by Emma Hamm
The sword in his hand throbbed. Energy, like nothing he had ever felt before, surged through his arm and straight to his heart.
Claíomh Solais knew what to do. The runes glowed as its power flexed, pushed against his mind, and begged to be let free. The sword could make them pay. It could destroy them all.
Eamonn let it take over his entire being, lift his arm, and draw the blood it desperately wished to drink.
The blade carved through air and flesh. He dimly heard screams that rang in his ears, piercing and echoing with pain. A stream of blood dripped down his chest and underneath his armor, creating a river between his abdominal muscles.
How much blood covered him now? He didn’t know.
He didn’t care.
The sword cleaved through flesh and bone, separated limb from trunk. He stabbed through the lines of Fionn’s army over and over again.
Time slowed. He did not know where he was, who he was, nothing other than the repetitive motion of his body. Parry, block, swing the blade along with his body. He was no longer a man, but a weapon.
Belatedly, he realized he had been fighting for a very long time.
Eamonn swore as he cut down the last of the elves. His shoulders ached from swinging the heavy blade that fought for control with each movement. His body wanted to rest after hours upon hours of battle. The Fae did not stop when they started a fight. They would continue until everyone was dead.
He swung too hard and the Sword of Light split through the last elf’s torso. He stared into the man’s eyes as he fell, clutching the gaping wound on his belly.
Shouldn’t he feel something? Eamonn shook his head and stumbled backwards.
He only felt exhaustion. There wasn’t room for pity in the empty spaces of his mind.
“Master?” Oona called out.
Why was she here? Eamonn spun, sticking the sword's point into the ground to balance himself. Bodies lay upon the battlefield, strewn like fallen red leaves in autumn.
He frowned. Had he done all this? Who had fought with him?
“Eamonn!” Oona’s voice became frantic. “Answer me!”
“Here,” he mumbled. “I am here.”
A tiny winged body crawled over a mound of fallen soldiers, her expression melting into relief when she saw him. “Oh, my boy, we thought we lost you!”
“I’m fine.”
“I can see that, but how?” She clasped her hands at her chest and gazed up at him, purple wings vibrating in fear. “Dearie, how did you do this?”
“Do what?”
“The dwarves retreated hours ago. You've been alone.”
He glanced down at the sword. “I don’t know.”
“Sweetheart… Are you all right?”
“I don’t think so, Oona. I am not myself.”
She breathed out a relieved sigh. “Come with me, dearie. Let's get you cleaned up.”
He stared down at her hand. Could he touch her? After he had spilled so much blood, was he worthy to touch the woman who had raised him?
“Eamonn,” Oona gently said. “Let go of the sword and let me guide you from the battlefield.”
Did he want to? Eamonn couldn’t decide whether he wanted to put the sword back in its scabbard or if he wanted to run it through the pixie.
She closed her hand over his, so tiny and small compared to the crystalline structure of his fist. “Rest easy, my boy. The battle is done.”
The battle is done.
The words rang in his ears over and over again until he sighed and thrust the sword into its sheath. “My apologies, Oona.”
“I know blood lust runs in your veins, dearie. I’ve been raising those in your line since your father was a boy.”
His father had suffered from what he called a blood rage. Eamonn knew the back of his father’s hand much better than the front. He had never wanted to become that man.
He clenched his fists. “I have no wish to follow in my father’s footsteps.”
“And you won’t. Come with me, Eamonn. Come and see your kingdom.”
“My kingdom?”
“We’re at the foothills of Cathair Solais. It is far past time for you to see the castle of your childhood.”
“Has it changed?” He didn’t know what he would do if it had changed. If the world had grown better in his absence.
“Only a bit.”
Oona placed her hand on the small of his back as she guided him away from the carnage. He couldn’t help but look down, attempting to force his mind to remember. What did their faces look like? What terror had they felt as he plowed through them?
He couldn’t remember anything. Only a red mist that swallowed his view. Anything that walked through the mist, he had killed. Plain and simple.
“Where are the dwarves?” He slurred the words as he said them.
“They retreated.”
“Why?”
Her fingers flexed against his spine. “They didn’t want to get in your way.”
“Smart.”
“Has this ever happened before?”
Eamonn shook his head, then lifted her up and over a large pile of men. At her confused glance, he shrugged. “I don’t want you touching them.”
“So sweet, even after all of this.” She patted his cheek. “It will be all right, you know.”
“It has to be.”
“I know you’ll try.”
They walked away from the battlefield and over to a cliff edge. The dwarves remained as far away from him as possible, he noted. Perhaps they knew when a beast walked among them.
He heard the whispers as he walked by. “The Red Stag…it’s really him.”
“I thought he was dead?”
“So did I. But there he is in the flesh. Did you see the way he carved up those elves?”
“Chopped them up as if they would be his dinner, he did. That blade of his wouldn’t stop moving! Couldn’t even see it.”
