Eventually, when the crowd naturally started to dwindle, we packed up the remaining produce and returned to the farm.

While Cormac and I unloaded the cart, Mrs Doyle prepared a traditional Irish stew full of mutton, carrots, onions and potatoes. After such an eventful day, I was certainly grateful for the sustenance and devoured it with zeal.

As we finished the tasty repast, I asked our host whether she might have a pen and some ink that could be used so that Cormac might begin writing his diary. It was a request to which she seemed completely amenable and assured us she'd have the items available for us by the time the remaining daily chores were complete.

Cormac and I offered to handle some of the more manual tasks, such as ensuring the chickens, sheep and goats were fed and had clean water. Mrs Doyle accepted, and while we tended to the animals, she cleared away the crockery and utensils before updating her accounts with her revenue from the sales she made at the market.

True to her word, upon reconvening with us, the older lady supplied Cormac with a feather quill, some blotting paper and a small pot of ink. She also showed us where the items were normally stored, in a small wooden cabinet in the lounge. Since they formed part of her selection bookkeeping accoutrements for the farm, she emphasised the importance of returning them.

It was late afternoon by the time Cormac and I headed over to the barn. He'd been keen to begin populating his new diary ever since Mrs Doyle had agreed to give him the full means with which to do so. However, understandably, he wasn't ready to be alone yet, and so I accompanied him.

The sky to the west glowed gold as the sun began its descent towards the horizon. There would still be enough natural refulgence trickling through the clouds and into the barn for Cormac to capture his thoughts in writing for another hour or two.

Sitting cross-legged on his bed of hay, Cormac opened his recently acquired book, dipped the quill in the ebony ink and began to write.

Settling myself by lying down on my own makeshift hay-mattress, I linked my fingers behind the back of my head and respectfully stared at the ceiling.

However, it wasn't long before curiosity got the better of me, and I tilted my head to one side so that I could observe my auburn companion. Naturally, I stayed silent to ensure he could focus on making the most of the waning light before it disappeared completely.

Watching Cormac write was a strangely hypnotic experience. I was mesmerised by every detail, from the rhythmic, swirling motion of the pen to his intense, contemplative expression as he poured his emotions into the pages of his new diary.

It was mind-boggling to think that the aged manuscript that I'd read countless times, and whose images were currently stored in the memory of my phone, was being created in front of my eyes. I found myself intrigued by the idea of him filling the paper with words I'd already read.

That was, of course, assuming that my journey to the nineteenth century hadn't affected historical events.

Pursing my lips, I realised that I hadn't fully considered the ways in which my presence here could be altering history.

A knot started forming in my stomach and a cold shiver flashed down the back of my neck at that thought. What if I'd rushed in too quickly when I'd first seen the fire through the pendant? Was it possible that the 'real' Aidan O'Rourke had been approaching from the opposite side of Cormac's property, out of my view? What if I'd inadvertently taken a young man's place in local history? Had I unwittingly created a new past?

It was impossible to know the full extent of the impact I was having without being able to see what he was recording in his notes, which I found immensely frustrating.

Suddenly I wished that I could perch on Cormac's shoulder to see what he was writing, so that I could compare it with the photos of his diary that I had on my phone.

Not that I needed to look at the pictures that I'd taken to know what he'd written.

Not when I'd already memorised every word from the hours I'd spent poring over his prose before I arrived here.

Inhaling deeply in an attempt not to panic, I tried to refocus on my original assumption - that the words being penned by the man on the nearby hay bed exactly matched those I was already familiar with.

I processed that notion as I slowly released the breath I'd previously taken. As I deliberately tried to relax my tensed muscles, I contemplated that both outcomes were feasible. And instead of allowing myself to be preoccupied by the labyrinth of possible repercussions of time travel, I considered that perhaps there might be answers to be found in the version of events that I already had knowledge of. As a historian, I should be looking at evidence, not theories. Therefore, it made sense to compare what I knew of Cormac's diary to events that had already come to pass.

Immediately, in my mind, I started cross-referencing Cormac's likely perceived experiences since the time I'd arrived in this era with the words I'd read in his diary.

In his prose, he'd stated that his first recollection after collapsing in the fire was being revived by a kiss from his saviour. I considered that for a moment. Given that he'd woken while I was administering CPR, I wondered whether it was possible that this could be the kiss he'd been referring to?

I remembered how I'd then used the torch built into my phone to attempt to ascertain the damage to his arm. Could this have been the vicinal, glowing light that he'd referred to in his notes? He would have had no understanding of the technology I'd used to illuminate the burns on his skin, so his deduction that it was of a divine nature was logical, especially given his Catholicism.

