Chapter 6: Forgotten Pain

The woman sobbed as she cut through Patrick Holloway's cheek, the blood from the wound dripping down onto his neck and soaking into his shirt. Patrick hopped away, twisting his body to dodge another attack from her claws. 'She's faster than she looks!' Patrick said, barely blocking a swing from his right. She had a look of desperation in her eyes, as if defeating him was the only way to ensure her continued existence.

Patrick leapt backwards, landing lightly on the rooftops of the village. The rain continued to wet the wood, removing any useful traction, but it didn't matter. She simply looked up at him, weeping. It was difficult to watch, to be sure; the sadness in the woman's eyes and the shaking of her thin frame seemed to channel itself into Patrick as he stood there, his knees getting weak and his throat clenching up.

He shook his head, attempting to rid himself of these thoughts. He had heard of this woman, the Banshee, La Llorana. She had recently besieged a nearby town, infecting it with despair. Despite the shining sun, the village was dark, the emotions of the people clouding over the brilliant light. The children were struck the worst, several of whom refused to get out of bed.

After all that she had done, Patrick vowed to stop her.

Green light enveloped his body, receding to reveal massive, silver plated armor; a large stone sword was strapped at his lower back, his hand resting lightly on the hilt shaped like a Cross of St. Patrick. Holloway smiled down at the woman. "Yer tricks won't work on me, Banshee. Ya' picked the wrong fight here, lass. I'm a Sword-Saint after all."

Her head lowered, she stumbled toward the shack. "I know exactly who you are, Patrick Holloway." Her hands raised to the heavens, taking in the rain with the first smile that she had shown since their meeting. "You are Shamrock, Sword-Saint of the Green Isle, teacher of St. Patrick's creed. I have been searching for you." Despite the gruff state of her voice, she spoke in a light Irish accent, syllables leaking out of her lips quickly but coherently.

"Sorry, lass," he smirked, "I can't say I'm too happy to make your acquaintance. I don't take well to people of any kind attackin' me." He removed his sword and knelt down, on the roof, prepared for any move she decided to make.

"I don't just plan on attacking you, Patrick. You see, you stand in my master's way. That is a crime punishable by death."

Laughing, Patrick blinked the rain water from his eyes; opening them, he saw that the woman had disappeared. He looked around quickly, standing with his sword at the ready, until a small bubbling noise behind him woke him from his trance. The woman rose from the roof in the form of water, solidifying into the white swathed banshee after a few seconds. Patrick stood defensively; despite his training, despite his thousands of years of experience, he could not bring himself to attack this woman. The look in her eyes… She had obviously been broken, building on the pain for centuries.

The banshee leaped forward, her claws attempting to rip out his eyes, but Patrick dodged this attack, sliding around her and readying himself again. "You'll have to do better'an that to beat me. Your claws aren't sharp enough."

"You're right," she said, tears streaming into her dress. "I cannot do anything, protect anyone! I am alone here, unable to even help my master." She cocked her head at the man in front of her, her hair falling in clumps around her. "My, you made me cry again. What would your late wife have to say about that?"

Patrick felt the force of these words, wishing that she had ripped him apart with her bare hands than stab that shadowy blade into his heart. "How in bloody hell do you know anything about my wife?!" He screamed, rushing forward and grabbing her by the shoulder, his blade pressed lightly to her throat. A small drop of black blood dripped onto the edge.

"I know because you know, Patrick. When I scratched you earlier, when you and I had physical contact, I learned about all of your pain, all of your suffering." Her head continued to fall to the sides as if she no longer had the strength to hold it up. "Today would have been your anniversary, wouldn't it have?"

Patrick got into her face, his emerald eyes staring into the bleak darkness of hers. He had never seen orbs of such pure darkness, of such pure despair. "You don't talk about her, Banshee! Never again or your body will fall limp at my hands!"

"Did-did I strike a nerve?" the woman asked innocently. "I'm sorry! I had no idea that it would hurt you!"

