Until the night a pack of strangers came unnoticed onto his tribe’s land.
“Wake, brother! A rider approaches!” Bridi had urged as she roused him from his bed.
The young messenger that awaited Taran outside their home was a member of his own tribe, sent by the invaders to summon him. Taran had charged from his home in a fury at the news of their presence, nearly knocking the messenger over.
And Bridi had tried to follow. He could still recall in perfect detail the pained look in her eyes as he ordered her to go back inside with the others. She had pulled on his arm, he remembered. She had tried to take his spears as she begged him not to go. She had insisted that she had a bad feeling and pleaded with him to send one of his men in his stead.
He would hear nothing of it. Only a coward would do such a thing. And so he had stroked her hair and assured her that he would be safe – before ordering the messenger to take her inside.
She had continued to fight, though, to shriek for him to stay. He remembered staring at her in surprise as she cried and fought to reach him. He had never in his life seen her in such a state. Looking back on it now, as so many times before, he yet again wondered at her warning. Whether it was simply a woman’s intuition or a connection to the good spirits, something had put that fear in her heart. Something had informed her that she would lose her brother that night.
He had forced himself to turn away from her and fulfill the duties expected of him by his clan. The memory of her frantic cries was not soon shaken, though. In an attempt to distract himself, he focused on blaming the ones responsible for causing her distress. As he raced for his warhorse, he quickly reached a decision. Once he was through with these invaders, he would have the head of every sentry that had failed in their duty to guard the borders. Galloping his mare out into the darkness, he considered where in his home he should place the numerous trophy heads the night would bring. When he approached the gathering of strangers, however, he was jarred from such plans.
His horse began throwing her head wildly in terror, whinnying frantically as she halted and backed away. Concern filled him as he stroked her neck and spoke to her soothingly. He eyed the strangers distrustfully. There was something about them that spooked her to no end, and this was a horse that he had led into the thick of many bloody battles. He had reasoned that perhaps her time in his service was at an end, that she had finally grown weary of men trying to slice the legs from beneath her.
From atop his mount, and at a distance that agreed with her, he ordered his men to surround the strangers and lead them away from the homes of his tribe. He gave no outward indication of the terror that gripped him for the lives of his family and the many women and children sleeping nearby. The mothers were prepared to fight if necessary, he knew. It was the way of his people, but he did not wish it to come to that. His duty was to defend them, to keep harm from coming within sight of them. Now there were strange men standing at the center of their very village; the place where they worked and went about their daily affairs, where their children played and feasts were held. The weight of that failure weighed heavily on him.
He masked his relief that these strangers had simply requested an audience with him, instead of killing them all in their beds. Given the ease with which they had wandered into his tribe’s territory, he knew his people would not have stood a chance if their intentions had been violent.
Once he dismounted and bade the white-haired leader, Latharn, to speak, he found that the man addressed him with the appropriate level of respect. That disappointed him slightly. For the sake of inflicting fear in his enemies, Taran always enjoyed a good showing of support from his men. He allowed them to speak out of turn when they felt that he was being treated with less deference than his rank demanded. It did more than fan the considerable ego he had at that age. Having his men force an enemy to grovel before him, without him having to speak a word to rouse such a passionate scene, humbled foreigners. It made negotiations a great deal more lucrative.
Unfortunately, Latharn knew the reputation of Taran and his people. In fact, it was Taran’s renowned talent for warfare that had drawn Latharn to their lands. Though hailing from a far distant clan to the south, Latharn was well aware of the significance of the woad tattoos covering Taran’s body and the high rank they denoted.
For their tradition of marking flesh, Taran’s people were eventually called ‘Picts’ by the Romans and ‘Cruithni’ by the Irish. Both words translated to ‘painted’. These names were given for good reason.
Taran had been marked as triath gaisgeach, chosen to guard over not only his tribe, but also his entire clan. The blue knotwork tattoos of his rank started at the crescent moon on the right side of his 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. Their strength had been imparted to him by his people. Every single marking held meaning, significance. A story had once been told with the symbols etched in his flesh. Numerous tribes in the surrounding area had been under his command. For his many victories, he had been elevated to this position. He was the one entrusted with the protection of his clan, his word was final in such matters. Elders were in charge of upholding laws and making peace, Taran’s business was solely that of war.
And it was war that Latharn warned of. He insisted that it was raging toward their home that very instant. In exchange for Taran’s service, and any man in his clan deemed a suitable candidate, the stranger offered absolute protection of his people against unimaginable evil.
But even at more than 30 years of age, Taran had been young, arrogant, and hopelessly naïve. He laughed at the stranger and encouraged his men to do the same. He called Latharn mad for believing what sounded to be the whisperings of superstitious crones. When he attacked the stranger, he received no resistance.
“Tell me then,” he sneered from atop Latharn after knocking him to the ground. “What protection can a man without a head offer my people?” He demanded, pressing his blade against Latharn’s throat as his men cheered him on.
He had thought these strangers to be a pack of loons. After all, how could they profess to be more capable of protecting his tribes than him when he had so effortlessly overthrown their leader?
