0 comments/ 15663 views/ 1 favorites The Legend Ch. 01 By: Mary Riley Author's Note: To get a better feel for the accents of the characters, the spelling is modified throughout some of the story to reflect how the characters would actually sound if you were to hear them talking. I have had some say that this is wonderful, and still others say it's annoying. That is for the reader to decide. I only hope the story finds you as a vivid and enjoyable experiance. Year of Our Lord Thirteen Hundred, Forty-Seven. The rain fell outside relentlessly on the autumn eve. A piercing silence had filled the ancient castle’s great hall and massive rooms like a flood of unwelcome guests. Beside the blazing hearth a lone figure sat in a trace-like state with the deep reflective pools of blue focused on the flames. The quietude has become almost unbearable. Rhiannon’s ears begin to ring with the emptiness of the surrounding air, which only would succumb with the occasional crackling of the kindling. The Welsh woman sighed a sigh of exasperation, and in that instant there was a sharp tapping on the heavy castle door. “…At this hour?” Rhiannon groaned. The fact that someone would visit with the rain pouring outside made the late night visitation strange in the least. A guard peered from the small opening in the door, though nothing was immediately seen. “Who goes there?” He questioned. “The wind” she thought. Gracefully the woman spun on her heel towards the stairs, only to hear the knocking once more, only this time notably louder. The guard questioned once more, and this time Rhiannon could hear something being muttered from outside. “Well...who is it?” Rhiannon asked impatiently. The guard opened the door and to her surprise, standing there was a young lad. He could not have been more than sixteen years of age. The poor child was soaking wet and shivering. The boy’s wide eyes gazed up at Rhiannon. Even with his overgrown hair plastered to his face and forehead, the child’s relief was hard to hide as the door opened. Inside the mouth of the building the boy stepped graciously, only leaving behind him a sodden trail staining the wooden floor in the shape of his boots. Clutched to the young lad’s chest was a small package covered with a thick heavy burlap material to protect it. The guard inspected the package with his eyes before Rhiannon dismissed him silently. “Wot beh that ye haf there m’laddie? I haf sent for naught. ” Rhi asked the young messenger with one brow raising. “…and plis, ye should come tae warm yerself by tha fire. Ye look like a drowned rat, child.” With those words Rhiannon’s mouth turned upward at the corners faintly to offer the boy to hint a smile. “M’lady this package was sent to ye with the seal of Lord Arawen. I was instructed to ride only by night and guard it’s contents with my life.” The boy answered in a shaky voice that fell just in time with his trembling as he followed the tall woman toward the hearth. “This volume, I was told to relay, had been in the lord’s hands for quite some time now. It was said that it would hold special meaning to ye. It was also said that ye should let others know naught of the book being in your possession for ‘tis being sought after by the most of Christendom for their archives.” “Aye. They always beh findin’ something tae stake claim tae.” Rhi said softly with her gaze still upon the aged work within his grasp, her brows knitting together slightly. Daintily the Welsh woman lowered herself onto a nearby stool. The boy seemed fascinated for a moment with the woman’s face as the orange light danced across it. Not even a single line could be traced against the smooth skin. Only large midnight blue eyes, delicate features and the skin. The face the young man stared at was fine like blanche ivory. “Lords” he thought “so frail.” The thought crossed the lad’s mind to wrap both of his large hands around her waist, just to see if he could touch finger to finger. The royal guards surely wouldn’t be as fond of this idea. Rhiannon’s dark arched brow rose once more, head cocking to the side as if taking something into consideration before reaching for the parcel in the boy’s hands. It was willingly passed to her and though the cloth was dampened, its contents were dry. Rhiannon traced a finger along the spine of a worn book. The manuscript bound in brown leather was plain with no indication of what lie inside. No title adorned the front. The age of the volume was evident upon Rhi opening it. Yellowing pages lie before her eyes for the viewing, faded writing in a smooth hand. The very substance the small letters were scribed in, even though time’s grip had begun to lighten them, had a faint shimmer. Most likely the “ink” had been formed from a natural source such as crushed berries for pigment, blended through with ore that was ground into powder. Quite common. The