Hello. Once again, perhaps not as much fan-fiction as themed original fic. But if you turn your head and squint, it could be taken for vaguely Celtic mythology. Written for my Creative Writing class, and posted for some lovely, amazing people I know, including the esteemed RyuuRaiden.

Dies Irae

The wind howled, a trapped, demented beast bemoaning its maddening fate. It carried with it snow, whipping it like tiny needles against any flesh unfortunate enough to be bared to its temperamental wrath. Snow lay on the ground, covering it like some smothering blanket, hiding the many treacherous pitfalls of this land.

A figure, cloaked in a vain attempt to hide from the vicious elements, as well as the prying gazes of those who might care to look, and the large, hardy grey gelding it rode astride struggled against the gusts, fighting its way towards the huge, dark mountain of architecture that loomed before the two of them. Minutes passing felt like hours, but still they surged on, until at last they stood before the castle's gates, while the gargoyles' stone eyes watched in eerie silence.

The gates opened with a creak like the crack of doom yawning wide, and admitted them before swinging closed with a deep, reverberating thud that echoed again and again in the rider's heart. Here in the courtyard, no demon wind blew; no hail, nor snow struck fiercely at chilled skin. All was quiet, a smooth sheet of snow bathed in silver light. The rider reached up, and drew down the deep hood of the cloak, revealing to the moon high, sharp cheekbones, a proud, straight nose, and hair the color of heart's blood that curled with wild abandon around a narrow, deceivingly delicate face.

With a subtle command from hands and legs, she steered the gelding toward the stables, dismounted, and led him into the warmth. She would see to his well-being and comfort before her own. It gave a much-needed excuse to avoid the castle proper yet; a reprieve from the hardships that lay before her.

Besides, the castle proper was where he waited, pacing and restless. He would be short-tempered and snarling tonight, or distant and cool. Her lupine lover, as trapped as she was, fully as powerful: her match in nearly every way.

He was pacing. He always paced, at the equinoctial turns. Down the hall, away from the light and unfelt heat of the fire he'd lit, then turning back, toward it again until he'd passed it by, unheeded, for the other corner's shadows. His feet, shod in soft black leather, made no sound against the heavy flagstones that made up the floor. Indeed, he was clad all in black, entirely, so that when he reached his shadows, he very nearly became one of them, save for the paleness of his face and hands. His dark hair was long, in the traditional way of male mages, bound back out of his face with a strip of leather. Sable, of course.

He growled softly when she swept into the hall, warning and welcome in the same low, velvety sound as warmth returned to his veins in a rush of feeling, and spun on a heel to face her.