Chapter 5: Soul of Fire

Eothain froze, and started to curtsy again- forgetting that she had no skirt to curtsy with- when Gwaine Morran reached out and grabbed her shoulder- firmly, but not roughly.

"Now then, wee lass, before ye start bobbin' yerself silly, I must remind ye that in this place, there are nae formalities. Every man, woman and child are just as valued and honored as one another." Helping her to her feet, he stepped back, seemingly analyzing her- not lustfully, but as though a book of all her strengths, weaknesses, flaws, and life's experiences was open before him. Seeing the confusion and tinges of fear in her eyes, he smiled encouragingly and extended his hand. Eothain stared at it bemusedly.

"What's supposed to happen?" she asked quietly, feeling her cheeks redden in embarrassment at the sudden silence; Why was everybody staring at her like she was making some obscene social gaff, like she was coated head to toe in mud? Gwaine smiled wryly, not faltering a moment.

"It's how we greet each other. Here, look-" He carefully reached out his hand further and gently yet firmly clasped her wrist, locked in his armored, iron grip.

"A pleasure, Eothain O'Skye," he said, his eyes locked on hers. Looking into his eyes, Eothain felt a wave of emotions and whispers wash over her, nearly overwhelming her. Dark. Ever so dark. So many wounded, fallen, so few left to help. So much pain, so many loved ones on the ground. Whispers all around, so few left. Fear. Sin and temptation hacking away.  She is gone. Fallen into shadow forever. Light ahead. Only hope left is-

"Are you okay, lassie?" Eothain was shocked to find that she was on the ground, staring up into the worried faces of Addison and Gwaine, and surprised to find thin trails of tears down her cheeks. What in God's creation had happened?

"I'm... I'm fine," she lied, struggling to sit up. The wave of emotions had left as rapidly as it came. She could see the doubt in their eyes, but she accepted their proffered hands and got to her feet uneasily, feeling sick to her stomach. Noticing her discomfort, Addison turned to the still-gathered crowd of Riders. "What are the lot of ye still doing here? Cohorts dismissed!"

 As the swarm of colorful warriors scattered, heading back to their families and the rest of the grounds of the camp, Addison gestured over to a short, delicately-set mother in vivid orange armor, with a short, narrow-waisted sword belted to her side. The woman seemed to understand instantly, and smiled at her warmly, her green eyes sparkling and seeming to laugh, close-cut chestnut hair bristling in the cool morning breeze, with her two children huddling shyly behind her; one a boy dressed in a faded green tunic, clutching a little wooden dagger almost as big as his arm, staring at her with wide blue eyes, his shaggy brown hair hanging in his eyes, of about 5 or 6. Standing just behind the boy was a girl about her age, as short as her mother, garbed in deep blue armor. Her icy blue eyes glittered from underneath the shaggy black locks of her raven hair, and a faint, shy smile ventured across her lips.

As the family approached, Gwaine came up behind her quietly. “Normally, initiates are sponsored by their families while they go through training, but in your case, Farawyn has been asking around to see if anybody was willing to give you a spare bunk. Lucky for you, Eoran McGordon,” he whispered helpfully, pointing at the orange-clad mother now chatting softly with Addison, “has a soft heart underneath that armor, and has offered you a spare room in her home.” “And why hasn’t anybody told me this before I woke up this morning?” Eothain quipped back drily. Gwaine smiled wryly, and shrugged.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Standing in the tall doors of the armory, looking in, Eothain could feel her jaw drop to the hay-scattered floor, as she stared at the endless rows. Before her lay racks and racks of weapons of many different sizes and styles. Gwaine stood behind her encouragingly. "Go ahead lass, try one, if ye want." She reached out and unbuckled from the rack a monstrous two-handed Caledonian Claymore sword, and was nearly pulled to the ground by its weight. "Um... no." Struggling to her feet, she hung it back up on the racks, and moved on.

As time passed, more options for arming her were turned aside. Swinging around an antique Roman gladius passed down as a trophy from one of the families of the clan, she lost control and hacked it into the neck of a nearby training dummy, leaving it embedded there like some oversized body piercing. She passed over a belted set of rather wicked-looking bone-handled knives without a second thought. Finally, she found a short leaf-shaped sword, made from bronze, with intricate silver vines spiraling from the handguard down around the grip before twisting into a broad-headed pommel. The blade itself was etched with veins of silver, spiraling and weaving before finally meeting at the tip of the blade. Gripping it, the sword felt perfectly balanced, as though it was forged specifically for her.

Gwaine's eyes flashed slightly when he saw the blade she had picked, and took it gently from her hands. He ran his fingertips down the veins in the blade, closing his eyes briefly, but she could see the mournful look in his eyes when he handed it back. This blade bore a grief-stricken history, and Gwaine was somehow involved. He coughed nervously, and nodded in the direction of the rest of the armory. "Lets just get the rest of your gear, shall we?" She carefully slung the sword, belt and all, over her shoulder, letting the sheathed tip bounce against the small of her back, and followed him through the aisles.

