Aveline Hamill

Aveline Hamill
Birth Name	Eibhlín Ó h-Aghmail
Aliases	Aveline Hamill
Birthdate	c. 475 CE
Birthplace	Western Éire (likely Connacht or Ulster)
Citizenship	Nominally Irish-American Currently holds multiple high-security identities and corporate shields (registered to shell corporations in Rogue Isles, Portugal, Luxembourg, Vermont)
Occupation	The Ninth Wave (Founder, Principal Stakeholder) DunTech (Defunct Division Head) Threshold Systems (Enterprise Architecture) Anam House (Curator, Acquisitions)
Legal Status	Classified. Recognized by Longbow and MAGI as a “tiered para-entity.” Known entries in both MAGI and Malta archives (redactions suggest deeper embedded clearance—possibly Level Grey-9).
Marital Status	Officially unlisted. Grá Caillte. Rumors suggest a trail of lovers, partners, and soul-bargains across centuries: A non-exhaustive telling exists, drawn from archived whispers, redacted files, bardic verses, and confessionals found in margin notes, dream diaries, and defaced church records. Fond memories can occasionally be stirred about a 10th-century Irish monk-turned-heretic, that violinist from Bucharest, and a Sayyida of Al-Andalus - a perfumer’s daughter with hennaed hands and a laugh like windchimes.

What Was

“In the wood where shadows are deepest
From the branches overhead,
Where the wild wood-strawberries cluster,
And the softest moss is spread,
I met today with a fairy,
And I followed her where she led.
Some magical words she uttered,
I alone could understand...
It was only a little white violet
I found at the root of a tree.”
— In The Wood, by Adelaide A. Procter

Before the name, before the city, before the hum of servers—there was a woman who kept songs of memory in her mouth, and the turning of kings on her tongue.
In the shadowed green of a vanishing age, she loved something she shouldn’t have. Something beautiful. Terrible. Bound to another world. A deathless thing, a muse—their every kiss, a fire of insight, every touch an unraveling. She was given poems too vast for mortal tongues, moments that passed like days. It was bliss. Too much for this world, and the world noticed.

Then, came the bells.
. . .
Christianity crept like frost over the island. With every church built, the old songs dimmed. With every bell rung, the veil tore a little more. Cold iron was nailed into oak trees. Holy water poisoned sacred wells.

In time, her muse could no longer cross the threshold. Her poems turned to grief. Her restless hours were filled with visions—of smoke and snuffed flames.

Her kin embraced the new faith. They abandoned old rites and burned what they could not understand.

Grief burned her hollow; bitterness carried her into the dark. On a night dappled with stars and omens, she called for a god who still answered.

She was changed, beneath that sky. At the edge of the world, where the sky wore itself thin and the stars pressed close, she offered herself to remembrance.

Now, remembrance lingers in her shape.

What Remained

“Widge can see the past." Poppet says suddenly. "That's why his stories are so good."
"The past is easier," Widget says. "It's already there."
"In the stars?" Bailey asks.
"No." Widget says. "On people. The past stays on you the way powdered sugar stays on fingers. Some people can get rid of it but it's still there, the events and things that pushed you to where you are now.”
― Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

No grave took her, No ending met her.
Only the residue of promise remained.
She slipped between centuries like breath between gritted teeth. A name scrawled in the margins of a burned ledger. A figure standing still in a blurred photograph. An inheritance that no one remembers writing.
Whatever she’d yielded to, stayed. It clung to her, inescapably. This timelost thing, held forever in the burden of what she had tried to tame.
Returning under a new name, Avealine learned to wear suits instead of shawls, vinyl instead of bone. She kept to the edges - derelict manors, drowned cities, the humming silence between wars. Places where chandeliers still swung in abandoned halls, and ivy crept over forgotten hearths. The world’s quietest wounds gathered there, memory pooled where the veil frayed; settling like rain into fractured stone. In liminal spaces, where the air held its breath and magic still lingered, clinging like perfume does onto old letters. She moved gently through these places - where time slowed, and histories bled - drinking in what the world had forgotten to mourn.
Only quieter, now. Better dressed.