young man kept his place at the hearth, hands extended to the heat. Rhiannon glanced up from her new point of interest with an expression of concern. “Laddie, there beh many rooms here in muh home. Ye may pick one and I will haf muh maid bring some dry clothing tae ye. On the morn when the sun snuffs out tha moon, ye may leave as ye wish. ‘Tis smart tae worry ‘bout ye own health and comfort and nae tha width or gathering of muh waist. Such will only leave ye wet with a cold chasing at yer heels.” Rhiannon remarked calmly. Rhi’s attention found the book immediately much to the crimson faced lad’s relief. How did she know? The boy wondered while still in a fast paced stride for the staircase. The refuge of an offered room was now an escape from embarrassment; perhaps the young man even experienced a moment’s doubt with fear. Whatever the reason being, the lad scurried toward the upper level of the keep and vanished from the queen’s sight. Scrolled against the sickening yellowed and crumbling pages was a word…a name. “Ceridwen.” Rhiannon read aloud. A surge of anxiety bit down against her insides. A mother’s story to children when seeking to scare them calm and into good behavior? This creature only existed in myth and folklore. Why was someone sending this book to her? Rhiannon could only wonder quietly to herself while her eyes fluttered from the book to the staircase in which the young messenger had fled. She had the right mind to march up there and give the young lad a good shaking. Sighing to herself, alas, she knew that the lad probably did not know much more than what his lord had ordered of him. “This is absurd.” Rhi whispered to herself. To any avail the woman could not lift her gaze from the script even to answer her own doubts with the benefit of just throwing the book down and retreating into the night’s slumber. She began squinting to focus on the small serpentine letters and slowly the veils of time began to lift before Rhiannon’s very eyes. CERIDWEN Commencement In all eternity it had wandered the glades near the villages…a spirit lifting the bent branches of the willow. It had no words that would ever collect what it would become. Neither male nor female, it , as a whole, knew not the tether of gender. The force had been air, mist, icy waters, and the mere essence of this land. It’s most loved haunts had been indeed the loch and streams just north of Gwynedd. It is here the “spirit” witnessed it’s first battle between humans. It could see how wasteful and callused these men were. Though it had no eyes, it would “watch” the souls lift from the bodies and rise toward the implacable skies. They could not see it, for it was nothing to see. If only these brute mortals could have warning ahead of time, they may not face such damnation and senseless tragedy. For these reasons and these alone, over time the force began to learn to focus itself. The energies would swirl about, the intentions being to manipulate the space around it to appear solid. Alas, the most the spirit could accomplish had been a transparent shade like form for at best it was a novice. Progress was something gradual. It took drawn out months and days just to create a momentary glimmer of silhouette. Intently it had studied the wandering humans taking in every curve and molecule of their bodies. Just to get the feel of their forms it would occasionally kick up a wind and circle playfully around the passing villagers…man, woman, and child alike. Even the domesticated animals that traveled most devotedly with their masters were not safe from the prodding and tickling. It would have laughed had it a voice at the time for the donkey or mutt’s wide eyed astonishment was something it found most amusing. The most appeal and beauty could be found in the form of the human female. The energy had made it’s choice. Through many follies and failed attempts it graduated into an occasional wispy apparition…that of a female. A most intriguing vision it had created. The energy’s form was to appear one of long slender limbs, fair of skin and light of eyes. A young maiden bearing rivers of dark tresses and the softest delicate features. Time in the spectral vision became easier to uphold with practice. It set out for the original purpose, to warn the humans of oncoming battle or physical death…in hopes it would be avoided. The apparition had developed a great love for their kind in this time of study and even though it seems frivolous now, she felt the urge to save them. It decided to show itself for the first time, thinking that it knew it’s beloved humans so well. A gaunt young man passed through the glen, he brushing aside a bent willow branch as his deliberately quickened stride broke through the foliage. The darkly dressed man appeared exhausted but determination held him tightly. The clothes clinging to his wiry body were