1969
"Will it ever stop?" Saoirse murmured, curled up in Sorley's arms. Black-and-white newsreels of the My Lai massacre played on the telly. "Will these stinking wars ever stop?"
"Oh, my Saoirse..." Sorley kissed the top of her head. "Human existence is built on wars. I don't think they ever will."
"Oh, you devil..." Her heavy eyelids fell shut. "Couldn't you have lied to me for once in your life?"
"I... I don't think I know how to."
Laughter bloomed in the room, despite the grim tension. Aoife stopped knitting in the chair by her mother's bedside, a rare smile gracing her lips. Aidan looked on from the window seat, grinning.
"No... no, you never learned." Saoirse's breaths grew laborious. "Oh, you precious creature... I love you, mo chroí. I love you, my children..."
"Shall I shut it off?" her son offered.
His mother nodded as Sorley helped her slide lower under the covers. Aidan walked across the room to the cabinet the TV set stood on. A grainy silence filled the air once he switched it off. He then perched himself on the edge of his mum's bed and took her frail, spotted hand in his.
"Would you like some tea, Ma? Or a muffin?"
The atmosphere brightened again and Saoirse coughed on a chuckle, opening her eyes. Her favourite snack had become something of a recurring gag in their household.
"Oh, go on, then," she mumbled, "get me tea and a muffin."
Her children laughed in unison, the sight and sound of which Saoirse savoured immensely. Everyone made an effort to appear cheery and chipper in her company, but she knew the dread that lurked beneath their smiles.
"All right. I'll be right back." Aidan kissed her hand and stood up.
She watched him leave the room and briefly mused that she'd never thought a day like this would come for her. Her flesh may have withered, but her wit remained sharp as ever and made it difficult to accept being cared for. Especially by her fifty-year-old son, who did not look a day over thirty.
"Hurry, you old geezer," Saoirse rasped. "I haven't got forever."
Aidan cackled on his way out, except an echo of exhaustion resonated within it. He masked it well, but not well enough to hide it from his mother.
The whole selkie espionage endeavour had given her son an edge Saoirse had never expected him having. Of course, losing Jemmy, then his dad, then Pauline, had had him leap into maturity and responsibility. But it was the need to disguise his real feelings and subdue his emotions that had done a number on him.
Saoirse often caught herself wondering whether her son was really her son, or just playing a role. Aoife had picked up on it, too, making an offhand remark once about how distant her brother had become. Now, it was hard to tell whether sleeper Russian operatives or the imminent death of his mother was wearing him out.
"When does Doctor Who come on?" Saoirse asked aloud, in search of a distraction.
"Next year, Ma," Aoife answered. "But there might be reruns. I'll check."
"Oh, shame." Saoirse turned her head, seeking Sorley's touch. He was always within reach, these days. She didn't even have to call to him, he would simply be there.
He was the only one whose gaze hadn't changed as her health deteriorated – as if she needed further proof that he wasn't human. Fifty years later, he still regarded her with a loving look that always winded her. A look of pure, unguarded affection, so innocent and genuine. Despite her shivering hands, her deep wrinkles and saggy skin, her thinned white hair and her dulled blue eyes... Sorley still looked at her as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
A sense of serenity settled over her when her weakened fingers found his warmth. A strange mix of sadness and relief.
"You have fought your wars, my love," Sorley murmured, his voice soft and fading. It soothed her soul, it always had. "You have fought bravely and tirelessly. You have championed kindness and goodness. 'Tis time for you to rest now."
Saoirse breathed in and out, feeling at peace now that she was finally granted permission to rest after such a tumultuous life.
"Yes... yes, I am ready... to rest..."
Her eyes closed. Sorley kissed her forehead.
The oppressive silence spooked Aoife. "Ma?" She shot up to her feet, dropping her needles. "...Mother?" Tears seeped into Aoife's voice.
Aidan showed up in the doorway as his sister covered her mouth with her hands. He rushed to his mother's bedside, kneeling, tea and muffin forgotten. Her hand was still warm and he didn't cry. Couldn't. As if his pipes had been sealed shut. His chest hurt and his eyes hurt and his head hurt... but he couldn't cry.
Sorley squeezed his son's shoulder and went to hug his daughter, holding her as she wept. "Your mother is gone, my love. My Saoirse... is finally free."