Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this work.
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Prologue: The Trembling of the Veil
In one blazing moment of imbalance - a moment of exquisite perfection - the vast, cold expanse of the void was ripped asunder by light, and the flaming filaments of life burst forth into eternity. But the ancestral darkness is infinite and there are those who would seize the bright fire of the eternal for their own.
... ... ...
From out of the depths of the vast ancient chamber, came a woman of such beauty as to steal his breath away. Long, silver hair framing a bone-white face. Thin black lips over sharp, gleaming teeth. And her eyes! Oh, her eyes… Hell-red and burning with all the life of time. Fierce, terrible perfection. An bhean chaointe. The White Lady of Sorrow. And in her veins, bean-sídhe blood. Blood to gather the spirits. Blood to anchor the magic...
Amhairghin glanced at the stone figures lying in the dust beneath the altar of the dragon's wishbone, one whole, the other in pieces. Beibhinn, the White Lady, stopped before him and touched his face. The soft folds of her moss-green mantle fell back, revealing the pale flesh beneath. About her brow she wore the willow, the only sign of regret for what was to come. An eternity's worth of loss. For her. A heart doomed to forever mourn. There would be other consequences too. For him. Somewhere in the fabric of time. The price of the dare. But he was more than equal to it, of that he was certain. He placed his hand over hers and as he did so, his gaze fell upon the jagged scar encircling his wrist. Yes, he had learned his lesson; he would never again underestimate anyone or anything.
"It's time," he said abruptly. She nodded and, without another word, they set about the preparations for the ritual, an Dóiteáin de Aiséirí. The Fire of Resurrection.
First was the bone chalice, of a dull, drained white and placed under the altar to catch the blood. Next came the candles, moulded from the lard of the chosen ones. They were laid out around the lapidified bodies and lit. Amhairghin watched as smoky amber flames sputtered into life, flared, and then settled into a steady burn. The taint of the lich-house soon filled the air and his hard-hewn features twisted in a sour expression. No clean-wrought magic for him. No, his art was shot through with the stain of impurity, the need for blood, flesh and bone. The flaw of humanity. Unalterable. Innate. It was ever that way and always a goad to him. But not for long, Fate be willing.
As he prayed to the Mór-Ríogain, Beibhinn - so perfect, so pure - placed sprigs of mistletoe on the mouths of the stone figures and oak on their eyes, the first for life, the second for loyalty. Next, she placed a knife on the ivory altar. The bronze blade and white-gold hilt were inlaid with swirling filigree symbols that no longer meant anything to anyone but him. Carnwennan. The ancient dagger of the Druids. Once Arthur of Cymru's. And now back where it belonged…
Beibhinn turned to look at him, her eyes claret hellfire in the flickering candlelight, and he knelt down and reached into his knapsack for the final thing, the scry-stone. Even before he had touched it, he could feel its power: a primal pulse from the night before time. He stared at the obsidian relic. Like a mirror it was, and bound by no name. Older even than the Dream Age of the Ancestors and a far greater thing than any word could contain. Unbidden, from across the centuries, came a whispered snatch of conversation.
You would fain sell your soul, Sir, for the Devil's looking-glass?
His brittle-green eyes narrowed. Dee of Mortlake. 'Doctor', so-called, with his physicks and his potions. Advisor to a queen, and a seer for the age. Amhairghin's face twisted in a sneer. And a fool for the age too; the man hadn't had the faintest notion of what he possessed in the scry-stone. But Dee had not been the only fool…
His brows snapped together and he rose to his feet. After placing the scry-stone on the altar, he held out his hand to Beibhinn. She took it and he pulled her in close.
"You are sure?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes, a ghrá. I am sure. For the old ways and for you."
"Very well. Let us begin."
He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed off her green mantle. As it pooled on the ground, he leaned her back between the osseous columns of the dragon's wishbone. They swallowed up her skin but her eyes burned red from the cradle. He took hold of Carnwennan and began to chant...
Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu…
Beibhinn's voice joined with his.
Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu. We call on you. Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu
A sigh of wind swept through the chamber, kicking up puffs of dust on the ground. His heartbeat quickened; it was starting.
Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu. Thrice-great God, we beseech you
Across the surface of the scry-stone snaked a shadowy ripple and he felt a lightness in his chest; the Old Ones were stirring.
Thrice-great of darkness
The wind gusted life into the dust, and a sea of shadows surged over the face of the stone.
Thrice-great of fury
The shadows snatched at the air…
Thrice-great of chaos
… and the wind howled, full-throated. Malignant, desolate, wild.
Hear us
The Gods were awake.
Answer us
A white wall of lightning, the crash of thunder, and finally…
Gods, grant us your favour
… a breath.
Sublime, spectral silence. Poised on the knife-edge of eternity. Trembling. In thrall. Consumed. Ten thousand years it was ever thus, and the walls of time were no more…
Shadow-blue waves splintering the glass of the ocean; the pale winter sun glinting prisms on the swell. The blinding beauty of light in his eyes. The salt-tang of sea-spray on his tongue. And all around, the soughing call of wind and wave, the ancient song of life. Liminal transcendence flaying all it touched. Too sharp. Too real…
They pushed the burning boats out onto the water, stepped back and shaded their eyes against the evening light. He drew a deep breath; woodsmoke filled his nostrils. The boats were ablaze now and the sun too. Writhing claws of blood-orange fire, burning up the sky, incinerating the screams from the flaming pyres. To give life to the Gods…
The young Erlking stood beside him, tall and proud, his hair and hand silver fire in the sunset - his handsome face wiped clean of all expression. A different way this, the Draoidubh mused. For the Erlking, at least. Hard to know just what he thought, with his elfin ways and his elfin magic. And his long, long life that might never end. What Gods had favoured him so?
Prithee, favour me.
The last fierce flare of the sun in descent, the crash of the waves on the shore, and the breath was knocked out of his body. He doubled over, gasping, and when he raised his head the walls of time were back in place and he was once more in the caves of Bethmoora. He looked at his hand - argent-white wet - and then again at Beibhinn. Carnwennan was buried deep in her heart. Silver ichor welled up from the wound, flowed over her breast, down her arm, and onto the ground below. She gave a soft gasp…
Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu
… stiffened and slumped…
For the old ways and for me
… and the fire in her eyes went out.
As he fought for breath, he seized up the bone chalice and held it under her breast. The grief-howling wind tore at his long, dark hair as the blood flowed out of her body. And then his breath was back and Carnwennan too and the chalice was full to the brim.
He turned to the fallen figures. New-forming shoots of life criss-crossed cadaverous stone. Quickly, before the moment was lost, he poured the faerie blood over them. It ran like quicksilver along the shimmering ley lines, drawing the smoky amber flames of the candles and turning them into a blazing white inferno. The blinding beauty of light. The one thing still out of his reach. But not for long.
The bodies were changing now, regaining a fleshly appearance. Mistletoe and oak twisted in the glistening fire, stitched itself into breathless lips and unseeing eyes, knitted into sinew and bone. Amhairghin snatched up Beibhinn's hand and gave a sharp tug. Her corpse tumbled into the flames. He scooped up her mantle and threw it on the fire after her. There must be nothing left for the channering worm - or other eyes.
Stepping back, he watched as the magic did its work on the Erlking's spawn - the cursed twins of madness and grief. Better bets than Balor, surely. They could have been gods… It must have been that his timing was off. He glanced down at the scar on his wrist. It still seemed off sometimes. But not for long. His time was now.