dirty and fringed with rips and tears. Dirt had been long imbedded into his fingernails and smudged the side of his sun kissed face. Securely under the crook of the man’s arm was something wrapped in cloth. He pushed on even as a wound in his side spilled blood against the forests’ floor. There were shouts off distance echoing from a good mile behind the man…the yelping and growling of canines. It could be no mistake, death called through the glade just as profusely as the dogs snarled and blood trickled. In a furious abandon she gathered the air around her essence. A chill took the air and the wind began to pick up lifting the fallen leaves from the ground. It began to materialize into the shape it had practiced sculpting so many times before in hopes of assisting the man or at least trying to warn him of the onset death had whispered of. Within feet of the stranger it rippled through the barriers of the physical realm. The head and shoulders were the first to come into being followed by the rest of her willowy form. It hovered there transparent but unmistakably there nonetheless. She moved in closer, as the man was to pass by. The spirit tingled with an overwhelming anxiety and what was possibly known to humans as fear. Desperately she sought a way to attract his attention, as the commoner moved quickly in his haste. The spirit watched disdainfully as the hoards of men closed in faster. From the very bottom of all it knew, it focused the panic that had started to flow freely through. It searched for words of warning yet nary a one would come, for all this time she had spent on perfecting a body, and had never once attempted to learn the power of voice or even the language of her beloved mankind. Frustration surged and seared her like a red-hot blade. The torment erupted rather suddenly as the fleeing man caught the vision of her figure looming against the trees with all the illumination her unnatural aura cast. As he skidded to a stop to behold the vision in wonderment and seemingly terror held fast together, everything compressed inside of her at once. It built into a dizzying spiral and exploded into a deafening release. A piercing unnatural cry, raw and unbridled. The sound boomed, echoing through the glades sending the birds bursting from the trees like shattering glass, the woodland creatures scampering from their burrows and places of obscurity. Out of fright from what had just occurred she lost hold of the form, it dissipating into a fine mist against the cool air. Though secretly, it still watched. The young man had let out a scream and crumpled to the forest floor holding tightly to his ears, sobbing openly. He had drawn his knees up to his chest in a child like manner and refused to move. The men caught up to the youth, yet some lingered behind having heard the penetrating scream she had let forth…followed by the man’s cry. A husky man snatched the bundle from the fallen one and delivered a raging kick to his rib cage. The filthy human then spat on the other. “You thieving scoundrel! Someone need be teaching you the value of hard work. Mayhap then you won’t be stealing the bread from a slaving maid at the market. You are as useless as the dirt beneath a swine’s hooves.” He seemed a maddened extension of menace as he shot another blow of footing no sooner than his words had ceased. The swindler writhed in pain, his body jerking spastically with each blow. In his blinding suffering he thought of penance and called for the Lords…yet there was no answer from those vast heavens. The lad then offered the story of what had occurred only moments prior the arrival of the angered mob. The ones which where steadfastly held into superstition turned three shades of blanched fear. Some closer to the front had seen the faint glimmer of my coming and going and took the man at his word. Forcefully they heaved the man up by his collar and headed back for town, all the while talking of “the daemon” in the forest. Others claiming it was but a haunting, a spirit of the dead. It had never been a being of the flesh and therefore, it was not departed. She knew naught of this “devil” they carried on about, for the spirit had never encountered such. Nature had been the creator…the earth her womb. Only later through the dense whispering of passers-by did she hear the man had been hung at the neck before Town Square until dead. She was crushed in failure…though the spirit knew it had been just as well. The injuries the man had sustained would have surely been his death call had he kept fleeing the men. It was from this moment on she became obsessed with learning the language and how to project a voice. With the presence of words would come warning, not just that hellish primal wail that had ripped through the wilderness’ silence that day. Like the entrapment of the ghostly form it had adopted, this