// interlude 1-4; 100% complete
Just some drabble-y Fate/stay night nonsense slapped up here, please to be ignoring.
There was blood spilled from the very first day. Of course there was, this was warfare after all. But had Connacht expected to lose this number of soldiers in the first day? No. To assume such a thing would be idiotic. Ulster had a smaller military force, and every single soldier in the region was crippled by a curse. Queen Maeve had expected to just run straight through any opposition her army encountered, assuming they ran into any at all.
But that was before they came to the river.
Before their advance was stopped dead by a single seventeen-year-old with a lance as crimson as his battle-hardened stare. And it took only mere moments before soldiers with a lifetime of experience began to fall at the hands of this single warrior who was but a child in comparison. And that seventeen-year-old knew this to be his moment. 'He shall be famous and renowned, but he shall be short-lived only.' He certainly had no plans to fall to this army, and so the spear-wielding teenager decided for himself that it would be in this moment where he truly made his name known. Ulster was his to defend, and this conflict would be the site upon which a reputation lasting eternity would be built.
All he had to do was survive, one man against an entire army. Simple. Or at least, it was simple for him. The river where he had stopped the Connacht army had run scarlet several times since he had taken that position. They came one after another, and he dispatched them just as quickly. Effortlessly in some cases, with a bit more difficulty in others--but that was fine. Adapting his fighting style to those he fought and thus being skilled enough to face any opponent was all part of what he had been taught by the witch of shadows.
It was not, however, a simple thing. Many times he was brought to the brink of defeat; even the Morrígan herself came to stand against him three times, only to be thrice defeated. The last of Ulster's defense stood opposite his own brother and only friend in combat as well, and delivered to him the full power of the lance granted to him by Scathach.
What he wanted didn't matter. The knight's heartfelt desire not to kill his brother was irrelevant in this situation; he was the last guard for his country, and in standing against him in a death match his brother had challenged Ulster's safety. Ferdiad had chosen his side with Connacht, and yet there was regret that came with his death. Even though it was necessary. Even though he knew regret to be meaningless.
Eventually his fellow countrymen began to join in the conflict, and the young knight realized Ferdiad would not be the last one dear to him to be lost in combat; only the loss that struck him closest to the heart.
The pressure of singlehandedly defending his homeland had never bothered him. Taking the lives of those he met in combat hardly affected him--that was simply the result of war, wasn't it? It was safe to say that Ulster's hound was never notably angry as he fought.
Until the slaughter of the young soldiers from Emain Macha.
He had been injured, completely incapacitated for just long enough; there was no way the young knight of Murthemne Plain could have put a stop to it. But seeing the number of his countrymen--barely younger than he was--all slain so easily made something deep within him snap like a brittle twig. And while rage was not an unknown emotion for any warrior, for him it was different. Terrifyingly different.
His reaction wasn't an instant one. It took a moment for the truth to sink in: his fellow warriors of Ulster all killed while he was unconscious with no way to do anything-- ...but oh, could he ever do something about it now. Once the shock had given way to anger, that was when it started. For this one knight of Ulster was capable of something no other living knight was.
my head hurts, whole body's on fire, can't do this here I'll kill our whole army
Taking hold quickly, the transformation took but a few seconds. The teenager's body shifted and contorted in a way defying all description; even the stories that came after would fail to convey the sheer horror of the moment in the retelling. No words could ever express the inhuman shriek of fury that tore itself from the throat of Ireland's hound once he had twisted into something unearthly and unnatural.
stopitstopithavetostopithurtswhycantistopit
Ríastrad. 'Warp Spasm', or so the legends would eventually call it. An uncontrollable berserker state triggered by anger, it tore the young knight apart body and mind until he was an unrecognizable monster that knew nothing but wrath and destruction. He struck down each and every soldier in his line of sight, hundreds falling before they could even comprehend who or what was even attacking them.
killthemhavetokillthemkillthemkillallofthem
Even the knight himself wasn't aware of what he was doing. He would have murdered his entire country if he had caught even a moment's sight of them. Connacht's forces fell in the hundreds and hundreds to the malformed creature that was Ireland's greatest knight, and the hero knew nothing of it until the rage had passed and the transformation had undone itself. The sheer amount of death left in the wake of his lost sanity was one that would lead that ríastrad to be known as the most severe and terrifying fit of rage seen in his lifetime.
It was neither the first nor the last. But the knight didn't appreciate the technique or lack thereof that he had used in that fit of anger, and so he made a point on the next day to fight with his anger carefully controlled--the mindless creature of wrath he became wasn't the honorable knight he wanted to be remembered as.
It was pointless to dwell on the past. The knight knew this well, and yet still he found himself remembering those days from time to time. He had been right; those events had been what established him as a hero. As Ireland's guard dog, the last defense of Ulster. They called it the Táin Bó Cualinge now, apparently--he had smiled to himself at that, noting that it wasn't the most creative of titles for a story of such magnitude. Though he wanted to read it sometime; see how many details had been lost or misinterpreted over the years.
