I've never given much thought to the afterlife. Seems pointless when life is stretched out in front of you in one endless hamster wheel of 'to-dos' and 'next projects'. Truthfully, who thinks about death? Really? It's not like it's one of those topics you casually drop into conversation.

"So, Mary, ever thought about what happens when we kick the bucket?"

She'd cackle in my face and advise I take some Prozac. No one talks about uncomfortable things where I'm from. It's bad luck. You'd be inviting death, and no one wants that. So, for all my avoidance, why am I dead?

And, why is death so damn painful.

After the shattering of my lungs. The sense that ocean water, salt, and an overwhelming crushing force had ripped me from the inside out, there was a moment of peace. A suspension of time. Just floating in the nothing. It felt nice, or perhaps nice is a bit strong of a word, it just felt timeless. My thoughts all scattered with the rest of my body, because it felt that way. There's something genuinely peaceful about not having one single thought. Not one.

Then ... pain.

One moment I'm lost in the gloom, next, whatever's left of my skin and bones slams onto solid rock. My head ... Christ... if it's still attached then my brains must be jellified, or on their way to a similar consistency. Everything burns, like someone set a fire in my chest and poured petrol down my throat for good measure.

Blood. The metallic tang coats my tongue—how can I still taste? The smell, it's strong, and I can feel it now. Feel the congealing and the gore. I'm not dead. Yet.

Oh god ... I'm not dead.

I should be dead. I'd rather be dead.

Focus. You're alive. Move. Try and move.

At the command my toes curl and, with a jolt of white-hot agony I find my legs. Not broken. They're not broken, and I can feel them, my neck hasn't snapped. Arms? More crunching, more blinding pain, and my fingers splay over cold stone. I'm on my belly.

Up. Get up.

The commands bellow through my mind; my hazy, shattering mind, and I try to catch the thoughts as they flitter through, try to order them into actions. Yes, I need to get up. Need to move.

Get. Up.

I snarl at the command, and find my mouth and voice just in time for a frail wail to rip it's way from somewhere deep inside. I'm trying, I push the thought back. The quarrel in my own head seems to up the anté, for something quivers through muscles that I can't quite coordinate. Adrenaline; pure, powerful, primal energy, and next thing I know I'm reaching. Hands slapping on stones, knees and feet scrambling, belly dragging across shale and slimy rock.

Faster. On your feet.

Shakily, I draw a knee to my chest and scream at the pain radiating through my ribs. But I push anyway. It hurts like hell, but I'm determined to stand, but nature has another plan. A force, like a thousand icy needles, cracks down against my back and slams face first against the ground. Waves. The roar of the ocean behind answers with another slam of it's watery punch, buckling my legs and taking it with any ideas I might've had of fighting back.

Get up!

I can't. It's impossible. "I can't." I whisper, nose pressed into the shale. "Please ... it's over."

My mind goes silent. The sudden emptiness is eerie, like those commands weren't my own self-preservation, but an intruder desperately feeding me hope. Some kind of angry hope, but hope nonetheless. I'm so torn up I don't even care. It's useless, even if I could stand, I'm certain there's nothing left of me worth surviving.

Please. That thought trickles through my oddly roomy mind, clanging with some kind of broken urgency. Try. He needs you.

The call. Tess. My dad's accident. It all comes in quick succession. Try. Yes, I've got to try. He's nobody else. What will he do if I'm not there? Who's going to look after him? Somewhere in the back of my mind a still, small voice echoes back – who's going to look after you? But I shove it away, that's no way to think, that's selfish talk.

So, with every last ounce of strength I have left swimming around in this disconnected and disorientated body, I drag that knee up. Then my foot. Gritting my teeth, I growl through the agony, and push.

Up. I'm up. On shaky legs that don't feel like mine, but some kind of ghost limbs trembling with electricity. Eyes. Focus. My vision clears and I follow the shale of the beach straight ahead to rocks that climb upward giving away to the mouths of caves. Shelter. If I can reach there it'll be a refuge from the storm. If I can make it there maybe I'll survive long enough for help to come. Someone's bound to see the mangled car and send for the emergency services.

It's only when I'm on my feet that I realise there really is a storm. The high gales belt the shale beach and the waves grow larger and fiercer with every pull of the tide. It's a struggle to stand in the howling tunnel of wind, even worse with injuries, but that adrenaline is coursing again. Spurred on by the tiny trickle of hopeful thoughts that shout and thrash in my mind.

Move. Keeping moving.

So I move. Forward and not very gracefully. Staggering and drunkenly groping at stones and grit. The debris bites into my knuckles, tearing shreds of skin, but looking down at my hands they are already cut, bruised, and aching. What's a few more scars?

