward, shoulders hunched, arms tight to her sides. She wore layers of rough-looking hides, stitched and tied rather than sewn. Her hair hung loose and tangled, falling forward around her face in a dark curtain. Dirt smudged her skin. Old blood, perhaps, or only memory of it.
When she saw him, she made a sound low in her throat and pressed herself flatter against the counter, eyes wide and shining.
They stared at each other.
Brandon raised his hands, palms out, a universal gesture he hoped still meant what it always had.
“Hello,” he said, and was faintly surprised his voice came out steady.
She said something in response, quick, urgent, a string of sounds that belonged to no language he recognised. The cadence was wrong for anything modern. It rose and fell like something sung rather than spoken.
“I—” Brandon stopped, swallowed. “It’s all right. You’re… you’re in my house.” He paused, then amended, “My kitchen.”
She glanced around as he spoke, eyes flicking to the cupboards, the kettle, the refrigerator. She reached out and touched the door of one cupboard with tentative fingers, then snatched her hand back as if burned.
Her gaze fixed on the window. The glass seemed to unsettle her the most, the way it held the outside without opening to it.
She spoke again, louder this time. There was fear in it now, and something else beneath: outrage, perhaps, or disbelief.
Brandon took a careful step closer and then stopped, unwilling to push whatever fragile line existed between them.
“It’s all right,” he said again, aware that repetition was doing most of the work now. “You’re safe.”
The word seemed to snag her attention. She frowned, head tilting, as if testing the sound of it.
He pointed to himself.
“Brandon.”
She followed the gesture, eyes narrowing slightly, then looked back up at him. After a moment, she touched her own chest.
“Ao…ife,” she said slowly, the sounds shaped with care.
“eee-fah” Brandon repeated.
Her shoulders eased a fraction. Not trust, exactly, but recognition.
She took a step away from the counter and nearly stumbled. Brandon moved instinctively to help, then stopped short as she flinched away from him.
“Sorry,” he murmured, though he had no idea what he was apologising for.
Aoife moved again, this time with more confidence. She paced the length of the kitchen, fingers trailing along surfaces, tapping, testing. She crouched to peer under the table, straightened abruptly when she knocked her head, hissed a sharp word that needed no translation.
At the centre of the room, she turned slowly, taking it all in.
She gestured around them, hands spreading wide, and said a single word.
The tone was declarative. Naming.
Brandon waited.
She said it again, louder.
He frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
She tapped the wall, then the floor, then mimed sleeping, curling her body in on itself.
Realisation dawned, absurd and faintly indignant.
“Oh,” Brandon said. “You mean… this?”
She nodded emphatically.
“This is a kitchen,” he said. “Not a bedroom.” He hesitated. “I spent a small fortune at IKEA…that is when I could afford to ”
Aoife blinked at him, clearly unconvinced.
Before either of them could attempt further clarification, there was a firm knock at the back door.
They both froze.
Aoife retreated instinctively, pressing herself once more against the counter. Brandon turned, heart suddenly loud in his ears.
The knock came again, measured, unhurried.
Brandon crossed the kitchen and opened the door.
A tall woman dressed entirely in black stood on the step, rain-dark hair pulled back from a sharp, unreadable face. Her eyes flicked past him into the kitchen, taking in Aoife in a single, assessing glance.
“Morning,” she said pleasantly. “Sorry to bother you. I’m Badh. I was just helping Kate from number five with something, and I felt a bit of a… disturbance.”
She smiled faintly. “Ah. Yes. There you are.”
Brandon stood just inside the kitchen doorway; hands awkwardly folded in front of him. Aoife and Badh had moved to the centre of the room, their eyes locked, bodies poised as if preparing for a negotiation he could not possibly follow.
The air between them thrummed. Words were spoken, sounds that rose and fell like music, but nothing Brandon could parse. It was a language older than any he knew, syllables curling and twisting with intent. Aoife responded in kind, sharp, urgent, her hands gesturing in precise, almost ritualistic movements.
He felt like an intruder in a private world, a child pressed against the glass while adults argued about matters of life and death. He tried to mimic their expressions, blinked when they blinked, but it was futile. The connection between them was invisible, but Brandon felt its pull in the pit of his stomach, a pressure he could neither name nor resist.
