He shivered.
It was not in a druid’s nature to court malice, and so, it was customary to ask.
“If there is one willing to accompany us this night, we will wait for his coming,” the Fíor said to the forest.
The birds chittered, and the foxes scurried, and the freshborn gave their lament.
But then he came, lumbering through the brush, newly awakened from his daytime nap. His many winters shown in his greying fur, his worn teeth and curved claws. He no longer chuffed or snuffled. His black nose was dry from age, and one of his deep black eyes had turned white from blindness.
The old badger stopped before them, and the druids bowed their heads.
“A long life he has lived,” said the elder. “Now may he help you do the same.” He held forth a carving knife, but the druid shook his head.
“I have my own.”
His fingers trembled as he reached for his golden dagger. His breaths sped up and then fled.
With a heavy heart, he lowered to his knees and brought his hand to the badger’s throat.
How could he do it?
All his life he had been told “only necessity.” When had his life become worth more than that? To use this offering to appease in his stead… it seemed hopeless. And cruel. For all he knew, their blood would join in the maw of the tree, and neither of them would go on from that night.
But what choice did he have?
If the Naém was unsuccessful, his death would only be the first. If he failed, then maybe nothing was safe.
Still, his body shook. His hand weakened on the hilt as all of Nacht’s teachings spilled out of him.
“It is best to be swift,” said the Fíor.
The younger wept and said, “I cannot.”
“You must.”
He was not born a hunter. He was not trained to kill. He had never been a boy in a convent, murdering at his mother’s will.
The Fíor knelt before him and gently steadied his hand.
Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as the druid whispered,“A mih nohn.”
He drew the blade across its neck.
It wasn’t swift.
It was messy, thick and wet. The creature was lulled by the druid’s trance, but he could still feel the thrash of its heart as its veins ripped.
The elder held out a dry waterskin for the younger druid to fill.
He did. And then turned, emptying his stomach in the grass.
Night came too quickly.
And the Vaich did not return.
The druid’s white gown was stained red. He had become the sacrifice he had seen as a child—a corpse walking between the trees.
He came to a hollowed trunk where, the morning prior, he had hidden the Vaich’s blade. It lay, sheathed in dark leather, on a bed of green moss. The guard was curved like a half moon, and the grip was wrapped in more leather. The pommel—a great decorative thing—was carved in the crude shape of a stag, golden, and engraved with the words:Cárth na dhuin æn righ.
