Were he anyone else, he would have said it had been a harrowing forty-eight hours.

Aside from the five regular 'residents' of the Sacred Flame (all of whom functioned as the 'staff' of the shelter), the place was normally home to anywhere from four to eight people at any one time, and the number fluctuated constantly. Not that they didn't have much room - in fact, he had plenty - but the Shelter only drew those who truly needed its assistance, those who needed a safe haven.

Right now, there were more people staying within its walls than he had ever had, since he found the place. Thankfully, as soon as the fire had happened in the Scathachian Temple and he had found out he was going to be having guests, he had called up Batten, who had been kind enough to donate a substantial amount of resources - food, drink, clothing, medical supplies, and volunteers to help out.

Still, the past two days had been busy as he had worked to get everything situated, ensuring those injured were resting in comfort and well seen-after, and those who were not seeing after them with all the resources at his disposal. He had even helped with the treatment of some of them - after the length of time he had been alive, he had more accumulated medical knowledge than everyone currently staying in the Shelter combined, as well as other gifts which he was careful to use sparingly, and only in the most extreme cases.

He'd also listened to the stories of the victims of the blaze, paying close attention to the descriptions of the perpetrator. One name he had heard, over and over, was one he was unfamiliar with.

Bhaal.

Though he was a figure of legend to the Schathachians - or had been, in a former life, a secret he had only told to Isuelt - he knew nothing of this Temple, these cultists, or whatever they could be called.

Whoever they were, though, he had at least learned that they were the sworn enemy of those who followed their goddess Scathach, the woman who had been his teacher, ages ago.

In another life.

The life of C? Chulainn.

"It was a good life, tha' was...back when people still believed in 'eroes."

The words came back to him, from the first time he had ever met Issy, clear as day. If ever they needed a hero...needed him...it was now.

So - after making sure everything at the Sacred Flame was properly situated and running as smoothly as possible, he had taken a short journey. A hop, really, for him, from the Flame over to the Scathachian Sanctuary, where he had only visited once before.

Without hesitating, he stepped through the gates, no longer appearing as the unassuming, grizzled and shabby man that one could mistake as a denizen of the streets. No, today he walked onto the grounds, no longer in the oversized and ill-tended garb of a beggar and a drunk, but neatly appointed in black from head to toe - shirt, pants, boots - walking not with his customary hunched over shambling gait, but striding straight and proud and tall.

Cast aside was the guise of the ordinary, invisible street urchin. Today, it was the legend of old that walked onto the Sanctuary grounds.

Without hesitating, he approached the first woman he saw and spoke, a strong and steady voice that rumbled and growled like distant thunder, an authority in it that would not be denied. "I am 'ere t'see th' lady Isuelt DeRomiano. Th'name's Finn. Please tell 'er tha' I need t'speak wi' 'er righ' away."

When the weapon was pointed at him, he made no aggressive moves, no change in expression. It was the look of one who would not be denied, one for whom patience was more than mere virtue, but instead a staple of existence. There was no fear to be found in the deep blue eyes that gazed upon the blond warrior woman, no caution...he simply waited for her to come to the proper conclusion as to the course of action she should take.

As though he already knew what she would do, before she did it, and would accept no other outcome.

He could have told her what it was that unsettled her so. It was not his manner, not the authority or power he wore so comfortably like the clothing he came attired in, not even the strength he exuded like a radiant heat, like a midday sun shining through a thin veil of cloud.

Instead, it was that the man that stood before her was not just any man.

He let her lead the way, his only acknowledgement at her instruction to follow a simple nod as he complied, the only assurance that he had done so the sound of his booted feet impacting the floor of the Sanctuary.

Another, simple nod was given the warrior as she left him to his business, and as he stepped inside, he took a moment to take in the room and its appointments.

This was very unlike his quarters on the Isle of Skye, when he had trained under the one they called their goddess, which were quite Spartan in their trappings - simple stone, no fire, a hard mat on the floor to sleep upon, designed to toughen a man, or a woman. Instead it reminded him much more of Scathach's own apartments - warm, cozy and simple, filled with fragrant aromas, the only difference being the scent of healing herbs and remedies designed to assist in healing and relaxation.

As he spied Issy and she him, and she fell to the floor from where she had been reclining, he felt none of the unease he so often did. Even being immortal, having been revered and, yes, sometimes even worshiped as a god, he felt his closest kinship to those of more mortal stature, and at times admired and envied them their gifts. It was why, in a time long and ago before the age of this woman's goddess, he had taken pity on them and brought to them a gift beyond measure, that they, one day, might find their own path to transcendence.

It was why he chose so humble an appearance, most times. It was his contention that he, and those like him, should not be so revered by mortals, but instead it should be the gods that bowed before them.

It was the mortals, after all, that were the stronger. Despite their frailties and flaws, it was they who could be punished and abused and trod upon, and yet still they would stand and fight, unto their very end, ever seeking to better themselves.

But today, it was not the humble, shambling man that stood before her. She knew the truth of him - an infinitesimal fraction of it, to be sure, but an important fraction nonetheless - but had only seen him with that truth veiled behind a cloak he wore to allow him to walk among the everyday denizens of this world without becoming the object of awe or fear.

That cloak had been cast aside. It was not Finn that stood in her chamber, as he had before, and he saw that she recognized that truth.

The man before her now was, without a doubt, the Hound of Ulster, C? Chulainn himself, the best known of all their goddess' students.

And yet, even so, he could not stand to see her like this, injured and bowing before him in such a manner. He had no desire to be feared or held in awe like this. Rather than allow her to remain as she was, he knelt and placed his hands on her forearms, gently lifting and urging her up from that position to her feet. Gone too was the guttural and almost gravelly voice of the Irishman, which he had used with the blonde warrior before as he spoke. The cloak completely cast aside now, the voice that emerged was a smooth, deep baritone note, the tones patient and kind.

"Rise, Isuelt DeRomiano, warrior and priestess of Scathach. Your place is not on your knees, before me or anyone else, and we have much to discuss."

The deep blue eyes found her hands, and he recalled what others had told him of her actions. That even as she burned, she had put others before herself, working to ensure their safety.

This was why he so revered humanity. No god he had ever known would have sacrificed themselves in such a way.

Some might have called it magic, what he did now. And certainly it would seem that way, but for the knowledge he held and used, almost without thought given to the process.

To him, it was as simple as a child doing sums, and very similar in that regard. One only had to know how to work the equation and alter the variables to achieve the desired result. And, despite all their sometimes perplexing complexities, a human's 'equation' was remarkably simple to alter.

She would feel little difference as he worked, and it was over so swiftly there as little to discern of the process. When he was done, he let her go and nodded to her hands, speaking in that same patient and kind tone as he had before.

"You can take off the bandages now. You won't be needing them anymore."