Prologue:
(Beforehand, I would just like to comment this scene in Ireland does not set the future scenes in the story. It will mostly be centered in England and in Egypt. There is little evidence of actual existence of the tribes I am mentioning. These are compressed versions of Irish mythology. Whether or not these tribes actually existed, tales always have some semblance of truth. I know there were plenty of Celtic tribes, but these were probably the early ones, if in fact they existed. Unfortunately for historians and archaeologists, these ancient tribes rarely left any evidence, written or otherwise, to prove their existence. )
Ancient Ireland
Her pale dainty feet treaded softly against soft moss, her toes clenching into it with each step. Wisps of stark branches stroked her cheek as she nimbly crept over a log, very aware of the danger nearby. The foliage was like an enchantment, numbing her mind as only a few rays of sun escaped the net of leaves and splashed gaily onto the mystic ground, entrenched in a canopy of velvet green. Its beauty barely affected Sorcha; she knew only one thing on that brisk day, she was in mortal danger.
Earlier, while trying to make an unsuccessful attempt to scavenge for nest eggs in undoubtedly (In Sorcha's mind) the largest tree ever to nourish from this land, was the first time she heard the voices. They came to her like music, contrasting greatly against the peaceful lull of the wood. They were foreign, she knew that for sure.
Using the blood of the land to guide her, Sorcha had no worries about direction. She could feel the soil throbbing along with her heartbeat, they were one. She was engrained in this land like the etchings on her fingertips. Through the glimpses of branches Sorcha could see the sea in which both the goddesses Dubh Lacha and Cliodna reigned. The sun was disappearing like a haze, falling into the jaws of another dying day. The mist and fog were rolling in from the East, giving the trees a deathly silhouette against a grey ocean. Her thigh-length red hair was tangling up in the branches, and she immediately started to braid it with thin leather straps weaving through her hair. Sorcha wished she had brought her brother's iron sword with her, for the protection she now knew she would need. But she was barely a woman, only 13 moons. Her arms would immediately collapse from the strain of such a weapon, reserved for the most advanced male Celtic warrior. Instead she opted for a small knife, used mainly for skinning small rodents if one is camping out. Now Sorcha pulled the knife out from the sheath attached to her roped leggings and crouched low, aware that she was arriving closer and closer to the smoke and the foreign voices she had heard passing while hiding in the far recesses of the dark giant tree. All she wanted to see right now was one tiny peek, something she could tell her father. She and her brothers were always competing for subjects that would grab their father's attention. Who were these mysterious strangers? Sorcha had very little clue. Whenever a tribe comes to Ireland, a battle usually ensues. She and her siblings were the direct result of this.
A.N.
I apologize for this next scene if you find it too boring, but I do need to set a background for Sorcha's existence. I promise I won't get too detailed with the history of Ireland, and this setting only occurs for a tiny piece of the story.
Her father, her smile lit up when she thought of him, was from the tribe of the Fir Bolg, an ancient tribe that descended from the Nemedians. Many, many moons before, the tribes of the Fir Bolg had left from Ireland and arrived in Greece, only to find themselves in a horrible predicament; slavery. The Greeks had enslaved them and the Fir Bolg were forced to endure many years of servitude. But their will and their spirits surpassed their obedience, and eventually escaped from Greece in boats made from the very leather they used to carry earth in.
Sorcha remembered how her father, Coinneach, exhausted from a hard day's work of fishing in the sea of the Undines, would sit tiredly in front of the hearth and pull Sorcha and her slightly older brother Conán into his giant arms and wrap them up in the musky scent of his shirt. He would fondly recollect his thoughts and explain to them how once five brothers named Slainge, Rudraige, Gann, Genann and Sengann travelled from Greece, and how the south-west wind separated them into three parts; The Fir Bolg, the Fir Domnann, and the Fir Gaileon. They were spread across Ireland, but were soon reunited to form another, greater civilisation.
