“Contingency?” asked Fionn.
When the answer came, Seletoth spoke blankly, as if not caring for the word that thundered through Fionn’s mind.
“Humans.”
“Us?” whimpered Fionn.
“As I plummeted alone through Eternity, I spread my seeds wherever I could, and they quickened to Life wherever possible. Somewhere, on the far side of this world, beyond many leagues of land and seas, the first Humans came to be. It took some time, but eventually, my influence reached them. First, to a young virgin named Meadhbh.”
“No….”
“And in her womb, I planted one more seed.”
“No!” Fionn’s hands reached up to clasp his ears. But the Lord’s voice spoke again.
“Her son, the soon to be King Móráin the First, united the scattered tribes of Man. To sail to this land. For one purpose.”
Fionn stood to his feet. “To… save you?”
“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!