For the old ways and for me…
The sleepers' chests rose and fell as breath suffused their bodies. It was almost done. The hate-filled prince and his whey-faced bitch of a sister would live again. For now. A small noise in the cavern beyond caught Amhairghin's attention. With a flick of his fingers and a few whispered words, he stilled the wind and quelled the magical fire. His hands trembled with anticipation as he gathered his things and put them back in the knapsack, and then he called upon the Old Ones once more…
Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu
…and the dragon's wishbone crumbled to dust along with the last traces of Beibhinn's body. The chamber was as it had been these last four years. He made for the passageway behind the large spurwheel of the dais, pausing only to take one last look at his handiwork. The princess was still on her back, moaning in confusion, and the prince was on his hands and knees, attempting to gain his feet.
Amhairghin slipped into the tunnel. He had won his battle with time and outlasted even the Erlking, the most ancient and powerful of them all. But what good was immortality without the power of the Gods. It was time for the final push to begin.
... ... ...
The man's torch lit only the ground in front of his feet; for some reason, its beam was unable to pierce the shadows clinging to the walls of the passageway. He had the feeling that if he stretched out his hand into the inky darkness, he might not get it back again. His fist clenched around the smooth, black stone he had been given. His ace in the hole and, apart from his Glock, the only defense he had. It was so small. So easy to drop. And so easy to lose in this dark, disturbing place.
He huffed with relief as he arrived at the outer chamber. It was brighter here, though he had no idea where the dim light was coming from. He paused to take stock of his surroundings and his nascent sense of relief evaporated. Hundreds of feet below, on the floor of the massive cavern and stretching out as far as the eye could see, was a legion of sleeping giants, packed row-upon-row. He knew straight away what they were; knew, too, they had been permanently shut down four years ago. Even so, the hairs on the back of his neck still lifted at the sight of them. The destruction they could have caused… Shaking off the thought, he focused on the causeway ahead and hurried across, gripping the rune stone even more tightly.
Finally he stood at the foot of the great, ancient steps: the last leg before - success, he hoped. He never operated like this - on the fly and without backup - but they were racing against the clock and there had been no time for anything else. Besides, he wasn't sure who he could trust anymore, not with something like this. Of course, if the ground hadn't closed up and locked them out four years ago, he wouldn't be in this position now. They would have swept through the place, collected and catalogued everything and then stored it away, safely and securely. There would have been nothing left for anyone to get their hands on. No, he didn't like the situation one little bit. Protocol and procedure - the habits of a lifetime - screamed out against it, but it was too late to turn back. Events had already been set in motion and it was up to him to gain what control he could.
He advanced cautiously up the stairs and stopped just shy of the top. His eyes followed the lines of the vast, soaring walls - up, up and up into an impenetrable pitch-black. He breathed in the cool, dry air of the centuries, wrinkled his nose at the underlying stench, strained to make sense of the tiny slivers of sound in the forgotten silence - the beat of his own heart, the huff of his own breath perhaps - and looked, at last, upon the lifeless, golden colossi lying in the dust. They obscured his view of the rest of the chamber.
Still clutching the flat, black stone in one hand, he clipped his torch to his belt with the other and drew his service weapon. Time now for the main action and no time for mistakes. The sweat beaded on his forehead and he lifted an arm to wipe it away. But as he did so, an image flashed through his mind: of his gun and the rune stone tumbling down the stairs, over the edge of the causeway and into the cavern below. Swallowing hard, he lowered his arm, mounted the last few steps, and walked out into the arena. And stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes collided with the deadly flame-gold gaze of Prince Nuada, Silverlance.
His stomach dropped to his feet, but Tom Manning, Director of the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defence, knew what he had to do; his life - and just maybe the fate of the world - depended on it. Training his gun on the crouching elven warrior, he held out the rune stone exactly as he had been told to - charm-side out - and, in an unsteady voice, began to recite the spell of binding. And hoped like hell it was going to work.
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References:
Chapter Title: The Trembling of the Veil - W. B. Yeats (title of an autobiographical work and quoting Stephane Mallarmé.)
The ancestral darkness: W.B. Yeats, The Celtic Twilight.
An bhean chaointe: (Irish Gaelic) 'the keening woman'.
The White Lady of Sorrow: another name for the bean-sídhe.
