Drostan gasped and closed his eyes to weep for a moment. When he opened them, he found that he was standing beside Skye in the serene forest again. Skye pointed back down the left path again and shook her head with a severe expression.
Shakily, Drostan nodded his agreement. That had definitely NOT been the correct path.
Once Drostan recovered enough, Skye turned pointed down the right path. Again, she took his hand to guide him. The vision shifted as they walked – this time revealing what had actually happened that night in the club. She showed her recollections of how he had watched her from a distance while she fought. The pride and relief she had seen in his eyes, despite not knowing the cause. How she had mistaken him for a fògarach and attacked him. How he had spoken softly to her, attempting to reassure her before transforming and giving her the bite.
She jumped ahead in her memories to show herself in Taran’s tender care throughout her first transformations, how they had fallen in love. She showed how she and Ciaran had connected and shared an instant bond. How she had been welcomed by Latharn and the entire clan. She showed the start of the war. The battle for Faol Seunta. How it ended with her joining Sorcha and unleashing her power upon an entire battlefield of fògaraich. She showed her naming before the clan. She showed recollections of their pack in their new home – smiling, laughing, content, safe, together.
Drostan smiled and glanced over at her, unsurprised to find them back in the forest again. Skye pointed down the right path and nodded with a smile.
“I see now. It was the only way,” he agreed, understanding why he chose to go against his nature and give her the bite in such a way.
“You did what you had to do,” she said aloud as she withdrew her hands from his.
Drostan blinked as his senses returned to the cave.
“What was that all about?” Ciaran asked curiously.
“Skye has just shown me that I… am her Maker,” Drostan said with a laugh and eyed her in wonder.
Skye held his gaze and smiled warmly.
Ciaran’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really? I thought you would never give the bite.”
“I thought so, as well. Fate, it seems, had other plans,” Drostan answered. His smile faded as he recalled that fate was at work again in that very moment. The whispers were stirring restlessly. They were a steady, distant buzz in his mind. Something was definitely coming. “We had better get her ready and outside.” He lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper and held Ciaran’s gaze as he warned purposefully, “Be on guard.”
Ciaran’s expression shifted rapidly, from concern to sorrow to anger. Was Taran really so jealous that Ciaran needed to fear an attack from him? It seemed impossible. But just as much as he knew Taran would never harm him, he also knew without a doubt that Drostan would never hastily make such a dire warning.
They helped Skye prepare to climb into the whitewash water. Ciaran fed the fire and pulled her hair up into a knot on the top of her head. Drostan tried not to tease them too much about A) the blue handprints in so many conspicuous locations on their nude bodies and B) how it was completely their own fault the water was now icy cold for her.
Skye sank down into the water until it coated everything beneath her chin. With a frown and shiver, she took a deep breath and leaned forward, dipping her face and ears in the water. She waited several seconds before emerging and fought the urge to complain about the smell and feel of it. She kept her eyes squeezed shut while Drostan blotted and smeared the milky substance into her skin to prevent it from getting into her eyes.
They helped her up out of the water and led her to stand beside the fire while her skin dried. While Ciaran whitewashed, dried, and styled her hair, Drostan lent his artistic abilities to painting her royal symbols on her face, chest, and arms. When it was all dried, both men stood back in amazement. She looked every bit the part of a Goddess Queen in that moment – hauntingly beautiful and deadly.
They carefully dressed her in the royal furs. When it was all finished, Skye was disappointed that there was no mirror present. (Did they even have mirrors yet?) Realizing that she had another option, she motioned to herself, then to Drostan’s eyes, then held up her hands expectantly. Drostan laughed and nodded before taking her hands and showing her his viewpoint of her appearance.
She opened her eyes and gave an impressed nod. They had done a hell of a job. She certainly looked like tribal Celtic royalty now.
She had only taken a matter of steps out of the cave entrance before Taran swiftly approached and caught her by the arm. Drostan exchanged worried looks with Ciaran as they followed closely behind.
“Taran…” Ciaran called worriedly in response the rage in his brother’s features.
Without breaking his stride, Taran cast a furious, hateful glare over his shoulder at Ciaran. Skye turned to catch Ciaran’s reaction, trying to gauge just how bad the situation was. She watched as Ciaran flinched as if he had been slapped. His eyes welled up and features twisted in a mixture of emotions. Sadness… Anguish… Betrayal… He could not believe his most beloved brother was looking upon him with such cold rage, as if their bond meant nothing. Ciaran quickly recovered, stuffing the emotion down as anger hardened his features instead.
All of their clansmen bowed their heads as Skye was pulled past, greeting her respectfully by title. Skye could not stop to speak with any of them or incline her head in kind.
“Taran? Where are we going?” Skye asked anxiously as he continued dragging her along by the arm.
He did not say a word or even look at her. He did not slow his pace in the least as he led her away from the others, far past where the clan was gathered and into the neighboring forest.
Her instincts screamed that she was in physical danger, that Taran meant her harm, that it was perfectly clear what he had in mind… but her loyalty to her mate caused her to try and stifle that alarm. Taran would never really hurt her. Right? She tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“You are frightening her, Taran!” Ciaran insisted furiously. “Stop this now!”
