Of The Mountain - Prologue
Where Fergal is different, and he meets a King.
Fergal never considered himself to be different.
He was hard-working and perseverant, of average intelligence. Maybe a bit taller than most, sure, but not so much that it made him noticeable. He had blue-grey eyes that match the skies of Bray over the mountains, over the ocean, teeth sharp and white and straight, hair of muddy brown, of thick whitebeam bark, musculature that spoke more of a life of necessity than excess.
So, no, Fergal never considered himself different at all, but he did notice things. Small things, as such, that never seemed significant at the time, but when added together did seem unusually fortunate. The wood in its place always burned slow and bright well into the morning. The game he would hunt was always healthy no matter the season, providing hearty steaks of venison, pheasants were never too bony or gristly. And, no matter how tightly he’d draw his bow, the sinew always held strong and his arrows always flew true to their target. Things that mattered, things that added up, things that always seemed to go his way.
That his cottage in the lush mountains of Bray Head, overlooking the Greystones Harbor, lies deep and hidden under the summit and its mighty cross, he might later find ironic. The cross, in all its ancient vigilance, turns a blind eye there upon him, and he’s never climbed high to look upon its visage; an unspoken truce he hasn’t thought or spoken of, let alone realized.
Fergal isn’t quite sure when he stopped thinking of the shadows in his mind as oppressive thoughts and when he recognized them as something more. But he’s on his porch with a steaming cup of strong black tea, the heat of the mug in his hands barely registering. He looks into the liquid, murky and dark, little wisps like specters rising up towards him, swirling around his drawn face, and something tells him to drink. His frown deepens, knowing it’s still far too hot, just off the stove and boiling hot, but it beckons him still.
Drink.
And so he does.
Fergal tips the mug to his lips, drinking deep, quenching a thirst he hadn’t known. The scalding liquid pours down his throat, past his lips and teeth and tongue, dribbling down his chin and chest and yet he feels…
Not nothing. Not quite.
He feels satiated deep in his gut. And the tea, strong and spilled down his mouth and face, feels barely tepid on his skin. He gently places the mug down on the wicker table with a shaking hand, before reaching up to gently touch his lips. He finds them still wet, so he wipes at his skin like he can brush away the absurdity and dread that’s clawing at his mind, fighting for dominance over the eerie calm and quiet. Because that something is smug in its lack of surprise.
If the tea didn’t burn him, the satisfaction does from the inside out.
Fergal springs from his seat, falling to his knees as he wretches over the side of the porch and into the hydrangea bushes. He wretches and he gags on the all encompassing wrongness, and fear.
But something is there, deeper, and he doesn’t quite know what to make of it. There’s that satisfaction that he doesn’t recognize, but burning bright behind it is something else. It almost feels like fright, tinged with annoyance and frustration and something else so dark that it makes his brow furrow. He slowly gets to his feet, finding strength in urgency, and grabs his bow and quiver before setting out into the woods beyond his quaint little porch and cabin.
He makes his way up the well-worn path trudged in the dirt and stone, letting his gut and instinct drive him closer and closer, the growing foreign smugness growing behind his breastbone with every step he takes closer to that ancient cross. As he draws nearer, the surrounding forest grows more quiet until all he can hear is an uneasy silence. His steps are more careful as he draws his bow with a well-practiced ease.
He isn’t sure what he had been expecting, but to find a man in sheep’s wool vestiges, pressing the burning face of a man to the apex of the cross is certainly not it. He waits for a moment, watching the man with hair as bright and red as the flames lifting the writhing body over his head with a single arm, trying to make sense of the scene. When the man, skin darkened with soot and his clothes nearly all burnt away, only laughs, Fergal draws his bow to its limit.
“What is the meaning of dis?” Fergal calls out, slowly creeping his way closer. He keeps his arrow trained on the ginger man, the one who seems to be in control, though his eyes dart between them both.
He larger man grunts, lips curling into a sneer as he peers at him over his shoulder. “Has he come to save you, Little King?” he says, voice mocking and deep. He pulls the burning man away from the cross, only to slam him back against it with a sickening crack, again and again, earning a few cries of surprised pain, his deep voice breaking.
The man dangles in his grasp, limbs limp like fresh game, each impact reducing the feeling in Fergal’s chest that brought him here. With a sharp intake of breath, he lines up his shot.
His arrow flies, unwavering, striking the man, ear to ear.
All three men collapse.
Fergal gasps for breath, emptying his stomach again as the brightness he felt in his chest seems to snap and fray. His vision swims, equilibrium lost, and he tries to drag himself to the tree-line, away from the scent of coppery blood and burning flesh. Twigs and stones dig into his skin, piercing his calloused palms and lacerating his knees and shins through the thin linen of his pants; his work was done for the afternoon, he hadn’t thought to wear something stronger and more durable after he’d washed himself of the dirt and sweat of the day. Mistake upon mistake.
Behind him, he hears earth shifting, twigs snapping. He tries to look but nothing comes to focus. He can almost see flashes of pale skin marred black and red, he thinks, but he can’t be sure. With a shuddered breath, he collapses against the bark of an old birch tree, thankful for the trunk as it supports him. If he’s going to die, he’ll do it with all the dignity he has left, not crawling and whimpering like a babe. He will die with his head held high and his eyes wide open.
He takes a fortifying breath, prepared and at peace for the mountainous ginger man to end him.
He waits for what feels like hours, before he finally sees the world shifting before him. He doesn’t see a mountain, nor hair as bright the sun, but instead a body of bared skin, coated with dirt and soot and blood as it crawls ever closer. Fergal tenses briefly, the world before him rapidly coming back into sharp focus as their eyes meet, and he’s struck dumb by the bright, crystal clear blue of the ocean on the brightest of days. Lips of red and black pull to a smirk, teeth jagged and sharp and bright white like newly exposed bone behind them.
The figure draws closer, powerful thighs pushing him forward, strong hands curling over rocks and dirt as the muscles of his shoulders ripple and roll until he’s crawling over Fergal’s prone body, pressing nose to nose. “My princeling,” he growls, voice deep and raspy, and Fergal tenses before that smirking face is drawing away slowly, only to return with a dull crack as his forehead finds his temple, and the world goes black.
