Into The Wind – Prologue

Dashed against dauntless trees a wild wind roared scowling, into a slumbering grove. Leaves jerked. Branches clacked and nattered their reproach as near-ripened fruit spun and swayed precariously. The tempest lunged through sweeping orchards, searching; churning debris into whirlpools that crashed in waves against soil, root, and trunk. At the end of the lanes, blustery arms pushed against staunch, wicker palisades. Layered in lattice work, reinforced by firmly anchored vines, the tenacious screen pushed back – splintering squalls into sneezes.

A gust, whittled from the typhoon by an untended wicket, sailed across a small clearing towards a solitary farmhouse with shuttered eyes. The passionate flurry shredded blankets of mist and swirled overgrown grasses, swallowing an amused howl as he thought to shake the windows and rattle the doors. Over eager and reckless with spite, he did not notice the guardians lining the eaves. Sentinels fashioned from iron and steel; Cockspur and Crepe Myrtle; and the talons and bones of flightless birds, sounded the alarm.

The once wild wind circled, befuddled, lost in the chiming cacophony of of grounded things wailing under the touch of something free. Staggering, the flaccid breeze almost foundered, but sucked up his last bit of courage to escape down the side of the house. Then tripped across a blackberry bramble in the wrong direction, forcing him to double back. Barn dogs warbled a cheeky warning to the wind never to return, and a wise tree tapped on an upstairs window to tell his lady, “A storm is coming.”

Prologue

Pronunciations –
Flidais – ‘Flid – ace’                                                         Leaghsaidh – ‘Lexi’
Cernunnos – ‘Ker noo Nohs’                                       Brandubh – ‘Bran-dooh’
Brigit – ‘Breet’                                                                   spioraid – ‘Spi – ridh’
Dana – ‘Thana’                                                                  Laoch Spioraid – ‘Lah-Oak Spi-ridh’

_________

On a wild spring day during the Year of the Phoenix three screams were counted by those within hearing of the enchanting castle at top of the bluff, over-looking the sea.  The first scream started with surprise; there was a sudden pain, dawning realization, overwhelming joy, then…apprehension. For this mosaic scream came from the Queen herself and t’was the first sign that her child was ready to be born.
O, and what a special child she would bear – the ninth generation of the royal line of the great conqueror Kenneth the First. Kenneth himself was the ninth son of a ninth son of a ninth son and this child would compound the blessing of those nines, for the enduring family line had strengthened its bonds with Nature & Magick, with Gods & Fey and with the people who called them lords.

In fact, that first scream served to alert those who would not miss attending such an auspicious birth. In no time there was gathered such a wondrous assortment of people, creatures, elementals, fey-folk and gods that none of those who lived within the castle walls could get anything done.

All four major winds and 7 of the 8 minor ones were gathered around the castle, dipping in windows and sailing down corridors. Hair was mussed, skirts were flipped, braziers were spitting out ash and more than the usual number of carts and tables were overturned.

Swarms of curious pixies flooded the sunlit rooms and antechambers of the castle, followed by droves of conscientious brownies (for even the best of pixies cannot be trusted). Castle folk reported vases falling off tables to smash on the floor and in the blink of an eye the same vase would be back where it belonged without a crack or scratch. In the birthing suite, a nurse cried out in alarm as a heavy drape caught fire when lit candles rolled by (in the opposite direction of the floor’s gentle slope), then cried out again when the bowl of water she tossed at the flame licked window covering splashed onto pristine cloth. When the water stain zipped back to it’s center and poofed into the air as a fine mist she harumphed and mumbled something about cheeky sprites before returning to her patient.

To pass the time, Flidais – goddess of the hunt – and the Green Man restored a few of the finest specimens of taxidermy in the Great Hall to full health (and body where required), leading them in procession through the bustling village to the green places outside the castle walls. A shaggy-maned lion (prized trophy of a former king’s first safari), was initially quite put-off by the forests and dismayed not to detect his pride’s scent on the wet wind, but Cernunnos sent a wild boar stumbling into his path. All stress left the lion as he stretched out his forelegs and chased the beast to its tasty demise.

Time passed in this peculiar way until the second scream echoed from the heart of the castle. This scream was frustration, exhaustion, unimaginable pain and apprehension which had turned to fear. For the queen, recently made a widow, had never produced a living child and this dear babe was the last chance we she would ever have to see her husband’s eyes mingled in the same face as her nose and her grandfather’s chin. The child must live. For the kingdom and for the queen’s own happiness to return.

The goddess Brigit, looked with concern to the Morrigan for a sign of what was in store for Queen Leaghsaidh and her unborn. But the reaping goddess merely sprouted feathers and turned a cold crow’s eye to the panting mortal before her.  Brigit had offered advice to her peers that the best outcome for all was that the child should live. Not only was the queen a devoted favorite of the goddess, she was also a wise and strong sovereign who would preserve the people’s way of life better than any of her contemporaries. But the complete assemblage of the Tuatha Dé Danann at this birth indicated that there was more than one player with a stake in the game. Brigit waved her hand in annoyance freezing the pixies, the winds and the recently reanimated fauna to better concentrate on what came next.

