Hi all! It's my first time writing for the Nasuverse, and I thought I'd start small. Here's a one-shot about how Lancer (Diarmuid) ended up with his mark (loosely based on the mythology surrounding him). Originally this was a distant prologue for a story I was working on, but life is busy and I doubt I'll be able to put it all together any time soon.
The woman's name is the literal word for Youth, and she's never named in the poetry about the Fianna; instead we only really know her as "the personification of youth".
Youth
Ireland – Somewhere near 220 A.D.
Coarse, chilling wind whipped through a tiny coastal village. The tenacious gusts stole the caps off the waves and whipped them through a small band of homes like tiny bits of ethereal shrapnel. It was supposed to be the warm season, but it seemed that tonight the forces of the world were in favor of bone-chilling cold.
Òige didn't mind.
As a druidess she was more than familiar with the cruel tricks that the coast could play, and she'd been expecting this particular torment for some time. Living in a coastal village had its downsides, and the violent change in weather was most definitely one. Though she'd prepared for the cold with a pile of thick blankets and furs, it seemed that nature had made preparations for her warmth already in the form of the man sleeping next to her.
She looked down at him fondly in the dim lighting. He was most definitely the embodiment of a warrior; strong shoulders that had been developed for slashing and parrying blows, a lithe body made for the utmost agility, and strong arms that betrayed his weapon-wielding ways. She knew little about him, but it was easily evident that he was one of the strongest that had visited their village for the night. His calm observance of the boisterous mood of the other men had made Òige realize that simply watching over his leader was the greatest celebration he could comprehend. While the other men competed for the attentions of her druid-sisters, he stayed content to watch from his master's side. Still, it had been easy for her to catch his eye. She'd wanted him for his loyalty, he'd wanted her because she was the fabled embodiment of youth.
She silently blushed as she thought of how strange it was for her to be in such a situation. It was rare that the women of the druidess village welcomed men. The prospect of weakening their magical blood in impulsive trysts was worse than the thought of dying alone, and because of this they frequently did - after raising the children of carefully selected mages. The women of the village sustained themselves; building stone homes, warding off the waves, hunting. They didn't need men to keep their small band functioning, so they didn't seek them out for anything but the continuation of their lineage. On this frigid night however, they hadn't been simply visited by men; they'd been visited by demigods and heroes alike. She watched the peaceful face of her extraordinary partner, the tranquility of his expression was enrapturing, set on such a masculine face.
Yes, the knights who served Fionn mac Cumhaill were more than men.
They were the fiercest, strongest, and the fastest. They were renowned for their extraordinary battles and the near-poetic ways in which they used their weapons. To watch them fight, some said, was to watch a vicious, bloodthirsty dance. Certainly, the Fianna were blessed by the gods.
Could she turn down such an honor?
Of course she couldn't. She ran a hand idly through his unruly hair, causing him to grip her tighter against him. She could easily see strong muscles move under his skin as he pulled her close. Watching a man like this left her at a loss.
Men like this shone brightly and burned quickly.
He would undoubtedly go on to perform miracles of the sword, and would likely die on its blade. He'd spend his life chasing the ever-elusive dream of becoming a hero, and he would succeed over and over again until his name reached the clouds. His arms were strong and a safe place for her to lay, but she knew that his arms weren't meant to cradle love; they were meant to destroy all who challenged him.
That in itself was the greatest sin that the gods had ever committed.
As she lay next to him, bare and yet safe, she knew that upon replacing his strewn armor and taking his place at his lord's side, he would cast aside the idea of love and the warmth of her embrace. It was as cruel as it was fitting for a man like this, and yet it cut Òige's pride.
"First knight of the Fianna, you are so ignorant of the cruelty you've dealt me." She whispered, tracing the outline of his jaw. She brushed her thumb under his right eye and watched as a small mole appeared. "but in this life, all things must become equal. From now on, all women who look upon your face will feel the enrapturing affection that I feel for you now."
Yes, fate had seen to it that she was warm for the night, but fate had also seen fit to make her heart a fool. A man like this was not made to love, and a heart like hers had been made to be fickle. She gently blew on the one remaining candle and lay back against her furs.
She was certain that when he left in the morning, she would never see him again.