Even still, it was nice to be back in her body again.
Her trembling hands clutched at the cold, wet stone beneath her and she immediately groaned in misery and defeat. Despite her botched pyrotechnics display of an amateur escape attempt, it turned out she was still in the mother fucking cave.
It was official. She sucked. She was hereby handing in her ‘Goddess’ card and hanging up the whole magic schtick for good.
With her utterly useless eyes, she fought to make out the vaguest outlines of her surroundings. She gave up after a moment and closed them. In response to her need, her power provided once more. She found suddenly that she could ‘see’ with her eyes closed using her magic alone.
Well…that’s certainly new, she mused in her mind. Perhaps she had been a bit too hasty in her decision to give up magic.
It was not anything at all like normal sight, but she could perceive the energy of the world around her. It was like viewing her surroundings through a thermal imager, with a far more subdued color gradient. She found that she could distinguish a small rodent of some kind in the distance as a living being. A glance down at her hand confirmed that she could easily recognize the white glow of her own power. She held her hand up to her face for a closer inspection, then took in the appearance of the rest of her body. Her light flowed through every inch of her, making her entire form completely distinct. She sighed in moderate relief. This meant that she would be able to perceive the magic of other creatures, as well – be they faoil, fògaraich, or Droch-draoidh.
And speaking of those hideous, undead, knife-happy bastards… Had she really managed to escape them? Or were they lurking somewhere nearby, still intent on carving her up like a Thanksgiving turkey?
She fought to calm her breathing when a distant sound reached her ears. She was hopelessly disoriented, but she knew that she needed to find Taran and Ciaran. Struggling to hear over the sound of her thundering heart, she held her breath and listened. She could just barely make out voices in the distance – a group of men were approaching and speaking in Gaelic. Their voices were masculine and smooth – human rather than monster. A sense of relief washed over her at the sound.
“T–Taran…” she struggled to call, but her voice came as little more than a rasped, broken whisper. She swallowed hard before trying again and again to force any substantial sound from her throat. “Ciar–an… Taran…”
There was no sign that her all-but inaudible pleas reached them. Her weakness and exhaustion worsened by the second. As she began to blackout, terror gripped her. What if they did not find her? What if they did not find her first? She wept and begged in her mind:
Please… Ciaran… Hear me…
The next thing Skye became aware of was a massive hand closing around her throat. A strangled, pitiful cry escaped her as it rapidly tightened. With a crushing grip, her unknown attacker easily lifted her from the ground and shouted furiously in Gaelic, demanding to know something. Skye was far too concerned with the unexpected physical assault to notice just how familiar his voice was. She wheezed as she clawed at his hand wildly, frantic for air. Her feet kicked and stretched, trying in vain to reach the ground or any vulnerable part of his body. She cursed her severely weakened, defenseless state.
The man continued his outraged questions, giving her a violent shake as punishment when she failed to reply. Had she been able to make any noise at all past his vice-like grip, she would have sobbed. Every wound in her rapidly growing collection screamed in response to the harsh motion.
And wait just a god damned second here… Even if she could speak Gaelic, how the fuck was she supposed to answer him when he was crushing her windpipe? What a douchebag!
She tried to open her eyes again, only to recall how pointless it was and abandon the effort. Using her altered vision instead, she perceived the glowing figure before her. Whoever, or whatever he was, he carried her family’s magic. That alone would not necessarily have been a good thing (since the fògaraich and Droch-draoidh were all fueled by a stolen batch of it), but his hand was warm. The likelihood that this man was a faol was very high.
Now, if she could just get free long enough to speak, maybe she could convince him to stop choking the shit out of her. She fought to draw even an infinitesimal amount of air through her nose in the hopes of catching his scent. Once she finally managed it, she was bombarded by a million overwhelming and wholly unfamiliar aromas. Confusion set in anew.
The entire world smelled… wrong somehow.
She easily confirmed that her attacker and several others nearby were faoil, but Jesus H. Christ on a cracker, when was the last time any of these guys used deodorant? While they smelled at least moderately clean, their personal scents were all unapologetically unobstructed. It was overpowering. Her nose could not differentiate one scent from the next. A dip in a river and a rub down with mint and whatever unscented soap they clearly favored only went just so far to suppress the smell of MAN – especially to her heightened faol senses. Not a hint of Old Spice or Gillette was present to tone things down and spare her poor, traumatized nose. She could make out the shapes of the other men she had scented standing several feet away, but none of them drew her notice until…
The urgent shout of another man caused her attacker to turn in surprise. His grip on her relaxed just enough for her to draw a long, strangled breath. Her toes skimmed the ground and she was finally able to bear some of her own weight. She was immensely thankful for the slight decrease in pressure on her throat.
The new arrival rushed over to them and continued what sounded to be urgent calls for her release. She felt a great sense of relief wash over her suddenly. Despite her current precarious situation, something was putting her at ease.
Her attacker scoffed and argued for a moment before releasing his hold on her without warning, leaving her to crumple into a heap on the ground. She clutched her aching throat as she coughed and drew painful breaths. In her mind, she vowed to kick her attacker’s ass the very instant she was strong enough to do so.