The resulting hush was palpable, allowing the laboring queen a moment of blessed calm with a cool damp cloth on her brow. She felt the embrace of the goddess Dana in the silence and took heart that all would be well. Leaghsaidh drifted on the calm, recalling her last evening with Brandubh MacCune before a senseless skirmish took her husband from her.

The calm exploded into chaos not an hour later as the baby seemed to claw at her insides and terrible hands clamped her heart, her stomach, her spine and her tongue. Internally she twisted and fought to be free, reassuring her child that she was loved and wanted and anticipated.  Indeed she funneled every last mote of her own energy into the tiny new life. Scenes of her early romance with Brandubh…the first time they met, their first conversation of hours filled with laughter and mutual passion for the people of Albion, the first time she knew true love had found her…these scenes which had carried an empty queen through grief, were charged with energy and life. Leaghsaidh found that thin line connecting her to the child and pushed through every happy moment as far back as her memory existed.  It was a mental and emotion exercise — a force of will — but as she recalled childhood events to pass on to her child, Leaghsaidh felt…lighter…fainter…as though she were fading away! She would not die and take this child with her. Kenneth’s next heir. The child she and Brandubh had prayed for to every god who would listen.  This one would not die because the mother was week.
Leaghsaidh felt again for the tether which tied her to that glowing new life and followed it – just pushed herself through it as she had done with the memories.  The queen was a spark – lightning running through the trunk of a tree.  And then she was standing beside a tree blinking in the bright sunlight of a summer’s day.  The ground felt as though it were tilting up to meet her, Leaghsaidh reached for the tree to steady herself, but crumpled to the ground.
A man’s voice gasped from somewhere behind her, “My Queen, your attention is required, anon.”
Before Leaghsaidh could find her voice, another answered, “Gillie, please save your strength. It will be hours yet until we can get you to a safe bed and a physician.”
“Look,” was his only reply.
Leaghsaidh had found her knees and was struggling to turn toward the conversation; to face the man who had called for his queen.  Disorientation sizzled through her limbs and head.  There was no child in her womb.  The grass was wet on her palms.  The pungent smell of smoke and something unfamiliar clotted the air.  Then the ambient sound filtered through the haze of her thoughts and she stood in alarm – instinct reaching an arm over her back to pull an arrow from a quiver that wasn’t there.   Battle!
The woman who had spoken before stood before her with a surprised and curious expression.  She was quite tall for a woman, armoured, and crowned in the circlet of braided iron, silver and gold she – Leaghsaidh – had made herself for Brandubh for his coronation.  Rage began in her belly at the audacity of this woman.  How could she have that crown unless she was the assassin who killed him?  Yet she not only wore it as though it belonged to her, she wore it without apology in front of the widow she’d made.  Leaghsaidh made to reach out – to attack the murderess with her bare hands – then the curious expression turned to one of question and alarm.
“Mother?” The assassin asked.

Mother.

The word reached her from across a great chasm and pulled her into that moment with such clarity, such substance that Leaghsaidh suddenly felt more alive than ever she had before.  Now she could see the thick, raven hair wound through an armoured net, feeding into a healthy braid that was tucked into specialized clips on the shoulders of an emblazoned cuirass.  The crest was new, double greyhounds with intertwined legs – one clutching the leg of a bear in his mouth, the other the tail of an otter.  Her eyes were Brandubh’s – liquid amber with flecks of green and blue.  The raven hair, also a trait of the MacCunes, looked lovely against her delicate, porcelain-bisque skin.  The chin and mouth were Leaghsaidh’s own, as well as the shape of her brow, cheek and jawline.  The tall, broad-shouldered physique she got from Brandubh, but it had been tempered well with womanly attributes and curves.  She was striking and commanding, lovely and terrifying. “Daughter,” was her much delayed response, for Leaghsaidh did not know her name.

They spoke for a time, Leaghsaidh crying silently through the conversation.  Her daughter’s life had been one lived without a mother and without so many of the thing she and Brandubh had planned for their family.  The girl had endured and always found help when she needed it, but there had been too much loss and too much pain.  Now she was leading a militia of clansman in the manner of Kenneth himself, to take back the kingdom and return the people of Albion to their once-fruitful lives.  By all accounts, they were losing the battle and the war.
Inside her daughter’s story, Leaghsaidh heard another.  A number of betrayals had occurred which led to the queen’s presence at her daughter’s battle.  Machinations that had begun when she married Brandubh, perhaps even before.  Betrayals perpetrated by someone she had loved unconditionally and trusted completely.  And he had killed her for it.  He had killed Leaghsaidh, her husband and three of their unborn children.
The dead queen turned to her daughter, tears pouring from her eyes as water from a pitcher. “You have not had the life we wished for, but you are the child we dreamt of and you have always been loved.  I filled you with all the love I had, to secure your birth.  I did not know that I would die from all that I gave you, but I would do it again.  You will take back Albion today and the world will not lose their best queen on the day of her birth.”