Faster.

The command pushes me to the limit. I throw all of the might in that thought into the waning spark in my bones. It's enough ... just enough, to hit the far rocks and start the climb. They're slippery and I'm realising my left foot lost a tennis shoe on the cannonball projection from the car. Grinding my teeth until my jaw aches with the force, I drag and pull my broken body up the rocks, one merciless slow step at a time. The noises coming out of me are inhuman, but they help. Now I understand why tennis players groan, it helps get all the force out, or maybe that's my imagination.

After what feels like hours of crying, falling, slicing a layer of skin off my hands and foot, I reach an open cave mouth. The last haul to leverage my body over the rock and into the cold gloom is excruciating. With a gasp, hoarse and exhausted, I tumble over the rock and rest against it. The wind howls through the gaping mouth and I still hear the terrifying crash of waves a few feet below, but I'm high enough now. The rocks act as a windbreaker, and even though I'm drenched in a mixture salt and sweat, I begin to shiver. My eyelids droop, a heavy weight drags them down, along with every muscle in my body. Heavy ... I'm so heavy.

No. Those thoughts command. Stay awake.

"I am ..." I croak into the darkness. "But, I'm tired."

Stay ...

"I'm staying," I whisper back, right before the weight in my eyes crashes them shut and I don't open them again.

* * *

Voices. Strange voices barking in a language I don't recognise. My eyelids peel apart like sandpaper, and I swallow—my vocal chords don't feel much better. But, my heart starts to thrum. The rescue. It must be the emergency crews.

I try to push up only to find that the imaginary anvil against my chest still holds supreme. Ugh ... I'll roll then. Flopping like a fish, I scoot onto my side and peer around the rocks. Bright, searing daylight smacks me up the face and I cringe, my eyes not adjusting to the assault, but I see enough to decipher dark blobs on the rocks below.

"He-hee—" I cough, there's nothing left in my voice but dusty notes. It's pointless, my chapped lips can't even form enough to get a word out. There's got to be another way.

My fingers slide and burrow in the dirt until I clutch a large enough stone, or maybe a shell? I don't care, it feels heavy enough to catch someone's attention if I threw it. Can I throw it though? I test the joint of my arm, it protests but there's movement. I can work with that.

I pitch the stone as hard as my limited strength allows, it doesn't go far. With a pitiful ting it plops into the water below. Great. Well, I'll try again. This time I'll try a shout, or something. Come on, Clara, put some effort in.

Fisting another stone and a handful of shale I toss it and let out a shout that is pathetic. It turns into a husk of air and I want to really shriek in frustration. But, the voices stop when the stone and shale scatter against the rocks below. Someone shouts. I don't understand the word but it sounds angry. Why would they be angry?

Then a sound, something between a growl and a snarl. That's not a rescue dog? What the hell is going on? Did I just land in some drug traffickers den. Wow, what luck? I'm really not supposed to survive this am I. Think. Just shut up. Find another a rock to hide behind.

The voices grow closer as I start to scramble, inching into the darkness of the cave, hoping the gloom will hide me. Frantically patting around I find another ledge, two foot or so about my head, wide enough to pull myself up onto, and curved enough to keep me hidden, if I can get up there in time.

I twist, planting my feet into the jutted edges of the rock and reaching to pull up. I bite down hard on my bottom lip, drawing fresh blood, as the agony of forcing my body to move brings tears to my eyes. But, my body is moving; slowly, and with very little grace, but I'm not quite such a mess as I initially thought. There's still a chance yet. A chance I might just live.

My right hand reaches the ledge, fingers scraping into the rock. My body cranes, feet digging in. Just a little farther and then ...

The rock breaks. My left foot goes with it.

A shocked huff escapes me, as I slide. No. My toes, my knee, every part of my lower body wriggles to catch a footing, while I slip, inch by inch from the edge. No.

Something warm and small wraps around my wrist. The shock renders me still for a moment. Then two bright eyes appear over the ledge. Familiar eyes. Cerulean blue and flecked with flares of summer sun.

A young face, with golden waves of baby soft of hair, platinum, like a halo ring, peers over the edge. A child. A young boy. A beautiful child. So angelic he steals away any kind of pain or panic. I'm hypnotized just staring into those baby blues. So perfect. Like a picture book. I don't even care to notice that his startled expression furrows into worry as he yanks and pulls on my wrist.

"Hurry," his lips form around the word but it's barely audible, just loud enough for me. "I can save you," he promises, those bright eyes dancing ahead to the voices echoing up from beneath. "Come on," he pleads and like an order snapping into place I start to scramble, using his grip to balance me enough to thrust a leg onto the ledge, then the other.

