Wielder of Destiny

by Lasser/Dragonrampant

Summary: How Kenneth fits into the Cathain legend

Genre: General (Mythology)

Name: Lassar/Dragonrampant

Email: Dragonrampant@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: Top Cow is a front for Kenneth Irons, who owns EVERYTHING if you follow the paper trails far enough.

Rating: PG

Award: ‘Best in Show’ Convergence Fanfiction Contest

Author’s notes: Gaelic crash course as follows: Aes Sidhe-Basically the Elvin host that rode out four nights a year to hunt down wicked mortals. Their prey of choice were oath breakers, but not limited to them. Coinneach- Kenneth, Iarann-Iron, thoine-ass, Cwyn Annwn-Hounds of the Hunt, Kensaleyre-located on the Isle of Skye (Cathain’s island) where the remnants of a Neolithic stone circle still can be found today, Llan An Cailleach-Cathain’s gauntlet, the Witchblade.

Wielder of Destiny

The baying of the hounds of the Aes Sidhe was much closer now. The blonde haired man leaned against an oak tree for support, his breath coming in harsh gasps. His chest was burning, and each new breath he dragged into his lungs was agony. His calves were cramping violently and his legs felt like water.

The idea of taking another moment to rest was alluring, but he knew that he had no more moments to spare. He had led his pursuers on a tangled and difficult chase. Had they been mortal, he would have shed their unwanted presence quickly. But they were the Wild Hunt, and harder to put by than a priest’s conscience. He was nearing the end of his strength, and could only think of one last possibility to save himself.

Coinneach still had a short distance to go to reach his destination, and even that was no surety against what pursued him. He pushed off from the oak that he had leaned against and started off at a shuffling trot. It was the fastest pace he could force his weary body to take. It was shameful, the man nicknamed Iarann for his endurance, reduced to the gait of an old woman.

His pale blue eyes surveyed the remaining distance to the circle of standing stones at the top of the next hill. They reflected the light of the moon from their pale faces, shining like beacons in the night. The Stones of Kensaleyre would either save him or serve as the marker for his death.

He was halfway up the slope when the first hound burst from the tree line behind him. It was the size of a pony, with eyes that glowed like coals. The massive beast was white with the red ears that marked all Cwyn Annwn. The hound sang out to the rest of the Hunt, telling all that the quarry was in sight.

The victorious howl made Coinneach reach inside himself for his last vestige of strength. Without wasting any of his newfound energy to look behind him, he put on a burst of speed in an attempt to reach the stones ahead of his pursuers. The winter-dead grass hissed against his legs as he pushed himself up the steep slope.

Just past the crest of the hill began the circle of stone. According to local myth, giants had laid them in place. Coinneach knew better. There were several such sites scattered all across the land, and men built them all. In ancient times, men had known the value of such places. Unfortunately, the wise and learned were feared and destroyed during times of great upheaval, and there had been many such times. Few now knew of the true power that had been bound in the stone, even fewer knew how to unleash it.

If he could call that power to his hand, he could keep the Aes Sidhe at bay until the sun rose over the horizon. Once the sun rose, the Wild Hunt would return to the realms of Arawn until the way between worlds thinned again at Imbolc. When that day arrived, they would have to hunt other prey. He would not be caught outdoors and alone during a holy eve again in this lifetime.

He should have known better than to be out on Samhain night, he knew perfectly well that the Aes Sidhe would be coursing for those who had betrayed their oaths. Of course, they could have been anywhere this night. It was only ill fortune that the Hounds of the Hunt had scented his trail as he left behind the Keep of Cathain. He had been heading for the coast; from there he could hire a ship to take him home.

Once he reached the top, he took the Llan An Cailleach from his belt pouch with a gloved hand. The jewel on the gauntlet glowed softly in the night, reminding him of the way Cathain’s hair looked when she sat close to the hearth fire. He felt a twinge of sorrow under all his exhaustion and fear at the thought. If only Cathain had loved him, and not that thoine Conchobar. Together they could have ruled the world, not just the small sliver of it Cathain had held alone.

Even mighty Rome would have bowed her head under their combined might. Cathain had the battle knowledge and skill. Armies trained under her exacting hand surpassed even the Legionnaires. He was born to rule; his talent for statecraft and sorcery were unparalleled. His blood was noble and pure; his family could be traced back to Sigurd himself.

It galled him that she had not shared his vision. Cathain had rejected it, and more importantly, him. All the fire went out of her when Conchobar left. Nothing interested her any longer. All appetite fled, the finest food and drink no longer tempted her. She would not stir for war or pleasure. Instead she haunted the high places alone, sat empty and unmoving in her hall. All words fell upon ears deafened by a heart that listened only for the sound of a voice that would not return.

In the end there had been only one path that led to the future he desired. Cathain’s battle prowess and wisdom were not completely inborn. The gauntlet she wore was an ancient talisman, bestowing invincibility in battle. It also granted the wearer knowledge and the ability to pierce the veil of the senses.