Fitting her to her armor, however, was a harder ordeal then finding her sword. She stumbled around for a few minutes in a heavy, steel coat of maille that went down to her ankles, comically oversized, like she was playing dress-up. After trying on several other coats with minimal success, Gwaine dug out from behind a wall of tall, narrow Roman shields leaning against the wall a small, intricately woven shirt of maille. In the low light of the armory, its silvery links and bronze inlay seemed to glow.  As she held it in her hands, it flowed from hand to hand like steel silk. With a nod of encouragement from Gwaine, she bent over and slipped it over her, letting its comforting weight settle on her shoulders.

As the maille pulled itself into place by its weight, she looked down at herself approvingly, shivering slightly as the cold steel links slithered down her frame. The shirt seemed tailored to her perfectly, or at least tailored to someone her size. The hem of the shirt came down to just under her hips, not too loose, not too tight. Over her shoulders, a secondary layer of maille was woven in, serving as both padding for her plate armor, as well as additional protection for lucky strikes in between the plates. Suddenly, she felt a sudden burst of pressure in the small of her back, as she toppled to the ground. Rapidly turning to see what had pushed her, Gwaine stood in the open doorway of the armory-barn, a longbow in his hand, and on the floor, a broken arrow with a blunt, broad-headed tip. "Just testing to see if it still holds," he said calmly, as though that explained everything. She staggered to her feet, and got back to searching.

Apparently, her rig of armor was crafted from a rare metal from the mountains, making it lightweight, but nearly indestructable. After she had all of her gear assembled, Gwaine had shown her how to carry it all on a specially designed pack, called a furca, ripped off of old Roman designs. She was quite the sight, walking through town square with a long, T-shaped wooden bar, about four feet long, the T-bar nearly two feet long. Lashed to the T-bar were the upper torso plates of her armor, the abdomen plates riveted to them by leather strips in the armor. As she strode through town, it looked like she was hauling a massive steel lobster on a stick, with all the grace and quietness of a tinker's cart hitched to a flock of feral cats.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

 As Eothain stumbled down the path from the Big House (as the chieftain's hall was commonly known) out towards the cropping of homes by the White Gate, her mind was rushing with the events from the past few days. For hunting a deer, a demon had slaughtered her village. She had been rescued by a knight-who-wasn't-really-a-knight, or perhaps an armored monk, and brought back to an encampment full of people who were fully trained in combat, and were gifted by God to fight evil. Apparently, they were willing to train her. Evil and Satan existed, and God had crafted an army to combat it, in more than just good works and prayer.

Approaching the White Gate, she began to see just how obscenely tall the wall was. Its white-carved stony walls stretched high into the sky, each stone tightly fit with its brethren around it. The walls were broad and wide, and Eothain got a strong feeling that it would take legions to breach the wall, much less cross it alive. Even if they could make it past the gate, or the wall, it seemed like two thirds of the populace of the clan were armored and armed to the teeth, even some of the children.

The gates themselves towered over her, faded and weathered bronze embossing decorating the monstrous wooden hinges and crossbeam mounts. Images of strange, savage beasts in combat with armored men and women were engraved into the wood, all under the same, strange circular cross as she had seen before in the dead center of each door. Stumbling forward in its shadow, she felt a wave of deep-set calm and peace washing over her. Not the same feeling as before, but looking up at the wall, and the mighty gates, she felt safe, and for the first time in days, she felt a little bit of joy and courage rising in her heart. She nearly forgot about what she was on her way to, staring up at the beautiful, tall gates, when somebody nearby coughed nervously, nearly sending her toppling over under the now misbalanced weight of her armor pack.

Leaning against the wide open doors, now dressed in a simple grey tunic, was the girl she had seen before, the daughter of Mrs. McGordon. She smiled shyly as she came forward to help the struggling Eothain with her pack. "Here, let me," she said softly, as she strode up and shifted her torso plates on the cross-bar, re-lashing them to adjust the weight placement. With her pack no longer threatening to drag her backwards, Eothain smiled appreciatively, and the two walked out the gates and out into the wild Highlands, on their way to her new home. Her name was Aidan, Eothain found out, and their conversation was mildly awkward at first, both of them very shy and a little bit uncomfortable in each other's company.

After a while, passing through misty valleys and over dew-covered hills before their conversation changed.
"If it isn't too foolish to ask," Eothain ventured timidly.

"There's no such thing as foolish questions, just foolish answers," Aidan quipped drily, smiling softly, her vivid blue eyes glittering. Eothain smiled inwardly, and tried a different approach to her question.

"Why is everybody's armor so different? Um, I mean, why is everyone so colorful? If they were a proper army, they would all be wearing the same color, as a uniform, right?"

Aidan’s burst of laughter at this rang merrily through the air, akin to the tinkling of many small hammers striking an anvil. Eothain scowled slightly, not wanting to upset Aidan but still feeling insulted.

"It was a perfectly valid question," she muttered, as Aidan finally regained her composure, still grinning.