Her whole body jerked away when she felt hands on her back, gently urging her to roll over. She melted an instant later. The sound of Ciaran’s familiar voice offering soft reassurances was such an unexpected, overwhelming, welcomed relief that Skye instantly broke down in tears.
“Thank God,” she sobbed as she reached out blindly for him. She gripped his shoulders and attempted to open her eyes, eager to see his face, but found they were still useless. Wincing, she closed them again and prayed that they would hurry up and heal.
Ciaran brushed back the hair from her face and spoke in a gentle tone, asking questions she had no hopes of understanding. She sniffled and shook her head, hoping to convey that she just did not have the energy to hold a conversation yet.
Mercifully gleaning her intended message, Ciaran offered foreign words of encouragement and abandoned his questions. He did, however, continue to speak to her and she could not understand a single thing he was saying.
“English, baby. I don’t know a closed-captions spell, remember?” she joked in a hoarse whisper.
Despite her request, Ciaran continued muttering under his breath in Gaelic. She decided that was just fine with her. She was too tired to keep talking anyway and it was not out of the ordinary for Ciaran to fall back on Gaelic when upset. Having him beside her relaxed her completely. It allowed her to focus on fanning the infinitesimal spark of power she still could feel within herself. It was fragile and would not be good for much of anything by way of defense, but she trusted Ciaran implicitly to keep her safe while she put her power to use elsewhere. With focus, the light grew slowly and steadily inside of her. She let it begin to heal her body. She leaned into Ciaran’s hands as he carefully surveyed her, apparently gauging the severity of her many wounds. It was not until his hands stilled abruptly and a startled gasp escaped his lips that she began to realize something was off.
“…Tàcharain Fhaol?” Ciaran whispered in astonishment.
“What’s wron
g?” Skye asked weakly. Her brows drew together as she opened her still-healing eyes. She blinked repeatedly and had almost abandoned the effort once more when suddenly…. “What the shit?” she gasped once her eyes recovered enough to focus.
Ciaran was staring back at her slack-jawed. His gaze reflected not a hint of recognition. Anxiety was twisting his beautiful, familiar features and for some unknown reason, her dark one was looking decidedly… tribal.
A single blue line had been painted down the center of his face, stretching from his hairline to his chin. The left side of his head was shaved. White paint covered his left eye and trailed backwards in finger-tip steaks across his shaved scalp to the back of his head. The rest of his extremely long, jet-blank hair was gathered into a high ponytail on the top of his head. Braids, beads, and charms were woven throughout. His clothing was made up of furs and animal skins, all clearly fashioned by hand. A long, carved bone earing dangled from his left ear. His familiar knotwork pendant was around his neck, as always, but the color was off, and it looked far more suited to his current attire than anything she had ever seen him wear before.
Startling her out of the moment of epic what-the-fuckery, she sensed the other men moving closer. Gripped by fear, Skye instinctively attempted to hide behind Ciaran. She was not in fighting form. Her body was still so weak that her muscles trembled uncontrollably. She could not possibly defend herself if her attacker from a moment prior got a hold of her again.
And it did not matter that something was wrong. It did not matter that, for whatever reason, Ciaran was dressed in ancient garments and failing to recognize her. Ciaran instinctively reacted to her fear. In an instant, he whirled around and tucked her body behind his own. He hunkered down as his claws presented. A low growl of warning rumbled from his throat as his eyes turned golden.
The other men came to an immediate halt. Confused, startled voices called out to him in Gaelic.
Skye calmed considerably when she recognized them. One rang out about the others, clear and authoritative. To a casual listener, Taran would only sound furious. But Skye could hear it – even in another language, she could easily perceive her mate’s fear for Ciaran’s safety.
She placed a hand on Ciaran’s back and he relaxed. That small touch was enough to convey that she no longer felt vulnerable and frightened. Ciaran looked back over his shoulder at her in confusion. When their gazes met, he tilted his head to the side and studied her intensely, clearly puzzled by his instinctual defensive response.
Taran shouted angrily, effectively drawing his attention. While Ciaran responded calmly to his brother’s shouted inquiries, Skye’s mouth dropped open in stunned disbelief. It had just occurred to her that her attacker – the one who had gripped her up so violently and nearly crushed her windpipe before dropping her on the floor like a bag of garbage – had been Taran.
She slowly worked up the strength and courage to peer out from behind Ciaran. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand when she spotted Ailean, Eògan, and Drostan. All three were clothed similarly to Ciaran, each sporting long, wild hair and ancient styled jewelry.
“Oh shit. Oooohhh no. No, no, no…” she breathed in rapidly rising terror over the likelihood of what she had done.
And then, as if to remove every shadow of a doubt and chase away any possibility of denial, Taran stepped closer. Even as he swore, pointed at her, and shouted furiously in Gaelic – undoubtedly demanding that Ciaran come away in case she posed a threat – Skye whimpered at the sight of her mate.
