The job I'm on turned into a full-scale repack of every damned box when I was supposed to just verify were okay for transport. So I wound up condensing 56 boxes down to 41. And I'm exhausted. But it had to be set for pickup, tomorrow. Then I drive home, and I'll need a week to recover from this.
I've been posting bits of DP's prologue to keep myself going on the story, reworking it as I go along. Here's another bit:
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He hesitated then whispered, "Thiocfaidh mé a thabhairt duit."
"Tá mé an Ui Briúin anseo de réir rian Dé."
"Tá mé an Ui Briúin anseo de réir rian Dé."
"Táim ag fannacht leis."
"Táim ag fannacht leis."
"Tar chugam."
He hesitated, could barely say the last..."Tar chugam."
The wind exploded in sudden fury, snapping and whipping like the worst of storms. Clouds boiled across the sky in madness, bringing near darkness with them. The sea, so calm and easy when they'd crossed, now churned and crashed against the rocks below, as angry as it had ever been.
Only the straps bound around his wrists kept Caoimhín in place. He tried to gain a hold on the posts to lessen the pain of them cutting into his skin, but could not.
Then at the base of the black rocks across the water he saw the mist grow thicker. And thicker. It seemed to climb the towering Cliffs...then pause...then change direction to whisper towards the island.
In the very face of the wind.
Unnatural.
Unyielding.
Growing closer.
Closer.
He forced himself to remain calm. He knew his men could also see it coming and each knew what it meant. The thick boiling mist had hidden much of what happened within it, so they had only the idea of what monsters it hid.
But Caoimhín knew. He had seen them, and knew he had to remain strong for his men, so he did not dare glance at them. If he broke, now, they would as well. In answer to his growing fear, he pulled back at the straps...
Then he saw his brother’s face, unyielding. They cast each other the slightest of smiles before Caoimhín turned back to watch the mist approach. Refusing to let his eyes shift away. Forcing himself to stand solid, immovable, ready.
"I am Fedlimid," he murmured. "My roots dig far into the good earth. My branches give shelter for all. Nothing shall move me."
Suddenly the mist parted. Whispered to circle around the finger of land.
Caoimhín jolted. It only did this to surround his men before they were slaughtered. Why was it happening now? Was the oath not to be honored? Would Mícheál know to hold? To wait? Not to panic? His breath grew sharper. Shakier.
He filled his mind with one thought, Hold, please hold in place. This has to end, please hold.
Mícheál saw what was happening. He glanced at Morrigan. She was like stone. He looked to The Dagda. His face was hard, unmoving. They expected this, he told himself.
He stood straighter and tied Caoimhín's sword next to his own. "Stand firm," he said, his voice much calmer than he felt. "Those things want to trick us into breaking our oath. Stand firm."
He heard the men murmur but also did not hear a single sword being withdrawn from its sheath. They trusted him, now, and he would sooner die than break that trust.
A moment later, the mist whipped over them. Blotted out all light and sound. Everything. Mícheál could not even see his hand before his face. He had to shuffle his feet to remind himself he was standing on solid ground. The silence was so complete. So cold. So much like death...
Until the first laughter came...
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