His diary had also mentioned that Aidan's presence had been an unexpected result of some form of sorcery and that he'd been unable to return home by conventional means. That Aidan's clothes had been so unusual that Cormac hadn't been able to find words to describe them. That the sidhe had visited and had been driven away by Aidan.

All of these details were consistent with either what he knew of my situation or what he was likely to have interpreted from his observations.

Additionally, as far as I could ascertain from conversations with those I'd met, nobody had heard of Aidan O'Rourke before I turned up. If Aidan had lived locally, then surely someone in this tight-knit community would have known his name already.

My gaze drifted down to the leather book cover. Even the journal that Cormac was using to write in was identical to the one that your mother found in her bedroom. The same one whose contents I'd read aloud the day that you and I sat together underneath the oak tree.

Having access to a journal like this would certainly explain why the Fire King would have some notion of future events as well as those that had already occurred.

So, then, maybe I hadn't created a new past. Perhaps I had I always been part of it?

If that was true, then it seemed plausible that my future was predestined.

I bit my lip, unsure whether that concept was any more reassuring to me than the idea of rewriting history. The notion that I was now following a predetermined path, where my free will had been eliminated, was admittedly not very appealing.

Trepidation crept over me as I recalled another significant matter that had appeared in Cormac's journal. He'd disclosed in his writings that Aidan had been preferred to bond intimately with men rather than women, and that the two of them had indulged in a love affair.

Suddenly choked by another unexpected wave of anxiety, I found it difficult to breathe through the acute tightness in my throat. When I'd seen Cormac's house burning in front of me, I'd acted on impulse without understanding the implications of time travel. And now, what I thought was in the past had the potential to become my future.

Did this mean I was destined to fall for Cormac? How much influence did I have over that?

I watched pensively as he pushed back a stray lock of auburn hair back from his own forehead. He was undoubtedly easy on the eye, and if I was honest with myself, I knew I was attracted to him already.

But it wasn't just his turquoise eyes or ivory complexion that had captivated me. His attitude was commendable, especially given the obstacles he'd faced. Not only had he dealt with Eamon continuously harassing him from a young age, but he'd faced being ostracised as a result of his sexuality. Additionally, both of his parents had been taken from him before their time, and only a couple of days ago, he'd been trapped in a fire, convinced he was going to die.

It was a lot to deal with, and naturally he was troubled as a result. Anyone would be if they'd just lost their home on top of a succession of such traumatic events.

But any turmoil he felt wasn't manifesting itself as grumbling or griping. He'd been expressing himself verbally without complaining. And by using a diary to document the incidents that affected him and his associated distress, he had taken the initiative to continue to manage his emotions in a constructive way, even if it hadn't been done consciously. The equanimity he displayed in the wake of such devastation was admirable and left me with not only an acute compulsion to support him, but also an inexplicable desire to get closer to him.

However, I realised that I had to stop that happening. There was no way I could have a potential love interest in the nineteenth century when my friends and family were all living two-hundred years in the future. It would add too many variables to my already complicated predicament.

With the onset of dusk, and with any remaining natural light now fading, Cormac closed the book and set the pen down next to him as he secured the lid on the ink pot.

"Did you find that helpful?" I asked, composing myself and nodding towards the diary.

"Aye," he replied without looking up. "Do you think Mrs Doyle would mind if I returned these to her tomorrow?"

Upon hearing the slight wobble in his voice, I realised he was fighting back tears.

"She's already done her accounts for today," I reminded him, as I stood up and collected the assembled items, moving them off his hay bed and onto a nearby bale. "Are you all right?"

Knowing that he'd just been reliving part of his traumatic experience as he voiced his thoughts in writing, I immediately realised it was a stupid question and winced at my own words.

"I will be," he replied through a tremulous breath. "I just need a few minutes."

Motivated to assuage his grief if I could, I sat next to him, ensuring my body language was open and my tone mellow.

"Would a hug help?" I offered.

Cormac hesitated slightly, peeking up at me from under his bronze lashes before nodding and resting his head on my shoulder. Wrapping my arms round him, I held him close for a few minutes, before encouraging him to settle down with me under a blanket. I was keen to provide him with solace if I could - I just needed to be mindful of any emotional attachments that might be forming.

However, I couldn't deny that curling up together for the night felt natural and comfortable as the sun set beyond the barn doors. Closing my eyes and letting slumber prevail made it easier to ignore the conflict that had ignited inside me.

As I teetered on the cusp of lucidity, I let my focus drift to the warmth of the humble man that lay in my arms, and tried not to dwell on the possibility that my future may have already been written.