Young

In my younger, more vulnerable years, my father would take me to a spring just outside of Dunluce. I had just learned to ride then, and he would race me through the grasslands to the farthest Elm in sight.

“Regan” he had said to me one afternoon, as we lay stretched across the forest grove near the spring. It was rare of him to call me by my formal name; on most occasions he addressed me as Morna, a childish nickname.

“Yes Papa” I replied. He was now sitting up, a look of distress across his face. He gingerly touched the stubble forming around his chin.

“You must promise me something, Regan”

“What is it papa?” I asked, propping myself up onto my forearms, watching him as he slid towards the spring, delicately slipping a bare toe into the water.

“Come here Morna” He patted the ground next to him and I sprang up, plopping beside him, slipping my arms around his large waist.

He nestled me under his arm, patting down the hairs that had apparently sprung loose from the veil of my hood. He didn’t speak for a few moments; it was comfortably quiet. I began listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, each pulse falling in sync with the cadence of the forest around us.

“You must promise me something” He finally pronounced. “You must promise me that you will never forget who you are. You are an O’Connor. Do not let anybody change that. Eh?”

Silently I nodded my head then asked, “Is something wrong?”

He chuckled a bit and then pulled me closer to him.

“No my Morna, nothing is wrong.”