"To answer your question," she began, "the Gaelic Riders are unlike any force on God's earth. We are not an army as such; we are not here to conquer and dominate, nor are we violent in nature. Our enemy, as such, is not one of flesh and blood. At least, most of the time, it isn't," she shuddered, looking back at Eothain with a haunted look in her eyes. After a moment's pause, she continued.

"As for the "uniforms," we aren't officially recognized by any worldly power. In Britannia, we are considered as irritants to the royal court, and worse. Up here, in Caledonia, the local clans occasionally ask us for help, but otherwise leave us to our peace. The one place where we are fully welcome is across the bay, in Hibernia.

"As for the colorful armor, I suppose that that tradition goes back ages, to the foundation of the Order. Instead of all being the same, dull and drab unpainted steel plates, we were encouraged to be creative with our armor. For some, it's simply a matter of personal taste, but for others, the colors are a personal statement about themselves. Blue for reliability, red for honoring our Father, green for duty, black for justice, white for purity, or forgiveness, orange-"

"What's grey for?" Eothain interrupted, entirely intrigued by what she was hearing. Meaningful order to the seemingly chaotic and random color schemes for the Riders' armor, armies that aren't armies, national secrets, what next? Aidan walked on in silence before answering.

"Grey... well, for some, grey is the color of mourning a lost loved one. Death, or simply... lost." Aidan finished off, setting a grim overtone to their conversation.

"So... who did Gwaine lose?" Eothain said softly, after a few minutes of silently hiking side by side through the mist. Another silent minute passed before Aidan answered.

"The first thing that you must know of the Riders, is that Gwaine Morran is a legend. Next to Lord Addison, he is the finest swordsman of the order, and the fiercest of warriors. Many of us are still alive because he was there like an avenging angel to rescue us. But for all his fame here, he has only ever taken two people before into apprenticeship. Just two.”

“And the significance of that is what exactly?” Eothain questioned, still trying to take everything in.

“Eothain, for normal apprenticeships, it is over a period of three years. For a man Gwaine’s age, 35, three years is nothing. But for him… well, the total sum of his two apprentices was about a year and a half.”

“But how-”

“Listen. Sometimes… sometimes apprentices don’t make it through training. Sometimes they wash out, because they aren’t strong enough, or brave enough, or simply want out. Sometimes they die. And sometimes… sometimes, they turn traitor, go dark… start working for the other side.”

“But-” Aidan turned to her, and stared her straight in the eyes warily.

“Eothain, I know you have questions, I know that you are completely new to this entire crazy world you now live in, but if you want to hear Gwaine’s story in full, you will have to get it from him alone. He has done right by us, and protected many of us while leading us to Camp Zion, so if he doesn’t want his story told just yet, we stay silent.”

Eothain sighed resignedly, and the two walked on in silence, the sun starting to sink over the hilltops far off to the west.

“That would explain why he seems so…”

“Insane? Entirely random in his moods and actions?” Aidan smirked warmly, shaking her head gently in amusement.

“I was thinking more along the lines of, um, different,” Eothain stammered, a rosy hue rising in her pale cheeks.

“In case you haven’t noticed, everyone here is a little bit insane. To be a Christian, much less a Rider, it’s pretty much a given. But yes, Gwaine is one of the maddest ones of our little crew.” Aidan smiled softly, looking ahead into the winding path, and Eothain followed her gaze, dropping silent. Floating in the wind, seductive and teasing, were the mixed scents of chicken roasting, freshly baked bread, and luscious herbs, all melting together to form one, singular thought: home.

She resisted the temptation to rush forward through the wild underbrush until she either passed out from exhaustion or find her way to the source of the overwhelming smell, but all thoughts passed as the two stood stock still. Nearby in the underbrush, something rustled, in a way that suggested that whatever it was was trying to be silent.

“Animal?” Eothain whispered, wishing that she hadn’t lashed her sword to her pack.

“No,” Aidan whispered hoarsely back. “worse.” Staring out from the bush, at about Eothain’s waist height, was a pair of vivid green eyes.

Chapter 4: Whispers and Warriors

As Eothain stepped up and out from the wtilight of her room into the blinding sunlit morning outside, she looked around in amazement, taking it all in as though something might disappear if left unnoticed. The thick wooden door that she had just walked out of was burnished with faded bronze trim, the sole acknowledgement that these humble quarters was where the clan chieftain slept. The door itself was submerged into a small grassy hill, its hinges lost in the tangled blades and roots. To the casual observer, the door seemed to simply meld and melt into the undergrowth.

Looking around her, she could see that she was in a hilly valley, nestled in the shadow of a brooding, show-capped mountain. At the mouth of the valley, far off in the distance, monstrous walls of white stone guarded the valley, pierced only by a great arched gate. The Riders had chosen a natural defense; the valley was encircled on all sides but one by the mountaintops, reaching heavenwards as though in eternal praise for their Creator. Unless an attacker fancied trying to breach the White Gate, they would be forced to undertake an arduous, freezing, possibly fatal climb to cross the mountains.