took much time and effort. She continued to warn others of impending death and illness through out the countryside. Time and time again she had even taken to the air above battlefields tearing through the winds like something that could have leapt from the fires of hell itself. The apparition’s wailing echoed high above the battlefields, sometimes sending a whole army into retreat. The spirit’s endeavors were even mentioned in written human history and passed through folklore. It had warned an army as they passed through as it commonly did. Years had now aided the apparition and it had grown rather adept to all the things that humans feared. What better way for them to consider the warnings? A voice she had by then, it low and baritone yet still markedly feminine. It was the epitome of forewarning and omen. The leader of this Norman army took notice of the female figure as it gave the illusion that it washed clothes by the riverbanks. The material was slick with blood and gore. He approached her curiously stopping a few feet from the maiden, his strong form stiffening. Like any man he had originally been drawn by her splendor and fair vision, but all too soon did he take notice of what occupied her interest. “My good lady…I have never seen such bloodshed against one single garment or weapon. What befell your husband?” he inquired in both wonderment and disgust. The woman turned to him…the cloth still besotted with the stagnation of blood and dirty river water as if to let him see what waited. “ I have no mate to speak of. These my lord…my dear Norman….are your clothes.” The truth it had spoken for they were the exact replicas. This it had made sure of. Deeply troubled he was and swiftly he fled, yet as the apparition had predicted, De Clare found his maker calling on the battlefields while challenging the great Toirdhelabhach. Stories of the “wailing woman” spread through the countryside like a hungry parasite feeding on the ears of all that would listen. So many they christened her with yet they would never give me the praise she deserved. When spoke of by the humans she had become “banshee”, “bansidhe”, “badhbh”, “Morrioghain”, “Macha”, “Fea”, or “Morrigu”. No matter what title awaited her, it continued what it considered to be good. The tales ranged in description from her being haggard to beautiful…from grotesque to utterly bewitching. The further the tales spread, the thinner the truth spread as well. Humans, it had learned, were strange and superstitious creatures indeed. Accounts had spread so vast in the next centuries that it was astonishing. Later as it would happen, she realized that other spirits of nature were becoming learned much in the fashion it had and were becoming a mimic of the original. They of course varied in appearance and tactics…yet they were all her unintentional pupils. Surprisingly a select few of the cousin spirits even centered themselves around certain families, only warning those with the same blood of one clan throughout the centuries. To her this was beyond all resonance. To all that would hearken she would bestow her message of death’s intention. LLEWELLYN Quietude circulated in her place of existence for some time. Those of great superstition and followers of the new religion, that of the one god, kept their distance choosing to fight their wars in lands strange to her. What had been considered in some cases to be her greatest triumphs had ebbed, nearly ceasing with fewer tracing upon her soil. The spirit would have been grateful to cast eyes upon any soul…rich lord or have-not. She grew restless in the ancient glen. Emblazoned with these burning conclusions, the apparition was riven to become vagrant. She set out further into the never-ending emerald embrace of what surrounded her. It didn’t occur to the spirit that it may have tread upon another’s territory. There sprang to life the babbling of a waterfall in the distance and the scent of nautical sweetness brimming somewhere off to the North. The newly chosen grounds were much deeper and darker than her captivating homelands. Shadows wound themselves around every leaf and pebble, snaking even into the flowing stream. The spirit was immediately intrigued. Teaming with creatures large and small, this place was vibrant and full of life despite the foreboding appearance. A hunter would have to pass through, a maid picking fruit, a healer busied with the seeking of herbs. Of this the spirit was ascertained. Moons passed with no success and once again she ebbed through the branches and over the waters solemnly, only choosing to air herself in the guise of fog. Blending into the night-tide music, one night the spirit finally caught faint sound of footfalls. Filling with a burning excitement she had been careful to still compose the silvery mist upon the water’s break. The soft steps that once had