wraiths to flit across the contours of the crypt.
Hunger ate at him.
His mouth dried up, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. His head swam. The darkness offered nothing for him to fix on, no detail to help him focus his balance. Instead it was a turmoil of ever-shifting black. His legs buckled and he sank-down but the chains wouldn't allow him to fall. The slump triggered a wave of nausea and a sunburst of pain from his wounded arm. The pain gave him something to focus on. Sláine latched on to it desperately. There was a world of pain. That was what it all came down to.
He imagined he heard the beasts prowling beneath him, imagined the diseased form of Avagddu trying futilely to find a way to the surface.
"He's in your mind, fool," Sláine told himself - or tried to. His voice died in his throat. Only shapeless words emerged, cracked and broken beyond recognition even in his own ears.
He lost himself in the darkness. Time drifted. He obsessed over his own ghosts, remembering over and over the look on Cullen of the Wide Mouth's face as he rammed the gáe bolga into his guts, hearing again the taunts of Conn of a Hundred Battles and the screams, and the screams. He couldn't shut out the screams. He moaned in the darkness, a pitiful sound that was only barely human.
He felt something brush up against his leg.
He heard the squeak of rats and surged upwards trying to lash out, but the chains restrained him.
Rats.
Rodents were scavengers. They stayed close to their food sources. He remembered the picked-clean bones he had caught glimpses of as he had been brought into the chamber.
The next time he felt the rodent brush up against his leg he stamped his foot down on it making sure the rat knew he was alive. The rodent's spine crunched beneath his foot. He had no desire to become lunch.
Fire burned in his arms and his back but even that numbed as his circulation dried up.
He lapsed in and out of consciousness.
He remembered Cathbad's words of how the dead would judge him, how the dead would find him wanting, how the dead would drag him kicking and screaming into the darkness of the Underworld.
He felt his blood slowing in his veins.
He imagined them, the dead, circling his body like vultures, waiting for the death rattle that could only be a few breaths away.
He felt his flesh hunger.
He looked up at the crack in the roof, willing the sun to come alive for him, for it to be over.
He faded again, head snapping up suddenly alert, unsure what had startled him.
In the blur where his eyes refused to focus he saw a bone white smear and painted it in to the head of some fell beast risen up from the Annwn, too impatient to wait for his passing.
Then he saw the single shaft of light on his hand. He looked up at the ceiling and saw the dust motes dancing in the thin beam of light. His fingers tingled. He closed his eyes trying to focus on the sensation, not at all sure what it meant. He flexed his fingers, stretching them open. His middle finger broke the beam of light. It was like touching lightning. A jolt of raw power surged through his body, causing his back to arch and his body to spasm in agony. It burned briefly but all the more intensely for it. His head swam. Even such a miniscule infusion of earth power was intoxicating. His body ached for more. Sláine stretched up, trying desperately to reach the light with more of his hand. He closed his eyes, succumbing to the agony and the ecstasy of it.
And it was both.
The power flowed through his fingers and down his arm, infusing every nerve and fibre as it searched to earth itself through him. His body bucked beneath the onslaught. His heart strained in his chest. His blood sang in his veins.
He had forgotten what it felt like to connect with the earth but here, in this most sacred place, he was reminded - and that reminder was brutal in the extreme.
His cries were terrible. He felt the monster rising inside him, felt the sudden and forceful surge of base
Hunger ate at him.
His mouth dried up, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. His head swam. The darkness offered nothing for him to fix on, no detail to help him focus his balance. Instead it was a turmoil of ever-shifting black. His legs buckled and he sank-down but the chains wouldn't allow him to fall. The slump triggered a wave of nausea and a sunburst of pain from his wounded arm. The pain gave him something to focus on. Sláine latched on to it desperately. There was a world of pain. That was what it all came down to.
He imagined he heard the beasts prowling beneath him, imagined the diseased form of Avagddu trying futilely to find a way to the surface.
"He's in your mind, fool," Sláine told himself - or tried to. His voice died in his throat. Only shapeless words emerged, cracked and broken beyond recognition even in his own ears.
He lost himself in the darkness. Time drifted. He obsessed over his own ghosts, remembering over and over the look on Cullen of the Wide Mouth's face as he rammed the gáe bolga into his guts, hearing again the taunts of Conn of a Hundred Battles and the screams, and the screams. He couldn't shut out the screams. He moaned in the darkness, a pitiful sound that was only barely human.
He felt something brush up against his leg.
He heard the squeak of rats and surged upwards trying to lash out, but the chains restrained him.
Rats.
Rodents were scavengers. They stayed close to their food sources. He remembered the picked-clean bones he had caught glimpses of as he had been brought into the chamber.
The next time he felt the rodent brush up against his leg he stamped his foot down on it making sure the rat knew he was alive. The rodent's spine crunched beneath his foot. He had no desire to become lunch.
Fire burned in his arms and his back but even that numbed as his circulation dried up.
He lapsed in and out of consciousness.
He remembered Cathbad's words of how the dead would judge him, how the dead would find him wanting, how the dead would drag him kicking and screaming into the darkness of the Underworld.
He felt his blood slowing in his veins.
He imagined them, the dead, circling his body like vultures, waiting for the death rattle that could only be a few breaths away.
He felt his flesh hunger.
He looked up at the crack in the roof, willing the sun to come alive for him, for it to be over.
He faded again, head snapping up suddenly alert, unsure what had startled him.
In the blur where his eyes refused to focus he saw a bone white smear and painted it in to the head of some fell beast risen up from the Annwn, too impatient to wait for his passing.
Then he saw the single shaft of light on his hand. He looked up at the ceiling and saw the dust motes dancing in the thin beam of light. His fingers tingled. He closed his eyes trying to focus on the sensation, not at all sure what it meant. He flexed his fingers, stretching them open. His middle finger broke the beam of light. It was like touching lightning. A jolt of raw power surged through his body, causing his back to arch and his body to spasm in agony. It burned briefly but all the more intensely for it. His head swam. Even such a miniscule infusion of earth power was intoxicating. His body ached for more. Sláine stretched up, trying desperately to reach the light with more of his hand. He closed his eyes, succumbing to the agony and the ecstasy of it.
And it was both.
The power flowed through his fingers and down his arm, infusing every nerve and fibre as it searched to earth itself through him. His body bucked beneath the onslaught. His heart strained in his chest. His blood sang in his veins.
He had forgotten what it felt like to connect with the earth but here, in this most sacred place, he was reminded - and that reminder was brutal in the extreme.
His cries were terrible. He felt the monster rising inside him, felt the sudden and forceful surge of base
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