Bean-sídhe: (Irish Gaelic) in Irish mythology, a female spirit - often considered an omen of death and a messenger from the Otherworld.
Amhairghin: in the Irish Mythological Cycle, Amhairghin (or Amergin) was a druid of the Milesians, which people fought the Tuatha Dé Danann for the control of Ireland. His name means 'Birth of Song'.
Beibhinn (BE-veen): (Irish Gaelic) name, 'woman' or 'lady' and 'fair' or 'white'.
To wear the willow: to go into mourning, especially for a lost love.
An Dóiteáin de Aiséirí: (Irish Gaelic) The Fire of Resurrection.
Lich-house: (Middle English) 'corpse + house', charnel house, mortuary.
Lapidify: To change to stone [from French lapidifier, from Medieval Latin lapidificāre, ultimately from Latin lapis stone].
Mór-Ríogain (or The Morrígan) : (Irish Gaelic) in Irish mythology, part of the trio of war-goddesses called the Mórrígna. She a goddess of Fate and is especially concerned with fate in battle.
Mistletoe: an evergreen parasitic plant, it is often associated with the oak in Druidic mythology. When the deciduous host tree loses its leaves, the mistletoe remains as a symbol of life in the midst of 'death'.
Oak: An important tree in Celtic lore, the oak is associated with strength, durability, purity and constancy.
Carnwennan or Carnwenhau ("white hilt") Arthurian legend - the dagger of King Arthur, sometimes attributed with the magical power to shroud its user in shadow. It is mentioned in the Welsh medieval tale (c. 1100AD) of 'Culhwch and Olwen.'
Fain (archaic): gladly, willingly.
Dr John Dee: (1527–1608 or 1609) a Welsh mathematician, astronomer, astrologer, occultist, and consultant to Queen Elizabeth I. His residence was in Mortlake.
Dr Dee's 'Mirror': a shew-stone, or scry-stone, used by Dee for divining the past, present and future. An inscription on its case describes it as 'The Devil's looking-glass'.
Physick (archaic): variant of 'physic' - a medicinal agent or preparation.
Arthur: (King Arthur of Arthurian legend) a legendary British leader, his actual existence is a matter of debate. Medieval histories and romances have him defending Britain against Saxon invaders in around 500 AD.
Cymru (Welsh, kum' ri): the Welsh name for Wales.
A ghrá: (Irish Gaelic) my love (when speaking to a person).
Etirun: (Celtic mythology) a minor thunder-god, according to the Irish Dindshenchas (a collection of Old Irish local legends.)
Taranis: (Gaulish deity) a god of thunder, his cult was a cruel one. At Samhain, human and animal sacrifices to Taranis were burned in wooden vessels. The name 'Taranis' survives on only seven altars in Europe, ranging from Britain to the Balkans.
Goibniu: (Irish mythology) smith of the Tuatha Dé Danann, one of the three gods of craft, and a god of thunder and lightning.
Channering: old Scottish or English word meaning 'gnawing'. Probably part of a regional dialect.
Dam (archaic): mother..
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A/N:
11 Dec 2016
I'm re-writing this story and have posted the updated prologue here. It's not too different from the original hence the reason for posting it now. This will still be the same story but it will be told differently (and hopefully in not quite so many words!) I won't post any more of the revised chapters until the whole thing is finished - I'm aiming for mid-2017. For anyone who prefers the original, that will still be posted on my deviantArt account, TheDreamsOfTheAges (link in my profile here), under 'Dragon-Cursed: Original'.
8th Feb 2013
A huge thank you to CrazyNorwegian who has done a wonderful drawing of Elfraine on deviantART. Check it out at crazynorwegian. deviantart gallery/#/ d5tus8y - remember to take out the spaces :) I've also posted the link on my profile page.
22nd Apr 2013
Have also used this image in the new book cover for this story. Once again, many thanks to CrazyNorwegian for her permission to use it.
Cheers
ESSI
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First posted: original, here on fanfiction, 14th March 2012. Revised version, 11th December 2016.