Awaken The Lord Of The Dance

When Eleanor entered the chamber it was bathed in darkness, like a blanket of night even as the bright sun outside shone through the clouds. Her master sat motionless in the massive chair, his thoughts wandering in places only he knew about. Walking across the massive hall, Eleanor, her back stooped from all the years of devoted service with the De Fey household, took hold of the wooden beams that kept the windows closed and flung them open. The man in the chair only glanced at her, a hint of annoyance clouding his face, but as she turned to face him, his lips raised its corners in a faint smile. The man did not smile often.

Eleanor nodded her head slightly towards him, suddenly remembering him as a young babe in her arms the day he was born. He seemed so lost as he cried in the morning light, his wails echoing through the hushed halls of the manor. She sighed and looked out of the window. Yet now the babe had grown up to be a man, now sitting in his chair, still silent and lost in his own reveries.

A mask concealed half of his face although Eleanor knew that he was still a handsome man despite the scars that marred his face. Tall and muscular, he struck an imposing figure in black, made more impressive by the dark cloak that wrapped around his shoulders, falling all the way to the hard stone floor, its massive folds enveloping him like a halo of darkness.

Eleanor felt the morning breeze filter through the slats in the window as she inhaled its sweet scent, reminding her that in less than two days, it would be the first of May. The first day of summer. As her eyes scanned the grasslands outside the stone walls of Don Dorcha's castle, she could still see the image in her mind as clearly as if it had only happened yesterday. How many times had she wished things would have been different, the many nights she spent crying to herself replaying every minute of that day, wondering if she could have done better and saved the beautiful mistress of the manor. Maybe then, life would have been different for the young man who now sat in his chair a few feet away from her, his face grim and his lips a thin straight line against his face.

Oh, Eleanor, she sighed to herself, enough of the torture. Her old body leaned against the window as she gazed at the grass before her. She could still recall that day three decades ago, the memories so fresh in her mind. It was as if the scene was now unfolding before her eyes as she stood by the tall window, an old woman lost in her own world of past events and lingering regrets. The memory came back to her as it always did, so slow and so fluid, transforming her present world to that of the past, almost so difficult to distinguish between the two. Eleanor could see it all again. She could live it all over again.

The grass outside was glistening with the morning dew and the smell of rain permeated in the air as the cavalry of horses and men rode through the landscape leading to the manor of Fergus de Fer, knight and hero of Eire. Weary and impatient, Fergus spurred his horse faster, its saliva dribbling on the ground beneath it but the rider was beyond care as he rode ahead of his men. He could see the outline of his manor before him and his heart quickened, his chest suddenly feeling constricted beneath the armor he wore. He did not even allow himself time for his squire to remove it, choosing instead to ride like the wind and return home.

As Fergus entered the gates of the manor, he heard her screams and it sent shivers up and down his spine as he jumped off the horse and started running into the building. His armor clanging noisily in the halls. Although the hall leading to her room was but a few paces, it seemed miles to Fergus as each step he took brought him closer to her pain and suffering, her screams echoing throughout the manor's stone walls.

He saw her lying there, her face bathed in sweat, her hair in a disarray on a pillow beneath her head, black as midnight. The midwives were by her feet, assisting her, but each push only brought screams from her lips as Morgana de Fey, once a citizen of Spain and now wife of a Celtic hero, lay writhing in agony on the bed.

Fergus tore the bindings that held his armor together and closed the gap between him and his beloved wife in a few steps. Ridding himself of the last piece of armor, he knelt on his knees and cradled her head in his arms, smelling the scent of roses in her hair, her skin. The pale and clammy skin that his hands now touched brought a cold chill through his heart and Fergus could see the fear in her dark eyes as she screamed again, the midwife urging her to push one more time. Below them, the floor was beginning to pool with blood.

"By the gods," he bellowed, "what is happening?"

The midwife looked up, a scared expression on her face. "The baby cannot come out, my lord. It seems that the cord is wrapped around his neck." Eleanor wiped the sweat that gathered on her brow. "I am doing the best I can."

"Then do better, woman." He growled, and looked at his wife, her face now turning ashen. He bent his head to kiss her and her hands encircled his neck, holding on to him as another scream escaped her lips, more agonizing than the last. She began to pant, her breath becoming more labored and her grip on Fergus' neck almost pinching him, but Fergus did not care.

He had loved Morgana the first time he set eyes on her as she stood by a ship's railing in one of the fishing towns he had gone through with Brian Boru, the last king of Ireland. Her ship had docked there to purchase supplies, and at Fergus' urging for he enticed the ship hands with ale and women, they stayed for the night. That evening, he had abducted her and taken her to his manor, and although they spoke different languages, there was nothing to stop two people in love speaking their own language.

