Hill of Tara
Fingers of cold tickled her bare shins as she knelt upon the eroded stone. The carvings had peeled away with time, but the essence of its spirit remained. A chanting song echoed in the back of her brain, like voices on the cold winter wind. The knoll, covered in ankle-high grass, was damp from the late morning rain. Her wet bare feet, poking out beneath a rough, damp skirt, trembled as the breeze swept over the field.
Beneath her, on the muddy trail that wound up the knoll, she watched a shepherd walk, carrying a heavy sack upon his shoulders. He'd bent down over the road, holding his pink cheeks away from the stiff wind. His walking stick sank into the dirty sludge, and freed itself with a mighty squelch as he took another step.
Willow leaned out across the great stone. A sensation of awareness, of familiarity crept over her shoulders and sank down the face of her chest. Goose flesh teased the back of her arms, while an uneasy longing pulled at her larynx. The wind rose up from the foot of the hill, splashing a mane of thick red hair over her eyes. The shepherd was obscured, her vision blinded.
Angry hands clutched at the fiery curtain, brushing it away. He was upon her, in front of her, standing upon the hilt of the knoll. His short red locks rose up toward the grey sky like poppy blossoms stretched toward the sun. He was a small man, with large, well-worn hands, and an easy stance. His neck curved sensuously into muscled shoulders, and long, ropey arms. Thin hips supported a triangular torso, and succulent pale skin covered him throughout.
His lips were pale pink, curved into a lazy, approving smile, and his nose reminded her of a hound's, sculpted to find her in the dark. But in his eyes, she found compassion and concern. Pools of bright blue stared down into her soul, supporting the darkness and cradling the light. In Oz's body, standing upon the windy knoll, she found Tara's eyes staring back at her.
