[color=a36209] [center] ╔═══━━━─── • 𖣂 • ───━━━═══╗ ║⚔ ═╬═ ... 🕈 .. 🕈 .. 🕈 ... ═╬═ ⚔║ ╚═══━━━─── • 𖣂 • ───━━━═══╝ [/center] [/color] [color=8dc73f][color=ed1c24]Nathair[/color] spent the rest of the aonach toasting and feasting with his brother. His men were warm and receptive of him now, and he slowly lost track of time in their good company. Although Aoife was nowhere to be found, Tadhg and Rían were building up towards a game of tug of war, and there was even talk of iron being gathered for the sparring that would come after. As far as he was the judge, things were settled between him and Cullan. "I'm proud to call you my kin, brother," Cullan said to his ear as they finished a glass of wine together; a rare commodity they got from trading with the Romans. Iron and amber, that was their purchasing power; and occasionally slaves, cheese and bog-butter; or even the occasional armlet fashioned by the highest smiths in the realm. Such objects however were held in enormous esteem and believed to hold spirits of their own, and as such were rarely traded. Their father was the only man in the country to own a gold arm-link, and he was as likely to part with it as his own wife. "Better get yourself ready for the games," Rían said in passing, clapping Nathair on the back. Nathair stood up and found himself quite drunk. The world swayed as he followed his clansmen to the center-square where the [i]bile[/i] stood. The great tree of their clan was pure knotted ashwood. It had stood for a hundred years, or so the poets said. It was a grand thing. About seventy feet high and flushed with gold leaves. The boughs of the ashwood formed a great dome in the sky, and if you stood beneath its canopy, you could hear the tree speaking to you as the wind coursed throughout the village. The whole town gathered beneath it and began planting stakes, eager to get started. "Nathair, you remember my good-cousin Barley?" Tadhg said as he introduced the man he'd been sat with for the last hour. Nathair remembered him well. He was a flatha of high esteem from down by the sea; a village made rich by catch and kelp. "Glad to have you Nathair," Barley said cheerfully. He was grey of hair and owned a great smile. He wore a necklace of precious ambers, an orange wool cloak and the odd green stone upon his gnarled fingers. "I'm getting a little long in the tooth for these games. You can cover for my pride." Nathair laughed softly and clapped the old man on the back. Tadhg winked at them all from the front. Rían was their second with Barley tailing them at the back. It was them against Cullan's men, and as expected, his brother picked his burliest soldiers to do the heavy-lifting. "Begin!" The town Druid, Rikkard, yelled over the crowd. All around folk lifted their horns and wooped for them. It was the first sign of goodly cooperation since the aonach had begun. And as the game went on, Nathair noticed Barley struggling to hold his own. As not to shame the old flatha, Nathair dug in his heels and gave it all he had. "Come on lads, put your back into it!" Cullan cried desperately, though his laughter filled the air. The outcome grew quite certain. Tadhg and Rían were both bigger, stockier lads than any of Cullan's boys; and that was saying something. Nathair saw the rope-line cutting over to their side of the canopy, and then he heard it. A wild rustle from the ashwood's leaves. A gentle warning from the Gods. Nathair felt the old fear return. He looked across the rope and saw Cullan starting to doubt himself; and knowing this was his day and heeding the warnings, Nathir suddenly eased off on the rope. A resounding cheer went up from the spectators as Tadhg and Rían fell hard in the mud. The rope shot to Cullan's side, and Nathair did a bit of stumbling himself. Then it was done. Cullan's lads received a spool of knotted rope to wear about their foreheads for the rest of the aonach. A good excuse for the local girls to touch your hair or play with your chin, a fact Tadhg and Rían seemed all-too-aware of as they gathered themselves bitterly. "Nice of you to let your brother win, though I wonder what your mates will think?" Someone murmured in his ear. Nathair spun around and saw Barley standing there. The old man shot him a loose smile. Nathair grinned and said nothing. He could tell the old flatha was amused. "You covered for me easily enough. A curious thing. If you've the strength of ten men, why did you let Cullan take the prize?" "I only wanted to put on a good show. After all, it's his day." "Hm," Barley said with some measure of jest and common amusement. "Just make sure you don't make him appear too tall." He nodded towards Cullan, who was now passing out kisses to the local girls. "It might just go to his head." Nathair stood there limply, feeling like a wet rag for half a second. He felt Rían and Tadg shuffling off like a pair of dogs with their tails between their legs, and he wondered if the old flatha was right. It was the second time that day he'd been told not to give Cullan too much leniency, though his father's words still rang true. Honour Cullan. Honour the clan. "You've traded our pride for Cullan's smile, then?" Rían scolded him. He seemed annoyed and