Her father's people were a dark tribe, a shadowy existence. Their skin shone a pale translucent alabaster, and their dark curly hair emerged from their heads like a black flame. They were generally quite short, their extra flesh due partly to the nature of the cold crashing of the waves and the lack of sun in this cold land. Their eyes shone like the darkest depths of the pale grey ocean. Stormy bluish grey that was tinged and sparkled with the colour of rain in the womb of a cloud. The Fir Bolg lived a quiet, peaceful existence, until the fated battle of Magh Tuiredh –The Plain of Props - occurred. It was then they encountered for the first time the magical and mystical Tuatha Dé Danann. People said that they had arrived on clouds and ships from the Northern Isles, and possessed great power. They believed they were from the Goddess Danu, and they were forced to circle Ireland nine times before arriving at Sliabh an Iarainn, the Iron Mountains. It was here they first encountered the Fir Bolg. They descended upon Ireland like furious storm, and the Fir Bolg were in amazement that they had to actually defeat these god-like beings. A great battle ensued, and it wasn't long until the Tuatha Dé Danann defeated the Fir Bolg, who was a people of the land, not of war.
However, the future existence between two cultures was not entirely an uncomfortable one. The Fir Bolg eventually learned to respect and admire their invaders, though their tribes lived as far away from each other as possible. They would respect each other from afar, but they would have little to do with each other. The Fir Bolg went on living peacefully and quietly, occasionally wondering in curious awe about the Tuatha Dé Danann.
They were tall and willowy, fair and bright-eyed. They provided no physical attraction to the Fir Bolg, who preferred their own dark-eyed men and women. Their skin was tanned from a long absent sun, and their hair was streaked with the brightest hues of the halo of colours that emerge after a rainy day. They were slender and graceful, more apt to living on a cloud then a harsh countryside. It other words, they were considered as close to Gods as mortals could get.
Many years passed of this peaceful coexistence, and Sorcha's father, a young lad at this time, knew he was destined to marry a fisherman's daughter. Instead he received a different prize all together. He often told Sorcha, Conán, and their older warrior brothers of that fateful day where he met the most perfect vision of his life… their mother. Coinneach told them how when he woke up, his heart told him that his life was going to change forever. This knowledge thrummed in his veins and his heart quickened in confused anticipation. He and his own father were walking back from a hard day's work, when suddenly he had this strange urge to travel deep into the forest. He could hear someone calling him, though his father seemed oblivious. He told his father to continue on, and Coinneach began to travel towards the wood. He traveled unaware of where he was going, but the further he went the more desperate he was to reach the centre of the forest. His heart was pounding, as he later recounted to his children, but when he first laid eyes on the angel of the mossy ground, his heart burst with peace and love.
A tall and slender woman, with skin like honey and hair like the sinking red sun of a dying day, lay sleeping comfortable on a bed of moss and leaves. Forest critters had dispersed immediately after hearing the snaps of twigs from the mortal's feet and instead watched at a cautious distance. Coinneach was sure that his loud presence could wake anyone from the dead, but upon closer inspection he realized that the woman who only from a glance owned his heart was not sleeping, but rather unconscious. A cut on her forehead and the tears in her dirty dress (a material he considered cut from the clouds) told him she was either in danger or was lost. She was unlike any of the Fir Bolg women, so he concluded that this willowy woman whom hadn't said a word must be from the Tuatha Dé Danann. Here he was, all the while thinking that people from this tribe were god-like and immortal, she must be more human then they all thought. This idea gave him hope, though he shoved it away in the far recesses of his mind. He picked her near weightless body and held her close to his own brawny body, tough from years of hard labour. He trudged on, aware only of the rise and fall of woman's chest, relieving him of the fact that she could be dead.