The discussion stretched on, tense and animated. Aoife’s voice, or whatever sound she made, rose, then softened, shifting to something almost melodic. Badh’s responses were measured, deliberate, and patient. The contrast made Brandon’s head spin: one wild, desperate, clinging to memory; the other steady, knowing, unshakable.
Finally, Badh stepped back and lowered her hands. Aoife sagged, as though the fight had left her exhausted, and the glow around her fingers dimmed.
Badh turned to Brandon, speaking in words he could understand this time. “She remembers,” Badh said quietly. “Her last memory before… before waking here… was pulling an arrow from her dying husband during an attack by the tribe across the river. The world went dark after that. And then she woke. Here. Now.”
Brandon’s pulse quickened. “Here? You mean… in my kitchen?”
“Yes,” Badh said. Her eyes softened slightly, as if sharing a truth too heavy to leave unspoken. “You two are linked. Somehow. By what she held, by what she lost. The arrow, the thing she clutched before the dark.”
Brandon’s mind raced. And then it came to him, the arrowhead. The small flint, forgotten in his jacket pocket, waiting. He turned and hurried to the cloakroom, fumbling for it with shaking fingers. The cool flint rested in his palm, sharp and familiar, as if it had been waiting for this moment too.
He returned to the kitchen and held it out. “This?” he asked.
Badh took it gently. The moment her fingers closed around it, the flint pulsed with light, faint at first, then brighter, almost breathing in her hand. Brandon watched, heart thudding, as the arrowhead seemed to awaken.
“Linked,” Badh murmured again, not to him, but as if confirming it to herself. “Now we can see what binds you.”
The glow from the arrowhead filled the kitchen, soft at first, then sharp, as if it were drawing in the very air around them. Brandon felt it in his chest, a pressure he couldn’t explain, as if the room itself had folded inward.
Aoife’s eyes widened. She reached out instinctively, and though her hand didn’t touch him, Brandon felt a tingle along his own arm, a whisper of movement that was hers. The arrowhead pulsed again, and in that beat, Brandon saw it: a fragment of memory, jagged and fleeting.
A river. Quick, silver. Shadows moving across the bank. A scream, sharp and raw. A man falling, an arrow sinking into him, blood dark in the sunlight. Then Aoife, hands trembling, puilling on the shaft of the arrow then, Pain, fear, the sudden emptiness that followed.
Brandon gasped, stumbling back a step. “I… I saw it,” he whispered. “I saw him, your husband?”
Aoife’s hand pressed to her chest, eyes locking with his. In that gaze, he felt the weight of her memory, the sorrow and the shock, the desperate pull of someone trying to survive a world that had already moved on.
Badh stepped closer, holding the arrowhead between them like a beacon. “It is the link,” she said. “It allows her memories to reach you, to anchor her here, to remind you both why you are bound together. And now… you will need to listen.”
Brandon’s head spun. He nodded before he fully understood what he was agreeing to. The air between them shimmered with expectation, the kitchen fell into silence.
Aoife’s lips parted, but the sound that came was no longer just a string of strange syllables. It carried weight, fragments of thought, echoes of the past. Brandon felt them wash over him, like stepping into a stream too fast, too cold, too alive. Images, emotions, pain, grief, the rhythm of her heart, all poured into him, unfiltered, unmediated.
And yet, strangely, he understood. Not with words. Not with logic. But with the part of himself that could feel the tether, the pull of history pressed into the present.
Badh watched quietly, her eyes sharp. “It will take time. It will take patience. But from here, you will begin to see the world as she does. And perhaps, with that sight, you can help her find what she has lost… and what has been waiting for you both.”
The arrowhead’s glow dimmed slightly, but its pulse remained, steady and insistent, like a heartbeat connecting three lives across time and memory. Brandon held it lightly in his palm, feeling the warmth spread through him, aware now that nothing would ever be the same.
The arrowhead pulsed softly in Brandon’s hand, a rhythm that seemed to match his own heartbeat. He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself, but the moment he did, the world shifted.
