//fortress of shadows
"Is there really nothing that can be done?"
"I did not know Dechtire raised a fool." The woman's voice was sharp, words severe and yet without malice. "Do not ask questions to which you know the answer."
Of course he knew the answer. The sixteen-year-old knight stood beside his teacher, looking out on the land called the Country of Shadows with tired crimson eyes. In his heart the young knight knew that and many more things. He knew that once he left he would never again set foot in Dún Scáith. And if he could never return, there was a chance he would never meet the child Aoife was carrying even as they spoke. This would be the last time he saw this land. The last he saw of Aoife, of Uathach...and of the woman beside him now.
The woman stood beside him, staring out from the walls of the stone fortress with a calm and serene look on her face. Strange, the knight noted, for Scathach's face so often wore a severe and cold expression. Her dark hair hung about her pale face, steady blue eyes always looking forward. He admired this woman for that among so many other things; she was serious and determined, always moving forward and refusing to look back. And even now she faced her ultimate fate with no fear or hesitation.
"And you're truly content with this?" the knight murmured, a mournful smile on his face.
This witch of shadows was no longer a human. The knight wasn't even sure just what she was. This was the price to be paid for ascending too high--the woman had become stronger than gods, spirits, and certainly any warrior that would dare stand against her.
And the price to be paid was the division of this land from the mortal world. The Country of Shadows was already separating from Alba itself, both master and student felt it. But it went unspoken between them, a fact as obvious as the sky being blue.
When the woman spoke again, it was in a serene and gentle tone--her disciple wasn't quite sure it suited her. Smiling, the woman confessed something to the child beside her.
"Perhaps...I wanted to be killed at your hands..."
The knight's hands tightened on the cursed demonic lance. It was as tall as he was, but he was the only one to whom she had taught its secrets to.
Had he failed her, not bringing an end to his mentor's life while she could still die? Surely he was the only one that even could kill her at this point. Ah, it didn't matter--she had with every strike taught him heroes had no time for regret. Always look forward, Setanta, no matter what happens. If you fall ninety-nine times, then get up one hundred times. Never look back; regret is wasting time, and time is something of which a warrior has precious little.
Laughing, the woman ran a hand through her precious student's shoulder-length cobalt hair. An oddly affectionate gesture, its familiarity was reassuring to him. Even if they never again met, he would never dare forget her.
"If only you were born a little earlier, Setanta... Still so young and foolish."
"Sorry." he answered with a smile. What was he apologizing for? Was the young knight lamenting her fate or that he had been unable to grant her wish?
When he left the fortress, the knight never looked back even as he felt the woman's watchful gaze on him with each step he took. And when he had parted from his master, it was with a casual 'see you'...not 'farewell'. Never--his heart couldn't take something so permanent.
For the child Setanta mac Sualtaim it was a devastating loss of his beloved mentor. For the knight Cu Chulainn...he knew it would be just one loss of many. That was what it would mean to be a hero, Scathach had taught him. Heroes would go through life and lose everything as she had, but in that loss they would ensure that others would live happily.
She had lost everything save for her pride.
And as her beloved student he could do no less.
"I did not know Dechtire raised a fool." The woman's voice was sharp, words severe and yet without malice. "Do not ask questions to which you know the answer."
Of course he knew the answer. The sixteen-year-old knight stood beside his teacher, looking out on the land called the Country of Shadows with tired crimson eyes. In his heart the young knight knew that and many more things. He knew that once he left he would never again set foot in Dún Scáith. And if he could never return, there was a chance he would never meet the child Aoife was carrying even as they spoke. This would be the last time he saw this land. The last he saw of Aoife, of Uathach...and of the woman beside him now.
The woman stood beside him, staring out from the walls of the stone fortress with a calm and serene look on her face. Strange, the knight noted, for Scathach's face so often wore a severe and cold expression. Her dark hair hung about her pale face, steady blue eyes always looking forward. He admired this woman for that among so many other things; she was serious and determined, always moving forward and refusing to look back. And even now she faced her ultimate fate with no fear or hesitation.
"And you're truly content with this?" the knight murmured, a mournful smile on his face.
This witch of shadows was no longer a human. The knight wasn't even sure just what she was. This was the price to be paid for ascending too high--the woman had become stronger than gods, spirits, and certainly any warrior that would dare stand against her.
And the price to be paid was the division of this land from the mortal world. The Country of Shadows was already separating from Alba itself, both master and student felt it. But it went unspoken between them, a fact as obvious as the sky being blue.
When the woman spoke again, it was in a serene and gentle tone--her disciple wasn't quite sure it suited her. Smiling, the woman confessed something to the child beside her.
"Perhaps...I wanted to be killed at your hands..."
The knight's hands tightened on the cursed demonic lance. It was as tall as he was, but he was the only one to whom she had taught its secrets to.
Had he failed her, not bringing an end to his mentor's life while she could still die? Surely he was the only one that even could kill her at this point. Ah, it didn't matter--she had with every strike taught him heroes had no time for regret. Always look forward, Setanta, no matter what happens. If you fall ninety-nine times, then get up one hundred times. Never look back; regret is wasting time, and time is something of which a warrior has precious little.
Laughing, the woman ran a hand through her precious student's shoulder-length cobalt hair. An oddly affectionate gesture, its familiarity was reassuring to him. Even if they never again met, he would never dare forget her.
"If only you were born a little earlier, Setanta... Still so young and foolish."
"Sorry." he answered with a smile. What was he apologizing for? Was the young knight lamenting her fate or that he had been unable to grant her wish?
When he left the fortress, the knight never looked back even as he felt the woman's watchful gaze on him with each step he took. And when he had parted from his master, it was with a casual 'see you'...not 'farewell'. Never--his heart couldn't take something so permanent.
For the child Setanta mac Sualtaim it was a devastating loss of his beloved mentor. For the knight Cu Chulainn...he knew it would be just one loss of many. That was what it would mean to be a hero, Scathach had taught him. Heroes would go through life and lose everything as she had, but in that loss they would ensure that others would live happily.
She had lost everything save for her pride.
And as her beloved student he could do no less.