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When the rest of the Other drowned themselves in heathenish celebration, Lir made his way to the ash tree at the center of the field. The haunting of their drums and horns, the beating of their feet against the earth as they danced, the smoke and glow of their feverish light dimmed to a whisper as Lir flew with new wings and approached the ash.

Lir cradled a small bairn in his arms, with her own wings tucked into a swaddle that Gilrel had wrapped around the child. The infant cooed, nestled against the Sidhe king’s chest. One of her eyes was violet and the other green as the woodland she would one day rule.

“Hush, Orlaith.” Lir smiled at his daughter, bringing her close. “She’ll be here soon.”

Lir made two beds of ellwyn and fig moss, one for himself and one for Orlaith, beneath the ash. The child drifted to sleep, lulled by the distant revelry of Samhain. Lir, however, stared at the stars dancing above, his heart thudding with anticipation.

“Aisling,” he called into the night. Her name was like a prayer to him now. As he spoke it, he felt his complexion flush. Fate seemed to gather around him.

“Aisling,” he said again.

And this time, she heard his call.

The Other shuddered with her magic. Every oak, yew, and maple swayed to the rhythm of her steps. Lir stood, and carefully gathered the sleeping Orlaith in his arms.

She stepped out of the ash tree like a myth—and she was at once a specter and the woman she had been and all the tales they’d tell of her. A guardian of the veil, forever caught between here and there. But always, always his.

Their eyes connected and Lir almost fell to his knees. Aisling’s eyes were violet as magic itself, and she watched him with the gaze of one who has seen eternity. She stood naked save for transparent webs of black silk, sparkling in the moonlight, and the raven-black hair falling down her back seemed alive with the breath of the forest.

They stood in silence, watching each other.

Every year, on Samhain, Lir had come here alone. And every year, Aisling had found her way across the veil to spend this one night together. Last year, she had arrived with Orlaith in her arms.

Lir always feared she wouldn’t recognize him. Feared that the goddess who loved him must be a figment of his imagination, something he’d woven in dreams on the endless lonely nights between one Samhain and the next.

“Lir,” She said, and her voice was not one but many.

Aisling ran to him. As they met, the universe dissolved into nothing more than her body against his, and their child between them. Her lips found Lir’s and consumed him, alive and burning with overwhelming heat.

Later, Lir held Aisling as she cradled their child, humming lullabies that Orlaith would repeat as she grew older. Lullabies that would fill the halls of Castle Annwyn with Aisling’s magic.

On this eve, every year, Lir and Orlaith would wait for her, whispering her name until she slipped through the veil.

“ Aisling ,” Lir said, again and again until the sun rose.