He was no longer in his kitchen. The walls of Nether Oak Close blurred and faded. The smell of fresh bread and coffee was replaced by smoke and earth, the sharp tang of iron. He was standing on a riverbank, water rushing past his boots, cool and unyielding.
Aoife’s voice echoed in his mind, a chorus of memory and fear. He saw her kneeling over a man, the same man from the vision before, hands stained red. Around them, figures moved with quick, practiced violence: a tribe he could not name, weapons raised, eyes bright with intent. Brandon’s stomach twisted as he realized he could feel the panic, the pain, the desperate clench of Aoife’s hands as she tried to save him.
A sudden sound, a shout, a crashing step, made him jerk upright. The vision pulsed and shifted again, throwing him into Aoife’s flight across the riverbank, rain slick and treacherous. Every heartbeat echoed in his chest. Every gasp, every stumble, every whispered curse she had spoken flowed directly into him.
He fell to his knees, gripping the arrowhead as if it could anchor him to the present. “Stop… stop,” he whispered, though he could not control it.
Badh’s voice cut through the torrent, calm and firm. “No, Brandon. Let it flow. It is how you understand. It is how you are linked. You feel what she felt so you can help her now. The danger is not gone. It waits, still.”
Brandon gasped, images colliding in his mind: the river, the attack, the desperate lifting of the arrow. The world went dark once more… and when it returned, he was back in his kitchen, hands trembling, Aoife crouched before him, her chest heaving.
“You…” he managed. “I… I saw it. Everything. The river. The attack. You…”
Aoife’s eyes were wide, glossy, but there was a spark there too, recognition. A bond forming in silence. She reached a tentative hand toward him, and again, he felt that pull, that silent thread of memory and survival.
Badh moved between them, her eyes sharp, scanning the room. “It begins now. What has waited will notice you both. The arrowhead has awakened and so have you. You are no longer simply Brandon and Aoife. You are… a pair bound by what came before and what will come.”
Brandon looked at Aoife, then at the arrowhead glowing faintly in her hand. His throat tightened. “What… what will come?”
Badh’s expression darkened slightly, unreadable. “That, Brandon Prendergast, is why we are here. To prepare. To guide. To survive.”
The room seemed smaller, the air heavier, as though time itself was sitting on the edge of its sofa eating crisps, waitng to see what happens. Outside, Nether Oak Close continued its quiet existence, unaware of the awakening that had taken root inside number one.
Badh moved to the centre of the kitchen, holding the arrowhead carefully. Her gaze flicked to Aoife, sharp and precise, then back to Brandon. “There is more you must understand,” she said. “More than what has already passed. You are linked, yes, but it is incomplete.”
Brandon frowned. “Incomplete? I don’t….”
Badh cut him off with a hand gesture, turning to Aoife. The strange sounds returned, low and deliberate, a conversation that Brandon could not follow. He watched, frustrated, but he could see Aoife responding, nodding, gesturing, emotions flickering across her face: fear, grief, then resolve.
Finally, Badh turned to him again, speaking clearly. “Aoife’s connection to her husband was made not just in life, but in ritual. When they paired, they exchanged tokens. Gifts meant to bind them, and through which the blessings of the gods flowed into their lives. His gift to her… was a bear totem, carved from a deer antler, crafted with care, with intention, and with love.”
Brandon’s mind reeled. “A bear?”
“Yes,” Badh said. “A symbol of strength, protection, and endurance. It was her anchor, her link. When she lost it… everything else followed. The gods’ blessings left her. The link to him was broken. She was cast into the fast-flowing river of time, unmoored and adrift. That is why she awoke here, in your kitchen, as if the world had forgotten her.”
Aoife pressed her palms to her chest, eyes glossy. She made a single sound, almost a whisper, the syllables delicate and heavy. Brandon thought he saw her body shiver, as if the memory itself hurt.
Badh stepped closer. “To restore her, to return her blessings, you must find the token. The bear totem. Without it, she cannot be whole. Without it, you cannot see her fully, nor she him.”