somewhat sullen. "You really have let the wine go to your head." He didn't say it, but the meaning was clear. Both Rían and Tadgh were sick of him playing lap-dog. "Tsk. You'll both win at sparring and get your knots, and then you can have all the girls you want," he said to them both. Though there was an apology in his expression, hidden somewhere beneath the pride. They shook their heads and left him to it. Nathair walked away and passed through a group of giggling girls, who seemed amused by the loss. One of the druids tried to tempt him to come and bear iron against Cullan's men, but he'd had enough of games. Nathair politely turned the druid away, making all the appropriate gestures, and made his way over to Maguire's table instead. "Aoife?" He said to his Uncle. "Think I saw her playing in the fire over there," Maguire said strangely, gesturing hither. He was sat with his wife and son. He had gestured in the direction of the river. Nathair left the site of the aonach and found Aoife outside the village standing over a hole in the ground which served as both a cooking pit and a watchpost come sundown. Often they'd wrap pork or wild dog in straw and cook it in the pit throughout the night until it turned good and black. There was no meat today though, only ashes, and she was mussing around in them with her hands. "Don't tell me you're still fretting over signs?" Nathair said to her as he neared. "You let Cullan win at games. Are you always going to let him win?" Her voice came to him, as sharp as a knife and as hungry as a lean stoat. "Not always. Just today." "Today is the most important day, Nathair." "Important to you. In your mind, Aoife. Through the gift of [i]your[/i] signs. The Gods don't whisper to me the same. They tell me what they tell me and I heed the warnings." She spun on him. Her eyes were dark but her hands were darker. They were black with soot. She'd drawn ash-lines over her nose and temples in the shape of arrows. The arrows led towards her eyes so that she could see; and she'd clearly done it in search of answers. "You heed them wrong," she spoke indelicately. Her face was stoic. Her eyes had shifted. With the soot around them, they resembled smoldering pits. "You think you know how to listen, but did it ever occur to you that you let your doubt rule your interpretation? Your dream was a warning, Nathair. You cannot avoid it. But you can choose how you respond to it!" "And you think I've chosen wrong." He glared down at her, hard into her eyes. She said nothing. She just stared back at him and then turned away angrily. When he tried to bother her, she snapped at him like a wild animal and kept digging in the ashes. He scoffed. He knew she would have no more of him. "Fine! Dig in your ashes. ... Madwoman," he spat, then stalked off to the river. He'd had enough of women, talk and his brother. He'd take a walk and speak to the river. No one would miss him for half an hour, and the stream always brought with it good news, unlike Aoife and her prophecies. "If I am mad, I am only mad with concern," Aoife muttered once Nathair had gone. She then looked over her shoulder and studied him. She then let out a sigh. He looked like a man who'd just fought a war, rather than won a peace. The woods were quiet, save for the crunching of leaves. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, resembling the gilded horns of Cernnunos himself. Nathair passed by a boulder he and his brother used to climb. He pressed his fingers across it and felt the shallow grooves they had left there as children. Two interlocking lines. A symbol of brotherhood. He tried to remember the words they had said to one another, but his memory failed him. The silence was broken by the melodic babble of the brook. Drawn by the promise of comfort, Nathair stood and made his way down the slope. The hill gave way. His boots sunk into the soft, damp earth. He stepped into the shallow water, the mountain stream rushing up around his ankles, and for the first time that day he felt peace. The cold shock was clearing the fog from his mind. He waded in deeper, the water rising to his calves, when his foot struck something hard beneath the silt. It was not smooth, like a river stone would be, but hard and angular; and sharpened to a point. Nathair froze. He reached down, his fingers brushing through the swirling muck, and then parted the object from the silt. Water fell from the old, corroded metal. It was a javelin head, rusted throughout. Though it was certainly made of bronze. The shape was familiar to him. It was the same gae he and Cullan had found in this very brook when they had been but children. He held it up. The cold metal was heavy in his palm. It was a strange, jarring sensation to find it here, and a thought passed through his mind, more piercing than any mountain water. Cullan had thrown it away. Why? He said he'd held onto it. "A token of their childhood," he'd once said. They had fought over it many times, but Cullan had always insisted he'd be the one to keep it. If it was here, that could only mean one thing. "A fine thing to find in the dark, is it not? A piece of the past, washed up into the present." Nathair froze yet again. Only