Memories of Gridania were always filtered through thick foliage, the scenery of her days as a village kit appearing like dappled sunlight in the darkness of her mind. Ever since she had been excommunicated, she had endeavored to think as little as possible about the village, those idyllic days spent within the Elementals' embrace, and yet they pierced through like light through the canopy. If even the ancient oaks could not keep the sun from the undergrowth, what hope could a little Viera have to shield her eyes from the past?

The memories shift and flutter, at times brighter than before, yet always hazy at the edges—except for the clearings, the meadows where sunlight nourished flowers, moments of clarity that tugged at her heart with uncharacteristic fervor. In one meadow she sees familiar faces, smaller than when she had last seen them. Faces of those they had lost to the forest, those who had stayed with her in the village. The litter of kits that her mothers had raised, each strong and brave and filled with dreams far too big for the Shroud. In another clearing she sees the woman who birthed her, her smile mysterious yet infallibly kind, her soft hands mending every scrape, catching every tear.

Usually, this is where she stops.

Yet this time, she walks onwards. Around her, the forest of her thoughts grows thicker, wiry roots twisting atop untrodden pathways, branches barring her way at every turn. Unfamiliar woods, the most dangerous of hunting grounds.

——————

Eithne had always wanted to be a wood-warder.

Ever since they had learned of the distinction of wood-warder and not, they had yearned to follow in their father's footsteps. Back when the Echo's melody blended in with the birdsong, its aether-rich voice quietly beckoning them to their destiny, they had dreamt of running across the woods, filled with purpose and the freedom to exert it. To keep the forest safe and play their part to protect this blessed land they called home would be the greatest honor, just like their—

Eithne is 4 years old, when they meet that man for the first time.

The Veena remember well, their mothers would croon, that is why we live so long, so we can continue to remember.

But Eithne had been too young for that to be true. At that time, they can only recall their mother's laughter, quiet as a bell, its echo ringing through their memories until the present day. Their father's hounds, excited and eager, had nuzzled Eithne until the babe fell over. Eithne remembers their wet noses against their skin, and then— warm hands, calloused and scarred, yet no less gentle, lifting them up, higher and higher.

Eithne is eight years old, when they meet Fionn.

You look just like your father, Eithne had always been told. Until then the words had held little meaning to them, but once the village gates opened, they knew instantly.

He is short, the smallest amongst them, yet easy to find, leading the vanguard as he did, a throng of menfolk behind him. Flaxen hair, like sheaths of wheat glistening white in direct sunlight, and eyes the same gold as their own. They had inherited almost everything save his nose, their mother having laid claim to that, at least. Eithne would have felt joy, were they not so anxious, their trembling hands fidgeting with some sort of leather armlet they had fashioned. A handcrafted gift for a man they could not imagine; an earnest wish for connection.

It had been a celebration like none Eithne could remember, even bigger than when they would dance for the harvest under moonlight. The womenfolk had labored for what had felt like weeks, the kits who were to remain helping the ones who would leave to prepare for their departure. Everyone had seemed so happy, and so Eithne forced themself to share in their joy. Even as their heart filled with a sadness that she would carry to the edge of creation, even as they held their friends' hands for the last time.

Fionn stood before them, and Eithne could only peer up at him shyly through thick, white lashes, too young still to line their eyes with the same kohl as their parents. Their only point of pride is that they hadn't hidden behind their mother, her gentle presence behind Eithne giving them enough bravery to face their father for what, to them, felt like the first time.

"Welcome home." Eithne hears her mother speak the words stuck in their throat, the ones they had practiced by the moonlight, their voice barely above a whisper. Eithne would regret not being able to say them in the lonely years to come, but in this moment, Fionn smiles gently at them both.

" 'Tis good to be back." Warm hands, calloused and scarred, ruffle their hair, as he kneels before his progeny. Two hounds come up from behind him, their tails wagging eagerly, wet noses rubbing up against Eithne's arms, their ankles. "It seems our little kernel is beginning to sprout! Just from looking at you, I know you've grown into a splendid child."

His voice is joyous, filled with an emotion Eithne would not be able to comprehend for another decade and more, the love in his words the selfsame one she'd find in her own, when she would speak to the twin Elezens she'd take under her charge.

Eithne stays quiet, their shy, trembling hands rising to give him their humble armlet, and Fionn presses a kiss to their forehead.

You are the very image of him!, the menfolk would oft repeat throughout their stay, and within Eithne's chest swelled a pride like no other. The wood-warders spoke of Fionn's heroism, feats of cunning and wit— his ability to foresee the future, to peer into the hearts of men. Although protecting the forest was a solitary endeavor, Fionn seemed to always find them in the nick of time, either to warn or to rescue, his hunting hounds delivering messages to and fro in order to keep the men safe.

