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Caoimhín sighed and looked ahead. Saw a tiny strip of land that barely crested above the water. Inish Ciúin, he was told. Tiny Island. The name was right. It was low and mostly flat, its rocks the color of darkness. Very little green showed there was very little earth. If his thoughts were correct, a man such as himself could circle the damned thing in less than half a day. Not a fit place for anyone to live.
"The witch chose the best spot," he muttered.
He caught a glimpse of a small strip of sand slightly to their right and pointed to it. Mícheál looked and nodded and shifted the helm, hoisting a banner above his head to signal for the other boats to follow. He did not bother to make certain they saw him; he knew they would be right behind.
Now Caoimhín could see a finger of land jutting from the side of the island, to his left. It rose a bit higher than the rest of the soft hills and pointed in the direction of the sun.
And it was covered in green.
Why is that so? he wondered. Why does this one area look so rich? Is it more of her magic?
A closer look showed the hint of two figures atop the tallest part of that bit of land. One male, one female, both gleaming and golden in the midday sun, even from this distance. Standing still. Watching them. Waiting.
Mícheál saw them, as well, and drew in a sharp breath of anger. "I see no boat on the sand," he called to his brother.
"Did you expect to?" was his response.
"I would like to think, for a moment, that they were at least a little human."
"They are nothing like us." Spoken with a soft chuckle.
"I know. But I still hoped..."
You would, Caoimhín thought. You would.
Their boat slipped up to the sand and he jumped into the water to stride ashore. The oarsmen followed him and pulled the boat the rest of the way up on the beach, then Mícheál joined his brother.
The other boats followed them, and soon two-dozen men were gathered together, all of them strong and proud. Each had a tunic freshly made, similar to Caoimhín's and to be worn only for this occasion, and each held a gleaming sword and shield. Their heads were protected by thick leather straps detailed with runes to ward off the worst of horrors, while pelts surrounded their feet and calves. Their eyes were dark and dangerous, and all were focused on Caoimhín.
I have to say something, he told himself. I have to let them know...
"If any wish to back away," he said, his voice strong, "there is no dishonor in it. Not this time."
None of the men even drew so much as a breath of concern.
He smiled and nodded to them, then pointed to the green sliver of land to his right and said, "So to the witch, we go."
He turned and led them straight across the rocks. It was not an easy patch to cross. Untold eons had scarred the stones to where they were uneven and small crevices cut between them. Many areas were slippery and wet. But there was no other way that was better, and even if there had been, Caoimhín had no wish to delay this final confrontation.
Soon the two who were waiting for them were in full view, watching them approach. Both tall. Both regal. More like brother and sister than husband and wife.
The male? The Dagda. A god to Caoimhín's clan; an evil jokester, to Caoimhín. A thick cloak of a deep rich blue hung from his shoulders, and his ornate helmet was of silver, as were his sword and spear. He was the only person any of them had known who could make Caoimhín look weak and simple, in comparison. For that, alone, he would have hated the creature.
However, Morriggan was a hundred times worse, for Caoimhín knew her too damned well. Her clothing was also in white and embroidered in gold. Her cloak the same as The Dagda's. Her manner just as haughty.
From a distance.
Once Caoimhín was close enough to look into her expression, he noticed an odd sense of...wariness? Unhappiness? Sorrow? He could not tell. He thought she would have been glad for this day to come, not fighting to hide her true feelings. She had fought for it hard enough.
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