Taran’s hair was long and wild once again; a thick, chestnut mane flowing freely to the center of his back. Covering his magnificent chest, stomach, arms, and legs were the intricate blue knot-work tattoos that Ciaran had once described to her. The markings started at the crescent moon on the right side of Taran’s forehead and snaked downward over his cheek to his throat. From there, the ink branched out across his chest and back, down his arm – touching nearly every inch of his body. Griffins, serpents, deer, eagles, and other sacred animals were depicted in the swirling blue designs.
Skye was currently staring at the tribal ink which Taran had not replaced between transformations in 4,000 years.
“Fucking hell…” was the most intelligent thing her brain could offer in response before she fainted.
17: Timeless Ties
PAST – APPROXIMATELY 2,000 BC
Earlier that night, Taran had paced the cave like a caged animal. After a hard-won battle, the clan made camp within the cave’s interior, taking advantage of the shelter it provided from the frigid night air and harsh winds.
It had been several hours since they cleared the cave of their enemies. Less than half an hour had passed since Taran’s last patrol to ensure no threat remained. Even so, he remained vigilant. He was too restless to sleep. His mind raced with memories of the violence of the day. His blood coursed hot and furious in his veins. He had almost lost several brothers. He had almost lost Ciaran. Again. That near-failure was enough to leave him shaken and rob him of any celebratory joy. And so, he spent much of the night pacing with his senses on high alert. Between patrols, he guarded over the others as they slumbered. He crouched beside Ciaran and pushed the hair back from his brother’s brow, smiling lightly at the comforting sight of him sleeping safe and sound. That smile slowly faded from his lips as Taran recalled the injuries Ciaran had suffered earlier that day. Hours had passed in tortuous uncertainty as they waited to find out whether his wounds would prove fatal. He drew a hand over his beard and took a steadying breath at the all-too-fresh memory.
The truce between faoil and fògaraich had been in place for nearly nine decades so far, but there was never any shortage of enemies to fight. Those who sought to control them or steal their power. Those who thought them dangerous, feral beasts. Those who wanted to see them all beheaded for their parts in the blood war. And with each battle, it felt as though it was becoming harder to protect Ciaran from harm. As if Ciaran was growing more reckless with the passing decades. As if Ciaran… actually wanted to…
Taran shook it off. He refused to consider it. The thought alone was enough to make it difficult to breathe properly.
The wind abruptly churning outside caught his attention first. Still crouched beside his brother, he narrowed his eyes on the cave mouth in the distance. He listened to the wind howling and scented the air in perplexity. There had been a change in the world around them. A pressure that defied explanation. It caused his bones to ache subtly – an unfamiliar sensation since the time of his Making. It felt as if a storm was rapidly approaching, as if the skies were about to open with no advanced warning.
Just then, the night sky and the cave’s interior were filled with a near-blinding flash of white light. Taran squeezed his eyes shut until it had passed. He dismissed it as lightning at first but frowned when the sound that followed was entirely wrong. It was somehow even more… elemental. Even more forceful.
His eyes scanned the sleeping forms of his clansmen, then returned to Ciaran. His brother was frowning in his sleep now, muttering something incoherently. Taran leaned closer, struggling to hear his words. Given his already-overprotective, near-paranoid level of alertness, the out-of-place noises off in the distance immediately caught his notice.
Taran was on his feet in an instant. The unidentified sounds had come from behind him. From somewhere deeper within the cave.
No sooner had he taken two steps than several of his brothers were up and moving to fall in line. His reaction had been all the signal they needed to know a threat might be present.
Taran shook his head. Only a couple of them needed to follow, the rest were to stay and stand guard over their sleeping clansmen. The day had been long and brutal, and he knew he had just done a thorough sweep for danger. No sense in rousing everyone if it turned out to be nothing more than the echoed sounds of a roosting bird. He motioned for Ailean and Eògan to follow and set out to investigate.
They were only gone less than a minute before Ciaran sat
up bolt straight and gasped for air. Jolted out of his dreams, he clutched his chest with trembling hands and looked around in confusion. Someone was calling him – begging for his help. Someone needed him. SHE needed him. Ciaran frowned in confusion. He had no clue who she even was.
“All right, brother?” Drostan asked groggily beside him, having been startled awake by Ciaran’s gasp. He yawned and smacked his brother’s leg when he failed to reply. “Eh? All good? A bad dream was all?”
“No,” Ciaran answered distractedly with a shake of his head. “I mean, I do not… Something is very… She needs me.”
Drostan fought to keep any trace of pity from his expression as he asked gently, “Who needs you?” He bit his bottom lip and prayed for Ciaran’s sake that it had not been another nightmare about his slaughtered child. Ciaran still had those from time to time. They were always heart wrenching. Always left the man in shambles, even after all this time.
Ciaran’s eyes frantically wandered over his surroundings as his heart thundered wildly in his chest. Without fully understanding what he was doing or where he was going, he leapt to his feet and took off running deeper into the cave.
Drostan quickly scrambled to his feet and followed. He had no idea what was causing his brother to act so out of character but considering the dark nature of the cave’s recently-ousted former occupants, he had every intention of finding out.
The girl Taran found lying on the rocky shore was a pitiful sight to behold. Her body was covered in wounds and burns. Her shallow breaths were rasped and labored. Taran tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes suspiciously as he took in her features. She was beyond lovely, even in her current, broken state.
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