Prologue
The enemy chained to the standing stone appeared youthful, almost innocent. Beardless and with a head of thick black hair. Long and tangled from the battle he had just fought, pushing forward to hide those gray eyes that had been fearsome and wild during their fight. Lugaid liked to think those strange eyes had slipped closed now, no longer able to see his enemies. Giving him one fewer advantage over them.
A messenger stood on the periphery. Watching. Staring. Waiting. Only he did not look at the man chained to the standing stone. Instead, he looked at Lugaid.
The wind blew harsh across Lugaid’s face. The cold crept in on his ears, nose, and fingertips until they began to hurt with the chill. The sky turned gray, threatening to rain, though it had not yet made good on its promise. They should have finished this by now. This battle should have been over and done with. He should have struck the killing blow.
Fate and destiny did not care about “shoulds”. Only what was written.
The messenger, growing impatient with the lack of action on Lugaid’s part, cleared his throat and stepped towards the feared military commander. “Queen Medb demands you bring her his head. Why have you not completed this task yet? He’s dead. Be done with it.”
Lugaid narrowed his eyes. Though Cú Chulainn had not moved for several days, he did not believe he was dead yet. That stubborn dog had tricks up his sleeve. He would not risk it until he was sure.
“I’ll cut off his head when he’s dead,” Lugaid responded.
The man looked towards the standing stone. “He looks pretty dead to me. Not a man alive who could survive those wounds.”
“You’re a fool. He’s no ordinary man. Do you know who his father is?”
The messenger shook his head.
“Lugh. A Tuatha Dé Danann and Fomorian. His great-grandfather, the one-eyed giant, Balor. He may look like a man, but he is not. This is the same man who went up against Queen Medb’s army by himself, fighting through poisoned spears and underhanded attacks. Who managed to push us back and keep us at bay until backup could arrive. He may look dead to you, but I will not step near his body until I’m certain all life has left him and he is nothing but a husk. A corpse.”
The entire time Lugaid spoke, he did not take his eyes from Cú Chulainn’s form. He strained his vision to see if Chulainn’s shoulders would rise and fall with breath. If his fingers would twitch. If he would swallow or lick his lips. Some indication he lived. Even people playing dead couldn’t stop all involuntary movement. Eventually, he’d give something away.
The messenger looked to Cú Chulainn, then back to Lugaid, disbelief evident on his face. “He bleeds like us. He is a man like us, regardless of his lineage.”
“I will not cut off his head until I am certain,” Lugaid reiterated.
This messenger must have been a sheltered whelp. One who had not seen the bloodthirsty throes of battle nor the warp spasm form of Cú Chulainn that proved he was a monster and not an ordinary man. Even as Lugaid stood cowardly out of Cú Chulainn’s reach, his men did not grumble or complain about having to wait. They had seen the monster. They had suffered at his hands. They had lost brothers to his bloodlust. They would not risk it until certain this monster was dead.
“Queen Medb doesn’t want to wait much longer. How long have you been out here anyway? A week? A month? How much longer will you wait? Until his flesh rots from the bone and flies lay maggots in his eye sockets?”
Truthfully, Lugaid did not know anymore. The days bled together. The sun never fully set, and the sky never fully lightened or darkened to indicate a passage of time. He wondered if it was some of Cú Chulainn’s faerie magic; playing tricks on his mind until he went mad. Perhaps that was the game Cú Chulainn was playing. Lugaid only knew the gray sky, the green grass, the gray standing stone, and the body chained to it.
“I’ll be out here as long as I need to be. I will not tell you again. It’s dangerous to go near him until he’s dead. So long as he has a weapon in his hands, I will not go near him to check. If maggots are laid in his eyes and the flesh rots from his bones, we can be sure he’s dead. Until then, I will wait.”
The messenger rolled his eyes. “I shall go and garner favor with the queen. If you lot are too scared of a corpse to rid his head from his body, I shall do so instead.” He pulled out his sword and started making his way to Cú Chulainn.
“Should we stop him?” one of Lugaid’s loyal soldiers asked.
