Finngeal Returns

 Finngeal makes his momentary return:

Information was worth the risk of visiting Aith Cliath again, and though he had feelings about returning to the place where he had been imprisoned, his situation was different now. He had training and he had his wolf; no longer was he the young boy unable to fend for himself. He was now what others feared, the white ghost with the silver mane, keeper of stern looks and stone hearts, guardian of the home he once lost, and he no apprehension about seeing those responsible for his imprisonment.

They were all dead. His only anxiety now was trying not to kill anyone else.

He left early, hoping to reach Aith Cliath by evening. He went through the woods, travelling northeast against the sun, pausing in Cill Chuilinn to send a message home by a spy there, and reaching the main gate of the walled city by sundown. An argument over imported goods broke out at the southern entrance, and Finngeal used the commotion to slip into the city, ricocheting a rock off the guard’s helm to add some sauce to the stew. Whilst the guard was shouting and waving his spear, Finngeal slipped through a large and broken sluice gate, entering by way of a drained waterway.

Though he was an enormous man, no one saw him, Finngeal keeping himself to the alleys and shadows, moving on silent feet, letting his senses guide him. He remembered where the old slave pit was; the same stale stench still lingered, and he moved away from it, keeping to the southwest side of the city. The persons and voices of early evening assailed him, a cacophonic chorus of tradesmen and mongers looking to rid of their remaining wares, the scurrying of wretches harassing the dejected and indentured, the blare of whistles and song cutting through thick air. The various scents coloured and crossed his view, the grey of peat, the gold of brimstone, the amber of nearby bonfires, and he followed the trails away from their origins, trying to save himself the agony of confusion. He wanted to collect intelligence and return home to his brother, and after his ear caught the tails of the words “means to raid Ulaid first,” he stopped and listened, standing behind a far ale house, his target at least five streets away. He closed his eyes and filtered the sounds, his attention weaving through the conversations, his exceptional hearing plucking the one thread from the conclamant loom. He had heard enough after three minutes, enough to fulfill his obligation, and while the desire to return immediately surmounted him, he waited to hear anything more. He heard the words “invasion” and “throne”, though to no great degree, when the words “come away from there!” and “don’t speak to it!” superseded.

Finngeal peered out from his hiding place and saw a crowd huddled against a public fire begin to back away. No one seemed frightened or alarmed, but they all appeared to be moving away from the same child, a small and undernourished creature, wearing little more than a threadbare tunic and old shoes. He watched the child thread the crowds, davering toward the fire with eyes low and hands in supplication. It was begging for notice more than it was begging for food, its eyes pleading, beaming up every adult with anxious smiles. There was something strange about the child: instead of the usual rounds of kicking it and shouting at it to go away, they merely pretended it was not there. One person tossed a junt of old bread in its direction, a few parents took their own children off, but no one scolded the child or actively tried to get it away. Finngeal surmised it must have been one of the local urchins, everyone aware that it wanted a home and none willing to give it one.

Kindliness comes at such a pass in towns, and after a few minutes of pining at people round the fire, the child went to sit in a far corner, crouching low and tenting its tunic over its knees. It took up the old bread lying on the ground, thinking it was not likely to get anything half so good from anyone else. It ate and hugged its legs, lamenting the coming of the evening frost, staring abysmally at the ground, its lips unable to decide between a quiver and a frown.

It looked up when a long shadow darkened all the colours around it.

“Oh,” said the child, gaping gloomily at the giant. “Hullo.”

It offered its piece of bread to Finngeal. Finngeal took a few slices of dried meat from his pocket and gave it to the child instead.

“You’re—you’re giving me something?” said the child, with tempered surprise.

Finngeal had no idea how to speak to children. He hardly knew how to speak to adults, so he thought if he spoke with the same gruff frankness but just halved the volume, that would go well.

“Eat this,” he demanded, with a low growl.

The child asked no questions; it took the dried slices of meat gratefully and ate them in terrified silence. After a while, it realized the enormous glowering mountain was a friend and moved over, as if to give him good sitting room. Finngeal perched over the child, surveying the wandering sprawl, the lights burning blight against the distant hills. A chill stung the air, one wearing a spectral veil, his senses awake to something odd nearby. The atmosphere flickered and waved, a thin glamour glittered over the fire. He looked down, and two hollow eyes gleamed up at him.

“Why are you here by yourself?” he bellowed down at the child.

“I don’t have anywhere to go and no one wants me around,” the child replied, shrinking into its tunic.

Trails of condensation streamed from the giant’s nose, his eyes glowing in muted rage. “Why?”

“Because I cause bad luck when I touch things.”

The child looked away and munched on the dried meat, and Finngeal’s immense shoulders sank slightly.

“Why would you think you have the ability to do this?” he rumbled.

“Because people told me I did,” the child demurely replied. “I touched a child once, and it died a few days later.”

Here was severe look. “I highly doubt that was your doing,” Finngeal only knew how to frown and seem grave, but he understood the power of kindheartedness, and he sat closer to the child, sheltering it with his shadow. He held out his arm. “You may touch me, if you want.”

The child paused mid-chew. “Are you cursed too?”

“Mmm.”