In response to his question, a demonstration was given of the teeth and talons that would guard over his clan. Their effectiveness had been difficult to deny, especially when they were sinking into his flesh.
So no, Skye was not the only one changed without a say in the matter.
When he awoke the next morning in his bed, he had been furious to find his sisters tending his wounds. As they wept and pleaded for him to let them help, he staggered away from the home. He knew what he was to become and could not stand the thought of being near them. With his men trailing along after him seeking instruction, he managed to reach the meeting hall. A bed was brought for him and there, at a safe distance from his family, he collapsed from exhaustion and began the process of healing.
As the days went by, he considered taking his own life, putting an end to the abomination that he was to become.
Latharn came to him after a week had passed and asked that he walk with him for a while. With the memory of the bite still fresh in his mind, Taran had been hesitant to comply, but understandably leery of refusing the request. As they walked, he noted the presence of the faoil patrolling his tribe’s borders. Latharn explained that these ‘men’ would be present from then on, a last line of defense against the darkness – just a small fraction of a rapidly growing army.
And then Taran witnessed a faol marching a would-be suitor away from his home because the boy had not been invited by Taran’s father. The faoil had kept their word. In exchange for his aid, they guarded over all members of the tribes in his clan’s territory, over his mother and father, over his little Mayra and Bridi. They prevented all m
anner of harm from befalling them. They even brought food, as the weather had made gathering difficult, and helped his father thatch the roof. The more Taran witnessed from these men in the weeks before the change would come, the more he came to terms with the fact that his life was not such a high price to pay for the gifts his people were receiving.
How he had hated to leave his angels, though. The night before the moon would bring the change in him, he had crouched beside their beds with a heavy heart. For hours, he watched them sleeping soundly. He had avoided as long as possible walking out that door and out of their lives. There were so many things that he had wished to say to them. He had practically raised them as his own, but he would never see them marry or bear children, would never meet his nieces and nephews. With tears in his eyes, he had kissed their foreheads and wished them peace in their lives. He recalled their murmurs in response to his whispered goodbyes... could still remember the scent of their hair...
17: Reddin the Fire
“Taran, me brother!” A familiar Irish voice called and jarred him from the painful memories.
His eyes widened in astonishment as he turned away from the cliff and spun toward the source of the voice. He would know it anywhere.
“No,” he breathed, almost too afraid to hope for it to be true.
Once he focused on the man that was fast approaching, a smile instantly came to his lips.
“Ha-ha! I do nah believe it! It can nah be!” He called back and clapped in amazement at the surprise of his presence here.
“And yet, it is, ya big bastard!” Ciaran shouted. “Holy shite, is it ever good to see your ugly face!“ He declared, grinning ear to ear and racing across the grounds at a dead run to reach him.
“Ciaran!” Taran cried happily, opening his arms and laughing when his brother leapt into them.
They embraced tightly once they collided. Their joint laughter filled the air as they swayed and clapped one another on the back.
“Aahh, it is so good to see ya, my brother!” He breathed blissfully against Ciaran’s shoulder. “I can nah believe you’ve nah gotten yourself killed by now!”
“Tha makes two of us. Well? Let me have a look at ya,” Ciaran said before backing away a few steps and peering up at him. “Yeah, I’m afraid you’re just as fuck-ugly as ya were last time I laid eyes upon ya,” he sighed in feigned disappointment – which instantly put a grin on Taran’s face. Out of all their clansmen, Ciaran was the only one who rarely hassled him for his good looks. “God, how long’s it been?” He asked, only to smile and punch Taran’s arm playfully as he answered his own question. “Too long, tha’s for damned sure.”
Taran laughed at the truth of that. He could not recall how long it had been since the last time they had seen one another. It did not matter though, they could go two years or two centuries apart and still feel like it had only been a few days.
He gripped the side of Ciaran’s face fondly, smiling down at him as he studied his familiar features. Ghostly pale skin, jet black hair, crystal blue eyes, and a sharp nose that had always reminded him of the tales of faery folk told by his mortal clan. His brother was mischief, energy, and humor as always.
“Aye, we’ve much to catch up on. For starters, just what the fook is this you’re wearin’ now?” Taran taunted as he tugged on the leather jacket and tight t-shirt beneath.
“Hey, easy on the goods,” Ciaran countered, pretending to be offended by his brother’s goading as he smoothed his clothes. In reality, they had always gotten a good laugh out of each new trend in clothing. Unfortunately, especially for one turned as young as Ciaran had been, there were only two choices – either heed the latest styles in an effort to blend in with those of your perceived age group, or stand out from the crowd with something misconstrued as an expression of rebellion. Ciaran always chose the latter.
“Did ya suddenly forget how to mend your clothing? Or is this s’posed to be a fashionable look?” Taran joked, pointing to the slices in his jeans that were held together by an insane amount of safety pins. “And please, tell me ya did nah do tha to your hair intentionally.”
Ciaran burst out laughing as Taran mussed his tresses, completely ruining the style.
“I’ll have ya know, this is already a vintage look. Nah everyone can pull it off, either, mind ya. Just the ones as handsome as me self,” he advised with a grin.
