It is God who suffered them, though He restrained them
they landed with horror, with lofty deed,
in their cloud of mighty combat of spectres,
upon a mountain of Conmaicne of Connacht.
Without distinction to discerning Ireland,
Without ships, a ruthless course
the truth was not known beneath the sky of stars,
whether they were of heaven or of earth.
Coast of Conmaicine Rein Territory,
Connacht, Ireland
2500 B.C.
A stillness seemed to enshroud the ocean as they glided forward. A white fog cascaded around them all, making the line of water and sky indistinct. It appeared, to Macha, that the land around them was not land, but a dream sent directly from Danu. A white canvas of a dream, preparing them all for the onslaught of hardships to come. The boat creaked noisily as it glided smoothly across the water, barely making a ripple.
What had started out as an idea had grown into something way bigger. The thought of resettling from the fog of Connacht to actually on land… it was intimidating.
She swiped the creamy-brown hair from her eyes, her fingers brushing the wind-stung skin of her cheeks. She had survived a lot on this treacherous, fleeing voyage, battling sea-sickness, fleas- a much more formidable foe than previously thought- and horrid weather. What member of the crew or passengers that remained unaffected were driven to the ground in exhaustion caring for the sick. On top of that was the stress- the stress that they would be overtaken by the Fomorian's vessels. Everyone was quite ready to make land fall; they had waited long enough.
A small cry from her arms brought her attention back from her musings to the bundle in her arms. Mara pulled the soiled cloth from around the top, revealing an ashen cheeked child of only a few months. His tiny hands stretched out toward her face in a beckoning motion as he whimpered.
'I know, a rún. We are almost through."
She dug her nose into his cheek, laying a light kiss on his gently pointed ear, even as his red hair tickled her nose. "You've been such a good boy."
He stared back up at her with unfathomable brown eyes.
Her gently, cooing voice and light swaying of her hips lessened his sobs until he nestled silently, once again, into the blanket's folds.
She sighed as she covered him back up. He continued to show his heritage more every day. He looked so much like… like him.
Her blindness.
Her mistake.
Her love.
A mistake made and kept secret. Artur would never know, hopefully, about his mother's horrible action. About the downfall of her life, the crossing of the line from normal to...frightening.
But, she thought, as she watched him dig his chubby fingers deeper into the cloth, he is a completely and utterly adorable mistake.
The cherished moment was brought to an end as she heard the rocking sound of a ship as it hit the rocks lining the beach. People dismounted fluidly and hurriedly, only turning into a jostling mess as they reached the ground itself, and then following the patterns that the soldiers were laying out for them. Camp was set up quickly, and cooking fires kindled into brightness.
In no short amount of time Macha had settled into a small tent constructed of thickly woven strips of fur and staked in somewhat of a pentagonal shape with carved wooden rods, which had a rather large head and fluted inward to help with pressing it into the rocky ground. The furs were warm and substantial, but thick enough to pack up easily and move it when needed. Two more furs had been laid in the center, overlapping the edges of the walls; one was considerably smaller than the other, which she assumed was so she could wrap Artur beside her.
Macha kneeled in the wet ground, sliding lithely through the narrow flaps of the tent and rolling her babe, who now slept peacefully, into the shearling fur. His small cherubic face seemed to reflect the heavily red tones of the furs making the roof, and she kissed his nose, loving the look of peace on his face. Then she stood silently, rolling from ball to heel, and stealthily left the tent and into the humid air outside. The smell of ocean was heavy upon all those there, and the dusk creeping slowly upon them left the sky in a grayish-white tinge. She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, taking in the camp with a strategic glance of verdant green. The warriors of the group- meaning, all of the men and a few scattered women- were debating post positions and rotation timing heatedly. Though this was normal- it seemed that if any tribe in their entire nation, this one had to be the most spirited. Everything was intensified, whether by alcohol or just love of life.
This was being demonstrated as Aodhan, a rather burly man of six feet, muscle and tribal tattoos, violently shook his head and pointed firmly with a large appendage, emphasizing that no, he would not take dinner shift, he needed the meat. (For the few who knew him, knew that for all his looks, he was always vain about keeping his muscles) His clean-shaven head, smooth and taut save for the strip of dark hair that was braided tightly down his back, reflected the fire pit the group was gathered around. A white fur, supposedly from his 'white wolf he killed with his bare hands' was looped across his shoulders like the trophy that it was.