The child did not know what Finngeal was, but it sidled him anyway, reaching up and taking a hold of his columnlike arm. The scent from the child told Finngeal it was a young girl, but her head had been shaved, and she was too young to have any other distinguishing features. She pressed her cheek against his arm and made a few cooing sounds, almost teaching Finngeal how to smile.

“Your arm is so big, I can hardly reach around it,” she struggled, trying to close her arms around him. She lifted her chin to stretch her arms a bit farther and clasped her hands. “Your muscles hurt.”

“They do when I apply them to those who tell young children they’re cursed,” Finngeal wrawled. He took more dried meat from his pocket and offered it to her. “Eat more.”

She glanced at the rations and then at Finngeal. “What about you?”

“I can always hunt.” His brow bent, and in a softer hue, he added, “Do as I say.”

There were no more questions. The meat was gratefully accepted and eaten, and when the child began to rub her eyes and yawn, Finngeal gathered her into his lap and wrapped her in his cape, giving her a snug berth and warm cradle, and it was only a few minutes before she slipped into a gentle sloom. She slept peacefully for sometime, Finngeal nearly forgetting the original reason of his visit, glad to be a means of comfort for a forlorn child. He pulled his leine over his shoulder on one side, to shield her from the frigid wind and support her, and resigned himself to looking after her for the time. He would bring her back to Osraige; if she had no home and no one to look after her, he would not let her die on the street. There was more than enough for twenty children at his brother’s house, but someone in the villages would take her. His people would look after her, in any case, and he stood and prepared to leave, the child slung securely against his chest, when a familiar scent rippled by.

It was a scent he did not like, and it came on the wings of a satin voice.

“You know what the child is.”

The hint of glamour he had felt before flickered again. A woman was approaching him from the alley. He drew to his full height and leaned, all seven and a half feet of him looming over her, his nine foot shadow threatening the ground. He turned and bellowed, “And?”

“It’s curious that you would take her up so willingly.”

The woman looked like a servant of some kind, her clothing vibrant but modest, the red of her linen gown complementing her long dark hair. Finngeal had never seen her before, but her scent was irrefutable. He turned his chest to keep the child away from her, and glared at her from the corner of his eye.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” said the woman, remarking him a mild fascination. “I would have remembered such a magnificent beast.”

Finngeal simmered. The voice was different, but the more she spoke, but more he realized who she was. “You should be afraid of me.”

"Should I? But you seem to amiable, and the child seems to trust you.”

He narrowed his gaze. "What do you want?"

"I would have you, but I’ll settle for the child instead, if you’re looking to rid of her."

Finngeal put his arm protectively over the child. “You will have neither.”

Here was a sly smile. “Perhaps I can offer you shelter for the night instead? The inn is not far—”

“My people are not welcome here, and I am not staying.”

“A shame, rather,” said the woman. “I was looking forward to speaking with you more.”

“I have no more to say to the Morrigan.”

The woman gave him a conscious look and humphed. “A wolf always knows the hand he has bitten.”

Finngeal growled and stepped back.

“Nay, my pet, don’t be sore about our reunion. You flatter your own vanity, if you think I’m here only for you.” She gestured toward the riverfleet throne. “I’m here to superintend the conflict you’re going to tell your king about. It promises to be a famous good battle, and I came early, hoping to secure a champion. I hope you mean to take part. I would love nothing more than to see you on the winning side.”

“And which side will win?” said Finngeal, hoping to bring the information back to his king.

“Whichever one you choose to be on.”

Finngeal pulled his leine about him and sighed. “I choose to go home.”

“A pity,” Morrigan tutted. “Would that I could see your wolf on the field again, rending Eire’s enemies. There is nothing I like better than seeing the Sons of This Land defend their Great Mother.”

“But they should do so without instigation.”

Morrigan seemed a little offended. “I am not evil, you know,” said she, her smile diminishing. “I am only necessary.”

“That does not mean I must pledge myself to you.”

“You had little difficulty pledging yourself to Brig.”

Finngeal bent his back and began stalking. “She did not free me only to have me as her champion,” said he, with thunder on his voice. “You may only represent an aspect of human nature, but I want no part in any war.” His chest swelled, and he huffed through his nose. “I already suffered under one war. My strength now belongs to my people, and no one else.”

He turned away and moved to go, but the sudden disappearance of her scent told him she was gone. The child was still sleeping against him, and he did not wait for someone else to recognize and question him. He left directly, hastening over the western gate, running as quickly as his legs would allow. A guard on the wall might have seen him, but no one could catch him, and no one had his eyes in the dark. He held the sleeping child against him and cantered over the downs, the heavy forest punctuating the curated farms, the small villages and their lantern lights guiding the way home.

The stars appeared and steepled the sky, the crescent moon admired itself in the southern sea, and Finngeal was returned to Osraige before early morning, the child tucked safely under his arm. He stopped in one of the local villages along the way, asking whether anyone might be looking to raise a child, and eventually someone was found who would take her. Finngeal was not one for farewells, especially where feelings were involved, but knowing how many such children were left to the care of his people, he knew there would be others and trusted the men and women in the villages to raise them well. He put the child in front of a noble fire roaring in an inn at Inistoige, he paid a good sum to the family that pledged to dedicate themselves to her survival, and before she could wake, he was gone, the silverwhite wolf bound to his first duty: his brother and his king.