“Alright lads!” cried Garth. The four other Simian scouts aboard the skiff grunted in response. “Single file now. We all won’t fit through at once!”

***

A weathered dirt road took the company away from the cliffs, through the fields and into the old village. The walls of Roseán were worn down from the winds of the Eternal Sea, but the buildings within were ruined by an entirely different source.

Most of the roofs had been thatched once, but all that remained now were tangles of scorched straw atop crumbling wattle-and-daub structures.

“This used to be called the Sandy Road,” said Cormac, as if to himself. He walked at the back of the group, glancing back and forth across every aspect of the ruin. “My house used to be over there.”

He pointed toward a pile of rubble just beyond the path. From the tone in his voice, Fionn guessed that he didn’t want to take a closer look.

The path eventually widened out into a huge cobblestone square. It was here that the extent of the damage could truly be seen. A well stood in the centre, but that was all that remained intact. Burnt-out buildings lined the perimeter of the square, with dozens of broken windows and torn roofs between them. A mass of charred bushes and trees stood at the other end of the path, and the smell of burnt wood still lingered in the air. Just beyond that was a small chapel, its modest steeple reduced to a pile of assorted stones on the ground beside it, leaving a gaping hole in the structure’s roof.

“My brother’s house is beyond the church,” said Cormac, walking ahead of the others to lead the way. He raised a finger toward the opposite path, which meandered around the chapel and disappeared behind a hill beyond. “They used to call this the High Road.”

He’s far calmer than I expected, whispered Sir Bearach. One would expect the sight of your hometown destroyed to shatter a man’s mind.

Fionn considered the knight’s words for a moment, as he followed Cormac through the wreckage. Indeed, the old farmhand did seem utterly unmoved by the scene.

Perhaps there is nothing left to shatter, said Fionn. He’d left his family for dead, and spent a year living alone, dwelling on it.

Cormac stopped abruptly at the gates of the chapel. His shoulders slumped slightly, and he cast his eyes to the ground.

“The house is further up there,” he said. His voice seemed even more morose than before. “I’ll follow you up in a moment.”

Garth and the other Simians did not even question the request; they carried on up the hill as if there was no interruption. Fionn went to leave too but stopped in his tracks when he heard the squeak of the gate opening behind him.

What’s he doing? The gate closed with a gentle clink, followed by the sound of Cormac’s footsteps trekking through the rubble beyond.

When the footsteps disappeared, Fionn turned around. Cormac was nowhere to be seen.

Maybe I can catch him alone. Fionn took a step toward the gates. I never told him I was sorry for what happened back then, out on the cliffs.

Tell him I’m sorry, too, said Sir Bearach. It was my idea to lead the troll out into the morning sun.

Fionn pulled open the gate. Its rusted hinges protested, but his oversized arm proved more than strong enough to overcome them. He stepped inside and took a short, winding path toward the back of the chapel.

The yard beyond was full of upturned dirt and open holes, like a field ploughed by a drunkard. Fionn stepped over a mound but lost his balance as the dirt fell away under his weight. He caught himself as he stumbled, propping himself up against a slab-shaped stone structure behind him. As he regained his composure, he turned to examine the granite monument that had prevented him from falling.

It’s a tombstone, realised Fionn with horror. This… was a graveyard.

Indeed, the clearing was riddled with mounds of dirt and deep holes, and here and there stood stone statues, some weather-worn and deteriorating, marking what once were graves.

Fionn promptly recovered and trudged through the cemetery. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of a coffin sitting at the bottom of an opened grave, but no corpses remained inside.

A sound of muffled sobbing became apparent as Fionn ventured deeper. Eventually, it was clear where the sounds were coming from, and Fionn took a stone-pathway uphill, winding back around toward the High Road.

The full view of Roseán’s devastation spanned out from the crest of the hill. The town’s square had faced the brunt of the disaster, it seemed, with smouldering piles replacing what were once tall and proud commercial buildings. Although the residential outskirts appeared intact, a vast clearing in the dense forests out to the east indicated the direction the horde had travelled. The sun was high in the clear sky, but it’s light did nothing to illuminate the dead landscape.

Just off the path, Cormac sat kneeling before a grave, his hands buried in his hands. He seemed to be muttering something between his sobs, but Fionn couldn’t catch the words.

Perhaps I should let him be alone, thought Fionn, squinting his eyes to read the text on the tombstone. It was only now that Fionn realised what was different about this grave.

It was undisturbed. Although the flowers were dying, they were still arranged in an intricate pattern across the base of the tombstone. White pebbles lined the grave’s perimeter, dappled with blues and blacks.

“Cormac,” said Fionn, feeling he should make his presence known, at least. “I just wanted to tell you that—”

“I’m sorry,” said Cormac, seeming to finish Fionn’s thought. “Gods above and below, I’m sorry!”

Fionn took a step closer to the grave. Its inscription read, ‘Aoife Ní Branna. Beloved mother, wife, and friend. She lived and died in the Light of The Lady, AC 360–403, and shall now live forever in the plains of Tierna Meal.’

“I’m sorry,” repeated Cormac. “I was never worthy to be in your life, let alone to be your husband.”

“Don’t say that,” said Fionn, though he regretted his choice of words. He took a second to reconsider. “I mean, it’s like you said before. It wasn’t your fault you weren’t there that morning. You can’t blame yourself, Cormac.”

“It wasn’t my decision to flee,” said Cormac. “But not returning was mine and mine alone. I said before that I stayed away from Roseán because I was afraid. But that isn’t true. I never came back, because….”

He threw his head back and howled even louder than before, like an animal maddened by pain.

“Because I was ashamed. Ashamed of how I treated them. Gods, I did things no man should even consider. I hurt them in ways no woman should ever know.”

He raised a hand and placed it against the granite. “I stayed away for Morry’s sake. She was better off without me.” He hung his head down. “I knew. I knew the whole time that she wasn’t my daughter. Gods, sometimes it seemed like Morry was the only person in the whole village who didn’t know who her real father was.”

“Cormac….” whispered Fionn, stepping forward. Although he barely knew the man, Fionn found it hard to fight back his own tears.

“The truth drove me to the drink,” said Cormac. “Every day I was forced to live with it, and I coped with it the only way I knew how. I lashed out against them. I lashed out against the woman I swore to love, because I knew she never loved me.”

The two stood there in silence. Cormac’s rambling made little sense to Fionn, but the pain he understood all too well.

“My mother died when I was born,” Fionn whispered. “She was living out in the streets of Dromán, and she came to the brothers of the Academy, deep in labour. They couldn’t save her, and barely saved me. The brothers took me in, but out of duty, not love. That’s only family I ever known.”

Cormac didn’t respond, though Fionn didn’t necessarily expect him to.

Gods, why did I even tell him that? Was my past supposed to make his seem better?

In truth, it was the first time Fionn had ever told anyone outside of the Academy about where he came from. Why should he? It’s not like anyone would ever care.

“Your mother loved you,” said Cormac, eventually. “Even though she never met you. All mothers love their children, even when they’re still in the womb.”

A lump formed in Fionn’s throat. “Maybe you’re right,” he managed to say, masking how close he was to tears. “If the gods are good, you’re right.”

He placed his oversized hand on Cormac’s trembling shoulder.

“Come on. The others are probably waiting on us.”

***

Fionn immediately recognised Yarlaith’s house, sitting on a ledge overlooking the town square. Of all the ruins of Roseán, this one was the most intact. Indeed, on closer inspection, the house seemed to be completely untouched by the doom that had taken the town.