We're Going Home

Eoin wasn't sure what to make of the people, he didn't really recognise any of them, and after he'd been imprisoned the Templars had stopped allowing any correspondence, he still had dreams about what Moira must have thought when the letters stopped coming. Did she think he was dead, did she think he'd stopped caring, so many thoughts and questions. As he walked closer he smiled non-threateningly, then noticed the older woman, there was something about her eyes, her hair, the way she stood.

He walked up closer to her, tipped his head to the right. How long had it been since he'd seen her, over forty years, but somehow he could still tell her was her. Tears welled up slightly in his eyes, but he did his best to blink them away. If he started crying he might not stop.

Moira? It was almost a whisper, he dared hope after all. Questions were flooding his brain, where had she been, what had she been doing, was she happy. Maybe this was a mistake, he had such baggage now, a weight on his shoulders that never lifted, that engulfed him at times and made it impossible to sleep. What had that one healer he'd talked to called it, PTSD. They'd offered to help, but Eoin hadn't felt comfortable enough with them to say yes.