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I f Aisling was skilled at one thing in life, it was holding on. She’d never been one to let go of things easily—even those things she eventually got over, she rarely forgot. They always came back to her in the moments when her mind was unoccupied, so she did her best to avoid those.

But regret is a cruel captor. It doesn’t live in a single moment, doesn’t stay confined to the space where it first took root.

It grows, spreads, wraps itself around everything it touches until it becomes indistinguishable from rest. Until its edges blur into the body, the mind, the heart, and it’s no longer clear where one ends and the other begins.

Aisling had carried hers for so long that she didn’t know how to put it down.

It had shaped her, carved her out, and left jagged edges where there should have been smooth, unbroken lines.

She wasn’t sure who she’d be without it—without the heavy, aching presence of what she’d done.

Or, perhaps more accurately, what she hadn’t done.

The memory of her mother’s voice came unbidden, soft as the lull of distant waves, yet sharper than any blade: “You always loved my stories, Ash. Don’t you believe in the Wild anymore?”

The words were muffled in her mind, just as they had been that afternoon when Maeve spoke them through the bedroom door of a much younger Aisling, after she had slammed it in her mother’s face.

Someone had left a crude drawing of a faerie stuffed in her locker that morning; she was sick of being teased for being the child of Brook Isle’s resident headcase.

“Why can’t you grow up?” Aisling had yelled back. “Why can’t you just be normal?”

Except Maeve’s stories never changed; only Aisling had.

Not believing her mother had been a betrayal, but it was the silence afterward that haunted her most. The way she hadn’t fought, hadn’t stood up, hadn’t been brave enough to bear the weight of Maeve’s stories when they became too much for everyone else.

Aisling had let her mother stand alone in a world that mocked her, and then had mourned her too late.

She told herself it was because she’d been too young to understand, too afraid to act.

But deep down, she knew the truth: she’d been too ashamed.

That shame had clung to her and dug in deep.

And as the years passed, it festered into something harder, colder.

It whispered that she wasn’t enough— not then, not now, not ever .

It told her she didn’t deserve the loyalty of others, not when she’d failed the one person who had loved her without condition.

Aisling had lived her life chasing redemption she didn’t believe she could ever earn.

She’d tried to make herself indispensable, useful, strong enough to make up for her failure.

She didn’t say no when people leaned on her because she was terrified of what would happen if she let herself step back, even when she needed someone to lean on herself.

But even in the moments when she felt she’d succeeded, when she fought and won and proved her worth, the regret didn’t loosen its grip.

It just twisted into new shapes, tied itself into new knots.

Now, it wasn’t just the regret of not believing—it was the realization that Maeve’s stories, her joy, had been born from horrors she couldn’t even fathom.

The stories were true, the Fae were real, but their kindness was not.

They’d used her as a toy for their own entertainment and enchanted her to play in their sick games.

Aisling spent years blaming herself for not standing by her mother, but learning the truth about the Seelie Court added yet another bitter layer to the guilt.

Maeve had been doomed on both sides of the Veil from the very first moment she’d crossed into the Wild.

When Rodney had said the strongest threads were tied to the things people couldn’t let go of, Aisling knew immediately what hers was.

She’d known from the moment the words left his mouth because she felt the regret pull taut inside her, an invisible thread that had been binding her for as long as she could remember.

Maeve Morrow.

The regret over what she’d let happen to Maeve was more than simple guilt—it was the foundation of who she’d become.

The choices she made, the fears she carried, the walls she’d built around her heart to protect herself from ever feeling that kind of loss again.

Letting it go would mean unraveling everything she was.

That thought terrified her not because she wanted to keep carrying the hurt, but because she didn’t know how to exist without it.

Who was Aisling Morrow beyond her guilt, beyond the pieces of herself that had collapsed under its weight?

Aisling dug her fingers into the dirt beneath her knees, taking a moment to steady herself before she became too lost in her head. When she looked up at Rodney, she could hardly make out his face anymore through the tears that burned in her eyes. “I won't feel it anymore?”

“You'll feel it still; I could never truly take that away from you. But it will be...less.” Rodney reached out his hand to take one of hers and squeezed.

“Less painful?” Her voice broke on the word.

“Less all-consuming. Like…background noise, rather than theme music.”

She had for so long, for too long, told herself she didn’t deserve to let it go. That holding onto it was the price she had to pay for not being there. But her guilt and regret didn’t change anything. It couldn’t undo what had happened; it hadn’t brought her mother back.

Aisling closed her eyes, her breath shaky as the tears fell, and tried to imagine what it would feel like to let the thread snap. To let herself be free of it.

“It’s okay, Ash,” Rodney said. “I’m with you.”

His grip on her hand tightened and she felt a sort of pulling—a gentle tug, and the slow unraveling of something coiled inside of her.

The air vibrated and pressed in on her and that foul smell grew stronger and stronger until she was nearly choking on it.

Still, she kept her eyes shut and her focus steady.

She thought of her mother’s stories, the box of sketches in her father’s closet, the way Maeve’s face would light up when she spoke of the Wild.

Thought of how she’d looked: tired, fragile, but still hopeful, even in the end.

Like she knew that eventually Aisling would come back around. That it was only ever a matter of time.

Maeve hadn’t been perfect, but even when she was alone in her belief, she still found it in herself to be gracious to those that doubted her.

Aisling knew her mother would never have wanted her to carry this.

Her stories had always been about freedom, wonder, the beauty of what lay beyond.

And instead of chasing that same beauty, Aisling spent her whole life tethered to invisible weights that she’d refused to untie herself from.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, a half-sob. To Maeve Morrow, and to Aisling Morrow.

For not believing.

For not being the daughter she needed to be.

For not letting herself heal.

Quieter, she said, “I have to let you go now.”

The words hung in the air, trembling, uncertain. And for the first time in years, she thought maybe her mother could hear her.

Then Rodney’s arms were around her, and despite the way she shook in the warmth of his embrace, she felt…

lighter. Not like that part of her was gone, as he’d promised, but like she’d finally, finally come to peace with it.

Aisling raised her arms to hug him back and in spite of the gravity of what she’d just gone through and the tears still running down her cheeks, she couldn’t hold back a genuine laugh when his tail snaked up to tap the top of her head.

“This fucking thing,” he swore, swatting at it halfheartedly as the two released each other. Though he was smiling, he looked like he’d gotten emotional, too, just by watching her.

Aisling sniffed and dried her face as best she could, then gestured to the dagger between them. “Did it work?”

He nodded. “Beautifully. You did perfect, Aisling. She’d be proud of you.”

Of course he knew what she’d given up; Rodney knew her better than anyone else in the world—in any realm. She could only manage a grateful nod in response.

The pair sat quietly for a long time, Rodney allowing Aisling the space to settle and process and feel what she needed to feel.

Gradually, the loss of that coiled knot inside her began to feel less like a loss, and more like something had been given back.

The space that all that guilt and regret had occupied inside her was now free to be filled with other things. Brighter, more hopeful things.

“What will you give?” she asked eventually.

Rodney gave a tired smile. “That, Ash, is a story for another time.”

“Over beers?”

“Over beers.”

“Do you want me to sit with you while you do it?” Aisling reached out and took his hand, the way he had hers.

Rodney squeezed it and said, “Please.”