“The natives fought with great tenacity to prevent the Firstborn from reaching the valley, for even their primitive minds knew of the power that lay within. Once my people were close enough, I blessed them with magic. And once my son was here, I lent him my power.”

“The Apotheosis of Móráin,” whispered Fionn. “The Church says he ascended to Godhood.”

“He may as well have,” boomed Seletoth. “For even an ounce of my strength is the equivalent to the greatest power the Human imagination can conjure. If a fraction of my power is that of a God, what does that make me?”

Fionn stared dumbfounded at the great being, and a question that had burned in his heart for a long time manifested on his tongue.

“But if you are so powerful… why has all of this happened? Why can’t you stop Morrígan herself?”

“Because she serves me,” roared Seletoth. “Each Human spirit is a fraction of my own, split from me as I created them. King Móráin and Lady Meadhbh, gods in your tongue, possess larger parts of my power. I weaved the Tapestry of Fate to ensure they would all return to me.”

Fionn took a step back.

“As I lay dying in the Glenn, I called for my son to return to me. But when he saw my form and learned of his purpose, he turned away. Instead, his most trusted servants conspired to take me from that valley, in secret, and kept me here, far away from the throne of my lineage. Far from the tomb of his mother.

“And here I would stay. Those who knew the Truth concealed it and named themselves the Church. But the Tapestry of Fate was already woven, for I ensured I would someday be restored to my full power.”

“By Morrígan,” whispered Fionn.

“She is a thrall of fate, like every other Human, but her purpose is a greater one. She was destined to discover a means of reclaiming the souls of every Human and god I created, all for the purpose of returning them to me.”

No, realised Fionn. He… He did this? All this?

Only now did Fionn comprehend how quickly his heart was beating, how short his breath had grown. Something moved along the ground at his feet. He glanced down, seeing thin, grey tendrils moving across the floor.

“Fionn the Red, shall you give yourself willingly back to me?”

“No!” said Fionn, his mind desperately trying to form a plan that wasn’t there. “Morrígan! I’ll find her! We… have spoken before. I think she may listen to me.” He took a step back. “I can convince her to come. I—”

Something pulled Fionn’s feet backwards from beneath him. He hit the ground face first. Dazed, he struggled to orientate himself, but when he did, he found that he was hanging upside-down, dangling in the air, tendrils wrapped around his ankles.

“The seeds of the Simians’ chaos have reached too deep,” rumbled Seletoth. “I can no longer trust my creations to carry out my deeds.”

Fionn struggled, but the vine-like appendages gripping his feet only bound them tighter.

Your magic, lad! roared Sir Bearach. Burn him!

With blood rushing to Fionn’s head, he found it difficult to focus, but sure enough, a click of his fingers brought forth a spark from his flint-rings. With a surge of the power of his soul, the spark ignited, and a plume of fire burst around him.

But the flames were extinguished by an unseen force.

“You dare use my own power against me?” thundered Seletoth. “You are but a fraction of what I am, and to me, you shall return.”

Fionn fought and struggled, but the tendrils pulled him closer to the gargantuan, rubbery mass. A hundred eyes glared at him, and a thousand limbs convulsed, each wriggling and writhing like bleeding worms. Then they began to fold inwards, at the base of His body, forming a shapeless, gaping maw.

“No!” cried Fionn. “Please!”

He scanned his memory for any mote of information, any secret, any story, anything at all that could help. But he found none.

Don’t give up, lad! said Sir Bearach. Keep fighting!

The tentacles around Fionn’s feet loosened, and he fell before bulk of Seletoth’s body. From that blackened mouth, more tendrils sprung, pulling Fionn inwards, legs first.

I can’t, thought Fionn. It’s over.

As his legs entered the mouth, an unbearably heavy force clamped down on them. His bones broke and Fionn howled in pain, his cry echoing throughout the cave.

Fight it lad! roared Sir Bearach. Fight and fight and fight and fight until there’s no fight left!

Through the pain, Fionn attempted to click his fingers, but a spark did not form. The tendrils around his body shifted, pulling him inwards. With another sickening crunch, Fionn’s lower torso caved in. Unbearable agony filled his mind, pushing out every other thought. He tasted iron on his tongue.

The walls! wailed Sir Bearach. The floor, the ceiling, the walls, they’re stone! Stone! The dead knight’s hysteric voice sobbed through Fionn’s mind. Can’t your magic move stone?

If one last attempt to placate the knight was all Fionn could do, he would make it the last thing he did. For all the time they spent together, bickering, arguing, aiding one another, Fionn would try this one last thing. For the companion he had been. For the friendship they had fostered. For the love that came with it.

Seletoth’s form convulsed, pulling the rest of Fionn’s body inside. Fionn raised one hand in defiance. The hand that once belonged to a brave knight, and he focused on the stone around him.

Geomancy had never been his strength, but with ease, the power of his soul touched upon the ground. Some great Geomancers could cause mountains to rise and fall, though Fionn was not one of them.

His pain reached a new, terrible height as the remnants of his legs burned to Seletoth’s digestive juices.

Fionn closed his eyes; only his head, shoulders, and one arm were free. His focus now was only on the stone floor. If not for a distraction from the pain, then for the soul of Sir Bearach. The soul that begged him not to give up.

With Geomancy, he groped along the stone floor. The weight of the stone was far too much to push or pull. He moved his power away, touching upon the ground of the path that had taken him here, searching for anything that may give way, for anything that may help.

Once more, Seletoth bore his strength down upon Fionn’s broken body, pulling his head inwards. Fionn’s eyes burned, and his skull cracked, but his arm remained outside, his fingers touching the air, the power of his soul uselessly scrambling across the cavern walls.

Until there, something felt different. Not stone but iron, and lighter too. It felt like a door, which pushed open with some effort. The stone out here was different, with images etched into them. Like a blind man, Fionn used the last of his strength to trace their etchings, trying to conjure an image of what they looked like.

Fionn’s skin burned, as his arm up to his wrist was consumed, but his soul still fought. Not his soul, their soul, searching the ground, trying to find anything to help. Even if futile, Sir Bearach deserved an end like his first, out in the fields of the Clifflands. A fight until the last breath.

Then Fionn found a rock made from a different type of stone to the rest. It was circular in shape. Smooth to touch.

With sudden realisation, Fionn flared the final strength of his and Bearach’s soul. The object came hurtling through the darkened halls of Seletoth’s caves.

When it collided with Fionn’s opened hand and Seletoth’s body, it exploded with a deafening roar that shook the cavern around them, consuming them both in a mighty torrent of blue fire and cracking the very earth itself.

Chapter 21:

Omniscience

As my most loyal servants and I gazed into that poisonous chasm, we learned the Truth: Seletoth is no god, but a malignant being born far from this land. Further than mortal minds can comprehend.

But still, He welcomed me like a father would a son. That terrible, rotting, pulsating creature at the bottom of the Glenn praised me for bringing His creations to this land, returning them to Him, and for a horrifying moment, something overtook me; a compulsion to give myself to this monster.

But as I stepped closer to the valley’s edge, something deep within me fought back, and I steadied myself. My allies, however, were not as strong-willed, giving into that madness and throwing themselves into the pit to be devoured by the horror.

I was powerless to help them, so I fled.