by Karen Dales
Her reverence was broken as Rhys snatched her to her feet to face him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, taking her by both forearms and shaking her until seemed to come out of a deep sleep. “We have to go – NOW.” He looked to where Glenys stood with tears in her eyes and then to Huw who looked away in disgust, as if the others should really care about what he did to the demon.
“No one, and I mean no one will ever tell anyone what happened today,” ordered Rhys and to Huw, “If I ever hear one word out of your mouth to anyone about this, cousin, I will make you eat a real sword.”
Huw’s eyes lowered and Rhys could see the hostility in his cousin’s stance, knuckles white as it gripped the waster. “I won’t say anything.”
“Your word, cousin.”
“My word.” Cold fury had encompassed the boy and without another word he walked out of the glen, leaving the three with the body.
Rhys turned to the two girls. He did not trust his cousin at this moment, but never before had Huw given him reason. “Let’s go.”
Glenys nodded her tear-streaked face as she hugged herself. She had wanted to learn the sword, but if a wooden one could do so much damage, she decided that maybe learning to use a real one would not be the best thing. She followed her cousin out of the glen, treading the path back to her village.
Left together in the glen, Rhys glanced sideways at Eria. “Come on.”
“We can’t leave him here, Rhys,” she implored. “He’ll die if he does not get help.”
“He’s dead already, Eira.” Fatigue filled his voice. They had come to the glen to have fun. Today they would go back to the village forever changed. Taking Eira’s arm he guided her out of the sun and into the darkness of the forest.
Chapter II
Dark tendrils encompassed him as he floated downwards, buffeting him against the gentle winds that slowed his fall, cradling him against forces he sensed about him but could not see.
Was he dead?
He did not know and nor did he care. He was away from the pain, away from the fear. Here he could just float on the winds of unconsciousness. The comfort was astounding and he nestled deeper into the darkness, breathing in its sweet essence.
A shift in current.
A minute change of direction.
An unwelcome force applied to his flight bringing a twinkling of fear and a whimper.
Far off a brilliant white light tugged at him, pulling him closer. Is this where he wanted to go? He did not know, but the light frightened and enthralled him, forcing him to gaze into its blazing radiance.
The supporting blackness dissolved, burning away in the flames of its heat.
The pull downwards to the growing light became stronger until he saw within its glowing surface a green garden full of flowers. Its bountiful beauty more ecstatic to his senses than anything else he had ever seen. Flowers of gold, silver and every colour of the rainbow grew. Trees so tall that their tops could not be seen yet did not diminish the light at their bases, allowing smaller plants to flourish.
In awe he allowed the tidal forces that pulled him to draw him closer.
The light flared. Encompassing him, and he gasped at the pleasure as it flickered gently across his skin. His body shivered at the sensations.
Slowly the light moved along his body, caressing him. He closed his eyes and swallowed in anticipation as the brilliance brushed up his chest, his neck, and his face. Feelings of love and compassion reverberated through his whole being until the light reached his head.
Pain!
Blinding pain forced his eyes open and as suddenly it had come upon him it dissipated.
The ball of light with its garden was so close now that he could see three female figures. All with outstretched arms imploring him to their company. One as white as he with eyes the colour of snow, the other with flaming red hair and eyes to match, and the last, which looked so much like the girl at grove.
The grove!
Memory crashed into his consciousness and he cried out. The pain, the humiliation, the fear, all encompassed him and cried out. His body spasmed.
The light withdrew, leaving him cold – vulnerable to the darkness that claimed him once again. His cries echoed in the wails of the three women as he twisted and turned, cast adrift, pulled away from the light and its garden.
Darkness filled him, yanked him away until not even a pinpoint of light remained.
Utterly devoid of any light, he let the blackness comfort him, drawing the memories away leaving only numbness.
No thought.
No feeling.
No emotion was contained within him.
He relaxed in its embrace, revelling in its ebon caress sweeter than the light.
“Yesssss.” The darkness hissed.
Unseen fingers flickered across his body draining him of all pain, numbing his mind of fear.
“Sooooo delicious.”
In the void he could not see the fingers as they made their way to his face, tracing his features, drinking in his memories. He closed his eyes to allow easy passage across his face.
The fingers from his body evaporated.
“What isssss thisssss?!”
The apparent shock of the veiled voice drew the boy back to the awareness of the deep chill of the dark and he hugged himself in an attempt to keep warm.
Where was he?
What was going on?
He did not know and this time he cared as fear darker than the void washed through his body.
“No. Not yet. Too sssssoon,” said the voice from everywhere and nowhere.
“W-who are y-you?” called the boy, shuddering from fear or cold, he did not know.
“You have made your Choice too sssssoon, but Choice has been made. Take back your memories, your fearssssss, and your pain. We will come when the time issssss right.”
A silvery white mist began to develop and swirl before him. Wisps being drawn into a core that became more and more solid, taking form. With a slack jaw he stared as this thing of mist coalesced until it had a partial form of something not quite human. The wisps of silver fluttered like a ragged cloak that was the creature. Then he saw its face, or what was possibly left as a face.