Lugaid smirked and shook his head. “If he wants to be brave, let him be brave. If he wants to ignore my warnings and my expertise on the matter, let him ignore them. If Queen Medb thinks Cú Chulainn is no longer a threat, let this be proof he is. We can send her messenger’s head back in a box if needed.”
The men around him snickered, a few egging the messenger on. The messenger took a few measured steps towards the body but faltered, hesitating as he grew closer.
“Come now, boy,” Lugaid called, “You were here to prove us all yellow-bellied cowards. Show us how a real man acts.”
The tell-tale sound of a raven echoed on the wind.
“Stop!” Lugaid cried.
The messenger flinched and skittered back from Cú Chulainn’s form.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Clear as day, the raven sounded again. Lugaid grinned when a flock joined them.
“The Badb, she comes. She shall tell us his fate.”
The calls of the ravens grew louder. Cacophonous. Echoing through the bluffs until their calls became thunderous in Lugaid’s ears, drowning out the howls of the wind. The swirl of ravens above them grew in size. First, there were ten. Then twenty. Then fifty. Then a hundred. Then too many to count. Swirling into a vortex that darkened the sky with their feathers blotting out the gray of the clouds.
One descended from the sky and landed on Cú Chulainn’s shoulders. That was proof enough for him. He was certain the Badb did not land on living men’s shoulders. She had predicted their fate. The battle would be his and Queen Medb would smile down favorably upon him and his defeat of the fearsome Cú Chulainn.
Lugaid smirked and pushed past the messenger. “Now we can cut off his head.”
He gripped his sword tightly in his hand and marched towards the body. As he did so, the raven sounded once more and flew off. With it, the swirling flock above disappeared. The wind returned. The gray sky became visible again. The shadow left.
“Wait.” The messenger jogged after him. “You don’t get to cut off his head now that he’s dead. You were being a coward earlier. He was likely dead when I went to cut it off.”
“You should have been quicker to prove yourself.”
“Prove myself? I have nothing to prove. Not when you were the coward. If anyone has the right to cut off his head and put an end to this battle, it should be me.”
Lugaid whirled around, sword raised, and pressed into the messenger’s throat. Hard enough that a bead of blood leaked from the skin. “I would watch your tongue. I have no qualms about testing this sword’s sharpness on your neck before fulfilling Queen Medb’s request. She doesn’t care about lowly messengers like you. I doubt she’ll notice you’re gone.”
Those loyal to Lugaid pulled out their weapons and aimed them at the messenger. They knew better than anyone the danger Cú Chulainn posed and did not need to scoff at Lugaid’s insistence on caution. Perhaps it was cowardly to wait until the Badb landed on Cú Chulainn’s shoulder before cutting his head off, but he’d rather be a coward and alive than a hero and dead. After all, people heralded Cú Chulainn as a hero. Look where it got him. Chained to a standing stone, utterly defeated in battle.
The messenger, the traitor, swallowed and did not argue any further. He glared, though. A fierce glare that almost made Lugaid relent. If the idiot wanted to be high and mighty by cutting the head off, so be it.
He did not let himself be seduced by these thoughts.
In the end, the messenger would only use the act to garner favor with Queen Medb while slandering Lugaid’s good name. Lugaid had been the one to land the killing blow. He should be the one to cut off his head.
Mind made up and satisfied he would not be argued with anymore, Lugaid turned and continued towards the standing stone.
“The raven may not have been for Cú Chulainn, you know.”
Lugaid froze and turned. “What?”
“The Badb foretells death. Why would it confirm a death that has already occurred?”
“Are you threatening me, boy?” Lugaid growled.
The messenger shook his head. “I’m only saying it’s foolish to assume the Morrigan’s intentions by a single raven landing on a shoulder. For all we know, she said you were about to die, not that Cú Chulainn already died.”
Despite denying that he was threatening Lugaid, with the way his arms were crossed and his eyes flashed with defiance, he may as well have been. Regardless, his words weren’t untrue. The gods worked in mysterious ways, and their intentions were not always clear, nor the purposes they served. He might have misread the Badb’s message.