“Well, I’ll nah be wearing anything like this when my Guardianship is finished, I can tell ya tha much,” Taran insisted.
“Was there ever any doubt?” Ciaran asked incredulously before hugging Taran tightly again. “Ooh, brother – are ya in for it when ya get out into the world again. I’ve got so much to show ya. Ya will nah believe all the things ya missed in the past century!” Suddenly recalling why he was there, he ended the embrace. “But enough about tha, what brings ya to call for a meeting?” He asked suspiciously.
“I need to speak with Latharn, have questions tha even I can nah answer,” Taran joked, already knowing what his response would be.
“Shite, if the almighty Lord of the castle does nah know, there’s nah a chance we simple country folk will,” Ciaran teased, stretching to put an arm around his brother’s shoulders and tousling his hair as they set out together. He was a good nine inches shorter than Taran, but never let it slow him when they horsed around. “Fine, we’ll take mercy on ya, I s’pose. You’ve called upon him at a good time, all the ancients posted on the Isles are here now.”
“All... as in... ?” Taran asked as he looked over at him in surprise.
Ciaran grinned. “As in exactly what I said – ‘all’. Brother, has tha castle air dampened your brain? Will I be repeatin me self all day then?” He coughed when Taran punched him lightly in the gut. “Right, s’pose I deserved tha,” he wheezed. “Well there’s a big to-do goin on, it’s why I’m here. I do nah know what it’s all about, but one of the... others... ventured out last night to get a message to Latharn. Apparently, the beasties can still sense when he’s near the forest. I’d forgotten how frightful the ainmhidh are.”
Taran stopped walking at that, staring at him in shock. “An ainmhidh left the forest? Fook me, for the first time in what? A scant 4,000 years? Was anyone harmed? What’s the occasion?”
“See? I am repeatin me self – I do-nah -know,” Ciaran said slowly, opening his mouth wide as if speaking to a deaf person. He turned and sprinted away quickly as Taran drew his arm back for another punch.
Taran smiled fondly as he watched him go. He marveled to himself at how much he had missed his brother these past few decades. Ciaran was like himself and Drostan, all of their changes had fallen within a period of a few months. The difference was, while he and Drostan had already been in their early thirties, Ciaran had been just past twenty when taken. He had not hailed from their lands, either. What the modern world had long-since named Ireland had been his mortal home.
Taran could still recall the day they came upon Ciaran’s lands seeking men of noble hearts. They found that the fògaraich had swept through the night prior. Even now, he wondered at what they could have done to arrive sooner and spare his brother the heartache he endured.
Ciaran’s daughter, Una – a beautiful blonde child barely two years of age – had been killed. Ciaran had been positively mad with grief. The sight of him weeping and clutching that little girl in his arms haunted Taran for years after. They had to learn from his wife exactly what had happened, as he was still too far gone to speak. While the others helped her and the rest of Ciaran’s tribe tend the wounded and prepare the dead for burial, Taran went to Ciaran. With their translator’s aid, he and Drostan offered him a chance to make the fògaraich suffer for what had been done to his only child. Despite Ciaran being a suitable candidate, not one member of the pack intended to turn him unless he gave consent. With those blue eyes burning brightly with rage, he had given it gladly.
But as enthusiastic as he was at the chance to take revenge for Una, he had a hard time of it in the beginning. He grieved i
nconsolably for the loss of his child, missed his wife and country, and did not fit in with the larger, older faoil.
Drostan and Taran took him under their wing, taught him their language, and provided friendship and brotherhood to keep his morale up. And their work paid off eventually. After nearly a century of grieving, Ciaran finally abruptly came out of his shell, surprising them when they realized that their once-stoic companion was actually the craziest, funniest little bastard they had ever met.
Until their duties had sent them down different paths, the three had been inseparable. Seeing that familiar smile and hearing that endearing heckling made all the years since they had met fade away.
Taran ran through the tall grass now as if he were still a pup, chasing Ciaran into the ruins of a castle they had built many centuries prior which still served as a meeting place. They burst into the main hall with Taran pointing at Ciaran and saying, “he started it” as at least 50 ancients spun toward them.
“Well, look who finally requested a bit of our company at the castle! Get on over here, lad!” Latharn called, standing from the table and motioning for him to approach. “Let’s have a look at ya. Aw Chreest, still just as handsome as ever. Were I a woman, I’d have wooed ya away from the clan ages ago,” he teased, looking around for agreement from the others that were whistling and trying to make Taran blush. Latharn laughed and hugged him, clapping him on the back before pulling away to look him in the eyes. “How goes the Guardianship? All is well?” He asked, motioning for Taran to take his rightful place beside him at the table. Even in his absence, none had sat there.
Taran nodded, smiling around the room of men that were still calling greetings and swearing their undying admiration of his arse. He laughed and pointed at several of them, shaking his head that they were still as crazy as ever. “It goes well, it goes well. I have many questions to ask... but first, what news? I’d expected two, maybe three of ya to come, yet I see so many faces as old as my own. I hear of visits from the ainmhidh in the night, though they’ve nah come to the castle,” he said and the room quickly settled to silence.
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