Death, he has learned, is a release from burdens; of silence and stillness. Birth is agony and confusion. He gasps, lungs searing as they fill once again with air. He doubles over, his hand reaching up to where the spear had burst through his body. But the feel of the embroidered collar of his léine instead of a uniform of suit and tie that some part of him has expected to find, fractures his mind as memories separated by almost two millennia, awaken and struggle for resolution. Closing his eyes, he lets the memories flash by. One catches his attention and he grabs at it.
"Will you throw your life away just for the sake of honor, rígfhéinnid?"
He shivers at the title but that's not what he needs to know. He's forgotten his own name but he knows somewhere, in this memory, is a clue to who he is.
The voice is a familiar one. Rising slowly, old muscles protesting, from the newly made grave of his servant Ferdia, he turns away from his visitor for a moment to look into the distance. He knows Cairbre's army is just beyond his sight, and behind him he can hear his Fianna and their allies preparing for the dawn and the coming battle. Oisín, his son, is recounting their past victories somewhere back there and he feels a moment of pride; it will take most of the night to recount them all.
The goddess moves closer and this time asks, "Will you lead all those who love you to their end just for the sake of your pride, Fionn mac Cumhaill?"
That's right—Fionn. But that's not quite right, is it?
Fionn glances over his shoulder. The Morrígan is dressed for war. He shakes his head. "For pride, no my Queen; for honor…" He shrugs his shoulder and looks back at the land slowly disappearing into the encroaching night. "If not for that then for what should we fight?"
The goddess of war smiles. "First, you mind tellin me where'd ya learn a trick like that?"
Mentally he reels at the sound of the voice coming from the Morrígan. The landscape warps into a brightly lit room.
A grimace crosses his face—one that he quickly hides as he turns. He's made a basic mistake but muscle memory had taken over before he could think about it. He needed to watch that in the future.
Turning, he finds a tall black man staring at him—Eyes on me—his arms crossed and his one visible eye narrow and piercing. He has the impression the man has on some kind of combat uniform but the long coat he's wearing hides it for now. Unlike the other agents around them—who are looking at the fallout of his little mistake with wide eyed amazement and confusion—this one looks more irritated than anything else and he knows that he is possibly in trouble. He schools his features into the blandest one he can pull off with his old memories lingering so close to the surface. "Clean living?" he says.
The man rolls his one eye at him.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Seems like your agent here had a little party and got a little carried away with his dance partners," the man in the long coat says.
"Coulson?" – Ah, yes, Philip J. Coulson; that's right; that's who I am now— The Director of the F.B.I. turns a confused look his way. "What's Fury babbling about?"
Coulson just shrugs—it seems the safest course of action to take for now.
"So how much is it gonna cost me to steal this one away from you?" Fury asks. The Director rolls his eyes and gives the man an irritated look.
"What do you want him for?"
"Save the world. What else would I want him for?"
"Woof!"
Coulson jerks away from the bark but before he can move further away a weight suddenly drops across his legs, pinning him in place. Blinking his eyes open, still partially lost in his past though not as far back as he started, Phil finds both of his hunting hounds giving him reproachful looks. Well, considering how he got here that's to be expected.
Nodding his head, he gives them a crooked smile of apology in return. "I know. I shouldn't have fallen for such a simple trick. Just assumed he wouldn't do it twice in a row."
Bran rolls his head to the side, furry eyebrows twitching in annoyance as he grumbles something at his brother. Sceolang makes a noise that sounds more like a sneeze than an answer—though Phil isn't fooled by that bit of misdirection— then huffs. Both wolfhounds turned their narrow grey muzzles towards their master and give him another look. Phil rolls his eyes.
"Fine. Won't do it again. Mind getting off my feet, Sceolang?"
There is another quick conversation which Phil suspects goes along the lines of 'not sure that's a good idea' and 'idiot's a threat to his own self' then Sceolang pushes off Phil's legs, grumbling the whole time. Smiling, Phil reaches out and scratches Sceolang behind the ears as he glances around.
The rest of the Fianna are just visible beyond the glow of the fairy light floating above his head. They're as still and silent as the cave floor they lie on but Phil knows they're simply waiting for his call. Closer, at his side, lay his armor and weapons—all useless in this time. Well, not all of them. His gaze lingers on his shield and his remembers his wonder at the sight of a man using his shield against guns and tanks and winning those fights against all the odds. Even he, one of the greatest warriors Ireland has ever produced, has never learned how to use his shield like that. Shaking his head he asks, not expecting an answer, "How long has it been this time?"
"Four hours," a woman answers.
Looking up, he finds the Morrígan looking down at him. She's dressed in a SHIELD combat uniform—though her sword is still strapped to his side—and she seems as annoyed with him as the hounds do.
"Four hours?" he asks.
The goddess sighs. "Agent Coulson is dead but you are not done yet. And there is not time now to start over."
Phil glances down at his weapons and his gaze settles on the Dord Fiann, the war horn that would waken the sleeping Fianna. "Is it that close then?"
"Yes."
A puzzled look crosses Coulson's features as he turns back to the goddess. "Wait. Not time to start over?"
The Morrígan nods then smiles. He wonders briefly, looking at that smile, if Fury is somehow related to her. "Just wanted to warn you what you will be waking up to before sending you back. I'm sure a poet such as yourself will have no trouble explaining why you are no longer dead."
Coulson sighs as the goddess snaps her fingers.
"Clean living huh?"
Coulson opens his eyes. He can feel pain but it's muffled this time. Above him, Fury is scowling. Coulson smiles and tries to look like dying and coming back to life several hours later was nothing unusual but he ends up giggling instead. Oh, they're giving me the good stuff. That's nice.
The scowl gets deeper. "Right. I'm sure you'll explain how snorting fairy dust equals clean living when you write up your report." Before he can even begin to make sense of that statement, Fury nods his head towards something to Coulson's left. "Mind tellin me what that is?"
Carefully turning his head, wow that's a big bandage there, he can see that there is something down by his hand but can't quite make out what it is. Reaching out, Coulson touches it and traces the familiar knot work carved along the curved surface. A smile spreads as he closes his eyes and answers, "Ah. Insurance."
"Uh huh. Since when is a horn insurance? Okay, ya know what? I think I'll just wait until you're off the drugs before asking any more question." Coulson hears Fury moving away. "I expect you outta that bed by the end of the week—sooner if you can pull it off." There's a scrambling sound—claws on linoleum?—then Fury says, "And tell your dogs to quit givin me the evil eye; I ain't the one who killed you." Before Coulson can say anything Bran grumbles a bark and Fury snaps back, "No; I told him to secure the room, not charge in there and play hero."
Coulson laughs as he listens to his hounds moving out of Fury's way; and he pulls the Dord Fiann onto his chest and drifts back into sleep.
But some say the day will come when the Dord Fiann will be sounded three times, and that at the sound of it the Fianna will rise up as strong and as well as ever they were. And there are some that say Finn, son of Cumhal, has been on the earth now and again since the old times, in the shape of one of the heroes of Ireland.*
*From 'Gods and Fighting Men' by Lady Gregory (1904)