"Puir wee thing... so young, and yet already marked.." Eothain awoke, the entire lower half of her body in pain, yet dulled, throbbing. She slowly propped herself up with her elbows, and took a look around. She was in  a warm, fire-lit room: small, but cozy. She was lying in a low, hand-made cot, with a warm, cozy wool blanket tucked around her tender frame, decorated with Celtic spirals and knots and what appeared to be a cross in the center, but unlike any she had ever seen. Settled near the bunk was a small, rough table, with a pitcher of water and a wooden mug perched on a thick, heavy-looking manuscript.

Silhouetted against the fire, a tall, broad shouldered man stood, his back to Eothain. in the dim light from the fire, the man's long, rust red hair could be easily picked out from his dull, earth-toned robes. He might have easily been some wandering monk, except for two things that stood out in the firelight. Belted onto his waist was the most beautiful sword she had ever seen, wide at the hand guard, then narrowing, and back again before narrowing down to the tip, with the grace of the ocean tide, the blade and hand guard etched in gold and silver, intertwined. Strapped to his forearms, seeming to glow in the blaze of the fire, were intricately crafted gauntlets. Extending to his knuckles, each plate and strap were polished to a gleam, and each plate was engraved with a spidery, ethereal script, weaving and winding and crossing over itself, with that same strange circular cross embossed on the hand plates.

This man clearly was not the Rider, but- she looked back up at him, to realize that he was looking at her. His eyes were kind, very intelligent and gleaming with past laughter and joys. That is what she first noticed. his beard was carefully braided, and strung with colored clay beads. In the fire's light, he didn't appear to be much older than her, about as old as Liam, but his eyes, interwoven amongst the laughter and the deep piercing intelligence was age. Age, mixed in with seemingly centuries of deep pain, and a calm, steady Light. Whoever he was, she was definitely safe around him.

"Ach, so ye've awakened at last, lass," he smiled softly, as he turned fully from the fireplace. His eyes locked with hers, and it felt as though every emotion, every memory, was passed over by a gentle, soothing wave, comforting her mind and soul. Then he looked away, and the feeling passed. "Ye must be starving, lil'un. It has been nearly two days since we came across ye." Her eyes widened silently, and the memories returned. The soldiers in her village. The screams. The blood. The Rider standing victoriously over her, ready to strike. And the light. that blinding, pure light.  She looked up at him again, and found him pouring water into the mug, watching her knowingly, slightly sadly. He trundled over to her, gently proffering her the mug.

"Here, drink this, little one." She took the mug, and drank, her eyes never leaving his. To say that the water was good was an understatement. The water gushed down her parched throat, icy cold, yet sweet, both refreshing her and revitalizing her. As she gulped down the last drought, she closed her eyes in sheer ecstacy, feeling strength rushing through her veins once again. When she opened her eyes again, the man was sitting back in a crooked wooden rocker, smiling wryly, chuckling under his great wooly beard.

"You look a lot better than how you were when we found you, lass. Now, I imagine you must have plenty of questions for me." Eothain nodded solumnly. Silence fell, only punctured by the crackling of the fire behind them. After a while, she spoke, barely above a whisper. "Sir... if it isn't too rude, who are you? what is this place? what happened to the Rider? You... you called him Lucifer?"

The man's eyes grew heavy for a moment, before they cleared, and were replaced by wisdom and mirth again, but still subdued. Finally, he spoke, but his voice was now touched with a slight Caledonian lilt. "My name, Eothain O'Skye, is Farawyn Addison, Lord of the Gaelic Riders. You are in Caledonia, on the shore facing Hibernia, in my clan hall. As for what happened to the Dark Skraeling..." he paused, getting to his feet wearily. "That is a conversation for another day, under less darker of circumstances. Now rest. And heal. You have had much pain and misery in these last few days, but when you wake again, you will have a chance for something much more than you can possibly imagine." With that, he tucked her into bed again, and quietly strode out of the room. Eothain's eyelids began to grow heavy and weary, and right before she slipped off into slumber, she thought, why tomorrow? She settled down in the borrowed cot, and slept. And dreamed deep.