He glanced back towards Cú Chulainn’s body. He couldn’t back down now, though. The man was right. Queen Medb would be angry if he didn’t come back with Cú Chulainn’s head soon. He had already tried her patience by waiting for as long as he did. And he had already started his trek to cut off the head. His men had understood the need for patience before, but the longer this went on, the less they would trust him. The less they would respect him. If he backed off now, based on the words of some wet-behind-the-ears, pampered messenger, he might push their respect too far and lose it completely. He didn’t want that.
He turned and headed back towards the stone, chin jutting out and head held high. Unlike the messenger, his steps did not slow and falter the closer he got to the stone. If anything, he went faster. Quicker. Wanting to get this whole mess over with as soon as possible.
“I hear the Morrigan weren’t too happy with Cú Chulainn in the first place. They have no reason to want me dead. I’ll take my chances in divining the meaning of the Badb. The man’s dead. Has been for some time. The Badb has proven that.”
He stood face-to-face with his enemy. Funny how human he seemed now. Lugaid had seen him on the battlefield, a monster of sinew and claws ripping through men like they were leaves. And when he wasn’t in his monstrous form, the Gáe Bulg ripped through them as efficiently. Thorny vines burst forth from their bodies in a tangled mass of blood, skin, and organs. How untouchable he had seemed. How godlike.
And now he stood before him, just a boy. Barely taller than Lugaid himself. The sword held loosely in his hands, and the chains held his body upright. His knees were bent, his legs no longer supporting him. And his head bowed forward to hide his face.
“It’s dangerous to assume you know what fate has in store for you,” the messenger said.
Lugaid tightened his grip on his sword. If Cú Chulainn was alive, he would have made a move by now. No man could hold their breath for this long. No man could stand this still with the injuries he had sustained. Not even a monster like Cú Chulainn.
Satisfied, Lugaid raised his sword to cut off his head.
Cú Chulainn’s body burst into a blinding blue light. The force caused Lugaid’s sword to fall from his hands. His hand was cut from his body. He let out a scream and jerked back as chaos descended around him. His men trampled each other to get away from the monster.
It proved Lugaid’s point, though.
Cú Chulainn would not rest until he had the final blow.
****
Cú couldn’t feel his body. He couldn’t tell where his arms or legs or head were in relation to anything. He couldn’t tell if he had arms or legs or a head. The past few hours (days, weeks, months, years) had been a blur of blood and guts. The stench of blood and soil mixed on the battlefield as men were ripped apart limb from limb. Stabbed. Beaten. Trampled. Torn apart. Tossed aside by enemies and allies alike.
He gagged. Strange, considering he didn’t feel like he had a throat with which to gag. He gagged nonetheless. And while he couldn’t feel his arms or his body, he could feel the weight of Ferdiad. Of his battle brother dying by Cú’s hand. The Gáe Bulg. His weapon. Thrown as a last resort when he would not see reason.
He was supposed to gain this glory? The prophecy promised him this glorious life?
Where was the glory in slaughtering your friend? Your brother? What part of that act was meant to be praised and sung about in songs until the end of time?
Nowhere.
It did not exist.
He had been lied to.
A short life he did lead but a glorious one he did not. Instead, the stench of blood enveloped him. His hair was stained dark with it. His fingernails were caked in it. Until he resembled his monstrous form more than his human one.
The warp spasm rippled in the back of his mind. Much like a cat arching its back and hissing, hair standing on end. It wanted to be let out. It wanted to tear things apart with its claws. It wanted more blood. More death. More destruction. Cú shoved that monster as far back in his mind as it would go. Locking it behind cages and walls. It didn’t work. The monster would break out eventually. It always did.
Right now, though, he had more important things to deal with. Mainly, figuring out what had happened. Where he was, and if he was missing his limbs. He remembered Ferdiad’s body in his arms, gasping and choking on his last breaths as Cú held him, not knowing if he deserved even that. He had lost time next, falling into a trance. When he had awoken, the battlefield had been torn to shreds. Queen Medb’s men had started retreating. The mass of limbs and bodies piled around him proved he had lost control. The warp spasm, seeing a weakness in his grief, had forced its way to the front of his mind and had taken control. And in its control, he had slaughtered an army.