collided in a soft rhythm with the ground subsided. It could sense the figure of a male nearing closer to the water’s edge. There was no death circulating through the colors encasing the man’s aura. In fact this was an aura unlike that of any the spirit had seen permeating about a mortal. The man’s face remained hidden by a dirty brown hooded cloak which licked around his ankles like an eager companion and only the toes of his ragged suede boots made their position known from beneath the flowing of stiff folds. Here, without her gift of materialization called into play, she admired this strange person. The curiosity had amplified ten times as it watched one of his large hands reach upwards to fumble with the concealment of his hood. Yieldingly, it slipped over a mass of ebony hair before resting against broad shoulders. A gasp the spirit admitted only echoed into the grove as a wind lashing at the grasses around his feet. The Legend Ch. 01 Before her presence stood the most ruggedly beautiful human her path had ever crossed. The face was smooth aside from a shadow of dark stubble, the eyes deep set and fired with the spirit of jade and sapphires together beneath his black brows. Tiny lines branched out from the corners of the orbs, he also having definite lineage at each corner of his mouth as a stamp of merry character. It was all she could do not to take to the breeze and funnel around him as she had done in her learning days, just to feel the contours of his body. All of these feelings were strange and new to her, for the spirit was not even remotely familiar with the ways of man and woman. The stranger glanced around cautiously, almost as if he could feel the spirit watching him. Cupping his hands and plunging them into the frigid waters, he took a drink. Moments later the stranger stood with the liquid still trickling down his chin, only his eyes were strangely enough in the direction in which the presence lingered over the mirroring falls. In this extended hush the man seemed to be taking a matter into consideration. Then came his voice breaking the barriers of solitude, it rich and fluid with a marked accent and deep tone. “Whoever ye are ye best beh comin’ out. Dun beh thinkin’ fer a moment I cannae feel ye, fer if ye do, ye beh a fool.” It was beautiful down to every last twist of tongue even if he hadn’t meant it to be so. She was enamored in an instant with the heavy influence of the Scots hanging on his every word. Though the spirit had no reason to come forth, it was now tempted to do so. An unsettling urge just to please this human had intruded into her soul. Once again he repeated himself and stood patiently as the water rippled, it being the only answering to his demand. It could no longer deny the stranger of his request. Natural death was years away from this man, as she could see in his life force. Violent death was only traceable to her within days of it’s coming. Moreover, that was not visible that she could foresee. Even in her acknowledgment of this, she began to pull the warmth from the glade around her. The presence began gathering the molecules from the living foliage and the lake itself for the energy to manifest. The chill began to steal through the forest, the flora hanging their heads in silent awareness and vines wilting against trees. The mists billowed furiously over the surface of the water as it’s form began to take shape. An outline, just a silhouette before the fog became dense. Then there were shoulders, then arms, followed by the rest of a female body. The mists parted and in her transparent state she stepped forth, yet still lingered over the waters giving herself a Christ-like quality. It hovered in midair with the long dark tendrils of hair whipping around the haunting image, eyes agleam as it watched this human. Greatly to the spirit’s surprise there came no fear from the man. Most would have darted off in the other direction with an almost comical velocity. Yet here he stood, dark brows furrowing before his features once again went slack. The apparition dared not speak for now it felt foolish in the face of his beauty. A Greek sculptor with God-given hands could not have replicated him. Embarrassment wound around the spirit’s emotions like an angered serpent. With a sweeping of thought and much less effort than it had taken to project the form, it began to call it in. A release of icy air blasted forth as the energy gathered was set upon the world once more to return to the forest. Starting with the feet and instantly working the way up it started to vanish as it gave up the apparitional illusion. It’s higher self was enticed by the placid water once more as it offered the winsome young man a final glance. At this moment little did she know this man was her undoing. The stranger’s whole body had stiffened…this feet parting ceremoniously. Tilting