Passage unto Death.

Who are you to stand so in state?
Who are you to gaze upon the departed?
Who are you to mourn their leaving?

It had been the spirit watch for a day and nights passing and they did not wake. No stirring of form of passage of breath did the body make. No hunger or thirst came upon it to cause a motion. No movement of any kind.

They did not wake.

He had stood so near unblinking for the spirits watch. Ensuring that the allotted time had passed and the spirit had not returned to the form, nor any other spirit take up residence.

Watching for a wake was a trial in itself. Enduring patiently so that the fallen was not alone. Abstaining food and drink so that the hunger or thirst upon you may somehow trigger it upon them. Watching closely so as not to miss a detail in case they were but sleeping or spirit traveling.

Old Donall had strode the land with the Dagda for many years and many were the challenges and adventures they had shared and endured. Donall was well aware of the Dagda's heart and knew the burdens set upon it by bearing the responsibility for life and death in that length of club wood. A great power true, but weighty with great responsibility.

It was he who had spoken of it, one night at revel, but indeed made mention of it in sincerity when the light of the next day was upon them.

"I don't want bringing back."

The Dagda had looked at him, surprised and confused, and moved to speak, but Donall hushed him and carried on.

" I seen the greatness of you and that death touch wood, an all this time together I thought to meself, Donall, ne'er be on the receivin end of that ending.

Wise words no doubt and no chore it was me for your friendship has been of great joy and no enemy of you would I be.

So the years have come and old I am, the strength and vigour leaves me and my wisdom and council is not much more needed.

So then I thought, what of that other end? What of carrying on with our adventures forever? That's when I realised it.

I'm not for stayin Old Donall forever and who knows what's for seein once my ending comes.

I know it's a sorrow I be puttin on ye Big Man, but I would not have the carrying me on that club forever.

Carry instead fond memories of me in your heart so that ye smile thinkin o me."

So that was that. Donall now called 'Old' once called 'Bold' died a quiet death. No battles harm upon him, no pain of illness to touch him, just a soft goodbye as dreams slipped over him and his breath left him at rest.

Dagda stood where only Kin could. Dagda stood dark eyes witnessing the passage onto death. Dagda stood, recalling to mind each tale of Donall's life and finding more smiles than tears upon him.

Dagda stood where Donall would have him stand, watching for a wake they both knew would not come.

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The Power of Endings and Beginnings

The Champion could not hold his place for his anger. Fine boots, normally kept so clean were scuffed and muddy from his  treading back and forth.

Dagda sat on the ground before his home, a huge butter churn in between his thick thighs, big hands wrapped around the broad strapped handle of a massive length of wood as he raised and lowered it, driving its shaft into the pale time and again with slow measured strokes.

"You'll wear a hole in those fancy shoes of yours"

Lugh spun on him, levelling that spear of his to point at the other chieftain.

"You could stand to show some more concern. My enemies are moving against us."

Dagda released a slow breath, making allowances for his responsibility to his own emotions before replying, big arms keeping a steady rhythm. 

"Lugh, there is naught you can do about it right this moment, and not much rest will there be in the moments to come. All is prepared as it should be and no pacing will hasten the resolution of the day."

Whether it was his softened tone or the casual use of the name, Dagda did not know, but the Champions frustration flashed to quick anger. 

"Don't tell me what to do! I am in charge  here and will not be coddled by the likes of you."

Dagda's face formed a frown as his own anger began to rise, but this was not the space for emotional responses despite the outburst.

Once again the Dagda allowed space for his own feelings to rise then pass, and releasing a slow breath he relaxed.

The Spear moved away, as Lugh resumed his pacing. Dagda had offered levity, then offered patient counsel, neither had altered the mood so he again lapsed into silence and slow rhythmic motions of the churn. 

When figures appeared from over the hill, Lugh came to an immediate halt, in an instant moving to a perfect warriors pose for attack or defence. 