Brandon’s pulse quickened. “But where is it? How can we……”
Badh’s gaze swept the room. “It was taken long ago, carried away by those who attacked, the tribe across the river. Some part of it may remain in the human world. Some part may lie in the spaces between worlds. We will need to track it carefully. There will be signs. The arrowhead will guide us, but it is only the beginning.”
Aoife’s eyes met Brandon’s. The pull between them, faint but insistent, made his stomach twist. He felt fragments of memory, fear and hope entwined. She gestured toward him, toward the arrowhead, and then made a motion like searching, reaching. Brandon understood without words: the totem was their next step.
Badh nodded. “First, you must attune to the link. You hold the arrowhead. You feel her. And then you will move through the world together, seeking what was lost.”
Brandon swallowed hard. “We… we can do that?”
Badh’s lips curved, just barely. “If you are willing to follow, to endure the river, and to face what waits. The bear awaits. And only by finding it will she be whole again.”
The arrowhead pulsed faintly in Brandon’s palm, the light steady now, like a heartbeat in the quiet kitchen.
The morning air was crisp, the sky a pale silver that promised rain but offered none yet. Brandon, Aoife, and Badh stood at the edge of Mountsandel, the familiar grass underfoot and the distant hills rising gently into the horizon.
Badh held the arrowhead carefully in her palm. It spun slowly, as if it had a will of its own, and then pulsed with light. The glow brightened and shifted, pointing steadily to the north. Brandon followed its invisible compass with a racing heart.
“The link between the arrowhead and the person it struck,” Badh explained, “is still present… though faint. Whatever remains of its power lingers, though it is diminished. The last thing left, likely, almost certainly, is the bear totem. And it lies to the north.”
Brandon’s brow furrowed. He thought back, turning the memory over carefully. “North… north of here… a week ago we went on a walk. Siohán, the archaeologist, she showed us the cairn at the top of Ballycairn. She said it could have been related to the fort here at Mountsandel. Could it be… could it be there?”
Badh paused, letting the arrowhead spin and glow between her fingers. Her eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “Possible. Yes. Likely… I do not know. But we shall see. There is only one way to be certain.”
Aoife moved closer to Brandon, her gaze flicking between him and Badh. The faint thread between them, strengthened by the arrowhead, tugged insistently. Brandon felt it like a pulse, a gentle reminder that they were moving through this together, bound by memory and purpose.
Badh tucked the arrowhead into a small pouch at her belt, still glowing faintly through the leather. “Then north we go. Ballycairn awaits. But be warned,” she said, voice low and steady, “what lies in wait is not merely a relic of the past. It remembers. It will test you both.”
Brandon swallowed, glanced at Aoife, and felt a surge of resolve. “We’ll go. We’ll see it through.”
The three of them set off, thtough the town, over the bridge. Each turn left Aoife in amazement of the new land she found herself in. Her small hand sought out Brandon’ and he gave her a reassuring squeeze and held on as long as the woman needed it. Their path northward stretching out under the grey morning sky, the long straight of the New Line, the turn past the Grammer School, the gradual thining of the houses until they got to the top of Ballycairn hill and there behind the farm barn lay the cairn.
The arrowhead pulsed faintly in Brandon’s palm, guiding them to the north of the enclosure. At the northern end of the ridge, a pile of weathered stones caught their attention. Brandon moved one carefully, then another, until a narrow opening was revealed beneath the bank. The dark mouth of a souterrain yawned before them.
Aoife instinctively pressed herself against the nearest hawthorn, branches scratching lightly at her arms. She did not move closer.
Badh crouched beside the entrance, voice low and serious. “Power lingers here. The gods have protected this dark tunnel beneath the bank. Whatever lies within is protected by them. Brandon… you must go. I cannot cross into the domain of another god. But you… you must enter.”
Brandon swallowed hard, peering into the darkness. “I might… see things?”
“Yes. Hear things. Feel things,” Badh said, her eyes sharp. “Do not trust them. They are illusions. But go in, you must.”
He nodded, heart hammering, and began to crawl. The darkness closed around him immediately. Within seconds, his mind was assaulted.
Memories surged, unbidden: the sudden death of his father, the slow decline of his mother, fights and estrangements with his sister. Shadows of wars and destruction from across time pressed against him. Violence, pain, loss, and grief flared in his mind, vivid and relentless.
