PROLOGUE - FANGS OF CÙ SÌTH
"Could you tell me a story?"
He was drawn out of his half-slumber. This evening of late December was already dark, tv was quietly babbling about some insignificant celebrity, dancing flames in the fireplace made the wood snap every now and then, and the man noticed they both had let their readings fall down on their knees, and he had no idea what had been said on the last page of the latest summary.
"Letters are dancing in my eyes, I can't read anymore. Could you please tell me a story?"
The paleness and the red spots on cheeks were worrying, and he wondered whether fever was still trying to creep in. He would have to let the doctor know about it, although he guessed it would start a row where he wouldn't be able to take sides.
But a story? He wasn't any damned story-teller or nanny, for God's sake. Yet, there was a plea in that request, plea which reached deep into him, plea which had nothing with stories to do. "I... I don't think I know any stories."
"Really?" Was there a tiny glint of amusement in those dim eyes? "I've heard that you are very good in making up fables."
He couldn't help but chuckle. "Well... och, all right, just give me a moment." He got up from the sofa, took the offered novel back to its place on the bookshelf, went into the kitchen and made them two big mugs of hot chocolate. He switched off the ceiling light while returning to the living room, leaving only the standard lamp in the corner and the fire to give light.
He handed the other mug over, turned off the tv, then returned to sofa. They enjoyed their warm drinks in silence, and he tried to find inspiration. Finally he put his mug down on the low table, wiped both their lips carefully with serviettes, which earned him a mildly perplexed glance, then astonished himself by wrapping his arm around those bony shoulders, and felt the thin body timidly lean against his side. "All right then... This is something I heard from my grandfather..."
It was amazing how easily the tale of the quest of Fíonna, a Warrior Princess of the Aes Sídhe, started to unfold in his mind. At points where he merrily allowed her to go gate-crashing to the feast of Gargantua after beating the crap out of a few windmills on her way there, he heard soft, delighted laughter which was soon interrupted by pained feeble coughs. But when the Princess fought the attacking Cù Sìth, hound of the Otherworld, at the gates of her sovereign's castle, and fell to face the perils of Infinite darkness, his listener went quiet. He felt a light snuggle against his shoulder and neck, and without thinking he pulled the blanket better up for safety, and carefully started to guide the Princess back towards the land of the living. He heard a sigh when the wounded Princess set again her eyes on the castle of her King and on her fellow knights, but just as he was coming to the point where Fíonna would be taken to see her King, he looked down and noticed his audience had fallen asleep.
"Eh... hello?" He nudged a shoulder gently, only with the result that the snuggle, most embarrassingly, turned into a cuddle, and he saw a slight smile emerge on the drawn but now peaceful face. He allowed himself to enjoy that unexpected warmth for a moment while estimating weight and his own strength, and then cautiously altered his position, lifted a limp arm to go over his shoulder, slipped his own other arm under the hams, managed to lift, and staggering only a couple of times, took his frighteningly light burden into a bedroom.
He lowered his charge on the bed with utmost care. After switching on the dim night-light he took a huge teddybear he had originally bought to be one of his Christmas gifts to UCLH's children's ward, and tucked it gently under the sleeper's arm, wishing it would keep her terrible nightmares, her own Infinite darkness, away, until the doctor would arrive in an hour. Then he took the blanket and started to cover the pair better, but had to stop as his gaze was drawn to the figures of dressings slightly noticeable under the blouse, and to the bandage; and he sat down on the bedside, sighing deep.
He heard his front-door open and a few seconds later Bodie's steps found their way to the threshold. "Sorry I'm a little late, Sir," the blue eyes were apologetic, and the man spoke quietly. "We had to check out a tip to that Hendley-case before I could leave. Anyway, Ray came with me, once you get changed he takes you to Downing Street so you get there in half the usual time, and he promised to wait for you there until you're ready with the PM. Everything alright here, Sir?" George Cowley nodded, uncertain. "Oh, she's smiling..." Bodie was moved, and tiptoed closer.
"She asked me to tell her a story," Mr Cowley said abruptly, surprised by the pain that suddenly struck him. "She... she fell asleep under my arm..." he couldn't continue as emotion choked him, and he forced himself to pull the blanket all the way up, tenderly covering the body which had covered his, and had taken – no, claimed - the bites of the bullets that had harrowed flesh, torn organs and crushed bone.
Bullets meant for him.
And only the Dark Knight ever knew of the tear of the King.
(Cù Sìth = fairy dog said to haunt the Highlands, of Scottish Gaelic mythology, feared as a harbinger of death and among other things it would appear to bear away the soul of a person to the afterlife. Source: Wikipedia)