The Tattooed Woman Pt. 38

Adair stepped close; her eyes burned, her voice trembled, and for the first time, probably forever, she sounded for all the world like a lost little girl looking for hope, "Do you believe that? I mean, truly believe it, Ashunara?"

"I would not have said it otherwise. Now cease your moping. Any more sentimental nonsense, and I'll set you to digging latrines for a spell. Oh, and go pick up those damned supplies."

Arms like bands of coiled steel wrapped around her as Adair lifted her up and held her close, body quivering, head bowed and breathing in her scent. A hoarse voice murmured in her ear, "Ashunara of the Dark Elves... You grow more interesting every day."

"Put. Me. Down."

There was a mischievous giggle, "That's what Varoona said."

"Aye? Well, if 'tis a kiss you're after, then you'll have to get in line and wait, for I'm told there is a Firbolg column in our path, and I have an engagement to plan."

"Another time, then."

Ashunara snorted, "Story of my life. Now go get my bloody supplies back."

After the woman left, Ashunara looked across at the grinning Nyx and gave an exasperated snort, "Shut up."

Much to her annoyance, the irascible old veteran was still laughing as she wandered off.

***

Mist coiled itself about the trees like a living thing. It seeped into the dark glens and flowed across burbling brook and frozen ponds alike. The wisp-like tendrils clung to the emerald green leaves of docken and teased the spines of the thistles with its cold incorporeal touch as it moved to and fro, drifting this way and that, seemingly untroubled by the slight breeze that sighed between the boughs like the melancholy whispers of a ghost.

No birds sang here, no stags grazed, nor wolf prowled, for this was deep in The Veil, the barrier between worlds, and it was home only to the lost and the forlorn.

The creature that emerged from the gloom this night, however, was neither of those things, and the fog retreated away from her as if it were afraid.

The Crone looked about at her haunted surround and nodded thoughtfully, "This'll do."

Lifting the shillelagh in her hand, she focused her gaze and will upon the wood and grinned, "Not done this for a while. Let's see if anyone is listening."

Bringing her arm down, she tapped the cold ground with the end of the gnarled blackwood cudgel. The blow was light, not much more than the faintest of reports, as if perhaps breakage was a concern, which, of course, it was, but it made such a sound as had not been heard since the world was young.

At her first stroke, the mists trembled, quivering in place as if suddenly afraid. Her second caused the trees to bow and sway, though the breeze had long since fled in terror, and the effects of the third were felt far and wide in this world and the next.

She sniffed, "Attend."

Overhead, Rhiannon watched and held her breath.

There was a sigh, and suddenly The Crone was no longer alone, though, of course, for those few who knew such things, she never really had been.

The tall, dark figure drifted silently from the trees to stand before her, lifting her head as she regarded her sibling, "Double, double, toi-"

The Crone snorted, "Oh, don't start."

The taller figure chuckled, "Sometimes I can't help myself, sister," she sighed, and her smile faded to be replaced with a hard look, "attend, you say? Am I some errant apparition that you should summon Nemain so?"

"It is time."

"And well past time."

The Crone nodded, "As you say, but all the pieces are in play at last and..." she paused, and her eyes narrowed. Turning slowly, she regarded the urchin standing in her shadow with eyes blacker than pitch.

"You know, Badb, one day you'll go sneaking up on the wrong old woman, and if you earn a clout for your cheek, you'd best not come running to me."

If concerned by the rebuke, the urchin made no sign of it, instead fetching her a lopsided grin as it happily held up the rasher of crisply fried bacon it clutched in one grubby hand.

The Crone smiled and ruffled the monster's hair with an oddly gentle hand, "Aye, I know. He's no a bad lad. And sorry, I am at what must happen. But 'tis his fate, and one he chose himself."

In reply, the urchin tilted her head, and the Crone sighed, "I know, nor is she, but that's another issue entirely."

Nemain moved to stand alongside, leaving a trail of frost and ice in her wake, and in a gesture rarer than unicorn tears, she reached out to touch The Crone's hand, "I hear he broke your stone, 'tis sorry I am about the passing of your Dragon."

"Sorry?"

The dark entity smiled and shrugged, "As much as such a thing as I am capable and can be."

The Crone sighed, "He was the first, you know. Crafted and shaped with my own hands and from my own blood," she shook her head, "and I left him to die alone."

"It was a necessary deception."

The ancient creature looked away, "Aye..."

The tugging of her shroud drew her attention, and she turned again to the urchin. The small figure met her gaze with ancient eyes, and the Crone smiled, "Came back, did she... Good lass."

Drawing a breath, she straightened, "Right, enough maudlin. Let's get this done."

Nemain lifted her chin, "There will be a response."

The old woman's eyes were harder than stone, and her voice implacable, "So be it. Let them come."

The mist drifted silently by, and a moment later, where there were three, there now stood One.

The creature was tall, garbed in a gown of darkest green, her long dark hair falling down over the ebon cloak of sleek black feathers that hung from her shoulders, and upon her brow was a circlet of iron.

The Morrigan drew a breath, and all across the Fae, in every forest and wood, from every battlement, belfry and roof, from atop every haunted and ruined tower, ravens and crows took flight, madly cawing their welcome and salute.

And the Phantom Queen smiled.