Red glowing eyes stared back in a skull ravished by decay. Its black maw open with pointed teeth. It had no nose and then it did something that horrified him even more… it smiled.
Laughter echoed through the void.
He desperately needed to get away but he could not move.
The creature floated towards him, its white tendrils caressed him, and this time he shuddered in revulsion.
“Sssssweet, sssssso sssssweet.” It was face to face with him.
If it had breath it would have smelled fetid. The figure before him conjured images of putrescence, death and decay.
If he could have run, he would have, but there was nothing in this void save for this creature before him.
He turned his head away and closed his eyes.
A greater pressure on his face made him open his eyes and face front, gazing into its eyes – were those red orbs eyes?
“Ssssstrong,” it hissed, a slight smile on its ruined face. “A gift assss well, then.”
It drew back and swirled around him, gaining speed. He could only stare at the vortex of silver mist surrounding him. As it reached its peak above him, it crashed downwards, into him, showering him in its frozen being, entering every part of him.
The pain of the bitter blast forced a scream from his tortured lungs.
A scream that could not stop.
Chapter III
Awareness slammed into the boy, pulling him from the dark void and its ghoulish creature. Gasping, trying in vain to catch his breath while his heart hammered through his battered skull, the boy lay on the grass in shock. Mastering his breath, he managed to become aware of his surroundings and opened his eyes to the darkness. What time it was he did not know, but he could not remain where he was and lifted his head.
Nauseating pain flashed in his eyes and he was able, just in time, to get to all fours before retching out an empty stomach. The pounding renewed its vigour and he felt the world spin. He clutched onto consciousness as hard as his hands held onto the grass and earth, waiting long minutes before the sick feeling decreased enough to move again, but slowly this time.
He was still in the grove, but the sky was indigo, quickly surrendering its fading light to the night. The boy moaned, fighting back another wave of queasiness and the flickers of light it brought. Still on all fours he lowered his head to the soothing cool earth, gasping in its clean green scent and tried to remember what happened. He found his memory ended after the first blow from the boy with hazel eyes and a freckled face.
Dear Don, what did they do to me?
The answer was evident in his being.
Ever so carefully, the boy tried to shift into a kneeling position but a new pain wracked his body. Intense fire flowed along his legs, back and arms, causing him to cry out. Bringing fingers to touch his forearm, he found his skin ablaze in heat and pain. Again he had to fight off another swoon, his breath coming in short gasps. Closing his eyes he could feel the cool breeze eat at the heat and the violent shuddering began. He knew he was sick. Something was terribly wrong. He could not even hug himself to try and keep warm for the pain his own touch caused his body. Tears seeped out of the corners of his eyes as the suffering rocked him, its salt stinging his swollen and broken lip.
He needed Auntie – needed her badly. But the boy knew that she would never find him. Somehow he had to get home where the only person in the world who cared about him could comfort and heal him. All he wanted to do was fall into her embrace and let her dry old fingers wash away his tears. How would he explain what happened? He did not know for certain either except that she had been right. He had to remain hidden. The pain of the attack was inconsequential compared to the lack of reason as to why it occurred. Auntie had always said he was different and that such difference would always be a threat to others, but she would never explain. Now he knew. He was perceived as something not human – even to Auntie!
That realization hit him harder than the blows he suffered, making the tears flow faster. That was why she would say it was his Fay nature to act in ways she could not comprehend. Why he always seemed a mystery to the woman who raised him. Could that be why she never gave him a name and only called him boy? That thought horrified him even more and a sense of betrayal began to wrap around his heart. But he still had to go home, to face her and hopefully to heal.
Climbing to his feet nearly caused him to pass out. It was his strength and determination that steadied him. His head throbbed in time with his pounding heartbeat. His skin ablaze in unseen fire, the boy took a first unsteady step. The nausea became less fierce and he sighed looking into the dark forest he had to pass through. The thought of branches and leaves touching his burnt skin scared him, but he had no choice but to enter.
A few steadier steps brought him to the tree line. Closing his tearing eyes the boy took a deep even breath, gaining the courage to make the assay. One more step took him out of the glade with the firm knowledge that he would never return to this place.
He sat at the small board and accepted the second bowl of stew from the small old lady; too courteous not to say that he was already full from the first generous helping. The black hard bread came next and he did not believe he had room enough within him to manage the bounty she was honouring him with. But for her he broke off a piece of bread, dipped it gingerly into the bowl, letting it soak the beef juice as he rolled some meat and vegetables, onto it with a practiced knife. Carefully, he brought the steaming bread to his lips and popped the whole thing into his mouth. Chewing noisily and sucking the juice off his thumb he watched the sister of his wife’s father settle herself across from him.
She was a strange sort. Having never married and choosing to live a life of solitude, Llawela’s reputation was replete with stories ranging from the most innocuous, to some that, if heard by the wrong kind of folk, could cause her a lot of problems.