The Llan An Cailleach would serve but one master, and so long as Cathain lived, she was that master. She had to die so the glove would pass to a new, more worthy bearer. One who was strong enough, ruthless enough, to use it the way it had been intended.

When he had slid the dagger home between Cathain’s ribs, she had been surprised, and angry. He had been angry too, as well as hurt, and bitterly jealous. He suspected the heart blow had been the first thing to penetrate that fog she had walked in since Conchobar had gone. As the light faded from her eyes, the gauntlet fell from her wrist with a muted click.

He had cut away a piece of her cloak to wrap the Llan An Cailleach in for travel. He had been careful not to let it touch his skin while he did so. One did not casually handle an artifact of such magnitude, especially after slaying it’s chosen bearer. It was odd really, that the gauntlet did not choose to warn her.

Perhaps the Llan An Cailleach had been as weary of Cathain’s wallowing in self-pity as he had been. The gauntlet would always take care of itself, making sure it would survive. He could respect that attitude, and hoped the gauntlet would respect him in turn. He needed the talisman’s cooperation, or at least it’s tolerance, to fulfill his destiny.

Shaking off his reverie, he pulled a dagger and sliced his wrist. Only blood would waken the sleeping might locked in the stones. Normally what he was attempting required a period of fasting and cleansing, followed by a fairly long ritual. He had neither the time nor the resources to do it in the traditional manner. He was going to have to raise the power another way, and he could only think of one possibility, the Llan An Cailleach.

The blood flowed over the gauntlet to drop onto the first and largest stone. He hoped the power invested in the Llan An Cailleach would imbue the blood with the same properties the ritual would have bestowed. If it didn’t he was about to be pulled apart by the sharp teeth of the giant hounds.

For a long and tense moment, nothing happened. The hounds were halfway up the hill, their hides trailing streamers of green phosphorescence. They watched him with baleful eyes; their continual howling called the Aes Sidhe to them. The hounds had done their part; they had brought their quarry to ground. Now they waited for The Master of the Hunt, Gwyn ap Nudd, and his huntsmen to arrive and finish the kill.

Gwyn ap Nudd burst into view at the base of the hill on his black horse, his huntsmen close at his heels. He was a giant warrior covered in glinting armor. His scarlet cloak snapped behind him in a wind born of his own passage. When he saw his prey brought to bay, he unslung his spear.

Coinneach bent his considerable will toward the Stone and roared, “Wake!”

At his summons the power stirred. Between the call of blood, the call of will, and the call of the Llan An Cailleach, it was thrice bound to answer. He felt the ancient magic roar over him, vibrating his very bones. He spoke the words of warding, the sounds ripping from his already tortured throat.

A shimmering veil of power spilled across the night air, separating the Aes Sidhe and their hounds from Coinneach. He then spoke the words of binding, to hold the warding fast. As he did so, the magic twisted in a way he could not have anticipated. He was mixing two powers that were never meant to work together, using his lifeblood as the conduit. The magic changed him.

He could feel the Llan An Cailleach; feel its patience and sense of purpose. Somehow the magic had bound him to the talisman. He could see back down the line of time, and forward into the future. It all came simultaneously in a dizzying rush, leaving him with feelings and images of his past lives, and the ones yet to come.

Suddenly it became clear to him. Oh, not in words, but the impressions that remained from his visions were strong enough. He was not here by accident. As far back as the beginning, he had been part of the grand design. The sheer magnitude of the web woven through time and space staggered and humbled him.

The Aes Sidhe had not randomly chosen to pursue him. He was not the only one who had broken their oath to their liege. He wasn’t even the only one to have slain the one he had sworn before his gods to protect. The gauntlet needed him, and had taken steps to bind him to its will. The Llan An Cailleach had called to the Hunt as they rode into the realms of man on Samhain, bringing them on his trail. It had maneuvered him into making this choice, a choice that would bind him beyond time.

He would serve the Llan An Cailleach first and always. Its protection was paramount to him. The chosen wielder was only slightly less so, and only as an extension of the gauntlet. When the Llan An Cailleach was ready to pass from one wielder, he would be there to insure its safe and smooth transition to the proper replacement.

In return the Llan An Cailleach would give life to his deepest dreams. Conquest, power, love, all could be his if he would serve. Coinneach gazed deeply into the eye of the gauntlet, captured by the vision of his heart’s desires paraded before him. It wasn’t until he felt the earth tremble under his feet that he raised his eyes from the talisman.

Whatever it may have felt like to him, only moments had passed. The hounds had moved to leave a large path through their center. The vibrations were Gwyn and his huntsmen charging through the gap, the hooves of their enchanted black steeds pounding the rocky slope.

All the huntsmen had their spears leveled for throwing, the metal tips trailing streamers of green light. Their helms completely hid their faces, but they had the same glowing coal eyes as the horses and the hounds. Their fiery gazes never wavered as they closed the distance between them. As one they hurled their spears toward his chest and then veered off, confident that the barrier would not hold.

