Hello! If you're like me, you love Outlander! The story is simply fantastic, and I've been itching to take a crack at a fanfic, for years. So here is my attempt at a prequel of sorts, alluding to the Stones themselves, and their potential origins. In a way, I love it so much, because I can tie it in with my own Original Story, which is linked in my profile. The lore of the British Isles is wonderful. It all connects somewhere! I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Outlander, its characters, characterizations or anything to do with Diana Gabaldon's incredible series of novels.

I DO however own this story, and all original content relating to my own work. This story, and its original characters- are mine. Conversely, any use of Outlander terms, scenarios, places or characters- I DO NOT. They are borrowed here, simply for the purpose of this fanfic. In other words, please do not use my original content in your own stories, without asking. ThanksJ

The Stone People

Chapter One

A.D. 590

Islay, Argylle

Scotia

Aibreann didn't want to go to sleep. She wanted to hear a story. Not just any story, mind. She wanted to hear her favorite, and the only one who told it right was her father. Normally, he would have marched her up to her chamber himself. He would hoist her high, parade her through the Keep on his great burly shoulder. The men would hail and toast her, as they would their Chieftain. Aibreann would giggle all the way to her straw and heather bed, leap under her furs, and wait patiently for her father's tale to begin. Now, her father was late. She'd been tucked into her bower by dour old Sétna. The only word he had for her, was 'sleep'. Well, she did'nae want to! Why should she have to go to bed, when everyone else gathered in the Hall to watch the bards perform? It was'nae fair! She was almost nine, by Brida! She could stay up and watch the lute player, couldn't she? If her father wasn't going to tell her his bedtime tale, why did she have to go to bed at all? She pouted up at the rafters, where nothing but dust and cobwebs, observed her petulance.

It wasn't her fault her stepmother had to have a bairn at bedtime, was it? She sniffed in disdain. That irritating woman was so loud, the neighboring raths would probably have to shutter their windows. If only Aibreann did'nae have to hear her! Why was she so bloody noisy anyway? It was just a bairn. Dunadd was stuffed to the gills with bloody babies! Why did that stupid woman have to make such a fuss about it? Aibreann didn't want a little brother or sister. She wanted a story! She wanted to sit at table with her brothers. She wanted to ride her pony through the meadow and not be scolded when her tunic was soiled. She wanted to drink mead with her brother Hamish, in the larder after feasts. She wanted her own dagger. Most of all... she wanted her father. Why did he have to have more children? Weren't her and her brothers enough? Her eyes welled with frustrated tears. She didn't want to share her father with anyone else! She hated that woman! Hated her. In Aibreann's heart of hearts, she wished a kelpie would rise from the deep and carry her far away. In the Otherworld with the faeries, she could ride her pony however she liked, whenever she liked. She could have all the mead she could drink. She'd never be sent to bed early, especially not so more annoying babies could be brought screaming into the world. Sniffling, she chucked her wooden horse across the room. Where it landed, she couldn't say…only that as soon as it left her hand, her sniffles degenerated into sobs. Her father had carved that horse for her. It was her prized possession.

"Och, now," called a familiar voice from the steps outside her door. She sat bolt upright, her nose streaming, "what's all this then, Mo Nighean Donn?"

Her father carried an old Roman oil lamp into the room, placing it on her shelf with a frown. His red hair was unbraided, dipping over his gold and silver toque, like spilled copper. Her lower lip trembled, "Yer late! Why are ye always late, àthair?"

Her father scratched his head, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. She scooted as far away from him as she could manage, crossing her skinny arms for spite. He chuckled, "There now, lass. Yer makin' a fuss over nothin' now. Ye know yer màthair is busy bringin' ye a new brother or sister for Imbolg. I thought ye'd be happy to have someone smaller than ye, to boss about, no?"

"She's not me mam," Aibreann barked, kicking at her furs. "I don't want another bairn in our rath, àthair! I have plenty o'stupid brothers! Why d'ye need more?"

Her father watched her silently for some time, while she snuffled and hiccupped into her knees. A patient, knowing look, warmed his bright blue eyes, "Aibreann, ye know I love ye."

"No, I don't."

"Come now, ye know that's no' true a'tall. Don't ye?"

"No," her resolve waned under his kind regard and soft voice. She bit her lip against a new flood of tears. She wanted him to know how much she hated having to share him. She wanted him to be miserable too. Just like her. It was'nae fair! She had five brothers! Why did she have to be moved even further down the pecking order, to make room for more interlopers? Her mother might have died, but Aibreann was still here! Her father didn't need any more children.

He sighed, feigning a chill, "Och, what a poor mite. To be born to a house so cold! He's just a bairn, the sad little bugger, and already, yer plannin' to vex him. How pitiable."

"I will not."

"Seems ye will, lass. How cruel o'ye."

"I'm not cruel to bairns, àthair. I just don't like 'em. They're noisy, and they smell."

