“Come now,” said the elder, his voice low and cautious. “The moon is high and the sky is clear. A good night for communion.”
He brought the waterskin to the roots and drained the badger’s blood. The tree loosed a hungry groan as it drank, till its earthen veins were sickly red.
“Be strong,” said the Fíor. “Be sure.”
But he wasn’t sure. He had no certainty, and that is why he had come. He knew not why he’d been gifted these abilities. Why his name had been spoken half a world away. He had come to find truth and understanding, but his hands shook.
The tears that broke free did not relieve him of the pressure mounting behind his temples. He was upon that skiff again, bracing over the water, his body preparing to meet it. And he felt the same as he did that day.
He wished to remain.
Thump.
Thump.
He saw himself upon the altar.
He saw himself in chains.
Thump.
Thump.
“Leave the sword, child. You do not want to disturb the Crone.” The Fíor held out his hand, and for a moment, the druid imagined him as that balding, grey old priest.
The druid recoiled, hugging the sword to himself.
“No… No, you will not have it.”
“What is the matter?” the Fíor asked, his face twisting into a hundred different men. “Have you lost your wits?”
The druid pressed his eyes shut.
Come to me.
It was Hirí’s voice. And Halla’s. Or was it Onath’s? Or…
Orhis.
“You must go now, child!”
Thump!
Thump!
He gasped.
His head snapped to the side as, between the trees, came a thunderous sound. Out of the shadow rode the Vaich, the light of his torch shattering the violent night. The mare reared her head back in fury as they halted sharply before them.
The screaming stopped.
The druid drifted alone through a silent mere, fingers outstretched towards the ghost on the shore.
“You came back,” he whispered.
Quiet.
His head was so… quiet.
