Through half-open eyes and waves of white fog that rippled with his concussion-addled vision, Beathan watched as his spooked horse bolted through the bleak and empty moor, carrying everything he'd packed save for the clothes on his back, his dirk, and his sporran. He'd just been flung from Cin?ed unexpectedly a few moments earlier, cracking his head against the one of the stones that made up a ring of gray, reaching up towards a cloudy sky similarly colored. Propped up against the stone he'd struck, Beathan tried to turn his head to see what might have frightened Cin?ed, but the effort of turning his head made his vision swim. I'm gravely injured, he thought, glancing first at his right leg, then his left hand. A broken bone protruded through the skin just below his knee, and his wrist hung limp and useless, tucked against his body for protection. He touched the side of his head, sticky with blood, and examined the red streak left on his fingers, before wiping it on the craggy rock behind him. I'm gravely injured, and I haven't seen another soul in a day.
Beathan thought of the last person he had seen, an ancient woman whose cottage he had stayed at the night before. She had nearly immediately recognized him as a member of the Fraiser clan, and given him the stunning news that not only had she seen his brother alive, nearly a year past, but four years prior to that, she had put Sianna up for an evening as well. Mind reeling, he barely had the presence of thought to ask for further details on their condition. Both had been fine when they had passed through, but the old woman had never seen the two of them again. It was all she could do to keep Beathan from bolting out the door then and there to continue his search; the weather had been frightful that evening, and she reminded him that Sianna had vanished in a similar storm.
It hadn't mattered. Black night skies and pounding rain, or hazy gray daylight. It probably could have been a sunny day, and the result would have been the same. Another Fraiser, soon to be lost to the curse. Who would save him out here? Not that old woman; she could barely hobble through her kitchen. Who else had any reason to be in this misbegotten land? No one. Who else knew where he had traveled to? No one. He closed his eyes, and he thought of Psalm 121. I lift up my eyes to the hills? where does my help come from?
As the prayer inadvertently drifted into a whispered mix of Gaelic and English, he felt a breeze blowing at his back, from the center of the ring. He stopped praying, cracked his eyes open, and, with some effort, looked over his shoulder. In the center of the ring of stones, there was a ball of white light, seemingly hovering over the rocky soil there. He felt his heart pounding, as fear gripped him and left his skin feeling cold and clammy, the hair on his arms standing straight up at attention. Soon, he felt like he was itching all over: his arms, his legs, his neck. He could even swear that his insides were being scratched at by unknown, ghostly fingers. Not you, he shuddered, shutting his eyes again momentarily, before reopening them. Not the sidhe. My help comes from Christ.
It called to him anyway, at first a whisper that he swore he was imagining in his head, then a light whistle on the breeze. Come. COME, it seemed to breath. When Beathan paid it no mind, squinting his eyes closed tighter, it picked up, shifting to a howl that cut through his clothing. He pulled his plaid tighter against his body as he was buffeted by the fierce wind, before it suddenly died down. The cold it brought was replaced by warmth, like sitting beside a campfire. He craned his neck back around, and saw that the light had spread, grown larger. It was creeping toward him. He tried to push and scoot away with his hands, legs dragging painfully against the ground, but the light just moved faster to match his pace. Before Beathan knew it, he was surrounded by a blinding whiteness, the brightest light he had ever seen. Not long after that, he was plunged into darkness, every bit as bleak and black as the light had been radiant.
Beathan thought of the last person he had seen, an ancient woman whose cottage he had stayed at the night before. She had nearly immediately recognized him as a member of the Fraiser clan, and given him the stunning news that not only had she seen his brother alive, nearly a year past, but four years prior to that, she had put Sianna up for an evening as well. Mind reeling, he barely had the presence of thought to ask for further details on their condition. Both had been fine when they had passed through, but the old woman had never seen the two of them again. It was all she could do to keep Beathan from bolting out the door then and there to continue his search; the weather had been frightful that evening, and she reminded him that Sianna had vanished in a similar storm.
It hadn't mattered. Black night skies and pounding rain, or hazy gray daylight. It probably could have been a sunny day, and the result would have been the same. Another Fraiser, soon to be lost to the curse. Who would save him out here? Not that old woman; she could barely hobble through her kitchen. Who else had any reason to be in this misbegotten land? No one. Who else knew where he had traveled to? No one. He closed his eyes, and he thought of Psalm 121. I lift up my eyes to the hills? where does my help come from?
As the prayer inadvertently drifted into a whispered mix of Gaelic and English, he felt a breeze blowing at his back, from the center of the ring. He stopped praying, cracked his eyes open, and, with some effort, looked over his shoulder. In the center of the ring of stones, there was a ball of white light, seemingly hovering over the rocky soil there. He felt his heart pounding, as fear gripped him and left his skin feeling cold and clammy, the hair on his arms standing straight up at attention. Soon, he felt like he was itching all over: his arms, his legs, his neck. He could even swear that his insides were being scratched at by unknown, ghostly fingers. Not you, he shuddered, shutting his eyes again momentarily, before reopening them. Not the sidhe. My help comes from Christ.
It called to him anyway, at first a whisper that he swore he was imagining in his head, then a light whistle on the breeze. Come. COME, it seemed to breath. When Beathan paid it no mind, squinting his eyes closed tighter, it picked up, shifting to a howl that cut through his clothing. He pulled his plaid tighter against his body as he was buffeted by the fierce wind, before it suddenly died down. The cold it brought was replaced by warmth, like sitting beside a campfire. He craned his neck back around, and saw that the light had spread, grown larger. It was creeping toward him. He tried to push and scoot away with his hands, legs dragging painfully against the ground, but the light just moved faster to match his pace. Before Beathan knew it, he was surrounded by a blinding whiteness, the brightest light he had ever seen. Not long after that, he was plunged into darkness, every bit as bleak and black as the light had been radiant.