And it had been years. The young warrior of seventeen was now a full-fledged knight of thirty--and it was well over two thousand years since the battle with Connacht. The knight was so far from home in both distance and time that none now lived who could recognize him on sight. Such a strange feeling that was, watching people walk by him without a second glance. Not once had he ever thought himself unremarkable, and with good reason. The son of royalty and the most famed warrior in Ireland did not often go without being noticed one way or another.
Even stranger was the realization that he had been silently reminiscing for a change. The past was the past, so why should he? Even if the crimson-eyed knight's life had been filled with mistakes and wrong turns--Ferdiad, Aoife, Connla, even the Morrígan herself--there was nothing he could do now. Nothing but keep moving forward and not be the foolish child he had been in the past. Though he hadn't realized it, there was a small and strangely rueful smile on his face now; today seemed to be a day for unusual occurrences. Regret was nearly unknown to him, just a pointless thing that only wasted time. So why did he seem to feel a cold weight settle in his chest that he couldn't give any name but 'regret' to?
Idly the knight wondered if any of those that he spoke to these days would have believed the truth; he even went by yet another title now. 'Servant Lancer'--perhaps a bit generic, but then again he had been renamed once in his life already.
"I will be a dog for your own defense now until that dog grows and until he is capable of action.
I will defend Murthemne Plain so that there shall not be taken away from me cattle nor herd."
"Then I shall declare that henceforth your name shall be Cu Chulainn."
"I like my own name better: Setanta mac Sualtam."
...What a foolish little child he had been. It didn't need saying that the title of 'Culann's Hound' had grown on him rather quickly. Better that than 'Ireland's child of light'. He couldn't help but think that one made him sound ridiculous.
'Hound of Ulster', however...he liked that one. It reminded him of home, and every now and then he felt a strange ache he could only assume was a longing to see his beloved Ireland again. Even if he surely wouldn't recognize even Murthemne Plain or Dún Dealgan after all these years. Even if all the country changed and none were left who had known him in life, Ulster was Ulster and he loved it with nearly all his heart.
...But perhaps it wouldn't be the same. Wouldn't quite be home without the only woman he ever loved.
"Ah...now I'm just being foolish. Reminiscing like I've gone soft or something, the hell's wrong with me?"
The ageless knight of a forgotten time laughed, quietly admonishing himself in a lighthearted tone. It really was unlike him, and he brushed aside any remaining doubts with a cheerful smile. He was alive, whether as Cu Chulainn or Servant Lancer, and he fully intended to make the absolute most of that.
What point was there to life if you spent it regretting all that you couldn't change?
There was blood spilled from the very first day. Of course there was, this was warfare after all. But had Connacht expected to lose this number of soldiers in the first day? No. To assume such a thing would be idiotic. Ulster had a smaller military force, and every single soldier in the region was crippled by a curse. Queen Maeve had expected to just run straight through any opposition her army encountered, assuming they ran into any at all.
But that was before they came to the river.
Before their advance was stopped dead by a single seventeen-year-old with a lance as crimson as his battle-hardened stare. And it took only mere moments before soldiers with a lifetime of experience began to fall at the hands of this single warrior who was but a child in comparison. And that seventeen-year-old knew this to be his moment. 'He shall be famous and renowned, but he shall be short-lived only.' He certainly had no plans to fall to this army, and so the spear-wielding teenager decided for himself that it would be in this moment where he truly made his name known. Ulster was his to defend, and this conflict would be the site upon which a reputation lasting eternity would be built.
All he had to do was survive, one man against an entire army. Simple. Or at least, it was simple for him. The river where he had stopped the Connacht army had run scarlet several times since he had taken that position. They came one after another, and he dispatched them just as quickly. Effortlessly in some cases, with a bit more difficulty in others--but that was fine. Adapting his fighting style to those he fought and thus being skilled enough to face any opponent was all part of what he had been taught by the witch of shadows.
It was not, however, a simple thing. Many times he was brought to the brink of defeat; even the Morrígan herself came to stand against him three times, only to be thrice defeated. The last of Ulster's defense stood opposite his own brother and only friend in combat as well, and delivered to him the full power of the lance granted to him by Scathach.
What he wanted didn't matter. The knight's heartfelt desire not to kill his brother was irrelevant in this situation; he was the last guard for his country, and in standing against him in a death match his brother had challenged Ulster's safety. Ferdiad had chosen his side with Connacht, and yet there was regret that came with his death. Even though it was necessary. Even though he knew regret to be meaningless.
Eventually his fellow countrymen began to join in the conflict, and the young knight realized Ferdiad would not be the last one dear to him to be lost in combat; only the loss that struck him closest to the heart.
The pressure of singlehandedly defending his homeland had never bothered him. Taking the lives of those he met in combat hardly affected him--that was simply the result of war, wasn't it? It was safe to say that Ulster's hound was never notably angry as he fought.
Until the slaughter of the young soldiers from Emain Macha.