As the years drew on, she learned his language, as he learned hers and their love only grew stronger as the years wore on. Then just as he was called into battle against the Norsemen, Morgana told him that she was with child, and Fergus was ecstatic. Although he thought the war would be over in a few months, it dragged on and finally Fergus bade leave his duty and it was granted. Brian Boru, the lion of Ireland, was more preoccupied with other matters of the court than to worry about his best knight returning home to welcome his firstborn.

Behind Fergus, he could hear the fevered chanting of the other members of his household, appealing to Brighid, the patroness of healing, their voices droning throughout the room. They were clustered together pitifully in a corner, fearing their master's wrath, yet unable to leave the confines of the lady's room, remaining loyal to their beautiful mistress who now lay laboring in the massive bed.

"Aren't the gods listening?" Fergus shouted angrily, his hands balled into fists as he held his lovely wife in his arms, her body feeling almost weightless. Outside he could see the trees shifting in the wind, oblivious of his anguish as he listened to Morgana's screams in his ear, pleading for an escape, begging for peace.

He heard the infant wail but Fergus could only feel the woman in his arms stiffen and the hands around his neck slacken its grip. Then as if her soul finally bade leave to begin its journey into the underworld, her body let go the rigidity of childbirth's pain, and lay slack against his huge arms. He gazed in horror at her ashen face, her midnight eyes closing forever against delicate skin, her lips deathly pale and the sweet smell of roses still lingering in her hair. The only last thing he felt was her breath against his cheek as she descended on the dampened sheets, whispering his name one last time.

Fergus could only feel the loneliness in his soul grow from a tiny seed to a gigantic tree, filled with fruits of hatred and loathing for the new infant that was now crying before him. The little creature might as well be the devil, Fergus seethed to himself, as he brought his wife's body against his, tears threatening to fall down his face. I want no part in raising a demon.

Letting go of Morgana's limp and lifeless body, Fergus slowly rose from his knees and without looking at the infant being held out before him, turned away and walked out of his wife's room forever. He would remember to instruct his people to bolt the doors forever to that room where love used to reside, full of life and laughter, constantly the comfort to his soul. But that was no more. Morgana De Fey was lying cold and ashen on the bed they used to share in seasons past while a wailing piece of humanity lay at her feet, unworthy of even his love.

He named the demon, Dorcha.

"Eleanor," he heard the young man call out her name and Eleanor gave a start, her body almost stiff from the recollection. "You've been caught in your reveries again, woman."

Dorcha watched the woman smile feebly at him and walk away from the window. She squeezed his shoulder once and then gave him a light pat before walking towards the door, her feet shuffling slowly beneath her. "'Tis all I have, my lord." She said softly.

"'Tis not good to your health to live in the past, Eleanor." Said Dorcha, his face remaining impassive. "I need you here now."

Eleanor's dry cracked lips managed a smile. She managed the young man's books, making sure his harvest was bountiful each year, as she had done in years past. It kept her days busy, ensuring her nights of peaceful sleep.

"My lord," she replied. "Thou shalt speak for thyself as well, with such words." Dorcha frowned as she spoke them but he did nothing to stop her or chastise her. "I have only watched thy past unfold its darkest secrets, never having been a willing participant to them, as they had been only cruel to thy lord. And unjustly so."

Dorcha's expression grew grim and his mouth became a thinner gray line against a dark face. But of all people in his castle, he never would lay a hand on dearest Eleanor, the woman who had raised him in the absence of his mother, despite objections from his own father. For that, he was eternally grateful to the old woman, now holding the title of lady of his house, running his estate, as a mother would have probably done. Or a wife, he thought to himself wryly.

Eleanor shrugged her shoulders although they were stiff and barely moved past an inch. She reminded him that the serving girl would be bringing him food before she shuffled out of the room.

Don Dorcha sat upright on the huge chair as two of his men sauntered into the room, their weapons clattering noisily against their sides. Glenn and Ochall, two of his most reliable servants, settled themselves on the chairs that lined the table in the middle of the dark room. A wench followed closely behind them, carrying a tray of food and drink in her arms.

"What news have you to give me?" Dorcha asked, his voice low.

Glenn looked at him and let out a sigh. "The Little Spirit has returned to the ailim tree."

"And?" Dorcha asked with an annoyed look on his face. "I could care less if the Little Spirit never returned to the ailim tree. If it were not standing on a sidh, I would have had it cut down a long time ago."