his head back those incredible eyes closed, his arms rising in a V formation towards the skies. A cry to the heavens leapt forth slicing the biting silence that had cast its glamour since his only utterance. The spirit took in what he was doing with amusement for she thought it odd. Was he to think their gods sent her and take to the worship of a shade that wasn’t even a true form? A mere trick of light and concentration? “Foolish” She thought. It was of no consequence, for he pressed on. The spirit grew uneasy when it felt a charge in the air building within the area around where it chose to hover bodiless and watch. Leaves chimed with a rattling shimmer as a breeze lifted throughout her home. All that was celestial seemed for a whispered moment to dim. A hush flooded in like an unwelcome plague killing off and muffling her beloved woodland creatures and even the lapping of the waters themselves. That’s when she was conscious of what was coming to be. This…whatever this man was doing…was aimed at her! The presence could sense energies surging and leaping about her, wrapping and coiling around her energy like a thousand greedy vines. A blinding light had ensconced the fog, funneling around her and confusing her senses. All the while she could hear him. His strange fluid voice called out in a language unknown to the spirit’s ears. Without warning the scene came to a standstill and hence the eerie quiet resumed. The Scotsman slowly folded his arms over his chest, the mannerism almost cocky and playful when paired with the smirk, which began to dance across his thin lips. His stare seemed to burn a hole right through her. The apparition’s awareness had picked up on something. That’s when she realized what she was feeling. For the first time ever, it was not immune to cold. She was standing in icy water up to her waist instead of swirling about its surface. This was impossible! Only to add to this shock, the spirit realized her form was solidified. An entrapment of soft flesh and radiating warmth. It was horrified! It loved their kind well enough indeed, but to actually become one of them? Never. Again and again in the minutes that passed she attempted to extract her essence from the new prison. Effort after effort failed. The stranger observed the woman with wordless amusement on the banks. The maiden began to fill with contempt for what he had caused and all that he had taken from her. Her stare met the stranger’s accusingly as anger grew inside of her. “What have you done to me?” The woman demanded and started towards him. The cold against her new skin had become rather plaguing. She began to thrash through the water towards land. All the while her eyes did not stray from the man. This evil piper who with his beauty had led her into what she was sure would eventually be her doom. The woman made it to the shore with water dripping from her dress. Masses of her dark hair remained plastered to her arms and back. “I, milady have just captured mi’self one of the faery-folk I would beh guessin’.” The sir answered coyly with laughter gleaming in his eyes. No doubt about it, he was definitely an arrogant Scotsman down to the bone. The maiden stood on the bank within feet of this man. She could have wrapped her hands around his neck at that moment and it would not have bothered her. A furious manifestation of flesh and bone now stared him in the eyes, trembling with a roaring storm of anger boiling within. “You could not even begin to imagine what you have done. I am not meant to be this way. I can feel myself dying as we speak. To enter into flesh is to decay. To be born is to die.” Her teeth clenched and the tone of voice fell an octave or two. The woman’s hands closed into two tense fists. “Who…do you think you are? You are not a god, nor spirit. A mere mortal perverting nature.” A glare met his calm expression. All the while she could have spat fire. “I beh learned and for this reason I do as I will. If it is in my ability, so be it. I do naught tae pervert nature, ye are tha perversion. Jus’ look at yerself. Ye beh taller by a nigh a head than any man I beh knowin’. When ye fashioned yerself ye certainly didnae make tha mold of any common village wench.” He chuckled a bit. “Ye even made sure ye had perfect teeth. A village woman ‘round these parts would at least beh missin’ a few.” The former apparition continued to huff while listening and glaring down to his level. He hadn’t been fabricating what he was seeing. The Scotsman was staring at a woman that stood a good six feet and a few inches. Rare even in the men of this time. She only towered, however, over this particular man by a couple inches. No matter, she still looked down on him with utter contempt. “Surely if ye stay hih like that ye will beh killed on sight. Mayhap even worse if an army passes through. A woman haf nae place