“She does not understand, brother!” Drostan called, fighting down his own protective instincts. As he now knew, Skye was his pup – which explained why seeing her afraid was stirring up such violent impulses in him.
“She will in a moment!” Taran shouted back.
Drostan watched the scene playing out before him with a heavy feeling of dread. The whispers warned that something awful was about to happen… Awful, yet necessary. It was fated to come to pass. There was nothing he could do to prevent it.
Taran stopped abruptly and tugged Skye around to stand in front of him. “You are Queen, yes? You understand this word? Queen?” he demanded.
Skye stared up at him in alarmed confusion. She knew full-well the word they used for Queen. Her eyes flitted anxiously to Drostan. His expression was grim and angry. She looked to Ciaran and found his eyes burning brightly with fury on her behalf. The fact that his fury was directed at Taran broke her heart. She had caused this…
Taran shook her arm impatiently to bring her attention back to him as he repeated his question. With great trepidation, Skye reluctantly nodded in reply.
“Good. You understand that you – SKYE – are QUEEN,” he said as he pointed to her. He pointed to himself and then Ciaran as he asked, “Which of us is your KING?”
Skye’s jaw flexed as she ground her teeth and struggled to stay calm. She understood his question, and no matter how she answered, she feared it would only make the situation worse. She decided to try to walk away before things could unravel any further. “Let me go, please. I don’t want to do this,” she said quietly and attempted to pull her arm free of his grasp.
Taran tightened his crushing grip even further in response, dragging her forward until her body crashed against his. Skye gritted her teeth and drew in a hissed breath. She growled in pain.
Ciaran and Drostan growled in warning.
“You will answer me, Skye, because I command it,�
�� Taran snarled. “You will comply with my command, because we both know the answer to my question: which of us is your KING?”
Skye’s lips trembled as she fought to find her voice. Fear was coiling tightly in her gut. Familiar fear. Fear of an impending assault. “You,” she choked out weakly. “You, Taran. You’re my King.”
Taran exhaled slowly and stood up taller in victory. He sneered at his two brothers as he held up a hand to her – the hand not currently gripping her arm like a vice – as if to say, ‘See? I told you.’
Drostan winced and covered his ears. The pain in his head was threatening to render him unconscious. The whispers were reaching a deafening level. Whatever had them so riled up was about to come to pass.
Before Skye could voice any more useless, foreign words, Taran ducked his head down and brought his mouth against hers roughly. Skye reacted with a muffled exclamation. Her brows drew together as she braced her hands against his shoulders, trying to urge him to stop.
Ciaran’s eyes widened furiously at the uncaring, disrespectful way his brother was touching Skye – his Goddess.
Taran was undeterred. He brought his hand up into her hair, holding her in place as he kissed her more forcefully. He was out to prove a point. Skye was his mate. He was her King. As such, she needed to act the part and stop making him look like a fool in front of all his clansmen.
She struggled to free herself from his crushing grip and finally, Taran released her – but only long enough to wrap his arms around her back and lift her up off of her feet. With singular intent, he brought them both to the ground and covered her body with his own. Her fear soared to new heights the instant her back touched the ground. That old, familiar, horrifying knowledge that she was about to be raped was rearing its ugly head. Bile rose up in the back of her throat. Her heart hammered in her ears. Her entire body trembled uncontrollably in terror as she began fighting frantically.
“Taran, get off of me! Please! What the fuck are you doing?” she shrieked up at him as she tried to buck him off of her.
She could hear Ciaran shouting furiously. She could vaguely make out his hands on Taran’s shoulders, attempting to drag Taran away from her. Drostan was there as well, trying to keep his fury in check, trying to be a voice of reason even as the whispers threatened to overwhelm him completely.
More enraged shouts filled the air – her clansmen, drawn by her screams, were rushing to her aid. While it was acceptable for a man to lay claim to his wife in such a manner in their culture – and while it was typically no other man’s place to intervene (unless the woman’s life was in danger) – this was no mortal woman of their time. This was Skye. This was their Queen.
Despite her frantic efforts to prevent it, Taran successfully managed to maneuver his hips in between her thighs and made the fatal mistake of drawing back a hand, preparing to strike her for her continued efforts to stop him.
The world froze in place just like that.
And something inside of Skye just…
Snapped.
It was frightening, how quickly she lost all control. Lost all semblance of reason and pity and remorse. She blinked, and by the time she opened her eyes, she could feel the white, hot light glowing in her gaze.
Taran’s eyes widened in shock at the unexpected appearance of her magic. He had never considered that she might use it against him. He froze in fear. Before he could make a move to even attempt to escape her wrath, he was tackled off of her by Ciaran.
The world was chaos suddenly. Taran had been completely caught off guard by Ciaran’s attack. He fought back against his brother, but his efforts fell short as his mind focused on the imminent threats of Skye’s wrath and power. As punishment for attempting to strike Skye, Ciaran locked onto Taran’s bicep with a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. In a matter of seconds, Taran’s arm had been mauled so severely, it was useless. Taran cried out and focused all of his attention on fending off his brother, temporarily forgetting the enraged Goddess in their midst.