Stretching from the gate all the way to the foot of the mountains was a narrow, paved road, lined with scattered workshops and voluminous tents dyed vivid shades of grassy green and touched with rich hues of silver and gold. In the smithies, she could see figures basked in the glow of their forges, hammering away at red-hot blades clutched in their gloved hands. In the center of the valley, a small well stood, surrounded by rickety vendors carts selling fine cuts of meat, fresh vegetables and herbs, and intricately crafted jewelry to the thriving crowds around them. Mothers chatted glibly around the well, often reaching down to keep their toddling children from wandering off into mischief; gaggles of teenage girls giggled and squabbled playfully amongst themselves, flirting with the occasional sentry off-duty; elderly, wisened men and women, clad in well worn coats of mail and segmented plates of dented armor, huddled in open tents, telling stories to hordes of eagerly attentive children.

Closing her eyes, the intermingled sounds of hammers ringing on steel, joyous laughter and chatter from the tongues of both genders, and the low keening of bagpipes from the wall melded into one chaotic, lively symphony. Opening her eyes again, she searched through the crowd, looking for the familiar figure of Lord Addison, and realized that in the entire crowd, she couldn't find any grown men. Her heart lept to her throat, before she spotted a large crowd down by the White Gate, crowded around the wide open doors of a tall barn, but somehow she got the feeling that it wasn't grain that was stored there. Steeling up her nerve, she dashed haphazardly through the crowd, down the long winding road, unaware that as she ran, many a head turned, and a cloud of whispering began.

"The O'Skye girl-"
"Lucifer came after her for what now?"
"Farawyn came after her personally-"

Finally reaching the thick ring of men, she could see that there were quite a few women mixed into the crowd, and around the outer layer, a smattering of a few teenagers too. All of them were dressed in the same uniform- coats of maille, with heavy-looking breastplates buckled on over them, swords belted around their waists, half-shoulder pauldrons strapped on, shields slung across their backs or resting against their legs, greaves strapped to their shins, and full-knuckle gauntlets strapped to their forearms. What really caught her eyes, however, was that each Rider had painted their armor individually. One teen girl, on the outer rim of the crowd, had painted her armor a faded bone-white, with crimson detailing, in distinctive contrast to her short-cut black hair, and her glistening silver eyes. An older man's armor, deeper in the crowd, was sea blue, broken up only by white bars across his back, presumably repeated across his chest as well. Another woman Rider smiled back at her, clad in vivid green armor, her shaggy mane of faded red hair draping down onto her plates.

The crowd of warriors was painted all the colors of the rainbow, and just as diverse in gender and height and backgrounds, the one thing that gave any indication that this seemingly disorganized rabble was any way connected was a simple golden cross emblazoned on their chestplates, outlined in silver. Standing before her was an army for the Lord's cause, in physical manifestation. Standing in the center of the crowd, leaning against the wide open doors of the barn, clad in silver and golden armor, was Lord Addison. Gone were the humble brown robes. In their place was armor fit for a King, or one of his most beloved of followers. His eyes wandered through the crowd, and when his eyes locked with hers, she felt the same gentle, soothing invisible hand stroke the chords to her soul, and felt a faint sense of peace and encouragement wash through her.

The crowd went silent, watching her, as she carefully made her way through the crowd, her eyes never leaving Lord Addison's. When she reached the open circle separating the crowd from the armory, and Addison, she fell into a deep curtsy, barely daring to look up at Lord Addison. "I thank you most humbly, my lord, for your hospitality in taking me in. I accept your invitation of remaining here and training under you." Silence fell for a few moments, before she felt gentle, but strong and gauntleted hands lifting her gaze to his, and stared up into the laughing, gleaming blue eyes of Lord Addison.
"My dear child, there is no need for formalities here. Call me Farawyn. 'Lord Addison' sounds so stuffy and formal."  She beamed shyly, then wider, as he helped her to her feet, turning her around to face the crowd.
"Gentlemen-"

"And ladies," a voice called out from the crowd, to the mild amusement of the crowd.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Farawyn corrected, smiling to himself, "As some of you know, the Infernal Rider has risen again."The crowd burst into excited chatter amongst themselves, expressing disbelief and grim amusement. In the front row, a young girl, barely 10, blanched as pale as her fair hair, gripping a small dagger on her belt tightly. The crowd silenced again as Farawyn continued.

"I recieved reports on his apparent activities across the bay, in Hibernia, but I was not aware of the damage it had done until I stumbled upon young Eothain here, down by the border, with the Rider in hot pursuit. It had disguised itself as a knight in royal armor." He paused, looking meaningfully to specific faces in the crowd. "It could sense not only who she was, but what she was as well. When her village wouldn't give her up, it slaughtered them with shadows, and pursued her when she broke ground to flee. It was nearly upon her, when she stumbled into the grounds of the old Watchtower, and into me." He finished the story promptly, nodding respectfully down at Eothain.