"Armed men approach. Rouse yourself and ready."

The Dagda lazily rolled his head over and took a glance at the approaching force, in particular the scraggly haired broad shouldered youth in front. 

"They're with me."

Lugh began to relax, but abruptly stiffened. 

"What trick is this?!? That cannot be him. 

The blows I dealt him were mortal and ending. No skill in healing may bring back the dead!

No matter, the slight stands and I will see his corpse at my feet again!"

Lugh reached back, muscles bunched and  feet placed, spear raised for a killing cast, levelled squarely at the broad youth. When this Spear was loosed, none could stand against it. 

His eyes were fixed upon his prey, when sudden pain exploded in his wrist and hand, and the spear stuck fast to his grip.

 It was so unexpected as to bring a yelp to his lips, eyes coming up to rest upon his hand, and seeing the massive paw of another encompassing it in a crushing grip.

His eyes followed the hand to the arm, bunched broad with muscle, and up to a face likened to a dark thunder cloud.  

The Dagda had moved.

In the space of a hearts beat he was upon the de Deann champion and had ceased all of his motion. 

Lugh' eyes met the Dagda's and saw in their deep black darkness a rage barely kept in check. 

The heart of a champion is no quailing thing and Lugh's bright shining eyes hardened to quick frost, as he began to gather his strength and ready his body.

"Don't."

The word was a soft whisper and included a fractional increase in the grips pressure. To his credit, Lugh took the pain without reaction, but stilled himself as he assessed this new threat.

Lugh had long seen the Dagda as he lumbered about  slow and steady, his large frame carrying his weight and giving a slope to his broad shoulders. 

The clothes he wore always seemed too tight and just slightly better than filthy rags about his frame. A champion such as he could demand the finest of raiment as Lugh did, but the fair haired war leader had never seen the Dagda in anything other than basic work wear. 

Lugh knew this to be a choice the Dagda made, appearing slow and small so as not to scare anyone with the massive size of him, but in moments like this, when the Dagda moved as he just had, all pretence fell away.

Lugh's eyes roamed up from the massive fist, along thick muscled arm to broad shoulders set straight as the Dagda took his full height. His big barrel chest strained against the cloth he wore and the cords of thick tendon showed on his neck.

The scraggly beard and moustache surround a thin line of his lips, normally so full and smiling, now tight over clenched teeth.

Nostrils flared in his broad nose as he forcibly drew in and released slow breaths, his brow, normally at rest or raised in levity, was lowered bringing a heavy frown above his eyes.

Those eyes. 

Not much ever escaped the gaze of the Dagda, sharp dark eyes, normally so full of depth and wisdom, and not a small amount of mischief, were at this moment locked squarely on Lugh, empty of all compassion, empty of all caring full only of  rage. 

The heart of a champion is no quailing thing, and Lugh is a champion amongst champions, but in that moment he saw a true death awaiting him. 

Lugh sensed something in that foreboding that he had never felt about the Dagda before and he found his eyes drawn down to the other muscled arm and the length of wood held ready in a big fist. 

Removed from the churn he now saw it was not some stout handle but a massive club of dark wood, the handle wrapped in bindings to aid grip. Death seemed to ride up along its length and into the Dagda's fist. Death. The power of true endings. 

Lugh's eyes came back up to the Dagda's gaze and in that look the big man saw his realisation. Dagda saw the younger warrior consider his mortality and that more than anything broke the moment.

Dagda let loose a rush of breath and releasing the other warrior took a quick step backwards. His dark eyes fell to his clenched fist and the death touch wood there in. Seeing his own arm twitch and shake from the effort of holding it still. 

"Remember your promise."

He spoke the words to himself, but heard another reply to him.

"Of what do you speak? How come you upon this power of endings?"

Dagda closed his eyes and allowed memory take him

 *************

Such a fine child, open and caring and quiet, but with maybe a bit too much of Dagda's charm. 