Several of their brothers joined in on the retaliatory assault against Taran. They snarled and bit and tore into him, but it didn’t get far before Skye’s hand came down and gripped the side of Taran’s head.
The other faoil all quickly scrambled back away, gaping up at her fearfully. Ciaran’s eyes were wide and alarmed when he sensed the change in her through their link.
Taran screamed in pain at her searing touch. He realized in panic that the place on his brow where she had pressed her thumb… the place which had begun radiating pain to the rest of his skull… was the location of his crescent moon tattoo. It was a marking meant to symbolize his submission to the Great Mother – a way of asking for her guidance, for her will to be delivered to his mind so that he could be her instrument in this world.
Her will was about to be delivered to his mind, all right. A bit more literally than what he intended.
“HEAR ME,” Skye commanded, wholly unaware of the concussion of magic that impacted the air upon her words. “How dare you?”
Taran cried out and dropped to his knees before her as her light tore through his mind. Skye was oblivious to her surroundings. She did not note the terrified looks she was receiving from Ciaran and her clansmen. She did not notice the other-worldly sound of her voice. Each word she spoke was voiced in triplicate. All three sides of her – Woman, Wolf, and Goddess – were speaking at once. Her words, spoken quietly and icily calm, were delivered at a volume that was inhumanly loud.
“Foolish whelp, you think to dominate me?!” The Woman scoffed, the Wolf snarled, the Goddess demanded. “After all that I have endured…”
And it began. At those words, all of Skye’s most horrifying, soul-crushing, shameful, revolting, mentally-scarring, sanity-robbing memories began flooding Taran’s mind. There was no worse torture that she could dole out as punishment than a front-row seat to her own private hell. Taran shrieked at the unexpected horror she unleashed upon him, screamed until his voice was raw and broken. In the span of a moment, he had lived through a decade of her suffering. He saw as she saw, felt as she felt.
The murders of her parents…
Heartbreak…
Torture at the hands of her undead brothers…
Blind terror…
Knives soaked in blood…
Agony…
Her first rape…
Shame…
Countless fògaraich’s cold hands on her skin…
Humiliation…
Serving as a sexual plaything for her captors…
Degradation…
Feeding-frenzies…
Anguish…
Trying to wash away the filth…
Hopelessness…
And lastly, the sensation of loss when Taran had claimed her so coldly the day prior. The feeling of fear and betrayal when he – the one she trusted with her heart – had attempted to rape her. Heartbreak at the knowledge that he was clearly not the same Taran she loved and cherished.
Skye’s triplicated voice roared through his mind as she spoke. “…you think that I would allow this to happen? You think that you are entitled to use my body? That you can claim and control me? Look at ME!” the Woman commanded, the Wolf growled, the Goddess thundered.
Taran’s eyes opened involuntarily to reveal a fearsome sight. Standing over him in judgment were the three sides of his future mate. Skye stood in front of him, her hand still firmly gripping the side of his head, but she was not as she had been a moment ago.
The Woman before him was dressed in tight, black, foreign clothing that covered nearly every inch of her flesh. Her face was marred by hard-earned mortal scars. He knew that more scarring – thick, gnarled scarring born of a decade of unspeakable torture – was hidden away beneath her clothes. Her hair was in a tight, bleached blonde braid. Her furious blue eyes were heavily lined in black.
To her left, the Wolf was hunched down, snarling ferociously and swaying from side to side with the need to attack. Suspended in a state of partial transforma
tion, her feral yellow eyes flared with violence and fury. Her golden hair was wild and matted. Her body was bare. Her talons and teeth dripped with blood.
To her right, the Goddess hovered just above the ground, light as the wind and bathed in white light. Her eyes were bright white orbs. Her hair was silver and shimmering as Sorcha’s. Her body was bare, but the lines of it were softened and difficult to discern due to her internal glow.
All around them, their clansmen fell to their knees and prayed. Many wept and begged for mercy over what they were witnessing. Skye had become the Triple Goddess – an ascension in power the Great Mother Herself had not achieved.
“I am your QUEEN,” the three voices boomed as one, “but you are NOT my King. You are but a child in comparison to what you will become. My King’s great strength is not limited to his body. It extends to his devoted heart and even-tempered mind. He is merciful, caring, and wise. He is the rock to which I and our entire clan cling to for stability when the world is falling down around us. You are unworthy of his title. You are unworthy of his name!”
Taran could no longer find the voice to scream in pain. His body quaked with silent sobs as tears streamed down his face.
“SKYE! Please, stop! I beg you, my Goddess. Do not kill him!”
Skye released her hold on Taran in surprise when she finally registered that she could understand Ciaran’s pleas. Her form instantly returned to a single being, whitewashed and painted, dressed in her royal furs as if nothing had happened. She blinked in confusion as she turned, fully expecting to find herself somehow back in her own time. “Ciaran?” she asked in confusion when she saw him. He was still tribal, still 4,000 years younger than he should be.
“Thank you, Skye! Thank you,” Ciaran cried as he rushed forward to steady Taran. “Can you speak, brother?”
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