My latest experiment has yielded results quite unexpected but intriguing in their own right. I’ll record my findings here as I come across them, but I dare not put their conclusions down on paper right now. The implications are most worrying.

First Entry of a journal entitled “On the Manipulation of the Flesh” by Yarlaith the White.

***

Fionn’s eyes shot open abruptly and a gurgled gasp escaped his throat. He panted, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The room was dim, with little light coming in past the dark, thick curtains covering a nearby window. White cotton sheets were wrapped tight against his body, restricting his movement. Not that he could move if he wanted to. With little feeling below his waist, it seemed to Fionn that he would not leave this strange place for a long time.

He closed his eyes tight, trying to recall the dreams that had plagued his sleep. He remembered a feeling of being trapped alone in the dark. It was a familiar dream, one that had haunted him since he was a boy. He was accustomed to every detail now, from the coffin made from flesh to the blood slowly drowning him.

Gods above and below, where am I now?

Other details resurfaced in his mind, though it was difficult to tell which were real and which were from the dreams. He was aboard an airship, sailing through the sky, when a fight broke out and….

“Fire,” Fionn muttered, as a pang of realisation caused his heartbeat to quicken. “I caused it.”

The rest of the details came flooding back: a burning airship falling from the sky, its survivors running through the Glenn.

And the troll, said a voice. You forgot about the troll.

Fionn sat upright, ignoring the dull ache in his hips protesting his sudden movement. He pressed his left hand against the mattress to support himself, but when he tried to do the same with his right, the limb was clumsier than usual. This was of little concern to the red mage, however, for there was a more pressing matter: the voice that spoke was not his own.

“Who’s there?” he called out, twisting his head to look around the room. It appeared to be a quaint little clinic, similar, yet far simpler than those he was used to back in the Academy. The shelves were full of ointments and potions, only some he could recognise, but apart from himself, the room was void of life.

But that voice, it sounded so familiar.

You half-witted fool! cried another, louder than the first. Hatred burned in every word as it spoke. I should have fucking wrung your neck when I had the chance. I should have stabbed you in your sleep. You’ve taken everything away from me. Everything!

Fionn gasped with fear.

What is happening to me?

Alone! cried a third voice. All alone, without a single soul to save me. This truly is a fate worse than death.

The speakers went silent. Fionn tried to focus on their source, searching through his own memories for any sort of clue. Without warning, a thousand cries all began calling in unison, blocking out Fionn’s train of thought. Their words were mostly unintelligible, though Fionn was able to pick out a few.

Don’t go there! You won’t like what you find!

They’ve torn me apart, and they’ve bound me to a dead man!

I’ll kill them. I’ll fucking kill them all if it’s the last thing I do.

He hasn’t noticed yet. He hasn’t noticed his arm! I told you he was a fucking fool!

Fionn glanced down at the bed. Hidden beneath the sheets, his right arm was indeed numb, as if he hadn’t moved it in a while. He wriggled his fingers and feeling returned to his hand. He slowly moved the arm from under the sheets, but something felt peculiar. At first, he thought his arm had been wrapped in a cast, for the sheets seemed to barely graze his skin as he pulled it out. But when he did, the sight caused a shrill whimper to catch in his throat.

Where his right arm had once been, a great, muscular limb now sprouted from his shoulder. There, the arm was bound to Fionn’s own flesh with black thread, thick and ropey, criss-crossing all the way around his shoulder. The arm was almost twice as large as his left, with biceps like boulders wrapped beneath skin. Forked blue lightning veins extended down towards his wrists, crooked and cord-like.

He raised the hand up to his face, marvelling at every alien detail of its digits. He made a fist, curling each thick finger inwards. For a moment he kept it tense, watching as the knuckles whited and the muscles in the forearm spasmed with effort.

Darkness, oh Darkness! cried one of the voices. The void has consumed me whole. There is no light, no light!

The rest of the voices responded in a cacophony that shook Fionn’s skull. Some roared obscenities, others muttered incoherent nonsense. Here and there, Fionn caught a few words of prayer, with whispered mentions of names like “Father,” “Mother,” “Aislinn,” “Cathal,” though the names of the gods—Seletoth, Meadhbh, and Móráin—were repeated the most.

“Shut up!” cried Fionn. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his ears—the hand on the right almost big enough to cover his head. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

“Ah, is everything alright?”

The voices went silent immediately. Fionn turned to see an old man standing by his bed. Fionn supposed he was a healer, for he wore loose white robes, tied at the waist. A pair of eyeglasses rested on a sharp, pointed nose.

“How are you faring?” asked the stranger, resting a hand on Fionn’s forehead. “You’ve been out for a long while, but your recovery has been steady. It’s a miracle you’re still alive. You’ve lost enough blood to kill three men!”

“What’s this?” demanded Fionn, raising the muscular arm before the healer. “What happened to my arm?”

The healer’s expression darkened. “You came from the Glenn, with a mountain troll in pursuit. It chased you to the outskirts of this village.”

Whereas the man’s words had once been soft and warm, he now spoke with an almost clinical precision, as if he were reading from a textbook.

“You are your companions tried to fight it off,” he continued. “The troll killed all but two. The Simian was knocked over the edge of the cliffs. He made a full recovery. The troll tore your arm off, leaving you for dead. Yet here you are.”

“I won’t be here for much longer,” said Fionn, swinging his legs from the bed. The horrific details of the encounter with the troll came back to him, and they gave him pause. The blood. The screams. The pain.

Slaíne, Sir Bearach. Dead….

“You must rest,” said the healer, pressing a hand on Fionn’s shoulder. “You’ve been through so much, and the procedures I’ve used are highly un—”

Fionn suddenly grabbed the man’s wrist, using the strange, muscular hand.

“You said I was out for a long time,” Fionn said, sternly. “How long has it been?”

The healer’s lips quivered, his eyes not moving from his wrist, enveloped by the thick fingers.

“Just over three weeks,” he whispered.

Fionn slowly released the healer’s hand. Words failed to escape his lips.

Three weeks… Gods above and below. Has it been that long?

“I must insist,” said the healer, more strength in his voice than before. “I have tests to run and plenty of questions to ask.” He pulled out a small notepad and pen from his cloak. “Now, my name is Yarlaith the White. Your companion told me your name is Fionn the Red. Is this correct?”

“Y-yes,” stammered Fionn. His frustration retreated, leaving a hollow feeling of hopelessness in its wake.

“Where were you born?”

“I was born in the Academy of Dromán.”

Yarlaith raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“My mother came to the brothers of the Academy when she was about to have me. It was a complicated birthing, and she died on the table. I was supposed to be sent to an orphanage, but when they saw I had latent ability for magic, they kept me there as a student, even though I was well under-age.”