It was common knowledge that the Old Woman was a witch; one of the Gwyddon, and where she learned her lore and magic was part of her mystery. But those who knew her knew that her heart was dedicated to the service of the Old Ones. It was a matter of perspective that dictated whether this so called service was benign or malicious. He liked to think that she was just a crazy old bitty who, on the rare occasion, would be able to make others believe in better things, in a better world. And it was a damned hard world to live in.
Ever since he had the mantle of Chief thrust upon him by the Elders, Geraint had seen more than enough of his share of skirmishes, battles and war. It was not a good time to be alive, and even worse to be a Chief of a people who were just as stubborn as he. He managed the best he could and worried who would become Chief after him since he had no living son. It was one of the many reasons why he took on his cousins’ sons to foster. Rhys was a good boy, but Huw – he grimaced at the thought of the younger boy - he would leave that line of thought for another time when he could devote more time to what to do with that impertinent pup.
He brought his gaze back to the bowl and realized he could not force another bite down. She had asked him to come today and when he arrived she had him tether his horse behind the house – which was strange – and then she proceeded to have him wait, filling the silences with trivial talk. Okay, his girls were not trivial. Eira was every bit of a woman his wife had been before… No! He would not go there with this either.
Damn you old woman. Just tell me why I’m here. He realized then that Llawela was fidgeting nervously and kept glancing at the door. She had not said anything since offering him another bowl of stew.
Geraint huffed in annoyance. It was already dark and traveling at night was not something he relished. He needed to get back home before his family started worrying for his safety, if they had not already.
“Okay, Old Woman, enough,” he broke the silence with his gruff voice and was surprised to see her startle as though she had forgotten that he was there. He started in with a gentler tone. “You asked me to come here today and then you have me sit and wait.”
She turned to face him, her eyes grey and rheumy and suddenly appeared very worried. This in turn made his stomach tighten. Llawela was not the sort of woman to worry or be concerned about anything. Whatever was bothering her must be damned well important.
“I’m sorry, boy,” she said, her voice warbling with age. He liked that she called him boy; then again to her ancientness any man would be a boy to her. “I don’t mean to keep you, but…” She let her words fall away as grey brows furrowed in worry and eyes turned back to the door.
They must be waiting for someone, Geraint surmised, but who would come now that it was dark? Whoever was supposed to come was obviously delayed, judging by the Old Woman’s distraction. Late or not, it was late for him and regardless of what she wanted he had to get home. Standing up, he lifted the sword from where it leaned against the board and strapped it onto his belt.
The sound drew her attention back to her guest and she rose to her feet. “Please, Geraint. Don’t go,” she implored.
Geraint closed his eyes and sighed. Shaking his head he said, “I’m sorry Llawela, but I’ve waited too long as it is. I must get home.”
Frantically staring about, her eyes fell upon the slightly indented stew and bread. “You can’t go until you finish the stew. It would be a waste.”
He could tell she was grasping at anything that would hold him to this place and smiled sadly. “I appreciate the food. I really do. But if I eat any more I swear I will burst.” It broke his heart to see the Old Woman’s shoulders slump in defeat and he walked around the small table and kissed the top of her head, as he would have done with one of his daughters. “I really must go now.”
She nodded, not daring to look up at him. “Will you come back soon?”
“I’ll try.” He could not make a
ny promises. He did not usually come out this way since the hovel only bordered on the lands he governed. Having taken his leave, he made way to the door only to stop short at the lithe figure that suddenly stood in his way.
Eyes wide in shock, he took a step back. The creature before him was a ghastly sight. Slightly shorter than he, thin without looking scrawny, it stood in the doorway, arms red and torso white as snow, standing in a rough woollen kilt. Bringing his gaze to the creature’s face he could see the large blackened bruise on the right side of the jaw and the dried blood where a split lip began to swell.
It was the eyes of the creature that took Geraint’s breath from him. In the orange firelight from the hearth, the eyes glittered red, and were puffy from – crying? He noticed that there was more dried blood on the side of its face, and saw rust coloured blood staining its milk white hair from a bad wound that still leaked red on the left side of its head.
Geraint stood numbly, staring back at the red eyes that glared at him. Pain, hatred and above all, fear reflected back at him as the old woman rushed past.
“Oh dear Don,” she prayed. “What happened?” Lifting her hand to touch the creature’s battered jaw, her face ashened as it took an unbalanced step back and brought the full brunt of its gaze onto her.
Tears threatened to break, making its eyes glitter like rubies. There was so much pain there that Geraint could only stand and stare. The red eyes, hair the colour of the moon and skin so pale brought a hidden memory to the surface forcing Geraint to take a step towards the boy.
Noticing the movement from the stranger in his home, the boy turned back to face the man. Finding him there, sitting across from Auntie, was a shock that sent his mind reeling into believing that what was done to him in the grove was just the beginning of worse. The man wore leathers as a warrior would, that accentuated his barrel build and strength. His dark hair streaked with silver and his moustache hung long. It was the silver dragons that made up the guard of the man’s sword glittering in the firelight that caught his attention.