alone, especially a fair lady. Even if she doth be a giantess with only skin clingin’ tae ‘er bones.” He offered a broad grin. “Do not trouble yourself with my appearance. I’m sure your reputation is only exceeded by that of your arrogance.” His lips twisted to the side for a moment as he looked as if he were about to protest. Swiftly she cut him off. “Alas, you are being honest. What you have done to me will not permit me to remain here. I will follow you into the next village or until I can find refuge.” Her head hung in defeat. There was no doubt that she would miss her home. No matter, maybe this would prove to be a blessing. The loneliness may cease, she thought to myself. Willingly the man allowed her to tag along. This was much easier on her part because unlike him, she had no belongings to haul. Upon the second day of travel the woman began to feel strange. Leaning against a tree she stopped to catch her breath. Everything was spinning. Her hand found her midsection. The Scotsman stopped and looked back in my direction. “What beh tha matter with ye?” he asked furrowing his thick brow. Purposefully he jabbed his gnarled staff into the soft earth and neared her. “It burns here…and the trees are spinning.” The willowy creature muttered in response. The man took a step back and considered silently, his thumb brushing his newly bearded chin. Next to the tree where she stood, he then removed his sack and threw it carelessly to the ground. She watched as he began to fumble through it, searching for something. He produced a small bow and a couple of crude arrows. Glancing at her with a smile he replied, “Aye, it’ll beh alright. I think ye jus’ beh hungry. We’ll beh settin’ up hih tae eat and rest till tha morrow. I beh goin’ tae fetch us some food.” With that her new companion traced off into the thicket. The maiden sat alone in the fading light of day with her back against the same tree, as she dared not move. Her new self had brought about fear, something she never had to worry with before the transformation. She was a stranger to her own form even if it was still the image she had created. The same long limbed, frail creature with vivid turquoise eyes and sable tresses. Now it was his creation, this mortal. That man had ensconced her in this body in which she could not understand. A deep sigh filtered over her lips. The woman knew not long had passed before the stranger’s return, it had only seemed as though an eternity loomed over her. There was something hanging from his arrow, dangling lifelessly against the dying evening. A healthy gray rabbit. “Aye…told ye I’d find something tae eat. That didnae take long at all did it, eh?” he smiled down at her. Recoiling, she pushed herself up from the sitting position. So many times she had watched creatures just as this frolic through the glen. She loved them so…and here before stood this monster… “I will not eat that.” The dark haired beauty snarled while looking away in disgust Raising a brow the Scotsman then groaned. “Ye are gonna beh difficult are ye nae? Well ye dun hafta eat it. More fer meh. I’ll scrape ye up some roots tae eat. Ye will change yer mind soon ‘nough.” With that he took to building a small fire. The night pressed on as they sat on a bed of leaves watching the fire dancing in its pit. The bones of the rabbit lie in a ravaged pile at the man’s feet now. At the maiden’s feet were the small pits of fruit from a near-by tree and swaging branches that had once held fat red berries. “Ye haf been travelin’ fer two days now and ye haf nae told meh yer name. I know ye are happy with meh naught, but at least ye could let me know wot tis that I should call ye.” He informed her with a tired glance. “I have no name other than what I have been named in the stories of man. No need had I for one before I met you.” No aggravation presented itself in her voice this time. The anger she held for this creature had slowly begun to wan over the time she remained in his company. “Bansidhe…Diafol (devil)…Morrioghain, these are some of the names I’ve heard when the townfolk refer to me.” She informed him flatly. “Aye.” He slid a finger across his squared chin thoughtfully “We shall haf tae change that M’lady. Until then ye can call meh Llwellyn.” Following that brief introduction he sprawled out on the pile of leaves, his breathing becoming swallowed and soft. Lying on her back, she gazed up at the stars through the broken spaces between trees. It appeared to the woman as a map to heaven close enough to touch. Each star was a soul possessing it’s own life and inner fire. The moon, in her fanciful state, represented their one god. In spirit form, she had never been one to appreciate the heavens and celestial beauty. She could find shapes and patterns within their hypnotic winking. This made her smile as her eyes closed and sleep gently discovered her.