"He is like Menphina made flesh, and Bran and Sceolang like the two moons in our sky!" they’d say merrily, as Eithne tried to commit the rumble of their father's laughter to memory, the timbre of his voice as he strummed the lute their mothers had kept for him. The sounds did not survive the passage of time, but the feelings they brought remained.

Eithne would think upon the comparisons with great care, long after their father returned to the woods.

Smaller than the rest, quiet and quick, friend to the moon, pale as if shrouded by moonlight— Fionn the Cunning, and his little kernel, a seed which her mothers all nurtured. They had loved to tell tales of Menphina's little workers to the kits, and Eithne could remember the warmth in their cheeks as the litter's inquisitive eyes inspected Eithne's face, trying to find a sign of holiness within it. Pale, quiet little Eithne, Fionn's progeny, a child of the moon goddess' chosen, sibling of the little rabbits who worked tirelessly upon the celestial body's surface.

Surely, surely they would be chosen, surely they would grow to be the wood-warder to follow in his footsteps.

Their body would choose the forest, just as their heart had.

——————

Eithne is thirteen, when she learns her body had chosen the hearth.

Fionn returns again, and this time there is only one hound by his side, Sceolang nowhere to be seen. Eithne wonders if her death was an omen, if Sceolang had chained Eithne to the village upon her death, made her body choose the hearth in an attempt to protect her from what she had suffered in the woods. Fionn stands before her as she looks down at her feet, feeling embarrassed and small in the womenfolk's regalia, and when she looks up he is smiling the same way she remembered.

"My, Fiadh, could this be our child?” He smiles, though Eithne struggles to return it. “She has grown so beautiful, I daresay you’ve been surpassed!”

These are not the words she wants to hear, knowing so well that once her father leaves without her, the birdcage will be locked forever. Once again her greeting dies in her throat, her stomach turning with the knowledge of what is to come, the village that had cradled her turning into the chains that would bind her.

“How the village would gossip, were they to know that the great Fionn is so vain.” She feels her mother’s hand against the small of her back, her voice light. “Is she not the spitting image of you? You’re only flattering yourself.”

Her father throws his head back to laugh, and in her memory his face is hidden by sunbeams, blinding in their radiance.

At last, Eithne manages to say, “For you...”

In Eithne’s trembling hands there is a flower crown of lilies, her favorite of the forest’s flowers, and she slowly offers it to her father. He kneels before her, bowing his head as if a knight receiving the highest honor, and as she places it on his head she notices the armlet she had given him before. Now well-worn with time, the leather shone with a patina only possible through careful maintenance. She feels the familiar vice-grip of sadness around her heart, the same one she has felt every homecoming, her eyes wet as Fionn presses a kiss to her forehead.

Would her life have been different, had she said something then?

At the end of his stay, Fionn would take with him a boy, and Eithne struggles to understand the reason why that had suddenly become so important.

Eithne is nearly sixteen, when she learns she will never see Fionn again.

The wood-warders were to return soon, but during the eve of their homecoming she finds her mothers huddled in a room, Bran sitting in front of them, the village elder holding in her hand a letter. From the edge of the entrance of her home she sees her birth mother covering her face, Eimear and Aoife beside her— horror darkening Aoife’s eyes, determination setting Eimear’s jaw.

“Fionn is heretofore exiled. At the banquet tomorrow, pray do not speak his name.” The elder sounds firm, giving her birth mother no quarter, and Eithne would resent it, would remember the bitter taste of her tone up until she’d faced enough hardship to know that her resolve had been a kindness. The Veena remember well, Eithne would remind herself while in Ishgard, and in her reflection she could see her mother as she was that night, her head in her hands.

That is why we live so long, so we can continue to remember.

As she travels through the depths of her memory, Eithne realizes she cannot recall the reason why he left.

It was as if the information had been cleanly cut away, and should she hone in on its absence, his memory would become more and more twisted— What had been the shape of his smile? The shades of his distinctive make-up?

She thinks of Bran, and wonders if he had come to nuzzle her hand before he had run back to her father, had known that the letter Fionn had bid him deliver to Fiadh had been a knife that could cut through all bonds. She cannot remember much of the loyal hound either.

She thinks of that little Viera, hands trembling with humble gifts, words buried deep within their chest, in their heart a prayer to link them and their sire together.

If only they could have reached out back then.

If only, if only...