"Like I can possibly believe that, you bloody monster. I ought to…" he couldn't finish his sentence, a strange crawling sensation touching his leg, distracting him from his assault. 1He looked down to see a tendril of water crawling its way up his calf, several others joining it. They wrapped him in a shell of liquid, trapping his arms and legs, inhibiting him like rope. Patrick tried to fight the tentacles, but they were strong, forcing him to drop his blade.

The water continued to gather, churning around all but his head in a massive bubble. The churning grew faster and faster as the woman continued to cry, but realizing this did nothing for Patrick. His blade lay on the ground between them, and his body refused to move in retaliation.

"You look distressed, Shamrock," she said between sobs. "I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen!"

With one final sob, the water spun into a total cocoon, covering the Sword-Saint's head as he let loose one last scream. The sobbing picture of the Woman in White and a far-off, pudgy man were all that he could see through the refracted window in front of him.

"Oy, I cannot believe that Patrick just left!" Lester said, his short legs landing lightly above the wood floor of his shack. He floated toward his stove, watching the rain splash against his window. Patrick could be seen walking through the village, turning around the corner of the tavern.

Lester shook his head. "What a sad day for the lad… Never has been easy for him. Poor man cannot forget Ava. Brilliant woman…" A crack of thunder rang out over the rolling hills of the plains, the rain intensifying as a flash of lightning lit the city. Suddenly, Patrick could be seen leaping onto a nearby building, standing there as his armor wrapped around him and his blade was drawn. "By Mary and Joseph!"

Lester spun around, running to grab his jacket and bowler cap. He flew through the door, gripping his walking stick in his thick fingers. The downpour slowed him down, but his friend was in danger, threatened by a woman dressed in white.

"Not her," Lester panted, flying low to the ground. "Please, holy mother, the boy can't fight off that woman!"

Suddenly, before his eyes, the young man was surrounded by a bubble of water, a prison meant to ensnare and drown its prey in a well of their own tears, their own despair. Little did the boy know that he himself was feeding that attack.

With a light hop, the Leprechaun jumped over the buildings, floating upside down over the woman's head. "Strange to see a pretty lass like yourself standing around such an incriminating scene at this time of night."

The Woman in White jumped, looking around to see the source of the voice. Her eyes narrowed in a growl as she yelled at the man. "Leprechaun."

"That's what they decided to call me so long ago, Llorana. Now, I've always been confused as to how an Irish maiden like yourself received a Spanish name. Any way of telling me why that is?"

Without responding, she screamed, a bolt of lightning striking where the Leprechaun was; disappearing in a rainbow colored flash, the man dressed in the colors of the earth reappeared nearby, taunting her by sticking his tongue out. "I think you missed, lass. Not your strongest show of force!"

He laughed as she continued screaming, lightning striking down wherever he appeared in space. Panting, she fell to her knees, unable to keep up the onslaught. Her eyes were dry, the tears having run dry. The rain began to lighten a little, the wind's howling lowering to simple white noise

"Ah, a bit of sad show there, if I do say so meself," Leprechaun said, reaching into his coat and removing three bright glints of gold. "Llorana, you and I have history together. I've tried to help ya', but ye continue to scorn my offers. Now ya' attack me friend. That is something that cannot be forgiven."

"So!" she shouted, her voice raspy and choked, raw from centuries of sobbing, "You'll not do anythin' to hurt me, Leprechaun! You haven't been able to since our first meeting."

Nodding in silence, the little green man threw the three gold coins at the woman, the metal reflecting the light from the moon as the clouds parted. They landed in front of the woman, her kneeling form shaking with silent sobs. She shook her head as the coins began glowing in a warm, golden light.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, becoming lost in the glow. When the light returned into the coins, the woman was no more, teleported to another place. The bubble that imprisoned Patrick ruptured, water rushing over the thin shingles of the roof. He fell than, slamming into the wood, the only thing stopping the descent to the cold, muddy ground below being a small, fat hand with a four-leaf clover ring on his middle finger.