It was that which must have gotten him in the mess, but the sorrowful Chieftain could not say his son Cermad, wasn't following in his footsteps. Alas those steps had lead him to Lugh's wife.

By the time Dagda had heard of these things and rushed across the land, it was too late. Arriving he had seen his son laid low, with many wounds placed upon him so that his body could not bear them and life had left him.

Lugh stood over the boy victorious in his vengeance, but as the Big Chieftain approached he took up his defence.

"The challenge was given for the betrayal and he took it up with honour."

Lugh's voice held its anger just in check, his eyes watching the Dagda as the Big man slowly closed the distance. 

Dagda's eyes were fixed only for his fallen child, barely seeing the still reddened Spear aimed at him. 

Slumping to his knees upon the ground, big hands trembling, he gathered his son to him. 

"Promise me! Promise me Lugh that it ends here and now, and no enemy of me will you make this day." 

The words were quiet and small coming from his mouth, yet Lugh knew that his decision in this moment would be binding. 

"You have my word on it and by my name let it be true. Honour is settled."

So saying the shining one left that place and the Dagda to his grief. 

The Big man looked down upon his son, grown to manhood, but always his child, brushing the unruly mop of hair from his cold lifeless face. 

"What a mess you have gotten yourself into Cermad my boy."

Skilled in all the ways of the healing as he was, there was no cure for death. Dagda searched his mind and laid upon his offspring the fullest extent of his talents, sealing the wounds and stopping times corruption of the flesh, but for all that he could make the body whole, he could not return that which had left.

As the Chieftain looked down upon the body of his boy, tears rolling freely amidst the sweat of his labours, the sadness came strong and black upon him. 

It was not long before the flutter of wings brought his eyes up, away from his boy. Blackest of birds, the Crow alighted on a nearby branch, head cocked quizzically as it surveyed the scene.

"Away now! This one is not for you."

The Dagda made to shoo the bird off but his labours had drained him and his tired arms would not lift. 

Caw! exclaimed the crow and hopped down gliding to the still chest of the boy. It turned its head this way and that eyes brightly shining and beak clicking as it pondered. 

"I said away!"

The red of the Dagda's anger flashed through him and in a moment he was on his feet. 

Startled the crow flapped and cawed it's way back to the branches, mightily disturbed by the Big mans sudden action.

"No. Not for you. If no power exists in Erin to bring back what's mine then I will leave and find it elsewhere in the world!"

So saying the mighty Chieftain took to task the journey, big hands gently raising him son up across his shoulders, and set his legs to moving. 

All the while the Crow called after him, but he would not be stayed.

Off the land to the east he went, out of Erin and over the Ninth wave to foreign shores. 

Those that saw him, noted a big broad man, weighed down bearing a burden the size of a grown man across his shoulders, hunched forward and low, legs pushing him along. 

Those that spoke to him, found a small voice asking for those knowledgable in the ways of healing. 

Those with skill in healing shared all they knew, but nought could raise his burden.

Long was the journey, and distant the lands the Dagda crossed, until hope itself began to die within the Big mans breast.

Sweat streaked and heart broken his feet barely raising enough to justify a shuffle, Dagda moved onward. 

The still unmoving burden across his shoulders no more a physical burden to him now than when he had carried him as an infant, but the weight around his heart  could not be shifted by the memories of those joys in holding his son. 

So it was that the three brothers of further lands first encountered the Dagda. 

A stoop shouldered, dejected man moving with some difficulty along the dirt road, in the baking heat, a heavy burden upon him. 

When stop him they did, he barely noticed them until one moved to touch the bound and covered form that was his son. The redness of the rage flashed within him and in an unthought of movement, the Dagda's fist connected with the side of the mans head, and felled him down dead. 

Shouts arose as the other brothers decried the act, and as the Dagda stepped back from his irresponsible deed, shame brought him to clarity. 

To the Chieftain's shock, one of the brothers brought forth a massive club and laying its handle against the wound, restored life to his fallen family. 