Ochall looked at Glenn, before replying to the man sitting at the head of the table. "The fairie has chosen a lord of the dance, Dorcha. It looks like Michael du Cahiri, as some of the villagers have been whispering."

"He has absolutely no business in these parts." Mused Dorcha. "Michael of the Stone Keep has no business in Aileel."

Dorcha remembered the name quite well. Lord Bran du Cahiri had fought alongside his father in legendary battles in the past. Both men had been friends, and often, Lord Bran had paid visits to the castle with his sons in tow.

Lords Michael and Damien were about the same age as Dorcha and whenever they visited, Dorcha wished he were elsewhere but with the two guests. Maybe it was because they were happy boys, Dorcha wondered, having been raised in a world so unlike his own, although around the two boys, the young Dorcha had been a happy child. Yet it did not matter to Dorcha now. They had their own lives now, as did he.

Glenn picked a piece of fruit from the bowl that was laid before him and plucked a grape. "Not when the Little Spirit has chosen him, my lord. They say he just appeared there two nights ago. The Little Spirit, it seems, has favored him."

Don Dorcha's face grew darker as his expression became grim. "The Druid promised me that I would be the Lord of the Dance, the King of May." He uttered angrily. "The Druid cannot renege on his word."

"Not when the Little Spirit finally finds the man herself and declares him thus, Don Dorcha." Ochall replied, knowing that although the answer was not to his master's liking, it was the truth. "Then we are helpless against such divine designations."

Don Dorcha remained silent for a time, his eyes gazing outside at the landscape before him, memories of hunts fresh on his mind. "The Little Spirit will learn the folly of her choices." He said, his voice barely a whisper, and with a flick of his hand, the two men rose from their chairs and left the chamber.

Was it jealousy, he thought to himself, that fuelled his hatred towards the Cahiri brothers? Was it envy for the attention they had received so lavishly of which he had been deprived of? Dorcha angrily brushed such thoughts away from his mind and forced himself to dwell on other things instead.

Alone again in his chamber, Dorcha resumed to his thoughts and looked outside the newly opened window, the light streaming in beams through the glass. Outside he could see men on horseback patrolling his estate, and among them a young child sat on a pony, mimicking the older men's actions, to their amusement. Dorcha watched the young child laugh as he led his pony forward amidst the men, enjoying the attention. Suddenly, memories, still fresh in his mind, surfaced to haunt him like it were only yesterday.

He could still hear the sounds of the hunt, surrounding him as he stood on the clearing with his father, the great Fergus de Fey, now with hair streaked in gray and a face withered with age and regret. Before him a deer flitted among the trees and as the hunters grew silent, standing frozen where they were, the animal finally stopped to graze by a bush yards away from Dorcha and his father.

"It is now your turn, lad." The older man whispered. "Show me everything my men and I have taught you all these years. Prove to me you are your father's son."

His words are tainted with poison, Dorcha thought to himself, his eyes looking sideways yet his face remained fixed at the animal before him. What punishment lay for him if he did not accomplish such a simple task, Dorcha could only speculate as he could feel his arm quiver slightly.

The deer looked up and with its jaw still moving sideways, chewing on the shrub, looked straight at the standing Dorcha before resuming its feeding. Holding his breath, the young man raised his English longbow at shoulder's length and closed his left eye as he peered at the sight, his right arm pulling the taut cord to his cheek. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest, remembering the stories told to him by the servants sitting by the hearth, of gods and goddesses in animal form, with eyes like man's, staring out of their sockets. What if I hit some goddess or god and am cursed forever?

"What are you waiting for, lad?" hissed Fergus. "A miracle? You take too long in just letting go of your bow string, like a woman undecided."

Dorcha bristled at the statement and released the bowstring, his left arm that held the longbow's spine tilting suddenly upwards, causing the arrow to miss the creature by mere inches. He could hear the disappointed sounds from the man around him as the deer suddenly looked up and begun sprinting away. As Dorcha's eyes followed the runaway creature, he saw it disappear beneath the grass as another arrow did not miss its mark.

He only heard his father's angry shout deafening him as the sword lashed out towards the young man and he felt the searing pain throughout his face, cutting through flesh and bone. The blood pouring out of the gash blinded Dorcha, but he could also feel himself gasping for breath as the same life-giving fluid coursing down his face threatened to gag him as well. He could taste blood in his mouth and felt it pouring down his face as his hands went up to ward off any more blows. But none was forthcoming as the older De Fey stormed away from the bleeding boy, sickened to his stomach at what he had just done, leaving his horrified servants to tend to him.