Not the entire, army though. Lugaid still stood, sword in hand, ready to die as he faced Cú. Cú didn’t want to face him. He wanted to run home and grieve his fallen brothers. Lugaid didn’t give him a choice.
They fought. Cú didn’t have the anger in him to fight well. He didn’t have the strength. With each swing of Lugaid’s sword, it became clearer that this would be his final battle. He made peace with that.
“I’m dead, then?” he asked the nothingness. Though he did not speak with his mouth, his words echoed around him.
“Yes,” another voice answered.
His father, Lugh, stood before him. He looked just as Cú had seen him after healing from the poisoned spears. Fair and tall with a head of curly yellow hair. He had a green mantel wrapped around him and a brooch of white silver in the mantle over his breast. His own clothes, rich and soft, put Cú’s battle-worn clothes to shame. His rough, brown tunic. His ripped and frayed and bloodied mantel. His shoes were soaked with the fluids of battle. Lugh was a king standing before a filthy peasant. Not a king standing before a glorious warrior.
“Father? So, I did not survive Lugaid’s assault,” Cú said.
The longer this went on, the more pieces came back to him. He remembered the battle. He remembered the one-on-one fights he had been forced to participate in to keep Queen Medb from overtaking the castle. He remembered the burn of their poisoned spears as they had tried to bring him down. He remembered the death of the children, who had fought while he healed. He remembered Ferdiad, what he had said. What he had done. How he would not listen to reason no matter how much Cú had begged him to stop this madness and abandon Queen Medb. He remembered acting on instinct, grabbing the Gáe Bulg and kicking it with all his might at Ferdiad. The horror as he realized what he had done. Treating his brother as if he were nothing more than an ordinary enemy. Subjecting him to a painful death.
The warp spasm had tried to break out and take over Cú, but he managed to keep the monster at bay long enough to hold Ferdiad as he died. He wanted to see what he had done. He wanted it burned into his mind. He wanted to make sure he never forgot.
“What happens now? Am I to be judged for my sins?” Cú asked. He imagined them stretching out from shore to shore. He was supposed to lead a glorious life. Instead, he led a life of sin and murder.
Lugh stepped forward to stand next to him. It wasn’t fair; even in death he towered over Cú. He had hoped they would be equals on this plain of existence. His father had led a glorious life. From killing Balor and defeating the Fomorians, to fighting monster after monster to protect his people. He was a man of glory. How disappointed he must be in his own son.
“Sadly,” Lugh said, his face grim, “I would love to let you rest, but there is a problem.”
Cú couldn’t help but perk up a bit upon hearing this. Perhaps he had been a bit too rash in assuming this would be the end of his story. Perhaps his glory was waiting for him. Perhaps he could live the life that was prophesied to him at the beginning.
“Balor has not been welcomed into any halls of the dead. Osiris. Hades. Amokye. Scáthach. Aita. I’ve asked them all. And none have seen Balor or have judged him.”
Cú couldn’t hide his disbelief. “You killed Balor, though. That was what the prophecy said you’d do. How could he not be in the halls of the dead? Perhaps the Fomorians go somewhere else when they die.”
Lugh shook his head. “Death works differently. We all end up at the same place, even if they have different names. All are connected. The death gods all know one another and share the burden of shepherding souls to the next plane of existence. We only knew he did not pass when Scáthach never found him and started asking around. We learned the disturbing truth.”
“But the prophecy!” Cú said. “Prophecies are rarely wrong.”
“Indeed, but they can be misread,” Lugh pointed out.
“How can you misread something as specific as ‘his grandson will slay him’?” Cú asked.
Lugh gave him a wry smile. “I never saw the prophecy. No one wrote it down. How can we be sure it said ‘grandson’? Perhaps it said a descendent of your grandson. Or one of your great-grandchildren,” Lugh pointed out. He sighed. “I don’t know how he managed to survive, but he did. Thankfully, his eye and his glass have been separated from him. But he is dangerous, and he will be looking for them. Lir has started patrolling the waters to see if any Fomorian strongholds remain that might be holding Balor until he is strong enough to attack again.”