Seeing the deed done before his eyes with such ease the Dagda was moved to plead with them for his own son's life, but the brothers would not be swayed to his words. 

Talking of their great powers gifted on to them from their fathers inheritance, Dagda heard of the arts that each could accomplish with their gift, all the while his mind fixed on that club. 

Dark is the mind bereft of hope, but to see all that he required kept from him in that moment, that darkness spilled to desperation. 

Again he asked for but the use of the weapon to restore that which was lost to him, but this plea fell upon deaf ears, for the brothers stated why should others gain from the powers which were theirs by right. 

To see hearts so closed to him, drew the Dagda to a mighty rage, and he set about them all of a sudden, close an crushing. 

The first of the brothers drew forth a pair of knives and with a wicked smile,  disappeared from view. Yet the Chieftain would not be fooled in this. What his eyes could not see, his ears and nose could still track, and as his prey moved to pass him, aiming to get behind and slash at him, the Dagda's mighty fist fetched him a punch which drew the wind from his lungs in a cry soon strangled off as his ribs shattered. 

The second brothers form shifted, becoming that of some great ursine beast rearing to its hind legs to roar at the Tuatha De denann warrior. The isle of Erin long had such bears and the Dagda was familiar with the hunt of their form. Strong and dangerous creatures, but the knowledge of all things weaknesses was the Dagda's to call upon. 

As the brute lunged to him, the Chieftain ducked low and rolled over his shoulder to get round behind the creature. Springing to his feet, he kicked out hard at the back of the beast knee driving it low. As it's shoulders came within reach, the Dagda leapt upon its back and wrapped his massive arms about its thick neck. Locking  his grip he denied it its air. Loosing control of the power the form shifted back to that of the second brother and when his  struggling became frantic, The Dagda wrenched his grip to the side with the sound of bones snapping. 

The third brother had stood a back, knowing the ways of his other brothers battles and leaving what should have been an easy kill to them.

As this stranger stood up, all signs of the weary old man gone from him, all sign of the reasonable pleading father removed from his face, the man saw the truth of the Dagda and despaired.  

The last brother looked to the bodies of his kin, and to the club in his hand, weighing the odds. The large mans dark eyes fell upon him and the third brother fell to his knees, seeing only doom in them. 

Words spilled from him, apologising, pleading, surrendering  wholly to this Warrior, yet no words broke that deaths gaze, nor stirred the face set against him. 

Dagda moved slowly, rage having spilled over in his mind until all became cold as a snows burn. His son. Lost to him all this time, taken from him and all hope of healing denied to him this long time. All the footsteps taken, all the tears shed into those steps as he carried his boy upon his shoulders. All to find a means to restore him and have it held from him.

The third brothers words fell upon deaf ears, lost in the roaring of the Dagda's own blood and the hammering of his heart.  Hands offered him a length of wood and as his big fist closed about its hide wrapped handle, the power of death rolled up his arm to fill the hollowed out expanse of his heart. 

The splash of hot liquid in his face was the first indicator to his brain that his body had moved. The thump of the club wood crushed the third brothers skull as he knelt prostrate before the Dagda. Blood fountained up and bathed the warrior in the Dagda's red, as his shoulders came around and about again to bring the weapon down again upon the body before him. Rhythm and movement flowed in him as death and destruction rode upon his arm.

It was the roar that brought him to his senses. Loud and bellowing, mixed with rage, pain and hate it startled the Dagda back a step as he realised it issued from his own throat.

Blinking slowly his eyes focused for the first time on the scene about him. 

The first brother, curled in a ball face blotched and bloodied, distended from gasping for air that would not come. 

The second brother, sprawled forward in the dirt, head twisted around staring with empty eyes at the heavens.

The third brother, crushed almost beyond reckoning, in a broad spread of blood and viscera. 