"Oh aye, and they're needy little buggers too."

Aibreann nodded sagely, "And they steal me toys."

Her father leaned toward her on his elbow. She didn't move away. "Well, well, what a shame then, aye? Got a new bairn comin' to our rath, hopin' for a bonny elder sister, and instead, look at the sour old crone he's got. How I weep for the wee laddie. No one to tickle his ears, no one to teach him about ponies, magic and wyrms. No one to tell him bedtime stories…"

Aibreann perked up, "D'ye think he'll want to hear o'the wyrms, àthair? The ponies?"

"Aye, I say he will. How lonesome for him, with no one to teach him where they sleep. Ye ken? Who will tell him o'the faerie mounds, o'Fergus Mór and the Romans, or the giants' pass in Ulster? Surely, he'll be rather dull now, won't he?"

Aibreann considered this carefully, tapping her nose. "Well," she said, a regal tilt to her chin, "I 'spose I could teach him, just so's he don't 'come a dullard like Donngal. All he cares about're spears and girls." She made a face.

Her father grinned, tussling her brown curls, "That's Mo Nighean Donn. Yer wee brother–"

"Or sister," she corrected.

"Aye, or sister," he smiled, "will be needin' ye to teach 'em to be interestin. Ye ken? Who could do more for him, I wonder?"

"No one."

"There ye have it then. It's a special job, just for ye. Can ye manage it?"

"Better n'me daft brothers, ye ken?"

"I believe ye."

She swiped at her eyes, "I spose ye better teach me some more stories then, àthair…just in case I can't 'member 'em all."

Her father threw back his head, defeated. He flopped onto her furs, tugging her into his arms, "Oh alright! Ye harridan! What's it to be then? The tale o' Cú Chulainn again?"

She wriggled into his side, "I want to hear o'Éber Finn, àthair, and the Tuatha Dé Dannan. Ye said he was our kinsman?"

"Aye, he is at that," her father groaned, "but it's a verra long tale, duckling."

"Please, àthair? I'm not tired!"

Her father, Áedán Mór Mac Eirc, King of the Cenél nÓenghusa of the Dal Riada, couldn't refuse his little daughter a thing, which was certainly why she was so spectacularly spoilt. "Alright, alright. Which part d'ye want to hear?"

"The beginning!"

"Och! The beginning, ye say! But that's the longest bit!"

Crafty as a fox, Aibreann toyed with a lock of his red hair, "Aye, but if ye tell it to me from the start, I can tell it to the bairn, when he comes. I can tell him o'Old King Míl Espáine and his sons. How they fought the Tuatha Dé Dannan, and conquered our homeland. How Amergin and Éber Finn beat the Dannan High King, then the Stone People, and–"

"Sounds to me, ye already know the tale quite well, lassie."

Aibreann flushed, "I don't, àthair! I don't."

He fixed her with a long, sideways glare. "Well, if ye want it from the start, 'tis from there our tale begins. Amergin and Éber Finn were two o'Old Míl Espaine's seven sons…"

"And their màthair's name was Scota! 'Tis our land, àthair! They named it for her."

"Am I tellin' this tale, or are ye?"

"Ye are! Ye are, àthair. I'm sorry."

He settled against the furs, with his daughter's chin propped against his shoulder, an eager grin splitting her face from ear to ear, "As I was sayin', 'fore I was so rudely interrupted, Old Míl and his folk were searchin' for a new place to call their home, when his uncle Ith, spied this great green land across the sea."

"Éire! The Dal Riada's homeland!"

"Aye duckling, aye. The Dal Riada, and all tribes o'the Scotti, are descended from the Milesians who conquered the Isle of Éire. Now do ye want to hear it, or tell it?"

"Sorry, àthair. Please go on."

He mussed her dark curls once more, "Now what the Milesians did'nae know, was in this great green land, three immortal races did there dwell, and they made war upon one another for rule of the Isle. D'ye recall those three races, Mo Nighean Donn?"

She held up three fingers, "The Tuatha Dé Dannan, the Fir Bolg, and the Stone People! The…ah, the…"

"The Fomorians, duckling."

"Aye! The Fomorians. Who ruled all the Isles– even ours– from the dawn o'time."

"They did, and 'tis due to them, and their strange magics that ye have the standin' stones to marvel at. The Fomorians were a dark race, full o'devils and dark powers. Ye remember why ye must'nae ever touch one o'their stones?"

She shivered, lowering her voice to a whisper, "They be portals to t'Otherworld."

"That they are, and ye will be sure to teach it to the bairn, when he comes, won't ye?"

"I will...I promise. Tell me about the Milesians, àthair."

"'Twas a storm that carried their curragh to shore, that night. The sky was dark and roilin', and the sea churned deep and cold. 'Twas only Éber Finn and his brother Amergin in that little boat, seeking a safe harbor, from which to march inland to their destiny…"