Through the chaos, Badh’s voice rang clear, cutting through the tumult. “It is all illusion… ignore it.”
Brandon pressed on, tears streaming, hands scraping along the earthen walls. After what felt like an eternity, about five metres in, he reached the back wall of the souterrain. Small side tunnels opened to either side, like tiny rooms carved into the stone.
He checked the first side chamber…..empty. The arrowhead in his hand cooled suddenly, a dull, inert weight. He moved to the second chamber.
The moment he crossed the threshold, warmth returned to the flint, a soft glow radiating through his fingers. He dropped it instinctively, but the arrowhead did not fall. It hovered, spinning in the air, restless, as if searching, then finally stopped, pointing toward a large stone embedded near the bottom of the wall.
Brandon knelt, scraping at the stone with trembling hands. It loosened and came free. Behind it, wrapped carefully in aged hide, lay the bear totem. The carved figure of a bear, teeth bared and muscles coiled, seemed alive in its stillness. The token radiated strength, and a sense of ancient protection filled the chamber.
Brandon’s breath caught. Carefully, he re-wrapped the hide, around the totem. Warmth spread through his palms. The arrowhead, still hovering nearby, pulsed once, and the darkness of the souterrain seemed to shrink, its oppressive weight lifting slightly, the visions retreated and disappeared.
He looked back toward the entrance, where Aoife waited behind the hawthorn. For the first time, he felt the faint thread of her presence reach fully across the distance. The link between them had strengthened, anchored now by the recovered token, and the weight of what had been lost seemed lighter.
Badh’s voice came softly from the entrance. “You have it. Now, she may be whole again. But this is only the beginning.”
Brandon nodded, holding the bear totem carefully, and felt the faint stir of something old, powerful, and protective awaken within it.
Brandon crawled back toward the entrance, the bear totem clutched carefully in his hands. The arrowhead floated beside him, pulsing gently, as if marking their triumph but also reminding him that the work was not yet done.
Aoife stepped from behind the hawthorn the moment he emerged. Her eyes widened at the sight of the totem, and her hands trembled as she reached toward it. Brandon handed it to her, careful not to break the fragile thread between them.
The moment her fingers closed around the carved bear, a warmth spread through her body, slow at first, then intense. The air around her seemed to shimmer, carrying a faint hum that Brandon could feel more than hear. The link,the invisible thread that had pulled at him since their first meeting, tightened and strengthened, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
Badh watched quietly, her expression unreadable but her posture tense. “The blessing returns,” she said softly. “The gods’ protection, which was broken, is flowing back. It is not complete, it will need time, but the anchor has been restored. She can feel their presence again.”
Aoife’s breath caught. She raised the totem to her chest, and for the first time since arriving in his kitchen, her body relaxed. The tension that had clung to her shoulders, her arms, even the muscles of her jaw, eased. Brandon could see it in her eyes: clarity, recognition, and something deeper, a sense of homecoming that transcended time.
The arrowhead pulsed once more, bright and steady, and then hovered above the totem, casting faint reflections across the stones of the souterrain. Brandon felt the subtle charge in the air, a quiet hum of ancient power aligning itself around them.
Badh stepped closer. “The gods’ blessing is returning, but you must be mindful. It is fragile, easily disrupted by human fear, doubt, or malice. The link between her and the bear is now alive, but it is also visible. Others may sense it, draw toward it. You are not yet safe.”
Aoife’s hand tightened on the bear totem, eyes meeting Brandon’s. In that gaze, he felt more than the pull of the link, he felt the weight of responsibility, the shared understanding that their journey had only just begun.
Brandon nodded slowly, then glanced at Badh. “So this… this is what she needed to be whole again?”
Badh’s eyes flicked between them. “Whole, yes. Protected, yes. But aware, too. The river of time has not forgotten her. And neither have the gods.”
Aoife’s lips curved faintly, the first real smile Brandon had seen. It was small, tentative, but it carried the strength of a life reclaimed. The bear totem pulsed warmly in her hands, and for the first time since the attack across the river, she stood unafraid.