The Dagda had killed before. Had taken the life of those deserving an ending. Had battled foes stepped against him and placed honourable combat upon them, but this last death shocked him. 

Murder.

There was no other word for it. The foe was broken and surrendered. Kneeling in the dirt pleading to be spared. Offering more than fair payment for his life in the club now clenched in his big fist.

Murder. 

Dagda's eyes moved to that club, feeling the power of endings wrapped around and balanced against the power of beginnings within it. 

"Never again."

The words where but a whisper from his rasping throat, but he set his Will to the words and put them upon himself. 

"By the powers I hold, by Sun, Moon, Land and tide, by all knowledge and wisdom I carry, I take on this responsibility to never again take the life of one who is not declared mine enemy, and to offer life to any who call me friend. This is my Promise."

***********

"Of what promise do you speak? Answer me Chieftain."

Lugh's tone was firm as he rolled his Will out towards the Big Man. The hearts of champions are no quailing thing indeed.

Dagda blinked to be brought back from memory.

"By your word and your name you declared an end and honour satisfied that day. To do anything else would make an enemy of me."

Dagda levelled his gaze upon Lugh and allowed his emotions their place, taking responsibility for himself and allowing the other warrior his chance.

"Choose!"

His words rolled out soft across the distance between them and bound up about Lugh in this moment.

The shining one was no coward yet neither was he a fool. His ice blue eyes flashed from the approaching warriors, lead by Cermad, then back to the dark gaze of the Dagda, and at last falling to that weapon clenched in a massive fist. 

The heart of a champion is no quailing thing, but it his head that makes him great, and Lugh stood tall amidst the greatest.

"No enemy would I ever make of The Dagda."

And so saying he lowered his gaze and settled down to a crouch, butt of the spear planted in the earth, resting himself against it. 

When he looked up again the Dagda had returned to slouch by the churn, and it was only then that Lugh found the question.

"Hold on! You were making butter with that thing?"

The Dagda looked up to see the shock and surprise on the Champion's face, and couldn't help but smile.

"What? I wondered what it would taste like."

As the Warband arrived they found a stunned and shocked looking Lugh and the Dagda bellowing with laughter. 


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All Life is Stories

It was a cold bleak day, somehow fitting for what was to come. The building, brick red and smog stained had stood as a crossing station of life for many years.

Filled with peoples coming and going, toing and froing, it was always a bustle of noise and tumult, and not just to ones ears.

The automatic doors rolled back to admit him, with a whoosh of warm air against his skin. The breath of the building was heady with many trace scents. His nose took them in and as he feet moved assuredly towards the stair he began to catalogue them.

The stress laden smoke of the cigarettes was left behind outside, the peaceful green of the manicured plants about the reception absorbing it.

Next the chemical polish used to clean the counters and floor in this entry area, layered again and again over the many scents of the hurried passage in and out of this space.

Stepping his big frame to the side he moved passed a cadre of nursing staff, all smelling of antibacterial agents and exhaustion. Unseen to all he could not help note one in particular, whose head hung lower than the rest carrying more than just exhaustion.

Stepping carefully passed he allowed his shoulder brush very briefly near. The nurse shuddered to the close passage and straightened up to join in the conversation with the others.

He moved on by.

The first appointment was on the third floor over in the east wing. The room was small and dark as he opened the door softly. Taking off his long coat he folded it over his arm and removed his hat as he stepped inside.

This room smelt of must and the stale sweat of the occupant. The curtains were closed forcing a darkness upon the room. His eyes roamed about the space and he took in the sparseness of the place. A small sink set beside a small partitioned toilet, a slim wardrobe that could not hold more than one set of clothes. A single slim hospital bed, a small bedside cupboard and beside it one unused chair.

Silent and unseen he moved over to the seat, and settled down into it. The visit had begun, but would not last long.

The occupant was old, age having weathered their skin and taken the strength of their limbs. They lay back propped upon the pillows, eyes closed and breathing shallow.