The warrioress beside him, Ciara, shook her head slowly, exasperatingly, her stance firm and strong. She wore custom armor, made by her father before her departure. It consisted of a layer leather breastplate and cuisses adorning her thighs, covered the practical brown- dyed lamb skin and laced boots.
Although Macha could not see her face, nor hear her, she got the impression that she had informed Aodhan that yes, he could take the shift (and that he would) because Clearie was the only one amongst them who could even decently cook so therefore had to be at dinner, and poor Aodhan's muscles would not suffer the consequences. Macha smiled as Aodhan backed down, grumbling under his breath and stalking into the tree line. Clearie, an elderly man who was almost bald, but proudly sporting a long white beard, nodded sharply in pleasure and walked slowly back into camp, gathering rocks for the cooking fire as he went.
As the crowd of warriors dispersed, Macha caught sight of a stately warrior, clad in furs and leather, with a full head of curly black hair sitting atop a handsome face. His jaw was strong, with a sharp nose and brooding eyebrows that over shadowed deep black eyes. Said eyes lit up brightly as Macha came into view, and he walked lightly towards her, his tracks leaving only the slightest indention in the sand.
His smile was radiant as he came to stillness in front of her, his eyes taking in the sight of her thigh-length robe, dirk and knee-high laced boots. He raised a calloused hand and lifted hers, kissing it softly. Macha smiled, and just to over-do him, leaned up and kissed his sun-tanned, tattooed cheek. His hand came to rest on her cheekbone and she sighed, reveling in his touch, so long denied throughout the voyage by both duties and status.
His voice was deep and grumbling as he leaned in to nuzzle her cheek, his pointed ears lying in full view and lifting some of the thick hair out at the side of his head. She smoothed it hurriedly to conceal it, but with a smile, half at his perpetually messy state and half at the feel of his lips caressing her neck.
Before she knew what she was doing, her arms had risen around his neck in a tight embrace, taking a nip of his ear before pulling back just enough to look into his eyes.
She smiled at his grunt of displeasure.
"Dia dhuit. Hello, Nemed." Her voice was deep with pleasure as she purposely slid back a step, even as Nemed's hand came to fall from her hip in a dejected manner.
He smiled contentedly, however. "Hello, Macha. How did the journey treat you when I was unable to stand guardian over your shoulder?"
She smiled gently as she answered. "As well as can be expected. Artur greatly misses his father, however."
Nemed nodded solemnly, looking down at the beach sand in thought, but then glanced up at her with a concerned look.
"How are his... attributes... developing?"
Macha took a slow, deep and deliberate breath. "His ears already have a distinct point, and he has displayed his odd connection with nature quite openly."
"And how are you explaining this?"
"Well," she started, pausing only as a child passed lugging kindling, and then she carried on in a hushed tone."The ears... I am not even bothering yet. I am simply covering them with a wrap to ' help protect his delicate head', which is not an uncommon excuse for a boy his age. The...communication...I brushed off the manner as child's play. No one said anything."
Nemed sighed sadly before looking back to her, concern filling his dark eyes. "You know they will soon know. We cannot evade the clan forever."
"...I know."
Nemed's strong arms wrapped carefully around her in a strong, yet cautious hug. She melted into his embrace as darkness fell, thinking the conundrum over, and knowing the horrible implications of it.
Nemed was one of the last descendents of the Scythia of Agnoman, meaning one of the last truly 'magical' lords of the Tuatha De Dannan. Why was he one of the few remaining?
Because they were being hunted.
Years ago, almost too many for Macha, who was a small child at the time, to remember, an uprising led by the lord of the Scythia had sealed the fate of all his descendents. Nemed was his illegitimate son, and therefore hidden when the massacre decimated the palace harem. Though the human members of the tribe had come for him, they could not find him, as his professor, who had at an early age noticed Nemed's considerable power, hidden the child in a cloak of 'Sight'. This name was somewhat of a misnomer, as it concealed the person's true identity to all onlookers. Nemed had lived under this disguise for many years and used it to claim the throne against the other suitors.
But still, he kept the law of persecution for his kind, knowing that refusing the law would only bring suspicion and turmoil to the heavily-indoctrinated people. Instead, the few remaining 'sidhe',as the magical lords were now insultingly called, were funneled through an underground system filled with sympathizers that housed and disguised them. This was how he met her.