 ~.~.~.~.~.~.~

When Eothain awoke, the room was dark. In the fireplace, the scattered coals from the fire glowed dimly, revealing little about her surroundings. With an elongated groan, she slipped her legs out from under the warm pile of blankets, and swung them over the edge of the cot, onto the ice-cold stone floor. To passers-by, the noise she made was akin to a cat being trod on. Once she regained her composure, she planted her feet on the ground firmly this time, and got to her feet shakily, leaning on the stubby table by her cot for support. It was time that she found out just exactly where she was.

            She felt around on the tabletop until she found what she was looking for- a candle. Moving carefully so as not to stumble and fall in the near-darkness, she maneuvered her way to the light of the glowing embers, and carefully lit the wick in them, nearly making her drop her candle as it flickered into life suddenly. With her curiosity burning like the candle in her hand, Eothain took a look around her room. On the far wall, a low rack stood against the wall, its shelves filled with strange, leather-bound packages. Upon further examination, she discovered that ages of parchment were neatly sewn into the leather binding, and covering each page, spidery yet neat lines of writing trailed across the pages, occasionally interrupted by rough sketches and illustrations and side notes in the same winding scrawl. With a start, she realized that what she held in her hands was the Book of St. Luke, and it wasn’t written in Latin, but in Gaelic, her own tongue!

            Beaming in the darkness, she clutched the book to her chest, as though it was a precious relic given to her by God Himself, and continued exploring her room. The door loomed out of the darkness like some monstrous thing of old, sunlight leaking in through the cracks of the thick wooden planks and through the thin gap under the door. Next to the door, a small desk stood, half-written pages of parchment scattered across its face. Picking one up, she read a rather confusing formal report on movements of Brittanic troops, and of a vague, yet apparently very important discovery over the waves, something about a holy city in the sand. After that, she couldn’t make any sense of the report. The little table still had the mug and pitcher on it- both empty, she noted sadly- but the chair by her bunk now held a pile of neatly folded clothes, a lengthy note pinned to her cloak resting on the back of the chair, now cleaned from the muck and grime. Here is what she read:

“Fair Ms. O’Skye, Good Day to You!” How does he know my name, she thought.

“With luck, your strength has returned, after your ordeal. You are more important than you think; the Dark Rider doesn’t come after just anyone. But that is for a later time. On a more immediate matter, I can imagine that you would appreciate a fresh change of clothing. I dearly hope that they fit properly. Thinking it unnecessary to disturb your slumber, some hot food has been left outside your door, and at your earliest convenience, come to the armory for fitting, if you so desire. You should find your way quite easily by ear. By any chance, there are things which must be explained to you, some of which I mentioned last night. There are events in motion that cannot be explained by mortal means alone. The Rider that attacked your village was not a creature of flesh and blood.” At this, Eothain blanched in the darkness, feeling a faint chill run down her back.

“I cannot tell you anything more than that of its origins, for fear that the dread would strike you down. However, as you saw for yourself, they can be fought by mere mortals. A choice lies before you now: you can leave this place, and live out your life as best as you can, and nobody will stop you. Or, you can stay here, and train with others of your age, and learn the truth of the darkness that wanders this world. But choose one, and only one, and let it be your choice. For if you choose to stay, your life will never be the same again. The choice is yours.

I have the honor to remain,

          Yours deeply

                    Lord Addison, Gaelic Riders, Recovery Team, CHT 2, etc."

Eothain smiled wryly, picking up the first bundle of clothing, unfolding it to find a finely sewn silken tunic, dyed a fine navy blue, with matching breeches. Stitched into the hem and collar, the same spidery script from Lord Addison's gauntlets repeated itself over and over. The letter had answered some questions, but there were still more questions than answers. She glanced once more to the pile of clothing, and picked it up, sizing it to herself, smiling wryly. Addison owed her plenty of answers.