Eamonn blocked them out, shaking his head and clearing the echoes of screams. He wasn’t the same as he used to be. He didn’t remember this red fog, and he certainly had never forgotten the faces of those he killed.
They plagued him for centuries. But now? He had to force himself to look at their faces, and even then couldn't care less that they were dead. They fought for the wrong side.
“Come here,” Oona reached out her hand for him. “See your kingdom in the light.”
His kingdom.
Eamonn inhaled deeply, took the offered hand, and stood to stare down at the Castle of Light.
It gleamed as only the golden castle could. Sunlight bounced off its smooth surface, but also absorbed into it. White and gold, the high peaks and pristine towers had never been dirty. They sparkled and blinded those who looked upon their surface.
The grounds had changed. A colorful garden stood in place of the maze he had run through as a child. He could see faeries walking through it even now, oblivious that a battle had taken place just above them.
He couldn’t attack the castle. Not yet. There was much to plan, and his brother couldn’t know how close he was.
Soon, he would return home.
“Let’s go,” he said.
He needed to address the dwarven army. Men fighting for Eamonn couldn’t be afraid of him. He didn’t want to rule like his brother.
He climbed off the rise and let the image of his home fade. The castle would wait for him; no army would destroy the legendary Castle of Light.
The sword at his hip bumped against his thigh, reminding him that there was much more at play here. As the high king, he had certain abilities his brother did not have. As long as he could figure out how to use them.
Dwarves huddled together in small family clumps. They weren’t happy about fighting for him. They weren’t happy about fighting for anyone but each other.
Cian rushed towards him, holding up a hand. “They aren’t pleased with you, master. I'd go so far as to say they're frightened of you.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“What else would you have me do?”
“Walk?”
Eamonn glanced around them and lifted his arms. “Where do you want me to walk?”
“Pick up the bodies then. They’re frightening everyone.”
“What did they think they would find in war? Sunshine and flowers?”
Oona tugged on his arm. “Come with me, we’ll go for a walk. It’ll be good to ease your muscles.”
“I don’t want to walk.”
“Master,” she pulled again. “Please.”
He recognized the panic in her eyes. She had worn the same expression when Fionn rode up to the castle on his white steed. She was hiding something from him.
Eamonn turned around and felt his heart freeze in his chest. Now that his mind had settled, he recognized this place and the rotting platform tucked into the side of the mountain.
He waded through dwarves that scattered as he approached. His booted feet touched the edge of the platform as he stared up into the blank space where a pole once stood and a rope had swayed in the breeze.
He lifted a hand and pressed it against his throat. The crystals pulsed with light, ancient pain vibrating through his body.
The breeze ruffled his hair. His long braid swayed, but his body remained still as stone.
Voices whispered in his ear from long ago.
“That’s the monster.”
“That’s the one who betrayed us all.”
“Look at him! He’s so ugly now.”
“I can’t believe I ever let him touch me.”
They had forsaken him. Not just the people who had professed to love him, but his own family.
He would never forget the haunted gaze of his mother who pressed her fingertips to her lips and said nothing. Did nothing. Watched her eldest son swing from the end of a rope with tears in her eyes, immobile and silent.
The crowd behind him held their breath as if they thought something remarkable was about to happen. The banished prince, the ugly man who had fallen from grace, stood before the gallows which had started it all.
He lifted a foot and placed it on the rotting planks. They held his weight as he ascended the stairs. Oona sobbed out a breath, the only sound in what remained of the battlefield.
Why did he suddenly feel so old? His bones ached almost as much as his soul. He tilted his head back to the sky and remembered ravens pecking at his eyes. He experienced every memory he had kept buried deep within his person so he would not feel this pain again.
But now he felt it. He lived every second of the days he swung from the end of that rope. The biting pain in his neck as the crystals sank ever deeper. The worry that perhaps he might never die, and they would leave him here.
He had survived. And so had his purpose.
Eamonn clenched his fists and turned towards the crowd of dwarves and the remains of his people.
“You all know my story,” he began. “Some of you were there to watch while my own family condemned me for my face.”
The temporary army stared up at him with shock, some with awe. To the younger faeries, he was a legend. A myth that parents told their children at night. The Untouched prince who carved his way through armies without getting a single wound.
“It was never my intention to come back here.” He looked over the battlefield and shook his head. “It was never my intention to start a war. But someone reminded me that my people were being mistreated.”
Oona sniffed and pressed a hand against her mouth.
He jabbed a finger behind him. “This is the very place they tried to take my life. They saw me as a monster, but more than that they saw what I stood for. If the royal family could be marked as ‘flawed,’ then the Lesser Fae were not half beasts. You are Seelie Fae, just as much as they are. I survived, and I know now that my purpose was to return here, on this day! To guide you back to your homes, to your people, to the rights stripped from you.”
A few of the dwarves stood up.
“I will not allow my brother to destroy this land any further. You and your families deserve the recognition you are owed. I will place my life on the line for you as I did on the battlefield today. Stand with me, brothers and sisters of the Fae. Let me be your sword, for I will strike down any who threaten you. Let me be your shield, for I will weather you through this storm. Let me be the biting cold of winter and the blistering heat of summer, for I will cut through the forces of Fionn the Wise and bring you home!”