A little boy. He's just a child, what is child doing out here?

He looks at me then. Those glorious eyes drinking me in like I'm a ghost, or something out of his imagination. Maybe I am? Lord knows what mess I'm in, I'm sure I'm terrifying him.

"Are you okay?" He looks me over. "I saw you down there? Were you sleeping?"

I shake my head, still a little dumbfounded. "I—um." Placing a hand to my throat I swallow the grit. Still no voice.

"You shouldn't sleep here, lady, they'll find you," he whispers, his small hand tightening on my wrist, and I follow his gaze to the voices that seem to be moving on, leaving the cave entrance. "They don't like this cave. They don't go too far in, but it's still not safe."

I furrow my brows, and point to him then around at the cave. Suggesting why, if it's so dangerous, is he here. He grins, a cheeky thing, all pearly teeth and it melts my heart.

"I'm not scared," he answers and giggles. "My papa will scare them away." He snorts. "That's why their scared to come into the cave."

"You." I swallow and try to force the words out. "Live. Here."

"No." He covers his mouth to disguise the laughter. "You're silly. I'm from the Woodland court, like you."

"Wh-what?"

"Oh ... are you not clan?" he furrows his brows. "I just thought." He glances toward the water, and draws in a breath. "Are you a selkie?"

"A wh—no." I sit back against the wall. Suddenly shaken from the spell the child's appearance cast on me, and study him, properly.

His slight, small but oddly lean. He's strong, he pulled me right up on the ledge ... he can't be more than six, or at the most seven. Despite the dirt streaks on his chin and matted locks he's remarkably striking. Alabaster skin, so pale, but not sickly. His complexion perfect. His eyes ... wild and bright ... too focused. A child doesn't have eyes like that.

I draw my knees to my chest, alarmed, and morbidly curious, I follow the outline of his features. Those slender, almost feline, features until ...

"Ears!" The word pops out of my mouth with more gusto than the previous hoarse attempts.

He smacks his hands on ears and shuffles back into the crevice of the rock. "What's wrong with my ears?" He glares and pulls tufts of chin length waves over the delicate points of his tipped ears. "They're just the same as yours."

Involuntarily, my fingers seek out my ears, even though I know it's ridiculous. My ears are not pointed, I don't have pixie ears. I've normal sized ears, which are rounded, and completely human. So normal. So normal that in fact they're ... pointed.

Another wheezy shriek comes out of my mouth and drop my hand. The child scrambles over the distance between us and clamps his hand over my mouth.

"Ssshhh," he hisses. "They'll hear and come back."

I swallow, the lump getting caught in my raw throat. Something is very wrong. Something doesn't quite add up here. I try to blink the tears that gather at the edges of my eyes, their burning sting making them hard to ignore.

"Why are you crying?" He asks and timidly removes hand. "Are you scared?"

I nod. My fingers fisting into the ripped slashes of my jeans. Scared is understatement, I'm petrified. There's a child talking to me. A child that looks like an angel, some kind of saint sent cherub, with pointed ears and more strength than your average man. He isn't human. Those things on the rocks with their growls and snaps weren't human either. Maybe I am dead? Maybe this is the afterlife. Oh my god, this is hell isn't it? I'm in the mouth Hades.

The child observes my theatrics for a long moment, scrutinizing every shift of my features as I try to stop the tears from free falling. I fail miserably of course. There's something lulling in his wide eyes, something distractible, and I decide to just watch him instead. I figure there's some comfort in a little lost angel comforting me at the gates of death.

"Don't cry," he says after a few moments, his small hands reaching forward to press against my cheek. "You'll be okay. I'll protect you."

Maybe I'm crazy, but I kinda believe him. Or, at least, I don't think I've much of a choice.

"Where am I?" I whisper, my voice barely scratching an audible note but he the kid seems to follow.

He frowns and looks around. "The far North, just beyond the Great wood."

"Of, where?" I push, and watch his two little brows rise high on his brow.

"Tír na nÓg." He says the words slow and careful, like I'm crazy ... and I think I am.

Tír na nÓg. That's impossible. I'm hallucinating, this is a dream, I must dying and I'm still out on that beach or in the water. This isn't real. But, the painful throbbing in my skull, the full-body-ache, and the scorched lungs and throat seem to negate that theory. I squeeze my eyes shut. This. Is. Not. Possible.

"You're not from here, are you?" His soprano voice tickles my ears, sing-song, beautiful and lilted—Faeish.

