Chapter 50 #2
“He tells the story of the Awakening, when men first hatched from the trees. Long ago, when we were all as one, before fire and ice divided us. When the forest covered all of Cúil Cullach and we honored the earth, the wind and sea. He tells of the Naém’a who taught us to speak, to listen and answer the land’s spirit. ”
In the oldest stories, the first of men lived in primal peace.
Though, little was known of that ere. What followed was a fracturing into east and west, and the clans that lived in the highlands.
Still, for a time, they were congenial and compliant.
They bartered, and traded, and learned as one.
But not long after came the first of the faiths and men gave the gods form.
Back then, they were animals and bodied creatures, and that persisted for a long while.
Those who warned against it kept to the root belief that the spirits were forces of nature.
They were called druids, custodians of the earth, but their words grew less wanted.
Thousands of years later, they were all but forgotten. And now here they were, in solitary.
The druid watched his kinsmen in their mantles of woven grass. They sang songs and told stories; tales of the stars and the trees.
And he remembered.
He had forgotten being a child. Forgotten the simpleness and fragility. Watching the bonfires burn beneath the green sky, he recalled that faraway life. The one he could no longer claim his own.
The one he had betrayed.
“How strange I have become.” The druid spoke the words to no one, but the Vaich had heard.
“You still belong.”
He glanced up. “Do I?”
“Aye.” He felt seen beneath that gaze. Those eyes, gilded and hot, held all the emotion the druid was too unwilling to name.
But he tried, anyway.
“When I… when I was younger,” he whispered, “I watched the Listeners. I saw how they did not return. I thought it was a cruel ask. We tend the land… keep its spirit alive… but to it, we are nothing more than fodder.”
The words tasted bitter on his tongue, and his eyes darted to his kin in fear that they had heard.
“The land can be unforgiving,” said the Vaich. “Even to those that love it best.”
The druid nodded. “It is foolish to ask for leniency. Yet, suddenly, I become more aware of why one invokes the gods. They plead because they need hope… because they need to believe they will be spared. But the land does not care. It sings, and we listen.”
“Do you always deny yourself comfort?”
The druid sputtered. “W-what?”
“It must get exhausting.”
“I don’t—”
“Right.” The Vaich watched the flame. “You’re coming back with me. That was the agreement.”
The druid watched him.
“So have your communion. Get your answers. And then return, as you promised.”
The words were certain, but not cold. It wasn’t a demand.
It was a prayer.
The night deepened. The stars were nearing convergence, burning high in the sky over the Fáoth. As Belthín reached its peak, the last of the rites was made. The twin fires burned, and the able ones came and walked between.
As they went, the Fíor called out a blessing, “An Túr im ár lontha, an cárth im ár sídan. Nó tríath, nó bráidhe, nó Túr a ghléam.”
The druid whispered to the king, “It is an appeal to the spirits to grant fertility.”
The Vaich chuckled. “They’ll need more than flame to ripen those bellies. Not a bull in sight. It’ll be slim pickings when the rut takes hold.”
The druid released a puff of air. “How vulgar.”
“Come lads,” called the Fíor. “You are young and full of life. Come pass between the flames.”
They went still as stone, but the elder waved them near.
“Cannae ye tell him to let us be?” muttered the Vaich.
“That would be rude.”
“You were always rude to me!”
“Yes, but you deserved it.”
“Lads?”
The two rose awkwardly, facing the burning heat.
“Well,” said the Vaich, “no harm in a blessing for bairns. My queen will need all the help he can get.”
The druid scoffed, but the Vaich snatched his hand and tugged him through.
The druid came stumbling after, catching himself upon the king’s chest. Firelight flickered across the Vaich’s smirking face, the whin still wreathing his head like a crown of summer sun.
In his mind, the druid chided him terribly, but the moments tumbled by and he remained silent—no words of wit or fight.
Between the walls of Rhyd-hal, they were endlessly watched, but here in the grove they were nameless. Around them the dancing and songs carried on, but the druid heard only their mingling exhales.
Finally, the Vaich’s smile fell; the gold of his eyes shifting from ember to armor.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, releasing the druid’s hand. “I shouldnae mock you.”
It should have meant something. Those words should have burrowed in his mind, but all the druid could think about was the emptiness left in the wake of his touch.
“I ought to go off and water Saorla.”
“I will come with you,” said the druid and at once went rigid at the urge.
The Vaich looked confused. “You wish to?”
“I…”
“Well, I willnae say no to company.”
The two broke away from the festivities, the Vaich fetching the water pot from their dwell. With everyone around the fire pits, the tents were especially quiet. If he listened, the druid could hear the forest breathe; the foxes crying in the distance.
And the whispers.
He picked at his fingers. He shifted his weight. He silently urged the Vaich to hurry. And when his tall, dark-haired form ducked under the door, the druid relaxed.
The Vaich chuckled. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever looked happy to see me.”
“How absurd,” the druid replied.
“Aye that’s true. Suppose I dinnae ken what happiness looks like on your face.”
The druid felt as if he’d been petrified, and rubbed his arm to stop the skin from turning to stone.
