wine from a broken jar. Too weak to stand, he collapsed beside the body of his friend and began to weep. He sat there throughout the rest of the battle, sobbing relentlessly, as couples and groups of warriors clashed around him.
The northern forces won the day and drove the enemy tribe from the field. After looting the dead and taking the wounded as captives, they headed back. Donall carried Somhairle the entire way, refusing any offer of help. Once back in his village, he ordered a lavish, three-day funerary festival, with feasts and games and races to honor his friend. Afterwards, he and his personal retainers took Somhairle and his personal possessions in secret to an ancient dolman in the wild country west of the village. They buried him in an unmarked grave under the monument of stone, and Donall swore his men to secrecy regarding its location.
According to the terms of the geis laid on him, Donall should have instructed his men to slit his throat and lay him beside his paramour, but he could not. Having survived the battle, he was obligated to care for Somhairle's wife and children. This he did, treating them as if they were his own. But his lust for life died with Somhairle, and he withdrew from all but the most rudimentary of daily activities. Grief-stricken, over time he cut himself off from everyone and everything, refusing to acknowledge the validity of any reality other than his mourning, even his own wife and children. Even his honor no longer meant anything to him, since he had failed to honor his pledge to his best beloved, and he refused to engage in battle ever again. As the years of his existence increased, he became a recluse, living alone, shunned by everyone, and caring not.
As Donall Ruad stood shivering and feeling his extremities going numb, he watched the sun disappear beneath the horizon. It would not be long before Somhairle Duhb would rise, and he had to be ready to strike quickly, to give the revenant no time to awaken its army. So he stood before the opening in the huge cairn and lifted his spear to thrust it forward as soon as he saw any movement.
Though at first he had been as ignorant as any man as to the identity of the revenant, he had come to realize it must be his old bosom companion from descriptions of the creature's arms, armor, and chariot. He was the last person alive to remember where Somhairle had been buried. All the men who had helped him were dead, and he had told no one else, not even his friend's wife or children, because he wanted to keep what was left of his comrade to himself. Instead, his selfishness threatened the whole of the land, but he could not bring himself to tell his clan chieftain. He believed his broken geis had caused Somhairle to rise, so he felt it was his responsibility to destroy the monster. He told only his charioteer of the plan, because should he fail, he could inform the chieftain who could then alert the king.
Yet he had no idea how to destroy Somhairle, nor could he ask the Druids for help, lest they inform on him before he could act. Then, on the morning of the day he planned to confront the revenant, as he walked alone through the fields in the pre-dawn mist, a figure approached from out of the gloom. It proved to be a hoary, misshapen hag, with long, white hair and a face like dried, cracked leather, enshrouded in a shadow-black cloak.
In a strong voice that nonetheless creaked like dried wood, she greeted him. "Hail, Donall the Red, son of Roibeard. You seek the means to lay Somhaile the Black, grandson of Nollag."
Startled, Donall made ready to chastise her when she overrode him. "Fear not, for the Morrigan has blessed your cause. The dead belong to her and her hounds, not to the Fomorians. Heed my words, then, if you wish to succeed. His vulnerable spot is his throat. To end his undead existence, you must strike him in the throat with a dagger of cold iron."
Then her eyes flashed, and Donall's blood ran cold as he realized he stood in the presence of Nemhain, the last and oldest of the three aspects of the Morrigan, and the most terrifying. Her visage turned grim and her voice sharp as she continued. "But beware! Your greatest danger is not your former friend, but your own heart. Your love for him is your weakness and his advantage. To destroy him, you must first destroy your own devotion to him, or you will lose your soul." She then began keening as the mist billowed and thickened around her. It sounded like the lament of the old women at funerals, but harsher, more strident and horrific. Howling in fear, Donall fled from the field, so he never noticed that when the mist cleared, Nemhain had vanished.