She was the first person he had revealed himself to since taking up the mantle of king, human, and the name Nemed.
And that had cost a lot of trust on his part.
From then it had been the obvious, yet difficult plan of resettling in Conmaicine, and building the new empire. While they had yet to even be near the idea of 'building a new empire', they had landed, and would begin settling within the week.
As she leaned gently into him, the world seemed to close down to only the steady pulse of his wrist on her neck. The world had finally come to peace- to a moment she could rest...
And a wailing cry of war pierced the night sky like a knife.
Macha flung herself out of his embrace, arms already pumping at her side in her haste to get back into the camp. Stubby plants and sharp rocks sped away underfoot as she pounced upon the camp. Alarm widened her eyes even as she drew her dirk from her waist.
Nemed didn't even pause at her side as he flung himself into the massive wave of battle. Bodies writhed as blood was shed, staining the ground quickly from its original hue of cream into a deep maroon. Cries of pain and rage filled the beach in a deafening cacophony. Her vision sharpened, and sound dulled in shock. There, a man's throat was slit. There, Ciara's blade sliced through another woman's thigh straight to the bone. A Formorian, savagely feasting on a friend's intestines. Nemed spun around, yelling to her, blood already mingling with the blue tribal tattoo, and coating his brown hair in stringy masses. Everything was lit with a stark golden glow from the remaining torches and rebel fires spreading across the campsite.
The attackers bore no resemblance to themselves, tall and monster-like as they were, as opposed to their short and golden skin. Their tribal runes criss-crossed their naked chest as they rushed in with weapons she had never seen before. Long, wicked knives sharpened on both ends, curved forward at the tip.
But the most disturbing of all was their heads- heads of rams, snarling noses, yellowed eyes and horns adorned with poison. Others possessed only one eye, one terrifying eye that was bloodshot and red, with no iris to speak of- just deep black.
Macha gasped as she spun on her heel, darting back into the darkness outside of the torches, diving between men and slashing viciously at those that got in her way. Her vision offered her only one destination: her son.
Her own voice was foreign to her as she tackled -head on- a burly man that stood in her way. Her own hands were foreign to her as she saw herself, as if a calm, third-person entity, pull the 'man' to his knees and ferociously stab him in the face, watching as his bravery crumpled into a sobbing, mutilated mixture of blue tribal paint and blood, gashes and holes marring all the surface of his face. The one eye was split in two, a gray pus leaking out over his wounds.
She never saw where he fell.
The only sound was her heart beat.
Ba-Dump.
The tent. She had to get to the tent.
She felt pain blast through her shoulder. She kept going, the warmth of blood flowing down her chest and abdomen.
She could make it.
Ba-Dump.
With a cry, both of relief and desperation, she flung herself at the fur of the tent, diving into the opening in one motion.
And landed in sickening warm fluid that clogged her sense in liquid terror.
She spluttered and sat up in a jerky motion that brought the scene to light. Or more specifically, the blood raging across the fur wrap and the back wall of the tent in spiraling, painful patterns of one tortured horrendously before death.
Ba-Dump.
Macha felt a shriek pierce through her soul, wild and animal like, one never before uttered from her lips.
Her son.
One sob fell through in that scream. Just one. Then a look so terrifying, so full of rage, filled her sharp green eyes that glowed in the darkness. And as the savage cry of the predators rang on her ear, just outside the tent, she took a breath.
Her heel, the pressure of her position pressing into it, spun slowly and quietly to face the door. The blanket made a spiral around her.
Ba-Dump.
The knife was lifted back from the place it had landed. The grip- white and hard, feeling the cold metal, now slick with blood, press its grooved pattern into her hand.
Ba-Dump.
The growl emanated from outside. And she stood, dirk in hand, ready to face the onslaught.
So... eh?
If you cannot tell, this will be recounting the story of Taillte, and the first war of the fairies, and of ancient Ireland. It is heavily researched, but if anyone out their is an expert in Celtic mythology, I will be changing this somewhat, and not all intentional. It is really confusing stuff. :)
No idea how frequently it will be updated. I always have so many ideas, and then have trouble keeping up with the ideas I had previously. It's an ENTP thing. :)
Love ya'll, and... I love reviews!