"She has already accepted the invitation to stay here and train, but now only one question remains. Who will train the girl?" Silence fell again, longer this time. Finally, after some time, a deep voice with a thick Caledonian accent spoke.

"I will train her, if she wishes." A tall, grim figure in grey armor stepped out of the crowd, his helmet clutched under one arm. Emblazoned on the brow of the helmet, the strange cross design she had seen earlier seemed to glow in silver from the scarred and pitted helmet. His armor was scratched and battered, its paint faded, chipping around the edges. His long red hair hung in his face, but she could see his gleaming green eyes beneath his shaggy locks, and his lips in a slight smile. Farawyn Addison smiled softly, a strange light in his eyes. "I approve of the match. Eothain O'Skye, meet Gwaine Morran. My second in command."

Chapter 3: Mourning and Revelations

"Puir wee thing... so young, and yet already marked.." Eothain awoke, the entire lower half of her body in pain, yet dulled, throbbing. She slowly propped herself up with her elbows, and took a look around. She was in  a warm, fire-lit room: small, but cozy. She was lying in a low, hand-made cot, with a warm, cozy wool blanket tucked around her tender frame, decorated with Celtic spirals and knots and what appeared to be a cross in the center, but unlike any she had ever seen. Settled near the bunk was a small, rough table, with a pitcher of water and a wooden mug perched on a thick, heavy-looking manuscript.

Silhouetted against the fire, a tall, broad shouldered man stood, his back to Eothain. in the dim light from the fire, the man's long, rust red hair could be easily picked out from his dull, earth-toned robes. He might have easily been some wandering monk, except for two things that stood out in the firelight. Belted onto his waist was the most beautiful sword she had ever seen, wide at the hand guard, then narrowing, and back again before narrowing down to the tip, with the grace of the ocean tide, the blade and hand guard etched in gold and silver, intertwined. Strapped to his forearms, seeming to glow in the blaze of the fire, were intricately crafted gauntlets. Extending to his knuckles, each plate and strap were polished to a gleam, and each plate was engraved with a spidery, ethereal script, weaving and winding and crossing over itself, with that same strange circular cross embossed on the hand plates.

This man clearly was not the Rider, but- she looked back up at him, to realize that he was looking at her. His eyes were kind, very intelligent and gleaming with past laughter and joys. That is what she first noticed. his beard was carefully braided, and strung with colored clay beads. In the fire's light, he didn't appear to be much older than her, about as old as Liam, but his eyes, interwoven amongst the laughter and the deep piercing intelligence was age. Age, mixed in with seemingly centuries of deep pain, and a calm, steady Light. Whoever he was, she was definitely safe around him.

"Ach, so ye've awakened at last, lass," he smiled softly, as he turned fully from the fireplace. His eyes locked with hers, and it felt as though every emotion, every memory, was passed over by a gentle, soothing wave, comforting her mind and soul. Then he looked away, and the feeling passed. "Ye must be starving, lil'un. It has been nearly two days since we came across ye." Her eyes widened silently, and the memories returned. The soldiers in her village. The screams. The blood. The Rider standing victoriously over her, ready to strike. And the light. that blinding, pure light.  She looked up at him again, and found him pouring water into the mug, watching her knowingly, slightly sadly. He trundled over to her, gently proffering her the mug.

"Here, drink this, little one." She took the mug, and drank, her eyes never leaving his. To say that the water was good was an understatement. The water gushed down her parched throat, icy cold, yet sweet, both refreshing her and revitalizing her. As she gulped down the last drought, she closed her eyes in sheer ecstacy, feeling strength rushing through her veins once again. When she opened her eyes again, the man was sitting back in a crooked wooden rocker, smiling wryly, chuckling under his great wooly beard.

"You look a lot better than how you were when we found you, lass. Now, I imagine you must have plenty of questions for me." Eothain nodded solumnly. Silence fell, only punctured by the crackling of the fire behind them. After a while, she spoke, barely above a whisper. "Sir... if it isn't too rude, who are you? what is this place? what happened to the Rider? You... you called him Lucifer?"

The man's eyes grew heavy for a moment, before they cleared, and were replaced by wisdom and mirth again, but still subdued. Finally, he spoke, but his voice was now touched with a slight Caledonian lilt. "My name, Eothain O'Skye, is Farawyn Addison, Lord of the Gaelic Riders. You are in Caledonia, on the shore facing Hibernia, in my clan hall. As for what happened to the Dark Skraeling..." he paused, getting to his feet wearily. "That is a conversation for another day, under less darker of circumstances. Now rest. And heal. You have had much pain and misery in these last few days, but when you wake again, you will have a chance for something much more than you can possibly imagine." With that, he tucked her into bed again, and quietly strode out of the room. Eothain's eyelids began to grow heavy and weary, and right before she slipped off into slumber, she thought, why tomorrow? She settled down in the borrowed cot, and slept. And dreamed deep.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

When Eothain awoke, the room was dark. In the fireplace, the scattered coals from the fire glowed dimly, revealing little about her surroundings. With an elongated groan, she slipped her legs out from under the warm pile of blankets, and swung them over the edge of the cot, onto the ice-cold stone floor. To passers-by, the noise she made was akin to a cat being trod on. Once she regained her composure, she planted her feet on the ground firmly this time, and got to her feet shakily, leaning on the stubby table by her cot for support. It was time that she found out just exactly where she was.