this time it was not due to any mountain water. He slowly turned and looked at the hill overlooking the stream. The sunlight was dim there. The hill racked in thicket and shadow, but he could make out a silhouette. The figure stood tall and still, wrapped in a dull cloak that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. "Most men look to the sun and the stars for their fate," the voice went on, stepping down into the pale light. The edge of a weathered face came about, marked by ancient runes of piss-scented woad. He was no man of their clan. He had a sense of wildness about him. A scent of dried herbs and old blood. "But some... some find their fate in the mud and the silt." The man took another step. There was a feverish intensity to his eyes. There was no warmth in them. No familiarity. He came on like a hunter, and Nathair was keenly aware--with how deep his boots were in the riverbed, he had been cornered. "Tell me, warrior," the stranger said, his voice sharing the same conspiratorial tone he'd heard from Aoife all morning. "Does the bronze feel heavy in your hand, or is there a certain lightness to the metal? As if the Gods have already decided it is no longer your burden to bear." "Pray tell who are you, and how did you come to know so much?" Nathair uttered. His hairs were on end and his ears were pinned back. His hand drifted towards his sword like a cornered snake. Something about the stranger gave him pause and half a mind to worry. The dream was coming true, and he liked it not one bit. Likewise, the sun was going down, turning the sky an inky red. Strange things happen in the twilight. It was not good to be alone when the day passed into the Otherworld. Coiling the muscles in his legs, Nathair leaped out of the brook, squaring himself up to contend with the stranger if need be. But the stranger did not seem to mind. A low, dry chuckle left his lungs, like dead leaves skittering across a field of stone. He began to descend the hill, his movements shifting and unnervingly fluid, as if he was gliding rather than walking. "Names are heavy things, Nathair of the Snake," the way he spoke made his blood run cold. There was no respect given to the fact he was born of noble blood, only a targeted kind of satisfaction. "They bind a man to his fate. For now, you will know me as the shadow of the things you have forgotten. And as for how I know: the wind carries your story for miles around. It echoes off the mountains. It whispers in the smoke." The stranger stopped at the edge of the clearing. The sunlight illuminated the strange, eldritch patterns scratched onto his jerkin. He was no warrior. He was one of the Otherworld folk. A creature of twilight. One who lived between the trees, whispering to their Gods for years on end. "You feel it, don't you?" The stranger prompted, and his gaze fell to the javelin in his hand. "The dream is not a dream. It is a memory of a future that has already begun to bleed. You think you have found peace by bowing to your brother, but you have only sharpened the blade that will find its way into your shoulder." "Curse you that you might speak frankly for half a second!" Nathair hissed. The frustration of the day, the lies, the heavy, suffocating bullshit of the feast finally boiling over. He stepped forward, wielding the bronze head like a dagger. "These are my woods. I lay claim to this land on behalf of my family, and you dare to mock me? Perhaps you've wandered too far from the fires, seer! Did you come here to warn me or just play at being prophet?!" The stranger tilted his head at the question as if he were a curious insect, and a thin, knowing smile grew tall across his features. There was no warmth in it. Just the satisfaction of a man who had all the answers. "I did not come here to mock you. I only speak truth, and you find it bitter." He took the final step, closing the distance and hitting the periphery of light which marked the edge of the clearing. "You act as peacemaker, but you only tread on the bones of your ancestors. You think you are protecting your brother, but you only build him a throne out of the stones of your own heart. If I speak in riddles, it is because you refuse to accept the truth in what I offer." The stranger then lifted his hand, and it was an ill gesture. Though he pointed towards the village, Nathair felt the tide turn in the brook. For a single, lasting moment the water retreated from the stranger. It seemed to notice him. It feared him. It roiled the opposite way, turning against its natural self. Nathair looked upon it with ill content, seeing how the small fish in the riverbed floundered when the water seeped down to the stones. "Enjoy your wine and your songs whilst the music still plays," the stranger warned, his eyes turning dark and piercing, catching the sunlight in a way that was almost unnatural. "For the moment your brother wields the white wand, his spirit will transform, and you will find that the peace you bought was the bait which drew the wolf to the fold." Nathair had heard enough. He didn't wait for him to finish his grim prophecy. He couldn't. The air had become too thin, the sight of the river turning on itself, too difficult to account for. He rushed past the man, his shoulder brushing the stranger's cloak; and he felt an inky stillness about the cut of his clothes, like they were seeped in oil. The whole thing made his skin crawl, and without another word given to the stranger, he leaped back into the forest. The place that had once been home, a kind memory from his childhood, was now plagued by whispers. The voices came at him from every nook, every log, every piece of tangled, twisting ivy. Nathair tripped and fell, cursed and rolled. [i]What is happening?