8. Night Calls My Name
Night Calls My Name
I stand at the cliff’s edge; the wind whispering against my skin, carrying the scent of earth and rain.
Below me, the Glen sprawls in quiet majesty, green hills rolling into the horizon, kissed by the golden light of a sun that feels distant, unreal.
I know this place. I have walked this land, breathed its air, and traced its rivers with my fingertips. And yet, it is never mine to keep.
I brace myself, but it never softens the blow.
The air shifts. The golden light dulls to a muted grey, then deepens to a suffocating blackness.
The warmth on my skin is ripped away, replaced by an unnatural chill that seeps into my bones.
The hills tremble, but not from any storm or quake—something beneath them is stirring, something ancient, something insatiable.
Darkness falls.
I don’t need to look to know what happens next.
I’ve seen it before—the land choking, its very lifeblood siphoned from the soil, the once-glimmering river turning into a black, writhing thing.
But this time, it’s worse. The decay spreads faster, more violently.
The trees don’t just wither; they crack, splitting open as if something inside them is desperate to escape.
The ground beneath me shifts, no longer solid, no longer safe. It wants to swallow me whole.
A howl rises—not wind, not nature, but something more guttural, something hungry.
And then the screams. They are louder this time, more piercing.
Not distant echoes, but near, surrounding me.
Familiar voices twisted in terror, voices I should know but cannot place.
I clamp my hands over my ears, but the sound burrows into my skull like nails dragging through my mind.
This is wrong. This is worse. This is new.
A crushing force clamps around my throat.
Invisible hands tighten, suffocating, unyielding.
My breath snags, my body fighting against a grip that doesn’t exist. I cannot run.
I never can. My limbs are locked in place, my voice stolen before it can even reach my lips.
The wind carries my silent screams away, mocking me.
Then comes the sound of hooves.
The deliberate, measured clopping against the ruined earth. A sound I know all too well. A sound that never ceases to send ice through my veins.
I don’t want to turn. I don’t want to see him. But I always do.
The rider is there, perched atop his monstrous steed, his decayed form draped in shifting shadows.
The beast’s eyes burn like dying embers, its breath curling in thick, black smoke.
And as always, the rider holds his own head beneath one arm.
The distorted face grins at me, a grotesque mockery, its hollow eyes burning with something too ancient, too knowing.
This time, he moves faster.
“ériu,” he breathes, his voice not one, but many—layered whispers of the dead, wailing in unison, gnawing at my sanity.
“ Ready yourself,” it breathes, the voice no longer distant but right against my skin, a cold whisper that slithers down my spine.
The rider hasn’t moved—yet somehow, he is here, beside me, above me, around me.
The scent of rot clogs my throat, choking, rancid.
A decayed hand—cold, damp, wrong—trails along my jaw, nails scraping as if testing the fragility of my flesh.
I can feel the grin in the darkness, wider than before, stretching impossibly, grotesquely.
“You cannot run. You cannot hide. The end is written, and I will be there when it comes.”
I don’t understand why it’s different, why the nightmare is unravelling beyond its familiar bounds. But I know one thing.
This time, I won’t wake up before the end.
The shadows surge forward, slamming into my chest. Air tears from my lungs, vision narrowing to pinpricks of darkness.
The pressure around my throat tightens one final time. My lungs seize, burning, screaming for air that will never come. My limbs go slack, the last of my strength slipping away as the darkness consumes me whole.
I am drowning. I am dying. I am gone.
I jolt awake, heart hammering wildly. The remnants of the nightmare still cling to me, leaving me disoriented and panicked.
In my frantic attempt to rise from the bed, I neglect to pay attention to the fact that I have tangled my legs in the blankets. The momentum sends me tipping sideways, and before I can steady myself, I crash to the floor with a resounding thunk.
A loud groan escapes my lips as I stare up at the ceiling, trying to reorient myself.
The cold of the floor against my back aids in counteracting the heat of adrenaline still coursing through my body, the remnants of the dream lingering nearby.
Just as I gather myself, the door swings open to reveal Saoirse, her expression wide-eyed and startled.
“Triona, in the name of the saints, what’re you doin’ sprawled out on the floor like a sack of spuds?” she asks, her voice barely masking her amusement.