Brandon felt the pull of the link, steady now, unbroken, as if the arrowhead and bear totem together had stitched a thread through time, memory, and the blessings of the gods. The weight of what had been lost was lifted, enough for them to move forward, together, into the uncertainty that still waited beyond Ballycairn.
Badh’s voice was quiet but firm. “Rest for a moment. Gather your strength. The next step will demand more than courage alone.”
Brandon and Aoife exchanged a glance, both aware that the road ahead would be strange, but for the first time, they faced it united. The bear totem glowed softly between them, an anchor in a world suddenly larger, older, and far more alive than they had ever imagined.
Back at Nether Oak Close, the sun slanted through the curtains, catching dust motes and painting the small living room in gold. Badh was waiting by the door when a familiar figure approached, tall, lean, with a quiet, otherworldly presence. Ogmios, returning from the park where he had met Oisín, stepped up the path as though the air itself parted for him.
“Ah,” Badh said, her face lighting with recognition. “It has been too long.” She clasped his forearm briefly, the gesture warm and respectful. “We need your advice.”
Ogmios inclined his head. “The threads are tangled, but they are not broken. Tell me what you intend.”
Badh explained the situation: Aoife’s lost blessings, the recovered bear totem, the link strengthened by the arrowhead, and the need for a final ritual to anchor her fully in the present. Ogmios listened silently, eyes sharp, then spoke.
“You must perform a ending ritual,” he said. “There must be an ending before a new beginning.” He paused building an internal list, “Burning herbs from the land itself. Pour spring water upon the ashes. And make an offering, both from the past, and from the present. Only then can the blessings hold and the link be complete.”
Badh’s eyes flicked to Brandon. “The arrowhead is the offering from the past. For the present… Brandon?”
Brandon hesitated, the weight of the request pressing down on him. “Something meaningful… from my life?”
Badh nodded. “It must carry your memory, your heart. A piece of you, offered willingly. That which has travelled with you through time.”
He searched the house, hurried and distracted, lifting books, turning drawers, rifling through cupboards. Nothing felt right.
Finally, he paused at the foot of his bed. Something familiar peeked from beneath. He knelt and pulled it free. His old teddy bear. “Paws,” he whispered, brushing the dust from the fur. The bear had seen him through childhood tears and joys, through years of small triumphs and lonely nights. “Old friend,” he said softly. “Time for one last job.”
He offered Paws to Badh, who took it gently. She studied it, then nodded. “Good.” Her arm came around his shoulders, steadying and protective, a human anchor amid the otherworldly currents swirling around them.
Badh handed the arrowhead to Ogmios, who slipped it carefully into one of the deep pockets of his overcoat. The talisman pulsed faintly even there, a heartbeat tethered to time and memory.
“All set?” Badh asked.
Ogmios inclined his head. “We depart. Mountsandel awaits.”
Brandon tucked his hands into his pockets, feeling the bear’s small weight in Badh’s grasp, the arrowhead secure in Ogmios’s coat, and took a deep breath. Aoife stepped beside him, her own link to the past and present now tangible, steady.
Together, the four of them left Nether Oak Close, heading into the forest of Mountsandel. The trees stretched above them, ancient and silent, watching as the threads of past, present, and divine converged on a single, decisive moment.
The forest of Mountsandel was quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds. A mist had risen from the river since their last visit and through it the group could see Aoife’s small hut standing among the trees, transported through time to host their tasks, smoke curling gently from the hole in the roof. The four of them gathered outside, their was a tension, unseen but felt by them all.
Ogmios knelt first, opening his overcoat and retrieving the arrowhead. It pulsed faintly in his hand, a heartbeat in rhythm with the forest. Badh brought forward a bundle of herbs, sage, heather, sea buckthorn and wild garlic, all harvested from the hills around Mountsandel, each carrying the land’s own memory. Brandon held Paws, the teddy bear, clutched lightly against his chest, a living fragment of his life, his past offered willingly.
Badh lit the herbs, flames licking the air, and Ogmios placed the arrowhead carefully among the smoldering leaves. The smoke rose, thick and fragrant, twisting upward as though reaching for the sky.