[/i] He thought desperately as he forced his way through the forest. [i]Are the trees truly speaking, or has the madness of the aonach taken hold of me?[/i] He imagined sprites descending from the canopy and poking him with spears. His thoughts then shifted frantically to the village. Rían and Tadhg. Maguire and Aoife. The former were likely playing at stones, seeing how far they could throw them, unaware that the very ground was shifting beneath their feet. And Aoife. He felt a sudden surge of protectiveness towards her. She had seen the signs. She had tried to warn him, and like a fool he had blamed it on her whims. Never again. He would trust her for as long as he lived. He burst from the treeline, and the distant lights of the long hall called to him. He skirted the walls of the village from the outside, ran through the front gate, then went up the road and to his father's hall. The people outside startled when they saw him, some of them laughing, others worried. He barged in through the doors, throwing his weight against them. The voices about the room fell short. He felt eyes all over his body. A few mocking laughs followed him as he shoved his way into the room and pushed past their tables. Warriors who thought his intensity was the result of a long walk in the dark. He shouldered his way through a throng of them, huddled around a pot of snake soup, and looked for signs of ginger braids or the steady piercing blue of her eyes. "Where is she? Where is Aoife?" Nathair demanded when he caught sight of Rían and Tadhg. He wrapped his hands about the edge of their table, his knuckles turning white. Rían's laughter died in his throat. He looked at him incredulously. "Steady on, Nathair. She's outside? Carrying casks for the clan. Said she needed to stretch her legs after the excitement of the speech." "She went towards the edge of the clearing," Tadhg added, studying the look on his face and the sweat on his brow. His expression grew serious when he saw how touched he was. "She's of a dull mood, Nathair. More serious than usual, in fact. She wasn't drinking much either." Nathair didn't let them speak another word. He spun around and wove through the crowd, shoving aside anyone who gave him good reason. The room had taken on a desperate air. Smoky and claustrophobic, full of long faces and haunted expressions. Their laughter reminded him of the sprites in the woods, and he cursed the Otherworld's influence on his tribe. He didn't know what was real or not. In a world that so finely toes the line between spirit and man, what was real in the smoke? "Aoife!" He called. He'd seen a flash of red by a bloody tapestry. It depicted autumn leaves strewn amidst a battlefield. Brittle and broken, like the rusty helms and iron which sowed the ground. He tore through it, and a spat of cold struck him in the face from an open window. It came as a relief, though it brought him no calm as he scanned the long hall, searching the darkness beyond the reach of the torches. There, standing in a world of her own, her eyes on the roofing and her expression lost to time, was Aoife. The moonlight was spilling in through the window beside her, and it highlighted the soft purse of her lips, which were turned down in thought. He saw her rocking, and he knew she was listening to the whispers. "Aoife!" He shouted, stumbling towards her. "Nathair," she gasped. She stood quite rigid as he wrapped his hands around her wrists, turning her to look into his eyes. A breath caught in her throat, and for a moment she simply studied him awkwardly, as if she was clinging to a dark secret. Her eyes were wide and luminous in the dark, and they held notes of fear, added to by the frantic music in the hall. "I've been looking for you," he snarled. "My dream. It's coming true." He all but threw himself on her. His madness was extreme. He felt like a cornered animal, and he was certain the encounter with the seer had left him ill in the mind. His words fell heavily and clumsily from his mouth as told her his story, though they did what he'd seen in the brook no justice. They were the ramblings of a madman frightened by thorns of prophesy. Aoife did not flinch away from his frantic energy. She listened well and true. The more he spoke, the more her hands found their way into the thin linen of his [i]léine[/i] to soothe his aching heart. He clung to her as he neared the end of the story, and she hushed him with tender whispers. Her reassurance was the only thing that felt real in a world touched by smoke and shadow. "Calm your breathing, Nathair," she told him. Her hand caressed the side of his face, and he leaned into it, shaken, eyes shut. "You speak as if