The spears struck the barrier in a blinding shower of sparks, but did not penetrate. Instead their weapons fell smoking onto the dry grass. Coinneach felt a surge of triumph. The barrier held against the magic of their otherworldly metal. He watched as the Hunt wheeled their horses back around to face him. He could only imagine their chagrin at being bested by a mortal.

“Coinneach, son of Canmore, you have led us on a merry chase this night. Such cunning and endurance should be rewarded. Come forward and receive the clean death you have earned.” Gwyn ap Nudd’s voice rang commandingly through the night as he drew another short-hafted throwing spear from the quiver attached to his saddle.

The power in his voice almost brought Coinneach to the edge of the circle before he realized it. He stopped and smiled coldly at Gwyn, “I fear I must decline your specious offer, Lord of the Hunt.”

“You would dare refuse my generosity?” Gwyn ap Nudd roared. His horse reared in agitation at the sound, pawing the air with glowing red hooves. Gwyn jerked the reins with one hand and the beast settled under him.

“I would dare a great many things this night.” Coinneach replied as he leaned insolently against the stone, a mere step away from the edge of the enchanted protection.

“Foolish mortal, that warding will only protect you from physical assault. As I have already proved, it is no defense against my words. Once again I offer you a more merciful end than your betrayals warrant.” Gwyn nudged his steed, and it slowly moved him closer to the circle.

“I am on my guard against another such attack, Gwyn ap Nudd. I think you will find a repeat effort to be ineffectual.” Coinneach replied, his voice as wintry as his eyes.

“Assume not that you know the depths of my will, oath breaker, nor the vastness of my armory. I have a great many weapons you have not yet seen. For the final time, will you come forth and accept my offer of a clean death?” Gwyn was nearly even with the circle now. His horse had turned slightly as it climbed, so he was turned sideways in the saddle to face Coinneach. He reached out one hand and ran it over the barrier, ignoring the crackles of light that flared where he touched.

The eye of the Llan An Cailleach began glowing as Gwyn continued to touch the barrier. Coinneach knew he was testing it for weaknesses, and had his own concerns about it holding. After all, it had been raised in a very unorthodox manner. There could be a way to circumvent the protections.

The talisman grew warmer; he could feel its heat through his glove. Another vision roared through his mind, showing him the barrier being breached in a subtle twist of power. The Hunt slew him while the Llan lay cold on the grass. The gauntlet whispered ‘Put me on if you wish to survive.’

He knew that the talisman was to be used by women only, that the Llan An Cailleach would slay or maim any male who dared to wear it. But he was bound to the Llan An Cailleach. Surely it had not gone to all this trouble simply to destroy him now? Coinneach hesitated with the gauntlet held over his still bleeding arm. If he lost his hand, he could not fulfill his dreams of conquest and power. Only men whole of limb and without deformity could be king.

‘They were unworthy. You alone will not be harmed, My Chosen, but you must be quick. The protections will not hold much longer.’ The Llan An Cailleach purred in a voice remarkably like Cathain’s.

Coinneach curled up one lip. While he didn’t doubt his own worth, the Llan’s idea of harm could be far different from his. However, he could hardly fulfill his destiny if he were to die impaled upon the spear of Gwyn ap Nudd. “Thrice asked, now thrice spurned. I will not go complacently to my death like some bleating ewe.”

He settled the gauntlet on his arm. As the metal touched his bare flesh, a more complete bonding occurred. The Llan passed information to him at a dizzying speed, searing into his hand. The pain sent him to his knees, and he ripped the gauntlet from his arm with the gloved hand. Two interlocking circles had been burned onto the top of his hand. Little tendrils of smoke drifted up in the cold night air.

He raised his burned and bloody hand high into the air and then laid it and the gauntlet upon the Stone. The words given him by the Llan An Cailleach spilled from his lips. They seemed to hang in the suddenly heavy air. It was that same oppressive weight that heralded a great storm.

After several minutes of that terrible calm, a breeze sprang up from the East. It rippled the grass and tugging the manes and tails of the horses. It increased in strength as Coinneach continued to chant. A path made of white light began to form under the paws and hooves of the Hunt.

Gwyn ap Nudd knew what was happening, and raised his voice above the wind, “Coinneach, son of Canmore, marked by the Llan An Cailleach, thrice named, thrice I curse thee! That which you strive to possess shall ever elude your grasp. May you never know contentment, and may the object of your salvation this night prove to be the instrument of your destruction!”

Coinneach met the fiery glare of Gwyn with eyes that reflected silver in the glow of the enchantments. He let the last syllables roll off his tongue with a little flourish, then smiled coldly as the Aes Sidhe were drawn back to the realms of Arawn.

“What kind of monster do you think I am? Really Sara, you have no idea.” Kenneth mused as he caressed the page he had ripped out of the ancient manuscript. The illumination of Coinneach stabbing Cathain had been rendered by someone who had known them both. The likeness, while flattering, would hardly evoke the desired response in the new wielder.

Let her think it had dealt with her ‘beloved’ Conchobar. The true contents of the page hardly mattered, this time he would defeat the curse. He laid the page down and ran his fingers over the interlocking circles that marked his hand. Yes, this time it would be different.