“Spring water,” Ogmios pulling a small bottle from the depths of his coat , his voice low and steady, “from Captain Street spring. We will pour it on the ashes to carry the blessings into the world of the living, now your offering” he looked at Brandon
Brandon felt the weight of Paws in his hands, the pull of the link to Aoife, the warmth of the bear’s history and memory. He took a deep breath and placed the bear among the herbs, whispering a quiet “Thank you” to the little bear. The smoke rose around it, the scent mingling with the forest air.
Aoife stepped forward, holding the carved bear totem to her chest. She whispered a wordless prayer, letting the warmth and strength of the token flow through her, through Brandon, through the clearing. The pulse of her heart aligned with the arrowhead’s faint glow, and the thread between past and present shivered, then steadied.
Ogmios poured the spring water over the ashes, hissing as it touched the heat. The smoke spiralled upward in a column, twisting and fading into the forest canopy. The arrowhead pulsed brightly one last time, hovering above the clearing, then settled gently, its glow now steady and calm.
Badh placed a hand on Brandon’s shoulder, grounding him. “The offerings are accepted. The link is restored. Her blessings return but remain vigilant, this world is may not yet be done testing her.”
Aoife’s eyes shone with clarity for the first time since Brandon had found her in his kitchen. The tension that had clung to her shoulders, the fear that had pressed against her chest, lifted. The bear totem seemed to hum faintly in her hands, and Brandon felt the thread between them hum in response.
Ogmios stepped back, arms folded, his gaze surveying the forest. “The ritual is complete. The blessings are yours again, Aoife. The past and present are aligned. The river of time will no longer sweep you unmoored.”
Brandon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Badh reach out to hold his hand, warm and reassuring, a bridge from his own past into the present moment. He glanced at Aoife, her hand over the bear totem, and felt the quiet, steady pull of the link between them, strong, protective, enduring.
Badh’s voice, soft now, carried the final note. “Let this place remember what was restored here. Let it mark the bond between the past and the present and let it guide you both forward.”
The clearing settled into silence. The smoke curled upward, the forest held its breath, and for the first time since the river had swept her away, Aoife stood fully anchored in her time, her life, and her blessings, she and her small home slowly faded, joining the smoke of the fire and rising into the trees. She turned as she left and smiled one last smile, at the 3 people standing around the dying fire.
Back at number one, Nether Oak Close, the sun slanted through the windows, soft and late in the afternoon. Brandon moved around his kitchen, filling the kettle and making a pot of tea. Badh and Ogmios sat at the breakfast bar, their presence calm, yet carrying the quiet weight of worlds and time.
Brandon returned with mugs, placing them carefully in front of each of them. The steam rose, carrying the familiar scent of comfort and ritual.
“Balance,” Badh said quietly, her eyes resting on the teacups, “is what Ogmios and I are compelled to find. Balance in everything, past, present, and future. It is what binds us to humans: the need, the search, the keeping of equilibrium.”
She paused, glancing at Brandon. “Balance has returned to Aoife’s story. But you… you still need to find a measure of balance in your own life.”
From her cloak, she drew a small bag, a Lidl shopping bag, slightly crumpled. She placed it gently on the counter. “I brought you something,” she said. “A new companion. Sorry about the lack of wrapping; it was the best I could do at short notice.”
Brandon peered inside. A small Paddington bear, stitched and bright, sat waiting. He picked it up carefully, feeling its weight, its promise of quiet company.
They sat in silence, sipping tea. Each lost in their own thoughts, yet together in the quiet warmth of the kitchen. Brandon felt a strange reassurance, a gentle settling of his own internal river. The events of that late spring morning, the arrowhead, the bear totem, the ritual, the merging of Aoife with the smoke, felt distant, yet intimately woven into him, a part of his story now.
Badh’s eyes flicked toward him, calm but piercing. “Good,” she said. “You have absorbed some of the blessings of the elder gods. It is their gift to you… for Paws. Use it wisely.”
Brandon smiled softly, holding Paddington a little closer. Outside, the world continued quietly, but something had shifted. Something had settled. And for the first time in a long while, he felt anchored, balanced, if only just.