He brought her back to his father's thatched cabin, and laid her down in front of the fire in the eyes of his awed family. His mother had quickly broken the silence and took charge, bathing the stranger's cuts and rubbing her shoulders for extra warmth. The womenfolk clucked their tongues and his sisters cradled her head in the warmth of their robes. Coinneach stood in the shadows of the doorway, realizing that his presence at the moment was not welcome. Uncomfortable with how the woman made him feel with these new unexpected emotions, he left outside into the dusky night. Maybe she was a sorceress, if she could do this to him without saying a word. All his life he led quietly, knowing he would marry dutifully and responsibly. He never though he would feel like this. The next morning she had awoken, confused and frightened. Coinneach was away in the nearest fishing villages, quenching the curious statements of the local fishermen. The woman had woken to the welcoming smiles of a dozen or so dark haired women of the Fir Bolg. She instantly felt at home. They spent all morning trying to converse in the limited broken knowledge of each others languages, unable to learn how she arrived in the forest but they were able to ascertain the woman's name; Caoimhe.
Late that night, when Coinneach arrived home, was when destiny turned its wheel. He opened the door revealing a woman sitting in front of the hearth, the flames illuminating the fire in her hair. Without a word they locked eyes, and found each other. A week later Coinneach and Caoimhe went to the nearby village and pronounced their upcoming marriage. At first there was anger, the Fir Bolg and the Tuatha Dé Danann were meant to live side by side, not together. But after seeing the two look into each others eyes, they realized not even social thoughts could change this union. So they welcomed Caoimhe into their homes, treating her like a daughter and teaching her the ways of their hard-working lives. Caoimhe herself kept quiet about her life with the Tuatha Dé Danann, and if it weren't for her foreign features and broken words then one would never differentiate her from the Fir Bolg. Caoimhe and Coinneach celebrated their love by having many children together. They had 8 sons, 3 of whom were more inclined to live like their father and be fishermen, 4 who preferred the life of Celtic warriors. One son, Conán, was neither. He wanted to explore the world and rather then wanting to dominate it, he wanted to learn about it. Caoimhe loved all her sons, but she felt truly complete when her last child came into this world. It was her daughter, the whimsical Sorcha.
All of Caoimhe's sons had inherited the dark features of their father, but Sorcha was a different kind all together. She had the slender, willowy body of her mother, and the same blood red hair that connected the two. However she did inherit the pale pearl skin of her father's people, and the clashing blue and grey eyes that claimed she was still part of the ocean. One look at her daughter, and Caoimhe knew that her daughter would leave a fated life. She would whisper to Sorcha in the wee hours of the night of their fate.
"My dear daughter, you and I share the same kind of destiny. Live with it and be grateful."
Caoimhe knew that her daughter was different, and set out to teach her the healing ways used by the Tuatha Dé Danann. Some called it sorcery, others called it science. But this knowledge and Sorcha's strange features immediately set her apart from every one else, and she realized that she would never be accepted fully anywhere. The other children growing up had mocked her and called her a witch, but she knew her mother's people were not evil. Life was simple enough for her however. Her older brothers except for Conán moved on with their lives and had either become married or had joined some political movement for the unrest in war torn lands. Sorcha lived life helping and learning from her mother, but that didn't prevent her from helping her father in the sea. She loved the ocean, it's rolling heaving waves beckoned to her, and she wished she would wake up and be a fish, diving into its deepest depths. She could hear the goddess Dubh Lacha call her, and the ocean was her greatest desire. Sorcha loved to run along the sea banks, trying to touch the grey sky with her fingertips. She may not be accepted by her people, but the land would caress her and love her always. She was as much part of the land as the white-tipped seagulls were to the white heaving cliffs that lay victim to the waves. Sorcha loved her family and she loved her life here. What could be better?
Sorcha continued along the trail the foreigners had left behind, her hands clinging to her dagger. All she wanted was a peek, she had told herself. Her mother always admonished Sorcha for her curiosity, and always claimed that it would gain her daughter nothing but trouble. The seagulls in the distance were screaming for their latest prey, and didn't notice the girl entombed in the forest beyond. Sorcha could smell the smoke of a campsite, and the instant she heard voices she dropped as low as she could and peeked through the branches.
