that it had pierced through his pants and into his flesh.
The Faolchú crept closer and the scent of his blood on the air sent them into frenzy. They hurled themselves at one another with feral snarls and a great gnashing of teeth. But the large Faolchú who had been right behind Phinnegan was not to be denied. He proved his might to the other hounds, which now slinked to their place behind him, the leader of the pack.
His eyes were the same pupil-less white as the others, but he bore a long scar across his left eye and around his snout. Phinnegan’s eyes raced over the hound’s body and he saw more old wounds, so many that the red fur was practically hidden beneath the thick, white scars. This one had fought, and won, many battles.
The beast came forward and Phinnegan pushed himself backwards on his hands. The Faolchú bared his teeth, his lips curling upward in what would have been a smile, had the face been human and not that of a wild hound.
When the hound pushed back on his haunches, Phinnegan braced himself for the attack that was to come. The Faolchú’s rear legs pushed hard against the earth and the hound leapt, jaws open.
Phinnegan heard himself scream.
When his eyes fluttered open, the world was washed out and bright. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the light, and then slowly opened them so that only a sliver crept through. He felt himself bouncing, up and down, a natural rhythm to the motion. He rolled his eyes right and left and saw that he was no longer in the forest. The sky above was a dark purple, the hour just beyond sunset.
He felt support beneath him and after a few moments of clouded thinking, he knew them to be arms. He was being carried. His head rolled in the direction of the body that owned the arms which bore him. Looking up, he saw a pale face, the countenance one of youth juxtaposed against wisdom; the face of a Faë.
Atop the head a thick, tangled mass of dark red hair spilled forth. Sensing his stirring, the face looked down. Two bright red eyes shone from deep sockets. Even in his muddled state, Phinnegan could read worry plain on the Faë’s face.
“Brostaigh,” the Faë said, and Phinnegan felt the bouncing become more jostled. He felt himself slipping, and as his head rolled left against his shoulder, his last glimpse was the back of Periwinkle Lark, who jogged ahead into the darkness.
CHAPTER 11
A Friendly House
The next few days were an unrecognizable blur to Phinnegan Qwyk, for his mind was not at all present in them. He passed in and out of a restless sleep through morning and night. His eyes opened only rarely, sightless and glassy. Phinnegan heard a familiar voice speak to him now and then, repeating the same phrase over, and over, and over, though he knew not what it meant.
“Tarraing anáil…Tarraing anáil.”
The two pairs of colorful eyes that watched over him grew more distressed when their patient’s lips moved, only to repeat these same words. They watched over him, two vigilant guards, knowing that behind the pale face the mind of their charge wrestled with invisible demons. Had they been able to see into his mind, as he lay in restless fits of sleep, they would have seen that his mind was in angst, yet he dreamt not. The nightmares that had assaulted him in the woods after he inhaled the poisonous gas did not return.
On the fourth morning after their harrowing night in Darkwater Forest, Phinnegan awakened, weak and disoriented. A heavy scent of sweet, musky flowers filled the air. The room was sparsely lit, and so his eyes accustomed quickly. The ceiling was covered in wispy, intricate patterns like none he had ever seen. Where was he? What had happened? His mind panicked and he bolted up in bed, but he was overcome with dizziness and crashed back onto the bed.
“Well, well. He returns from the dead after all. Gave us quite a scare you did; had a devil of a time just reminding you to breathe. ”
Phinnegan recognized the voice as
The Faolchú crept closer and the scent of his blood on the air sent them into frenzy. They hurled themselves at one another with feral snarls and a great gnashing of teeth. But the large Faolchú who had been right behind Phinnegan was not to be denied. He proved his might to the other hounds, which now slinked to their place behind him, the leader of the pack.
His eyes were the same pupil-less white as the others, but he bore a long scar across his left eye and around his snout. Phinnegan’s eyes raced over the hound’s body and he saw more old wounds, so many that the red fur was practically hidden beneath the thick, white scars. This one had fought, and won, many battles.
The beast came forward and Phinnegan pushed himself backwards on his hands. The Faolchú bared his teeth, his lips curling upward in what would have been a smile, had the face been human and not that of a wild hound.
When the hound pushed back on his haunches, Phinnegan braced himself for the attack that was to come. The Faolchú’s rear legs pushed hard against the earth and the hound leapt, jaws open.
Phinnegan heard himself scream.
When his eyes fluttered open, the world was washed out and bright. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the light, and then slowly opened them so that only a sliver crept through. He felt himself bouncing, up and down, a natural rhythm to the motion. He rolled his eyes right and left and saw that he was no longer in the forest. The sky above was a dark purple, the hour just beyond sunset.
He felt support beneath him and after a few moments of clouded thinking, he knew them to be arms. He was being carried. His head rolled in the direction of the body that owned the arms which bore him. Looking up, he saw a pale face, the countenance one of youth juxtaposed against wisdom; the face of a Faë.
Atop the head a thick, tangled mass of dark red hair spilled forth. Sensing his stirring, the face looked down. Two bright red eyes shone from deep sockets. Even in his muddled state, Phinnegan could read worry plain on the Faë’s face.
“Brostaigh,” the Faë said, and Phinnegan felt the bouncing become more jostled. He felt himself slipping, and as his head rolled left against his shoulder, his last glimpse was the back of Periwinkle Lark, who jogged ahead into the darkness.
CHAPTER 11
A Friendly House
The next few days were an unrecognizable blur to Phinnegan Qwyk, for his mind was not at all present in them. He passed in and out of a restless sleep through morning and night. His eyes opened only rarely, sightless and glassy. Phinnegan heard a familiar voice speak to him now and then, repeating the same phrase over, and over, and over, though he knew not what it meant.
“Tarraing anáil…Tarraing anáil.”
The two pairs of colorful eyes that watched over him grew more distressed when their patient’s lips moved, only to repeat these same words. They watched over him, two vigilant guards, knowing that behind the pale face the mind of their charge wrestled with invisible demons. Had they been able to see into his mind, as he lay in restless fits of sleep, they would have seen that his mind was in angst, yet he dreamt not. The nightmares that had assaulted him in the woods after he inhaled the poisonous gas did not return.
On the fourth morning after their harrowing night in Darkwater Forest, Phinnegan awakened, weak and disoriented. A heavy scent of sweet, musky flowers filled the air. The room was sparsely lit, and so his eyes accustomed quickly. The ceiling was covered in wispy, intricate patterns like none he had ever seen. Where was he? What had happened? His mind panicked and he bolted up in bed, but he was overcome with dizziness and crashed back onto the bed.
“Well, well. He returns from the dead after all. Gave us quite a scare you did; had a devil of a time just reminding you to breathe. ”
Phinnegan recognized the voice as
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