He moved his eyes from the patient to the bedside cupboard. A jug of water and an untouched beaker were all it held. No pictures. No flowers. No keepsakes or mementos.

Returning his gaze to the patient he sat and waited, wondering over their life and their choices and what stories would never be told again.

The last breath was naught but a whisper as it left the body. No big gasp. No fanfare farewell. No one but him to witness.

Standing slowly, he drew back the curtains and allowed the grey light fill the room. Reaching his big hand over he turned the handle and opened the window. The crisp fresh air came in, and the scents of the room passed out.

Silent and unseen he stepped around the empty vessel without another glance and left the dying room closing the door behind him. Straightening most of the slump from his shoulders he turned down the corridor.

He moved on by.

The next appointment was second floor and through a secure nursing station. Stepping through and around the desk was no challenge as he strolled unseen by the beleaguered and swamped staff.   

The door was open and kept as such with a wedge, the occupant needing some supervision at times. This room smelt of chemicals, blood and pain. The occupant was of early to middle age and life had seen them taken on a hard road.

The bed was pushed far back towards the window were some light could fall on the patient. That light filtered colours through the clear liquid which dripped steadily from its elevated packet down the tube and into the veins and blood. The arm supporting the needle was scarred here and there and torn with many other signs of bruised puncture marks, leading down to the wrist where it was shackled to the bed frame.

The eyes of the occupant were wide and vacant, the blue of them diminished by the maze of red shot around the iris.

No chair here. No cards of family or friend. No loved ones near.

Worse yet, a glance at the paperwork told him there was no Name.  

This living breathing person, born of this world, child of a mother and father, lay here at stories end, without even a name to recall them to the world.

He steadied his feet and his own breath, setting aside the roil of his own emotion.

The patient's arm began to twitch, a tightness formed around their eyes, mouth beginning to move soundlessly as some spike of pain formed in them.

He lifted his big hand and placed it lightly on the restrained arm of the young person. A slow breath out and a push of his Will removed the pain.

Removing his hand he felt the ache of it run up his arm and settle upon his shoulder. It was all he could do, but he would do it. Long ago tales spoke of a weapon with the power to destroy or restore. Such times as these, with no tales told, no one to believe, what can a man do but that which he is able with his own hand.

The nameless one, never reacted to his closeness. Whatever horrors their story had held for them had been beyond their ability to face alone, and with no name to claim them, who would help share their burden?

The last breath left with a sigh of release and a catching throb of sorrow.

He stood still, silent witness, working their features into his mind, he would remember.

A machine by the bed began to wail and in a rush the small high risk room was full with nurses and doctors. They moved with rapid professional actions around the empty vessel, working for a life which was already gone.

No one saw the big man in the plain suit, step from the room, long coat over his arm and hat held in hand.

He moved on by.

The heaviness weighed upon his shoulders as he made the third appointment. The room was bright and colourful. Light filled every corner of it and showed the dancing whimsical characters painted upon its walls with as much glee as it could. The room smelt of sickly sweet perfumes attempting to mask the smell of poison and sickness.

His brow furrowed to see this place as he entered. These appointments were often hardest to bear. The bed here was small, not one needed for an adult. The child within it could not have seen more than 12 years.

His furrow became a frown as he looked about the space. Filled with toys and entertainments, foods and water, the place was missing one of the most important things a child needed. Family.

He found his answer on the chart hung at the end of the bed. No surname, no parents names.

He knew of children such as this one, wards of the State. With no family to claim them as their own they became the children of the country's government.

His frown deepened from confusion to anger. Where was the hand for this child to hold? Where where the arms to cradle them? Sure the nursing staff would do all they can but where was the depth of community that looked out for the weakest amongst it?

His anger departed in a breath as his eyes rose to take in the frail little form in the bed, and the sadness rolled back in.