The charm, the hypnotic appeal, the draw of his aura, it's Fae folk magic. It's unnatural. My mind works overtime to call up the drunken rants my father would descend into. Roaring about the bloody creatures, made to entice and ensnare us gullible humans. They might be fair but their nature far from it. There's not a single fairy-tale that he told me that ended well for the human when they met with Fae on a dark night. But, he's just a boy. A child. And, he saved me. And my giddy-aunt my ears are still pointed.

"No." I say, and peek a glance at him, careful not to fully meet his gaze. "I'm ... human ... I'm from Ireland ..." he tilts his head in confusion. "Ah ... um ... Eíre?" I offer the ancient name and wait.

After what feels like a very long time,  but is likely moments, he starts to laugh. A quiet laugh because we're still stuck on this ledge, but a laugh no less.

"You're funny," he says between chuckles. "Fae don't live there. They haven't lived their in years. Where are you really from? I won't tell."

"I'm not Fae!" I cry and then muffle the sound behind the backs of my hands. "My name is Clara Riley, I'm a waitress, my car hit the barrier and I fell in the water."

He just stares, though I'm starting to see the beginnings of actual fear in his eyes and I could kick myself. I'm sure a Fae child has Fae parents and they probably won't like me upsetting their precious little one.

"But ... you look Fae?" He sits back on his knees and continues to tilt his head side to side.

"Well I'm not," I reply, as firm as my squeaky voice will allow. "And I'm injured, can you help find someone?"

"Papa," he replies cheerily.

"Yes. Can you get your father?" I cross all available fingers and toes that his father isn't some monster-eating-beast-with-teeth kinda Fae.

The joy whisks out of the boys eyes and he shakes head. "I can't get him, but I know he'll help."

"What? Why can't you ..." I let the question drag off because clearly a child on their own, in a dark cave, covered in dirt, hardly has an active parent. He's in trouble too.

"Papa went away, to protect us, and he didn't come back." The boy clasps his hands in front of him and fidgets with his nails. "But, I'm gonna find him, and when I do he'll help you."

Oh no. This is awful. He's looking for his dead father. How long has he been out here on his own?

"Where's your mother?" I ask quietly, stretching out a hand to wrap around his.

He shrugs. "I don't know? I don't have a mother."

"No family?" Those tears make an appearance again but not for me, for the little lost angel, who's just as lost as me.

"I had Grandpa," he says and offers a sad smile, "but he went away a long time ago. Papa and I miss him."

"I had a grandma, she went away too," I say with a small smile. "Me and my papa miss her too."

"But you know she watches you, right?" He scoots closer and nuzzles into my side. "All our spirits go to the stars and watch over us, they're guiding lights, they lead us on our paths. Grandpa is going help me find Papa."

"That's good," I whisper and loop an arm around him. He only wears a silken shirt and woollen trousers, he must be freezing. I know I am. "Maybe your Grandpa will help me too."

"Or, your Grandma," he says with a yawn. "Maybe we're on the same path."

I laugh, a hollow sound, but despite the emptiness in my chest, I'd like to believe him.

"What's your name?" I ask and stroke a hand through his hair, he's clearly decided I'm his new pillow.

"Oisín," he murmurs, and I roll my eyes ... of course it is. "Will you stay with me, Clara?"

"I don't think I've anywhere else to go," I reply and he wraps his little fingers around my wrist.

"Good. I'm glad we met." He sighs and yawns again. "It'll be safe to take a little nap here."

"Then where will go?" I don't know why I ask, we're hardly going to make out of this alive, but I want to give this beautiful little boy hope. After all he's been through, he needs it more than I do. Besides, it's better to imagine and dream than pay attention to our horrific reality.

"I know a place," he says. "There's food."

"Mmm," I reply. "What kind?"

He chuckles. "All kinds. My favourites. Berries, and nuts, and honey if we're lucky. We'll go there after our nap."

"Yes, I'd like that." I drop my head onto his and feel his warm breath tickle my neck. "Thank you for rescuing me Oisín."

I hear the smile in his tired little voice as he answers, "that's what princes do."

**********************************************************************************

A/N.

Media: Fleurie 'Beathe'

Many thanks to LuckyBugBooks, Tigert20, HendElamaim, loterial_greenleaf, and everyone voting and reading. The guesses were brilliant. And yes to those who guessed Oisín was little leggy. Didn't  I promise we'd never lose our little rescuer. I love him too much.

I'm blown away by the support guys. Just taking a minute to thank you for all your beautiful messages, and for reading! Anyone new stopping buy, please give that star a little click it'll make my whole day. Gonna keep updates as regular as possible. Hopefully weekly, more if I can help it, so buckle up, it's gonna get bumpy. 

Oh toto, we're not in Middle Earth anymore.