A thunderous applause shook the ground as the faeries all stood and stomped their feet. They screamed up at him, anger and rage fueling the flames.
He would bring them home. Or he would die trying.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Sorcha grumbled. “I only asked you here to help because the spell requires two people.”
“We both know why you asked me here, and it wasn’t for that.” Aisling grinned and tossed one of her new coins in the air. A full bag jangled at her waist, the last bit Sorcha had to her name.
“Just…” Sorcha blew out a breath and placed her hands on her hips. “Quiet. Please. I’m trying to concentrate.”
“You’re not doing a good job of that.”
“And that is entirely because you won’t shut your mouth.”
“If you’d listen to me, then this might go faster.”
“What!” Sorcha threw her arms to the sides. “Where am I going wrong then? What could you possibly have to say that the book can’t tell me?”
Aisling hopped down from her seat on a nearby stump. Mud caked her bare feet which slapped against the cold wet ground as she hunched over a nearby rune. Tangled hair covered her face, twigs and leaves knotted into the heavy mass. She reached out and touched a ragged nail to the tail of the rune.
“This is wrong.”
“That’s exactly how it looks in the book,” Sorcha grumbled. “It’s not wrong.”
“The Beacon cannot be curved. The lines must be straight for the rune to stay lit.” Aisling moved, her hunched body crawling over the circle of runes Sorcha had carved into the ground. “Your Elk rune is quite good, but the Birch Goddess is missing its top.”
“You’re saying words I don’t understand.”
Aisling arched a brow. “And you want to be a druid?”
Sorcha’s cheeks burned. She was horrible at this—at magic—at rituals foreign to her. How was she supposed to figure this out when no one was here to teach her?
And the witch before her seemed to know so much. Aisling said there was no druid blood in her lines, nor faerie for that matter, but she was innately capable when it came to spells. She crouched over the runic circle and pivoted, fixing all of Sorcha’s mistakes.
“Thank you,” Sorcha said. “I appreciate your help.”
“Say that more often, and I might keep you alive.”
“I already said it!”
Aisling looked over her shoulder and bared her teeth. “Then say it again.”
“Thank you, Aisling, for helping me return to the Otherworld.”
“And for keeping you safe.”
“I fail to see how you are doing that.”
“If you make this portal wrong, it will chop you in half when you step through.” Aisling clapped her hands together. “Just like a cleaver on a fish head.”
Sorcha’s neck ached in response. She nodded. “Point taken. Are we certain it’s fixed then?”
“Oh, now you’re worried. Ridiculous. Just trust me, would you healer? This is what I do.”
“How do you even know how to do this?”
“Grew up with it.”
“You grew up with a druid?”
Aisling drew straight lines to link the runes together. “Sort of. I lived with a traditional witch. The old hedge witch type that made money off love potions and other lies. She had these books though, like the one I showed you. Books that spoke to me, and some that didn’t.”
She had to
have druid blood. Sorcha couldn’t believe anything else. If the books were revealing their secrets, then it seemed all too likely.
“They’re druid books?” she asked nonchalantly.
“Guess so. If the one you have now is druid, the others are pretty much the same.” Aisling leaned back and puffed out a breath. “It looks about right.”
“About right doesn’t sound as if you have much faith it will work.”
“It should work.”
“You’re not giving me any confidence here.”
“Well, I’ve never done this spell before, have I?” Aisling glared. “The goal is to get you through alive. That’s the best I can offer.”
Sorcha nodded. She didn’t want to interrupt the witch too much, but her legs bounced and her palms slicked with sweat. Just how much time had passed in the Otherworld? Would she even be able to find him?
Him. She could feel the bumps and grooves of crystal against her fingertips just from the thought of him. The soft sigh he let out whenever she leaned on his shoulder, or touched his hand without flinching.
Something deep inside her knew he needed support. Fionn’s dream had solidified that, but she had known long before the dream. She had known the moment she left the isle that she took a piece of his soul with her.
“That will do,” Aisling stepped carefully out of the circle. “We’ll see once it’s activated.”
“That’s it?” Sorcha stared down at the ground. “It doesn’t look like much.”
“Did you think magic would be all flashing colors and pretty lights? Of course it doesn’t look like much. This is natural magic, not the crap those traveling peddlers pass off.” Aisling held out her hand. “Now give me something of his.”
“What?”
“We have to find him in the Otherworld, and the only way to do that is to have something of his. Don’t you have a lock of hair?”
Sorcha wrinkled her nose. “I don’t keep people’s hair.”
“Amateur. You should always have hair from everyone, just in case.”
“Do you have mine?”
“Yes,” Aisling said and patted the folds of fabric over her chest. “But don’t worry. I have no desire to curse you.”
“Not yet.”
“You’re learning. So you have nothing of his?”