We were met with a significant setback as we reached the northern mountains of this land. The natives had occupied and fortified important paths bypassing the mountains, halting our progress. We could have attacked them head-on with a high chance of success but would have taken significant losses as a result.

One of my generals found another way through the mountains, via a valley uncharted by the locals. Our Simian informants strongly objected, naming this valley a cursed, desolate place, but refused to tell us why. This was peculiar behaviour, for I had not known the natives to hold any of their land holy or sacred. So, against the advice of their counsel, I led my men through that valley.

A valley we would later name the Glenn.

The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55

***

Fionn walked eastwards, his back to the morning sun, leaving the village of Roseán behind. However, the young mage paid little mind to where we walked. Eyes closed, his attention was turned inwards, towards a chorus of voices that rang out in his mind.

Halfwit! You left me for dead!

Alone and dead!

No light, no light! No lighter than the Holy Hell!

The Holy Hell would be a paradise compared to this fate.

Pain! Pain! Pain! Pain!

Fionn opened his eyes and saw that he had strayed from his path. He stood alone in an empty forest of decaying browns and blacks.

The young mage looked around, trying to find his way back to the path, when a whirring sound sang through the trees. A crossbow bolt struck his chest, bringing with it a sharp, searing pain. With a wheeze, Fionn fell to the ground.

“Oisín, you fool!” called a rough voice from the trees. Gasping for air, Fionn’s vision blurred. He heard heavy footsteps along the ground.

“I didn’t have a choice!” called another voice. “He was coming towards my hiding spot. And look at his cloak. He’s a mage!”

Fionn couldn’t tell how many there were, as two, perhaps three crouched down beside him. Fighting against his falling lids, Fionn closed his eyes.

“A mage, eh?” said the first voice. “Maybe he’ll fetch himself a ransom, if we play our cards right.”

“Not likely,” said a third voice. “Oisín may be a fool, but you can’t fault his aim. That there is a lethal shot, right through the lung.”

“Ah shit,” said the second voice. “It was meant to be a warning. I didn’t mean to kill him!”

“You didn’t,” said the first voice, sterner than the others. “He’s still breathing.”

***

“Do we really need to go through this much effort?”

“The gaffer is scared shitless of him. Says he’s a demon.”

“A demon? Come on now, he’s just a lad! A mage, as Oisín put it, right?”

“No. Mages die just like any other men. This one survived a pierced lung. Then the gaffer tied him up, put a spear through his heart, and a blade across his throat. Each time he just passes out and wakes a lil while later.”

Slowly, Fionn opened his eyes. Every bone in his body ached, agony tearing through his body with each breath. His thoughts struggled to form anything coherent, and for now, he had no idea where he was or how he ended up there.

He was on a boat, rocking across a still sea, surrounded by darkness. The vessel bore no lights, illuminated only by the waning moon overhead. Two figures stood on the deck. With backs turned to him, they spoke in hushed tones. Fionn noticed now he was bound to a stool, his hands tied behind his back, his mouth gagged with a cloth. At his feet, thick chains coiled around his ankles where a heavy iron sphere fastened them together.

What’s going on? thought Fionn. Another voice in his head cried out in pain, but Fionn did not understand its source.

“If it were up to me, we’d just bury him,” said one of the figures. “But the gaffer said it wouldn’t be enough. He said that there were stories from long ago, of the dead rising from their graves at the hands of a group of evil druids. He reckons the same is happening here.”

“He won’t be rising out of this grave, that much is for sure,” said the second. He turned to look at Fionn. “Hush now, he’s awake. Let’s get it over with.”

Fionn attempted to cry out but nothing but a low gurgle escaped his dried lips. Before he could figure out was happening, he found himself being pulled, then carried, then pushed over the side of the boat.

With a heavy splash, he fell into the freezing water and sank into the darkness below.

***

Time passed. How much, Fionn did not know. He sat at the bottom of the sea, the weight of the chains pulling him down against the ocean floor. All he could do was stare up into the faint light of the sky and watch as day became night became day became night.

Until one day, the light grew brighter. Brighter and brighter that before, until it threatened to blind him. He closed his eyes tight, hearing only the sound of rushing water all around him.

“Fionn,” came a voice. It was the first time he had heard anything for some time. “Fionn the Red.”

Fionn opened his eyes, and he saw a woman. A woman dressed in dark clothes with giant, black feathered wings spread out from each shoulder. She hung in the air. Fionn still lay on the ocean floor, but the ocean itself was parted around him, with sea rushing like waterfalls either side.

Did she do this? thought Fionn. The woman was strangely familiar, but Fionn could recall little from the life that came before this. “Come, Fionn,” she said, reaching out a hand. “Lord Seletoth is waiting for us.”

***

Fionn woke with a yelp, grabbing at his throat. His heart raced. When he realised where he was, in the cave in the Godspine with Farris, Padraig, Aislinn, and Nicole, his breathing returned to a natural pace, and he started to relax.

Was that a dream? he thought. Again, it seemed far too realistic, far too intentional, for want of a better word, to be a dream.

He was walking from Roseán, he recalled. After Yarlaith had healed him. Then he was ambushed.

Something about that was vaguely familiar to Fionn. Like he heard of something like that happening before.

Of course, he realised. The Lady said that was fated to happen, but it did not come to pass. He recalled her words. “Fionn the Red. Set upon by bandits on the way from Roseán to Point Grey.”

He pressed his hand against his head, trying to recall more details.

They saw I could not be killed, so they buried me at sea….

And then Morrígan had found him. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to recall what she had said.,

Seletoth is waiting for us? That doesn’t make any sense. Sir Bearach what do you think?

But there was no response. The dead knight would never pass up the chance to make a quick comment about Fionn’s dreams, so why was he holding his tongue on this occasion?

Sir Bearach? said Fionn, standing up. Sir Bearach? Where are you? The familiar source of magic, the remnants of Sir Bearach’s soul that had always been so close to Fionn… was gone.