He had been injured, completely incapacitated for just long enough; there was no way the young knight of Murthemne Plain could have put a stop to it. But seeing the number of his countrymen--barely younger than he was--all slain so easily made something deep within him snap like a brittle twig. And while rage was not an unknown emotion for any warrior, for him it was different. Terrifyingly different.
His reaction wasn't an instant one. It took a moment for the truth to sink in: his fellow warriors of Ulster all killed while he was unconscious with no way to do anything-- ...but oh, could he ever do something about it now. Once the shock had given way to anger, that was when it started. For this one knight of Ulster was capable of something no other living knight was.
my head hurts, whole body's on fire, can't do this here I'll kill our whole army
Taking hold quickly, the transformation took but a few seconds. The teenager's body shifted and contorted in a way defying all description; even the stories that came after would fail to convey the sheer horror of the moment in the retelling. No words could ever express the inhuman shriek of fury that tore itself from the throat of Ireland's hound once he had twisted into something unearthly and unnatural.
stopitstopithavetostopithurtswhycantistopit
Ríastrad. 'Warp Spasm', or so the legends would eventually call it. An uncontrollable berserker state triggered by anger, it tore the young knight apart body and mind until he was an unrecognizable monster that knew nothing but wrath and destruction. He struck down each and every soldier in his line of sight, hundreds falling before they could even comprehend who or what was even attacking them.
killthemhavetokillthemkillthemkillallofthem
Even the knight himself wasn't aware of what he was doing. He would have murdered his entire country if he had caught even a moment's sight of them. Connacht's forces fell in the hundreds and hundreds to the malformed creature that was Ireland's greatest knight, and the hero knew nothing of it until the rage had passed and the transformation had undone itself. The sheer amount of death left in the wake of his lost sanity was one that would lead that ríastrad to be known as the most severe and terrifying fit of rage seen in his lifetime.
It was neither the first nor the last. But the knight didn't appreciate the technique or lack thereof that he had used in that fit of anger, and so he made a point on the next day to fight with his anger carefully controlled--the mindless creature of wrath he became wasn't the honorable knight he wanted to be remembered as.
It was pointless to dwell on the past. The knight knew this well, and yet still he found himself remembering those days from time to time. He had been right; those events had been what established him as a hero. As Ireland's guard dog, the last defense of Ulster. They called it the Táin Bó Cualinge now, apparently--he had smiled to himself at that, noting that it wasn't the most creative of titles for a story of such magnitude. Though he wanted to read it sometime; see how many details had been lost or misinterpreted over the years.
And it had been years. The young warrior of seventeen was now a full-fledged knight of thirty--and it was well over two thousand years since the battle with Connacht. The knight was so far from home in both distance and time that none now lived who could recognize him on sight. Such a strange feeling that was, watching people walk by him without a second glance. Not once had he ever thought himself unremarkable, and with good reason. The son of royalty and the most famed warrior in Ireland did not often go without being noticed one way or another.
Even stranger was the realization that he had been silently reminiscing for a change. The past was the past, so why should he? Even if the crimson-eyed knight's life had been filled with mistakes and wrong turns--Ferdiad, Aoife, Connla, even the Morrígan herself--there was nothing he could do now. Nothing but keep moving forward and not be the foolish child he had been in the past. Though he hadn't realized it, there was a small and strangely rueful smile on his face now; today seemed to be a day for unusual occurrences. Regret was nearly unknown to him, just a pointless thing that only wasted time. So why did he seem to feel a cold weight settle in his chest that he couldn't give any name but 'regret' to?
Idly the knight wondered if any of those that he spoke to these days would have believed the truth; he even went by yet another title now. 'Servant Lancer'--perhaps a bit generic, but then again he had been renamed once in his life already.
"I will be a dog for your own defense now until that dog grows and until he is capable of action.
I will defend Murthemne Plain so that there shall not be taken away from me cattle nor herd."
"Then I shall declare that henceforth your name shall be Cu Chulainn."
"I like my own name better: Setanta mac Sualtam."
...What a foolish little child he had been. It didn't need saying that the title of 'Culann's Hound' had grown on him rather quickly. Better that than 'Ireland's child of light'. He couldn't help but think that one made him sound ridiculous.
'Hound of Ulster', however...he liked that one. It reminded him of home, and every now and then he felt a strange ache he could only assume was a longing to see his beloved Ireland again. Even if he surely wouldn't recognize even Murthemne Plain or Dún Dealgan after all these years. Even if all the country changed and none were left who had known him in life, Ulster was Ulster and he loved it with nearly all his heart.
...But perhaps it wouldn't be the same. Wouldn't quite be home without the only woman he ever loved.
"Ah...now I'm just being foolish. Reminiscing like I've gone soft or something, the hell's wrong with me?"
The ageless knight of a forgotten time laughed, quietly admonishing himself in a lighthearted tone. It really was unlike him, and he brushed aside any remaining doubts with a cheerful smile. He was alive, whether as Cu Chulainn or Servant Lancer, and he fully intended to make the absolute most of that.
What point was there to life if you spent it regretting all that you couldn't change?