He carried the knife in his belt behind the buckle, ready in case he received a chance to use it, but already he felt himself weakening. It took longer than he expected for Somhairle to appear. His arms grew fatigued, and his spear and shield drooped; his eyes watered, blurring his vision; his breathing became labored; and his legs buckled. He believed he would collapse at any moment, when a shape appeared in the blackness inside the dolman. He did not wait for it to emerge; he stepped forward and threw the spear with all his remaining strength. Yet so feeble was his cast that the weapon bounced backwards off the figure's chain shirt.
He stumbled as he stepped and nearly fell, but he righted himself and drew his sword. Sounding a quavering battle cry, he doddered forward, trying to swing his blade up, but he could only manage to swing it from side to side. Still, he did so as fast as he could, and his sword bit into each side of the figure's legs and hips. Yet it did not react, as if his sword-strokes were nothing worse than slaps to the face. Donall kept up his attack as long as he could, but then the pain in his gut roared to life. Doubling over in agony, the sword dropped from his spasming hand and he retreated backward a dozen steps before he fell to his knees.
Somhairle stepped fully out of the shadows and walked towards his former friend. He watched Donall until the pain had passed, then held out his hand. Donall looked at it without comprehension at first, but then realized his companion offered to help him stand. He shrugged off the shield and took hold. The dead flesh felt cold and seemed like nearly hardened clay, but the revenant's strength was prodigious, and he pulled the old man to his feet with little effort.
Donall stared into the face that once belonged to his paramour. He had not known what to expect, but he felt shocked to see how little decay had occurred. The clouded eyes stared back at him with the same expression as a dead animal, and the skin looked slack and fish-belly white, but he recognized every line, every blemish, every hair. It was Somhairle; whatever else he might or no longer be, he was still his bosom comrade. And his love for him, long smoldering among the ashes of grief, flared hot and bright again.
"You have grown old, beloved." The voice sounded dry and grim, deeper than Donall remembered, but strong and firm. "Still, it is good to see you have retained your courage."
Emotion choked his words. "I've missed you, as a man would miss his right arm."
"And I you." Somhairle's reply sounded flat and devoid of all feeling. "We should never have been parted."
"No."
"We are of the same soul, inseparable; only our bodies are apart."
"I am so sorry I abandoned you; the pain of it is more than I can bear."
Somhairle placed his left hand on Donall's shoulder. "It is not too late, beloved. We can be reunited. Join me, of your own free will; fight beside me as we once did, lie with me in the same bed as before, and together we can conquer an empire the likes of which even Imperious Medb, for all her arrogant hubris, could not imagine."
Donall felt a wave of relief washed over him, drowning and sweeping away his grief, leaving him speechless. His friend had not only forgiven him, but was willing to take him back, and if he agreed, they would never be parted again, even if the roof of heaven collapsed. That had been what he had longed for all the years of his self-imposed solitude, and he wanted to embrace his bosom companion as he shouted his acceptance to the world.
Even as he raised his hands, one brushed against the knife, and the words of Nemhain rang through his head:
Your love for him is your weakness and his advantage.
He hesitated as they died away, and their import suddenly dawned on him. If he joined with Somhairle, all hope of destroying the revenant horde would be lost, and he would comm
it a far greater crime than betraying his geis. He realized that he could not recapture the old lifestyle he and his friend had shared, because in doing so he would condemn Erin and possibly all mankind to the cursed existence of the walking dead. He wanted nothing more than to be with his beloved forever, but he understood that his loyalty to humanity was more important than his loyalty to his friend, and his honor--which he thought he had forsaken so many years ago--demanded that he obey the former over the latter.
"I will join you." He rested one hand on the knife.
The revenant smiled, like a deaths-head grin. "Embrace me." It held its arms open. Donall gripped the knife, pulled it from the belt, and raised his arms, stepping forward.
"Kiss me." The corpse opened its mouth. Donall puckered his lips, but as he stepped inside the circumference of the cadaver's arms, he brought his right arm forward and plunged the knife into the monster's throat. The dull blade cut through the hardened flesh like bread, leaving a long, ragged gash, and as the revenant staggered back, a creature resembling a short, thick blind snake covered in slime emerged and flailed its head about, shrieking in a thin, high-pitched voice like a wounded rabbit. Donall
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