“Why are you telling me all of this? I’m dead,” Cú asked.
Lugh smiled at him, soft and warm. “You now have an important job.”
A shiver of excitement ran down Cú’s spine. This, this is what he had been waiting for. A chance to prove himself. A chance to live the prophecy. A chance to be glorious and heroic. One couldn’t get more heroic than fighting an evil giant.
He nodded, knowing what he must do. “I will make you proud, father. I will join in Lir’s hunt for Balor, fight him, and defeat him for good.”
Lugh’s posture stiffened. He touched his fingers to his lips and turned away. “You are not the one the prophecy spoke about, my son. Your story is already done. You’ve fought your battles and didn’t survive them. The glory to your name has already been written.”
The excitement that had been building in his gut, the burn in his muscles for a good fight, the fire in his soul that promised praise, doused in ice-cold water.
“I can fight him, though! I am good enough,” he argued. “I have the Gáe Bulg with me. Balor will be no match for my skills as a warrior. I defeated Queen Medb’s army single-handedly. I can do this.”
Lugh shook his head. “It’s not about whether or not you are good enough. It’s about the timing. Your time has ended. It’s time for another to step forth.”
“Why tell me this? Why bring this up if I’m of no use?” Cú demanded.
“Who said you were of no use?” Lugh asked. Out of his pocket (or somewhere, space seemed to work a bit differently here) he pulled out two items. “Your job now is to find descendants and train them. As Scáthach trained you. Another will come along eventually to help you out should Balor not appear in the next few years. From what we can gather, it’s unclear when he’ll be coming back.”
“That’s a lot of descendants,” Cú mumbled.
Lugh chuckled. “You won’t have to train all of them. You’ll know which ones are champions based on the faerie blood that runs through their veins. I’m giving you these two items to keep safe as well. First is Balor’s eye. If he is alive, this will enable him the power to create terrible destruction. Next, his glass. The eye alone is dangerous, but if he manages to get ahold of his glass, that can both hold open his eyelid without his attendants and allow him greater range at which to use his eye. Guard these items with your life.”
Cú reluctantly took the items in his hand and slipped them into his own pockets.
“That should keep him weak enough so we can kill him.”
Cú nodded. The icy sting of defeat settled in his gut. That was it. He had suffered so much, had been through so much pain, and had killed his best friend, all so this could be the end of his story. Not even the one to fight Balor. The one to train the champion. In theory, he didn’t mind the role. Scáthach had been a great source of knowledge in his own training. In practice…
Was he not good enough? He was a descendant of Lugh and therefore Balor. Why shouldn’t the prophecy be about him? Why did he suffer and sacrifice so much if, in the end, only pain remained?
“I believe Ibic has a son who has enough faerie blood in him to qualify for the role of champion,” Lugh continued. “I suggest you get to training. We don’t know when Balor will pop up. And Scáthach says you can reach out to her if you need advice on how to teach.”
Cú scoffed. “I won’t be needing any lesson plans. I’m more than capable of teaching Ibic’s son. I will bring glory to our name, Father.”
“Thank you.” Lugh smiled.
Cú blinked, and he was back in the overworld. Looking around, it didn’t seem much different than when he had left. It didn’t seem like much time had passed.
Someone screamed. He turned to see Lugaid had a chunk missing from his side as Conall stood over him with a sword. He cut the man’s head off and put it on a stone. Lugaid’s blood melted the stone and sank right through it. On a tree, a raven landed, staring at Cú.
He turned to leave Conall to his duty. He wasn’t sure if he was technically alive or not. He wished Lugh had taken the time to explain his current existence. He didn’t want to be seen as a demon wearing Cú Chulainn’s skin. Besides, his story was done. That much was made clear. He could no longer meet back up with his battle brothers or swap war stories like before. He had a job to do.
He had to find Ibic’s son and start training him. Perhaps he should call Scáthach for some advice. Or this was a waste of time, and Balor had died, and some death god failed to report it.
Cú spotted the Gáe Bulg on the ground and picked it up. He didn’t want that last part to be true. He had lost his one last chance to be a part of something glorious.