She felt around on the tabletop until she found what she was looking for- a candle. Moving carefully so as not to stumble and fall in the near-darkness, she maneuvered her way to the light of the glowing embers, and carefully lit the wick in them, nearly making her drop her candle as it flickered into life suddenly. With her curiosity burning like the candle in her hand, Eothain took a look around her room. On the far wall, a low rack stood against the wall, its shelves filled with strange, leather-bound packages. Upon further examination, she discovered that ages of parchment were neatly sewn into the leather binding, and covering each page, spidery yet neat lines of writing trailed across the pages, occasionally interrupted by rough sketches and illustrations and side notes in the same winding scrawl. With a start, she realized that what she held in her hands was the Book of St. Luke, and it wasn’t written in Latin, but in Gaelic, her own tongue!

Beaming in the darkness, she clutched the book to her chest, as though it was a precious relic given to her by God Himself, and continued exploring her room. The door loomed out of the darkness like some monstrous thing of old, sunlight leaking in through the cracks of the thick wooden planks and through the thin gap under the door. Next to the door, a small desk stood, half-written pages of parchment scattered across its face. Picking one up, she read a rather confusing formal report on movements of Brittanic troops, and of a vague, yet apparently very important discovery over the waves, something about a holy city in the sand. After that, she couldn’t make any sense of the report. The little table still had the mug and pitcher on it- both empty, she noted sadly- but the chair by her bunk now held a pile of neatly folded clothes, a lengthy note pinned to her cloak resting on the back of the chair, now cleaned from the muck and grime. Here is what she read:
“Fair Ms. O’Skye, Good Day to You!” How does he know my name, she thought.
“With luck, your strength has returned, after your ordeal. You are more important than you think; the Dark Rider doesn’t come after just anyone. But that is for a later time. On a more immediate matter, I can imagine that you would appreciate a fresh change of clothing. I dearly hope that they fit properly. Thinking it unnecessary to disturb your slumber, some hot food has been left outside your door, and at your earliest convenience, come to the armory for fitting, if you so desire. You should find your way quite easily by ear. By any chance, there are things which must be explained to you, some of which I mentioned last night. There are events in motion that cannot be explained by mortal means alone. The Rider that attacked your village was not a creature of flesh and blood.” At this, Eothain blanched in the darkness, feeling a faint chill run down her back.

“I cannot tell you anything more than that of its origins, for fear that the dread would strike you down. However, as you saw for yourself, they can be fought by mere mortals. A choice lies before you now: you can leave this place, and live out your life as best as you can, and nobody will stop you. Or, you can stay here, and train with others of your age, and learn the truth of the darkness that wanders this world. But choose one, and only one, and let it be your choice. For if you choose to stay, your life will never be the same again. The choice is yours.
I have the honor to remain,
          Yours deeply
                    Lord Addison, Gaelic Riders, Recovery Team, CHT 2, etc."

Eothain smiled wryly, picking up the first bundle of clothing, unfolding it to find a finely sewn silken tunic, dyed a fine navy blue, with matching breeches. Stitched into the hem and collar, the same spidery script from Lord Addison's gauntlets repeated itself over and over. The letter had answered some questions, but there were still more questions than answers. She glanced once more to the pile of clothing, and picked it up, sizing it to herself, smiling wryly. Addison owed her plenty of answers.

Authors Note: For those of you who follow my wattpad account, TheGreyGuardian, yes, I did merge chapters 3 and 4 together. thank you.

Chapter 2: The Rider

Without pausing to think, Eothain rammed her elbows back into the broad chest of her stalker, and as he stumbled back, drew her hunting knife shakily from its sheath, and whirled around to face the marauder.
"Liam?" Standing, or rather, slightly crouched over before her, dressed in a battered, burned, and worn tunic, was Liam O'Skye: her big brother.
"Aish, sis, no welcome home?" His shaggy mane of strawberry blonde hair couldn't hide the great big grin plastered over his face, or the laughter in his gentle blue eyes. Eothain sheathed her knife quickly, laughing, and hugged Liam tightly.
"Miss me much, lil'un?" Liam looked down at her, grinning widely. Eothain mumbled something against his chest.
"What was that?"
"of course I did, ye great oik," she laughed, punching his arm playfully. She released him, beaming up at him. Liam crouched before her, cupping her face in his hands. "Ye've grown up so fast, me little sister. it seems barely a week ago that I was teaching ya how to defend yourself and how to hunt, and now look at ye!"
"Liam, I'm nearly 17 now. Ye dinna have tae fuss o'er me so." She blushed slightly, raising a single, fair eyebrow reproachfully. On others, this had the effect of those on the business end suddenly finding that they had something else to do, on the other end of the village. In these circumstances, it just made Liam grin wider, chuckling softly under his breath. Suddenly, Liam's normally cheerful and mirthful eyes grew ancient, weary, and... fearful. Only once before she had seen that look cross his face.