The pillows were propped up high to help them sit upright, the characterful cartoons decorating the bed covers drawn close. The child's skin was pale and drawn, on a face that age had yet to touch. Not a single hair stood on the child's head, lost to the poison the doctors had poured in to try kill that which was killing the patient.

The child’s eyes were open, their deep brown showing a wisdom that only pain can bring. They looked about the space, not seeing the big man in the worn suit and his long coat. He wondered what stories this child may have had, what tales would not become realized with this life cut so short.

The child folded its hand in its lap, closed its eyes, and smiling faintly, released the last breath.

It was a long while before he could move. Shoulders made heavy by his witness, slumped low. The sadness was settled upon him but it was only right that someone witness the last breath and when there was no one else who could, He would.

Shrugging himself into his long coat he straightened it about his bowed form and stepping unseen from the room he settled the hat upon his head.

He moved on … and stopped.

Confusion crossed his broad face and he cocked his head to the side as if listening. Nothing beyond the ambient noises of the hospital disturbed the space, yet still, something was amiss.

His confusion set a frown on his face and turning away from the exit he moved between the spaces searching.

He moved slowly, following the faintest of traces which none of his five senses could detect. Moving across the grounds and wards and wings of the hospital he patiently traced the sensation back to its source. Moving past staff, patient and security, invisible to them, unknown to them, unremarked by them.

He found it in the most unlooked for place.

The children's ward was a noisy frantic place smelling of baby powder, creams, milk, sterilizing fluid, fear, joy, and happiness. It was a jarring rush to the senses, surrounded by clamouring kids, happy frustrated parents and patient smiling reassuring nurses. So many stories starting and continuing together. So many new chapters to existing stories and so many new tales getting their first words.

The sensation ran strong here beneath all other input and his unseen form moved between the spaces tracing it down until his feet stuck to the ground and refused to move any further.

He turned about slowly moving his deep dark eyes around seeking and searching.

The toddler stood in a cot bed, little fists wrapped around the bars, part supporting its chubby weight, part using it to accentuate with thudding thumps the happy hollering issuing from a voice new to making noise. No more that 2 years old it set quite a ruckus about the place evidently enjoying the noisy sensation of its new story.

As the confusion reached its height within him, built up on the sorrow he carried and the pain in his shoulders, he wondered why his feet had lead him here? What story was this that he needed to witness?

Then the toddler's eyes met his. Dark brown as the earth itself, the hollering ceased in that split second. The eyes sparkled and a toothless smile split the chubby dimpled cheeks.

The child witnessed Him.

He stepped back in sudden surprise as the child saw him. Literally saw him, acknowledged him, following his movements with its eyes. His mind reeled in that moment seeking and searching for some sense and reason.

He had done this service to the people almost every day for years and decades and generations. He had passed unseen and unremarked in this land for more lives than he cared remember. Existing on an echo of a memory which was too strongly tied to the land to be released. He had done as he always had, seen to the work, put shoulder to the challenge, and served the people.

His mind tumbled back along those lives until he found what he was looking for at last.

A Name.

A collection of sounds spoken aloud to identify something. A unique arrangement of syllables configured to define something and to give it a particular place in a conversation. A word, a brand, to recognize and recall everything that was and is for this one special thing existing within the entire scope of the Great Cycle.

His Name.

Unheard to his ears, his heart, his Soul beyond the shade of that echo tied to the land.

The whisper of breath escaped him, carrying the Name out of his mouth and to the his ears before he even realised he had spoken aloud.

“Dagda.”

The toddlers smile broadened as those dark eyes showed it had heard the Name. the next moment arrived and it was all a holler and clamour, reveling in the sounds it’s little voice could create.

The wetness rolled unrestrained down the big broad cheeks as the Dagda look upon the child, wonder and gratitude filling his deep dark eyes. So much lost to him with his Name, could may yet be restored in time. He slowly inhaled the scent of freshly turned earth and the green of old trees which seemed to spring up around him.

“Maybe it’s almost time for My stories again.” 

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