the Gods have already struck the blow. Fear not, nothing has happened yet. We yet breathe. So breathe. Breathe deep the air and tell me the story again. Only this time tell it true." "A seer, Aoife. A cold one. He appeared to me beyond the clearing and told me that it will happen soon. The peace is a lie... I am already too late." He reached into the folds of his [i]brat[/i], his fingers fumbling for a moment as he searched for the object, and then he pressed the cold head of the javelin into her palm. The metal was still cold from the brook. The verdigris stained bronze shone with a sickly luster in the moonlight. It felt disgustingly heavy, as if the weight of prophesy was contained within that small, jagged piece of metal. Aoife stared down at the object, though she did not pull away. She traced it with her eyes, then felt across it with her thumb. She then took it in the other hand and did the same. It was only then, once she had indeed confirmed that it was real and not just a figment of her imagination, that she looked back into his eyes. The pain of recognition was like a poison arrow in the back. "The javelin," she gasped. Her eyes were wide and searching. Her usual innocence was replaced by a thick, warrior-like clarity. She knew that it had all been real. All the whispers. All the signs in the smoke. Yet she did not blame Nathair. Instead, she came closer to him. "This seer. He was a herald," she said with certainty. Her body grounded him. She would not be parted from his side as she continued to handle the javelin head. She then reached up suddenly with her free hand, cupping and stroking his cheek. "This does not mean what you think it means, Nathair. This is not death for you, nor us. This is our moment. Our time. We must be willing to confront it, with Tadgh and Rían at our side, we cannot fail." Then she looked at the long hall. At all those twisting, shifting faces in the fire. The hall was clad in smoke, wreathed in it. It was coming from the braziers and the candles, and the people shifted in waves. It was a thing born of twilight, and as the moon darkened outside, it offered a cold reality: they were no longer welcome here. "We cannot stay here," Aoife whispered. Her eyes were wide as they then locked onto his. "This place is no longer safe," and she backed into him, taking him by the hand, and led him out of the hall. He followed her at once, shouting at her back. "And if it is all just a delusion? If we are just truly drunk and mad? Perhaps the spirits have just possessed us for one night and traded our faces for that of laughing jackals!" Aoife did not answer right away. The cold slapped Nathair in the face yet again as she threw open the door. There was no one outside besides their own shadows, which had grown long with fear and doubt. The silence of the woods pressed around them, and the sky was black and white with stars for miles around. She looked down at the javelin head in her palm, the cold metal biting slightly into her palm, a sharp, stinging reminder of its existence. Then, she looked back at him; and there was no hesitation in her gaze. No lingering spat of uncertainty. No small flicker of doubt. "If we are mad, then we are mad together. If it is a delusion, then let it be a grand one. Nathair, if we have been made laughing jackals by the Gods, then it will do us no harm to be prepared. You have spent the whole day doubting my wisdom, and I understand, you are a fucking fool and deserve not the fate the Gods have in store for you, but for the sake of us both, and your friends, I ask you nicely: come to your senses. It is time to accept the truth. We are hunted. We are wanted. The Gods intend to make an example of us both, and in their mercy: they have given us fair warning." A lank chill shattered Nathair's reality and replaced it with a staggering perception. It made him humble. Whatever he was before that moment broke like glass, and the pieces that remained were all he was left with. He felt himself compartmentalising what she had said and did what he could do to put them back together, and what was left afterwards was gratitude. He came to her without a word and thumped his forehead against her own; and she sighed and nudged her nose against his. "We are twine," she whispered, a slight breathlessness to her voice. "Born of the earth. Seeded in its marrow and blooded in its salt. We will live out this day," she promised him. Her teeth were bone-white, eyes beautiful. They were red-rimmed and stoic as they looked right through him. "Fear not, my warrior and friend. For you have courage and the strength of ten men. Cullan does not know the manner of snake he corners." "Very well," he said at last. His voice dragged, and he felt nothing for her but love. He cleared his throat, then mastered his emotions, "To the fools then. Let's see if we can wake them before the world does." He reached out, his hand finding her arm, and led her back towards the heavy oak doors of the long hall. They would collect Rían and Tadgh, then flee for the hills; or die in the attempt. [/color] [color=a36209] [center] ╔═══━━━─── • 𖣂 • ───━━━═══╗ ║⚔ ═╬═ ... 🕈 .. 🕈 .. 🕈 ... ═╬═ ⚔║ ╚═══━━━─── • 𖣂 • ───━━━═══╝ [/center] [/color]