I wave a limp hand in the air. “Can’t you see? I’ve abandoned the burdens of vertical living. The floor is my home now. ”
I heave out a sigh of frustration. “I fell out of bed. You walked in at just the right time to witness my downfall—both literal and metaphorical. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to lie here a few moments longer, gathering up the shattered remains of my pride.”
Saoirse bursts into laughter, the sound ringing through the room like a bell. “Well, I’d say ye’ve gone and shattered more than just yer pride. But there’s no more time to wallow. Yer da’s callin’ for ya. Says there’s no time for rest—time to train.”
I groan louder, throwing an arm over my eyes. “Of course he is. Nothing like a bruised arse to really enhance my fighting stance.”
There’s a pause before she speaks again, a devilish lilt in her tone. “Triona?”
“What is it, Saoirse?”
“D’ye need something for yer arse? I reckon ye’re mightily relieved ye’ve got such a plump one.”
“Ugh, get out, you wee gobshite!” A pillow whizzes through the air, but she ducks, cackling as she darts out the door before I can aim another.
Left alone, I sigh dramatically and roll onto my stomach, smothering my face into the rug before muttering, “I hate her.”
The begrudging smile tugging at my lips, however, says otherwise.
In truth, her cheery disposition is exactly what I’d needed after that dream, but the interaction only serves as a distraction for minutes. The moment she’s gone, the dark shadows from the dream return.
A great famine. Blight. Death. Destruction. Chaos.
The visions swirl through my mind, and no matter how I try to shake them, they cling to me as I sluggishly get ready for the day.
As I’m leaving my chambers, I’m startled to find my father sitting just outside my door. The sight of my startled expression draws a deep chuckle from him.
“Da, what have I said about doing that?” I ask, shaking my head, grateful for the warmth of his familiar smile.
“Jus wantin’ to walk with my wee one over to the farmhouse for our trainin’.”
Eyeing him skeptically, I say, “What are you really out here for?”
He grunts, his eyes narrowing with a hint of a smile. “Aye, well. Got something for ye.” He nods toward the back of our home. “Come on, follow along. ”
I hurry after him, struggling to match his long, purposeful strides. James Sinclair moves with a determination that makes everyone else appear sluggish. His legs eat up the ground with ease, each step covering what takes me two. I nearly jog to keep pace beside him.
“Slow down, Da. What’s the hurry?” I call breathless, though I know better than to expect him to. When he sets his mind to something, nothing—least of all his daughter’s slow strides—will stand in his way.
“We have much to do today,” he asserts, glancing back with a grin. “I’m excited for ye to see what I have for ye.”
The inside of the small stone room always smells heavily of worn leather and oil, not dis-pleasant, but not distinctly enjoyable. My father moves toward a bench where a large bundle, wrapped in cloth, rests. My heart gives a strange flutter as he picks it up and holds it out to me.
“Go on, lass,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “Open it.”
I hesitate before reaching for the parcel. I peel back the carefully wrapped layers, and the moment I see what’s inside, something warm and wild unfurls in my chest.
It’s a set of deep red fighting leathers, so dark they might as well be black in the right light. They’re reinforced at the shoulders and waist.
Intricate stitching traces subtle patterns across the surface, not ostentatious, but deliberate. No unnecessary flourishes, just clean, careful craftsmanship. Made to protect. Built to move.
Every detail speaks of care and intention. Made with great purpose.
Made for me.
“Da…” The word barely makes it past my lips, thick with the emotion tightening my throat.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “I appreciate this,” I say, my voice hardly above a whisper. “These are—”
I clear my throat, trying to think of something to say, but my mind comes up empty. Instead, I look up at him, lips parted, utterly lost for words.
“Well,” I finally manage, “you’ve gone and rendered me speechless. Mark the day.”
He lets out a gruff chuckle, the pride in his eyes unmistakable. “Nary a need for words, mo nighean bheag. Jus keep trainin’, keep gettin’ stronger. That’s all I’ll ever need. I need to ken ye’ll care for yerself when I’m no longer around to do it. ”
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and something in the way he says it shifts the mood slightly.
“You’re not going anywhere, Da.” I lift my chin stubbornly. “I’ll have you forever.”
Before he can respond, Casey shows up, effectively ending the conversation.
“I’d like to get on with it, if that’s all right by you, piuthar.”