"Get. Down." Hearing her brother's stern and suddenly ominous tone, she obeyed instantly, tumbling behind an outcropping of vegetation, Liam crouching behind a great Oak tree. Down in the village, scanning through the townsfolk like some abomination of Lucifer, was the rider, surrounded by a company of pikesmen, in black talbards and rusted maille jerkins. The rider was completely unharmed. Everything stood still, as the tall, ominous figure slid off his horse, and tramped over to Edoras's workshop. Townsfolk skittered away from the huddled lump of soldiers like rats from a flame, hovering around the workshop, just close enough to try to see what was going on inside, but not close enough to spark the irritation of the pikesmen.
 It was then that everything went wrong. Whatever it was that the Rider was asking Edoras, he clearly didn't take it kindly. If there was one thing he was famous for, beyond his flaming red hair, it was his temper.

"Ya can keep yer blood money, and ya can take yer mangy hobnailers, and GIT outta my shop!" Suddenly, there was an ear-ringing CLANG as the Rider went flying out of the smithy, head first, and landed in the mud around the well. Edoras struggled out of the workshop, face fuming with wrath, held back only by his burly apprentice. Clutched in his iron fist was his massive dishing hammer, trembling from Edoras' fury. "Ye willnae find a Judas here, nor will ye find the lass here! Knowing her, she's probably up some tree somewhere with a stolen scroll or something." Despite the grave circumstances, Eothain chuckled softly. She had been caught many a time with a "borrowed" manuscript from the monastery. She and her brother watched in horror as the Rider got to his feet, hand settling to his belt, striding for the still raging Edoras. Before he could draw another breath to break into his rant further, the Rider lunged forward like a wolf, the brilliant gleam of a knife blade flashing in the sunlight, and- Edoras collapsed to the ground, twitching, soon followed by his apprentice. Everything went to a standstill; then, almost like the Rider knew that she was watching them, he spoke aloud, in a deep, booming yet raspy voice.
"Kill them all."

 Everything descended into chaos. Townsfolk who didn't react quickly enough were either cut down by the stabbing, hacking blades of the pikesmen, or were trampled by their fellow civilians in the rush to escape from the cramped, brutal killing circle. As Eothain watched in horror, Liam yanked on her arm, trying to drag her away from the sight of the slaughter below. Someone must have spilled hot coals in their attempt to escape, as the open doors of the smithy slowly started spilling out acrid, black smoke. In minutes, the smithy could set alight, and with it, the entire town. In the midst of the slaughter, the Rider strode through calmly, hacking down any and all who came into his path. Without warning, he looked up at Eothain and Liam, locked to the spot in terror.
"Eothain.. run," Liam growled, still staring in horror into the hollow visor of the Rider's helm.
"but-"
"RUN!"
With that, as the Rider mounted his horse, Eothain ran, away from the blazing scene of death and destruction, away from the screams of her family, her friends, her neighbors, and into the dark, whispering woods. The iron hooves of the Rider sounded behind her in the soft earth, declaring her death knoll. As she sprinted, dodged, barreled through the underbrush, she couldn't seem to lose the Rider, drawing ever closer. Not knowing where she was running, only knowing that she must run, else join the fate of her village. As she burst out of the treeline suddenly, she stumbled into an open field, and fell. Landing with a resounding thump, she nearly screamed in pain, as she felt her ankle twist under her. Oh kark. Eothain looked over her shoulder, searching for any sign of the Rider, and- There. In the trees. Watching. Waiting. Eothain edged backward, clamboring away from the Rider, as he stepped out from the treeline casually, a bloodstained blade gripped in his hand. Never face death with fear in your heart, her father had always told her, before he disappeared into the misty northern Highlands. Show the Reaper just what you're made of. In this case, however, Eothain just kept moving, crawling painfully away, eyes locked on the Rider, when suddenly, she ran into something. A pair of knobbly horse legs, connected to the body of the same lean, glistening white warhorse, clad in copper and silver plates of armor. Further up, riding it, was- "In God's almighty name, get thee gone from here, Lucifer!" There was a blinding flash of light, and an unearthly howl of terror, anger, and pain, and the last thing Eothain saw was a gauntleted hand reaching down towards her, before she passed out.

