A Thiarna, Déan Trócaire

The house was quiet in the way a battlefield is quiet after the last cry has been swallowed.

Not peaceful—never that. Just… emptied.

Father Tristan Greene stood in the center of the living room, cassock damp with sweat and something darker, something he did not want to name. The crucifix still hung heavy in his hand, though his fingers had long since lost their strength. The candles had burned low, their wax collapsed into pale, exhausted puddles. The air smelled of incense and ozone and the metallic edge of fear.

It was over.

For now.

“Father?”

He turned at the voice. Sister Agnes stood in the doorway, her veil slightly askew, her face pale but steady. She had been holding the line in prayer for hours. Longer, maybe. Time had a way of bending when the veil between worlds grew thin.

“It’s quiet,” she said softly.

Tristan nodded. “Yes.”

Behind her, Dr. Mateo Alvarez leaned against the wall, rolling his shoulder as if trying to remind himself he still had a body. His medical bag lay open on the floor beside him, forgotten in the final moments when medicine had given way to something older, something far more dangerous.

“And the boy?” Mateo asked.

Tristan looked past them, down the hallway.

“He’s sleeping,” he said. “Really sleeping. Not… that.”

No one spoke for a moment.

They all knew what that meant.

From the far room, Mrs. Callahan’s muffled sobs drifted through the house—not the sharp, panicked cries of earlier, but something softer now. Relief, perhaps. Or the slow collapse after terror finally loosens its grip.

Tristan exhaled, long and measured. His hands trembled faintly, and he tightened them around the crucifix until the wood pressed firmly into his palm.

“It’s done,” he said again, more to himself than to them.

Father Lucien, who had been silent until now, finally straightened from where he had been kneeling. The older priest’s voice was rough, worn thin by hours of Latin and defiance.

“For tonight,” Lucien said.

Tristan gave a small, tired smile. “For tonight.”

—

Outside, the sky was beginning to soften.

Not light—not yet. But the black had thinned into something gentler, something that hinted at mercy.

Rain clung to everything. The driveway shimmered under the faint glow of a distant streetlamp, each puddle catching what little light there was and holding it like a secret.

They stepped out one by one.

The air was cold. Clean. Real.

Tristan paused on the threshold, his hand resting briefly against the doorframe. He could feel the house behind him—feel the echoes, the scars left in the walls and the air. But it was quiet now.

That was enough.

“For now,” he murmured.

Sister Agnes made the sign of the cross as she passed him. Mateo stretched his neck and muttered something about needing three days of sleep and a gallon of coffee. Lucien simply walked on, his steps slow but certain.

They reached the cars without much conversation.

There was nothing left to say that hadn’t already been said in prayer, in command, in the long, relentless struggle against something that did not yield easily.

Tristan lingered a moment longer before getting into his car.

He looked east.

The horizon held a faint line of silver.

Dawn was coming.

—

The engine turned over with a low hum.

For a moment, Tristan just sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, breathing. Letting the world settle back into its proper shape.

No voices.

No pressure against his mind.

No presence clawing at the edges of reality.

Just the sound of rain ticking softly against the windshield.

He closed his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Then he put the car in gear and pulled onto the road.

—

The highway stretched out before him, slick and shining like a ribbon of glass.

There were few cars at this hour. Just the occasional pair of headlights drifting past in the opposite direction, each one a quiet reminder that the world continued, unaware.

Tristan drove in silence at first.

His body ached. His throat burned. His mind felt like it had been scraped raw.

But beneath all of that—

Peace.

Not complete. Not permanent. But real.

He rolled the window down slightly. The cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and asphalt and something faintly green—the promise of morning.

The sky began to change.

Dark blue softened into gray. Gray edged toward pale gold.

And without thinking, without planning it, Tristan began to sing.

Softly at first. Barely more than a breath.

“A Thiarna, déan trócaire…”

The words felt ancient on his tongue, older than the road beneath his tires, older than the battle he had just fought.

“A Chríost, déan trócaire…”

His voice steadied as he drove.

Not strong—not like it would be in the chapel—but true.

“A Thiarna, déan trócaire…

A Chríost, déan trócaire…”

The rhythm of it settled into him, syncing with the motion of the car, the quiet sweep of the wipers, the steady unfolding of dawn.

Again.

“A Thiarna, déan trócaire…

A Chríost, déan trócaire…”

The horizon brightened.

Gold broke through the gray, thin at first, then stronger.

Light spilled across the wet highway, turning every drop of rain into something luminous.

Tristan’s grip on the wheel loosened.

He sang louder now—not loudly, but with intention.

“A Thiarna, déan trócaire…

A Chríost, déan trócaire…”

The words were simple.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

After a night like that, simplicity was everything.

He thought of the boy, sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks.

He thought of Mrs. Callahan’s tears.

He thought of the thing they had cast out—its rage, its cunning, its terrible persistence.

And he sang.

“A Thiarna, déan trócaire…

A Chríost, déan trócaire…”

The sun crested the horizon.

Not all at once—never all at once. Just a sliver at first, bright and fierce, cutting through the remnants of night.

But it was enough.

It was always enough.

“Dean trócaire…” he murmured, the words softening, blending into the hum of the engine.

The light spread. Like Christ’s own victory banner.

Across the road. Across the fields. Across his face.

For a moment, Tristan closed his eyes again—not fully, not dangerously, but just enough to feel it.

Warmth.

After cold.

Light.

After darkness.

“A Thiarna…” he whispered.

The car moved forward, steady and sure.

Behind him, the night receded.

Ahead of him, the day opened.

And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—Father Tristan Greene smiled.