Leaghsaidh was spioraid now, and could not caress or comfort her daughter with touch, but she reached deep inside herself to pluck the tiny kernel of light that had blossomed at seeing her daughter for the first time. She held it in her fist and called to the gods of her kin.  She begged of them continued strength and longevity for her daughter, and a future filled with happiness, laughter and the warm embrace of her own children.  Leaghsaidh petitioned them for peace to be settled on the people of Albion once more.

The Morrigan attended the queen’s summons, soaring down from the upper branches of the same oak  Leaghsaidh had arrived by. Before the crow’s feet touched the grass, the form of a woman unfolded from a crouch and stood nodding to each of the women in turn.
“This is the moment when our Queen makes the bargain our goddess Brigit will curse us for,” The Morrigan sighed.

Leaghsaidh nodded her thanks to the Morrigan for heeding her call. Then she knelt before the goddess of war and sovereignty, holding out her hand.  A single gem of unconditional love glowed bright yellow in the center of her palm; for it was a love filled with happiness and the warmth of a summer’s day.
“Macha, this is my offering and my plea. Please allow my daughter a long and happy life and victory over those who would seek to harm her. Please grant me the body and strength to fight today, to defeat the enemy and his followers who stole my life, robbed my daughter of the kingdom I bore her to lead, and filled her childhood with strife.”
“Brigit tells us you are a wise queen,” the Morrigan sang softly as if to herself, “and here you are appealing to our Macha, the most maternal of our faces, with the gift of a mother’s swell.”
The Morrigan, leaning in close to the proffered gem to inspect its quality, cocked her head in a bird-like way and settled one eye on the living queen, “What your mother offers is a powerful gift, because it is a terrible thing to sacrifice. She offers the seed of a mother’s love for her child.  The sight of your face as it touched her heart the first time and bloomed to love.  If we take this, Queen Leaghsaidh, of the line of MacAlpin, of the Clan of the Hounds, once true Queen of Albion, will never know that swell.  She will travel to the Summerlands without ken of her infant’s birth…without the memory of your face.  Your mother has already relinquished all of her memories to you this day, as she lay abed trying not to bleed you out as another failed babe.  This is the one memory she made that came after.”
The Morrigan leaned back in to inspect the gem. “We’ve never seen one this pure,” she mumbled appreciatively.

The living queen made to protest on her mother’s behalf, but the Morrigan raised a hand to silence her, “It is not your decision but our’s. And you would dishonor her by begging us to say no.”
The Morrigan nodded to herself as if in agreement, “And we would not wish to dishonor a queen of men who has been so brave, for they are quite rare.” So saying, the goddess reached into the ether and removed the gem from a mother’s hand and grasped the shoulders of a former queen.
“Leaghsaidh mac Alba, in exchange of a mother’s love I grant your enduring family line prosperity of the heart and soul and longevity.  Do you accept this bargain?”

The queen held her head up and replied, “Yes, for I do what a mother would for her child.”
The Morrigan allowed Mother one last gaze to be shared with Daughter. Both of the women had eyes flowing with tears but the Morrigan was using her gentler face, Macha granted them clarity through the tears so the eyes might say farewell. When the space of nine heartbeats had passed, the Morrigan blew gently on the queen’s eyes and they clouded into stone.
“Leaghsaidh, Queen of Albion – you have offered your life today that there might be peace in the land of your birth, safety in the homes and fields of your people and the rightful sovereign as the heart of the kingdom – installed upon the throne of your ancestors.  To make this happen you will become Laoch Spioraid until the battle is won.  Do you accept this bargain?”

The regal monarch held her fist up and cried, “Yes! For I do what a queen would for her people!”
The Morrigan shook feathers from her hair that fell onto the Warrior Spirit. The black crow’s feathers turned white as they touched the Warrior Spirit’s aura. Colored by pure intentions, they scaled the incorporeal queen into solidity and wove her a pair of pristine hawk’s wings that blazed with righteous fire at the tips.

Once more the Morrigan addressed the reverent figure before her, “Warrior, you have offered your soul on this day in exchange for vengeance upon those who have unscrupulously and through the dark manipulation of nature and magick exploited the helpless, ruined lives, brought about senseless death, betrayed those most dear and brought us to this battlefield today.  Once the battle is begun, you will join us as the heart of Nemain with scores of the Beansidhe in your charge. Do you accept this bargain?”
The great beast of feather and scales beat its wings once to lift itself into the air above, goddess, queen and one very proud old man. She no longer had words or a mouth that formed them, so she opened her beak and screamed – for justice and retribution.