Chapter 1: A Legend Begins

Once, in the days of yore, the Isles of Britain were dark and savage, peopled by the proud yet lethal Celts, Picts, and Britons. In time, after their Roman occupiers came and went, civilization abandoned by the Romans began to form anew amongst the scattered clans. As wanna-be Conquerors tried time and time again to take the isles for themselves, the nations of the isles slowly grew stronger, and their faith turned to God. To the west, in Hibernia, A brave, stubborn Welshman by the name of Patrick slowly led his former captors into Christianity. In the wild, misty highlands of Caledonia, a strong-willed Irishman travelled among the battle-hardened Pict tribes, spreading the word of Christ, later becoming known as Saint Columba.
To the south, in the cold, murky plains of Britannia, the Roman-Catholic church had already taken root, not only in the religious orders of Britannia, but also in its military force, dominated by local noblemen. The chivalric code, once at the center of nobility's core principles, had become a joke, only followed in court; pompous, self-serving knights became a frequent sight in the villages they had once sworn to protect, committing atrocities with the women, and slaying any man, woman or child that stood in its way. Any incident that made its way to the courts was quickly pardoned by the King, or bought out by Papal indulgences. The day was rapidly coming when Hibernia and Caledonia's humble ways of life would come into conflict with the corrupt and powerful Britannia...

Even before she heard the thundering hooves, Eothain O'Skye knew that something was not right. Everything in the forest stood absolutely still; not even the birds were singing. Of course, this could have been that they knew she was hunting them, but still... Eothain silently got to her feet, her long fair hair stood out in contrast from the deep greens and grays of the oversized woolen cloak bundled around her. Underneath the borrowed cloak from her father, her faded and finely-patched tunic almost blended in with the wall of bushes she was hidden behind. Beneath the deep hood of the cloak, her brilliant and intelligent green eyes flashed through the underbrush ahead of her, looking for signs of disturbance. A long layer of broken blades of grass, where a doe rested, most likely with child. A few faded paw prints in the loose dirt, a few days old at most, most likely a fox on the prowl. And- she froze, her hand frozen in the act of reaching for an arrow from her quiver slung across her back.

There, in the clearing, just a matter of yards away,  a majestic stag stood proudly, watching her boldly, as though he was daring her to strike. "Lord Almighty, guide my hand well," she muttered, as she drew her arrow, fitted the notch to her bowstring, pulled back to full strength, and with a soft exhale, she released, sending her arrow hurtling towards her prey. The arrow flew straight and trueas it pierced the ribcage of the stag, sending it to its knees. As it lay dying in the grass, Eothain drew her small, worn hunting knife from its sheath, and drew closer, ready to put the noble beast out of its misery. Until she noticed something. something small, shallow, yet to her, almost seemed to blare out to all the world. On the stag's flank, faded with age, was the King of Britannia's brand. She had just poached the King's deer.
 What happened next could only have happened in a nightmare. Slowly, fading into earshot, came the sharp tramping of hooves. Eothain could tell, what was approaching wasn't just another of her neighbors coming home for the night.  Nobody in their town could afford to readily shoe their horses. Warhorse, she thought, terror rising swiftly in her mind. Poaching from the King's deer meant imprisonment, at best, and at worst... She shuddered. Many a tale was told in the villages she visited of disgruntled knights pillaging neighbor towns, burning them to the ground, and carrying off the survivors to who knows what.

Before she could vanish into the foliage around her, a tall, armored figure on horseback rode around the bend, hunting spear at the ready. His visor was sealed, he wasn't looking- oh kark. Across his shield, was a simple black foreground, a crimson stripe slashing across it, and in the center, a roaring lion's head, golden and gleaming in the low light of the forest. And he was looking straight at her. It's okay, he can't see me, I'm invisible, I'm- stepping back, she stepped on a branch, snapping it loudly. the knight's helm whipped in her direction, locked on to her. All hope of escaping unnoticed just left with the soul of the stag.

 The knight's horse snorted disdainfully, almost as if tasting her scent- nodon'tthinkofitdon'tthinkofit, and pawed the ground tentatively, searching for Eothain in the foliage enshrouding her. Cursing herself for her foolishness, she crouched deeper into the bushes, trying to find an escape route, any escape route. As the horse slowly trotted forward, iron-clad hooves tearing into the ground, Eothain reached back into her quiver and grasped a smooth, willowy shaft, its stiff fletching brushing against her fingertips. It was a crazy idea, but it would give her time; time enough to get back home, but not enough to- She drew the arrow, set it to the bowstring, drew the arrow back to just under her ear, full draw, and with a half-exhale of breath, let the arrow go, sending it hurtling across the slowly closing ground between her and the rider, and- the arrow smacked into the thick iron breastplate of the knight, sending him toppling off the horse with a strangled gasp. The arrow didn't penetrate, but it bought her time. That armor looked pretty heavy, and no man, no matter how fit, would get up from that position very quickly. With that, Eothain promptly slid into the underbrush, amid the muffled cursing in the direction of the fallen knight, and vanished.

By the time Eothain reached her village, she feared she was too late. Everything seemed normal; the town smithy was billowing with the sounds of Edoras the blacksmith busy at work, hammer clanging and forge roaring; the marketplace wasn't particularly busy, a decent-sized crowd billowing around the vendors; but there was still something wrong, she could tell. As she troubled over what it could possibly be, a heavy hand clapped onto her shoulder. "You're in trouble."

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