"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.
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