There they were; a group of bearded men of all ages laughing and drinking, but their eyes held a serious hue. Their features were unlike any she had seen. Their skin was tanned but their hair was dark. Their language was foreign and strange to Sorcha's ear, and she knew they must be from far away. Why had they come? One look around proved they didn't have the military supply to launch a war, and though they had weapons Sorcha felt it was more for defence and protection then for attacks. They were circled around a blazing fire, so close that Sorcha was surprised that their clothes didn't get singed. The clothing was odd too, built more for warmer weather. Where was their fur? If one was to survive in these Northern lands, then one had to know how to skin animals for warmth. Instead they were all huddled under layers of robes, obviously not used to this weather. They were on a mission, but for what purpose? Sorcha leaned further; unaware of the stacks of weaponry in front of the bush she was oh so gracefully crouching behind. She pushed away some leaves, and with that the weapons clattered to the ground. The men instantly were on their feet, and Sorcha jumped up in surprise. She locked eyes fearfully on the eyes of the nearest man, one whom she suspected to be the leader. As her face whitened considerably, she turned around and bolted. Instantly the men gathered their things and went after her. They were halted by their leader. In a foreign tongue he gave his orders.
"Leave her; we know where she is headed. She is a good choice, young but beautiful. She is the one we want. We don't want to frighten her away by running after her."
The foreign men hurriedly packed their items and washed away the remaining embers. They grabbed their horses, and began to follow the trail the girl had not bothered to cover.
Sorcha was only aware that her heart was going to pound out of her chest if she ran any harder, but she must make it home. She felt that the men were no longer chasing her, however she needed to get to her father since her presence was now known. Branches and twigs clawed at her as she ran by, tearing her clothes. She could heal the scratches at home, she knew, but now she needed to get there. The forest, usually her friend, was now dark and gloomy as night was falling. Sorcha could see lights in the distance, and began to run towards it. As she broke out of the woods, she could see her thatched house illuminating against the dusky ocean. She ran straight through the hen house and ignored the fire scalding her lungs. She burst through the door and quickly gasped against it, her chest heaving. Caoimhe looked up from where she was tending the fire and quickly picked up her skirts and went to her daughter.
"Sorcha! Whatever it the matter? Why are you so dirty?"
Sorcha buried herself in her mother's arms and tried to calm her panicked heart.
"There were men, mama, strange men! They were foreigners, and they had weapons with them, but I don't think they are warriors."
"What? Daughter, please, calm down."
"I can't, they know I was there. I think their going to come after me."
Caoimhe felt a small smile tug at her lips. Sorcha was always very imaginative, and loved to tell stories.
"And why, oh dear daughter, do you think they will come after you?"
Sorcha let out a great sob along with her answer.
"Because! Because the way one of the men looked at me. As though I were an answer to some problem. I feel it in my heart, that they want something from me. Mama, I know this sounds strange, but it feels like destiny just slapped me in the face."
Caoimhe paled visibly and clutched at her daughter. She instantly believed her, because she had felt the same thing the day she had left the Tuatha Dé Danann in search for her destiny. She bundled up her skirts, open the door, and cried out to the nearby fishermen on their breaks to go and fetch her husband. Sorcha clutched at her and they sat down against the heat of the fire, Caoimhe wiping the tear-streaked dirty face of her daughter and began to untangle the mass of hair ringing Sorcha's face.
Suddenly the door burst open and Caoimhe instantly got up to greet her husband. However, this was not Coinneach; this was a strange foreign man, wild-eyed and serious. Sorcha cried out and hid behind her mother in recognition. It was the leader of the band of foreigners. He looked around the room briefly before locking in on Sorcha. He looked at Caoimhe and talked to her in the broken language of the Fir Bolg.
"She is the one."
Some pronunciations of the names:
Caoimhe --- KEE va (meaning beauty or grace)
Coinneach --- CON yach (meaning sorrowful)
Conán --- KUN awn (meaning hound or wolf)
Sorcha --- SUR a ka (meaning bright or radiant)
I would just like my readers to know that I will be switching from past lives to present lives of the characters.