“I am plenty happy.”
“Is that what you’d call it?” The Vaich nodded him aside. “Come on.”
The night was dark but the glow of the moon peeking through the branches. They found the mare grazing lazily in a patch of emerald. She seemed comfortable enough there, though snorted pridefully as the Vaich walked up.
“Dinnae be that way,” he said, his voice a calming hum. He never sounded so gentle as when he talked to her. “I havenae forgot about you.”
The Vaich set the pot down for her and hungrily she drank. He patted her auburn hide, his face soft and all his edges smoothed.
“You must mean a great deal to one another,” said the druid.
The Vaich glanced back at him. “We grew together, she and I. She taught me many skills.”
“Such as?”
“Like trust and responsibility and how to make peace with a difficult thing. She’s a mind of her own, the lady. She willnae be commanded if she doesnae agree. Suppose I didnae break her… but even a king should ken when to bow.”
“Surely she is your only exception.”
The Vaich let out a breathy laugh. “Is that true?”
Above, the sky was pale with starlight, its radiance spilling into the clearing below. It shimmered in blades of grass, and danced in the Vaich’s golden eyes.
The druid quickly looked away.
“I thought your lot feared the fire,” said the Vaich, clearing his throat. “I never thought to see it honored here.”
“Fire is fire and nothing more,” muttered the druid. “Men knew that once.”
Another laugh, this one less warm. “Right. We are the villains in all your stories. Though you’re no less man than I.”
“Yet how different we are in everything we do. Or will you deny that your ilk have been our hunters? Have denied us the peace of silent dispute.”
The Vaich’s brow furrowed. “So it was, but it needn’t be. Yet even if I ordered the west to stand down. Your people would not come to me.”
“And why should they?” The druid bristled. “Our way of life came first. Why should they kneel to you?”
“You ken that’s not how this works. I came and showed my worth. Have I not given you my patience? Have I not listened to their words?”
“Do you think one night undoes a thousand years of torment?”
“I dinnae think it, druid. But I am asking for some grace.”
“Grace,” the druid said bitterly. “You may be Vaich, but you are still one man. Your people will never allow us to coexist.”
“If you could only accept—”
The druid’s head shot up. “Accept? Why should we accept domination?”
“That isnae what I—”
“It is weak men and arrogant gods that got us here in the first place.”
“My gods are strong,” the Vaich said, defensively. “They could be yours, too…”
Cold encased the druid’s skin. He didn’t hear the rest.
Memory dug at him. It was the slow pull of the mere; the salt of Othrik’s watery persecution. It was a stone slab and the sound of wheels over earth as he was carted from the moors to a cage upon the cliffs.
Long had the druid been quiet as snow, but there in the forest, with the stars burning hot above him, fire found its way into his veins.
“My gods are already strong!” he snapped.
“In the way that the wind and tide are strong. In the way that earth can shift, and cold can bite. They are forgiving in the warm days, and sometimes they withhold. But it is neither punishment, nor mercy. Yet men like you could not fathom a strength that was not savage. You desired power, and so you usurped them.”
The king’s eyes flared. “Must you black us all with the same fell brush? You give me no chance to speak. Where is your humility? You ask me to repent, while you stand there as omnipotent judge, and cannae fathom that someone might see different.”
“All you see is wrong.”
“Just because you dinnae like it? I serve my gods as you serve yours.”
“The trees do not ask for temples.”
“And still, they demand their sacrifice.”
Shock ripped through him.
“You think your path is free of cruelty,” said the Vaich. “Yet I would see you walk yourself into your grave—and you would thank them!”
“At least their altars are real!”
His voice… he had never heard it so loud.
The Vaich looked baffled. “What?”
“You give offering to ideals—to falsity.”
Stop this.
“Falsity?” The Vaich shook his head. “AEon’Righ—”
“A great terror passed over the sky. And on its back, it bore the light of creation.” The druid spoke the words of the Odes, the chant of the first of flame.
“Yes, I know your creed. And I know its truth. That which your priest would strip the skin from my bones to speak. Once, it was known. Now, it is heresy. Your Sun Laird was no god, but an ancient beast. Flesh and blood. It came from the west, and crossed over this land, and was never there again seen.”
“How could you know that?” spat the king.
“The same reason we are here now—the Naém.”
“I dinnae believe it.”
“Then don’t. Perhaps men need their heroes. But do not ask me to abandon my life for a lie.”
The Vaich’s cheeks had gone red with rage. His fists clenched at his side.
“For your sake,” he whispered, “I’ll leave first.”
The druid’s body weakened, as if having awoken from a fever. Whatever had compelled him a moment before drained out of him, and he felt sick as the Vaich turned away, taking the starfire with him.
“Wait—”
The king swung himself up on his horse, and with a click of his tongue, she shot up, alert, and bolted into the forest.
The night pressed in all around him as the druid stood alone in the grove. Moonlight trickled over his skin, but the warmth that had been there was gone.
Why did he feel so empty? What had he said that was wrong? And why did he care that the Vaich had left him… when it was what he had wished for all along?