Chapter 1 (Preliminary)

Chapter 1 (Preliminary)

 

And so it begins anew: the final battle of the 3,000-year-old Hound-That-Stayed.

Art by Zeldacw

                           Left foot forward. With each step my heel provides a dull pang of pain, not unlike that of bruised flesh. Over the decades, something beneath the skin has worn down to the point where it no longer heals. There's no physical marks, but the feeling is there always. Conversely, I am keenly aware that the outside of the foot and baby toe are numb -dead in a truer way than I have ever experienced- faulty wiring in this mortal shell which has existed far too long already. It's amazing just how much a lack of feeling calls attention to itself. Different from the pain, yet impossible to not acknowledge in its own way.

                           Right foot forward. The arch of my foot throbs, but I can hardly feel it compared to the sharp stabbing that assaults my senses. The spot between my right hip and back makes its own distress known, as do several of the spots in my lower spine, all vying for equal attention.

                           During all of this, I am of course the perfect picture of health. A young man in his mid-thirties, simply standing up from an under-sized theater chair. Short copper waves of hair that curl just down to my eyes in the front where it hasn't been swept back - only a spattering of silver mixed in. I stop myself from reaching up to scratch at the cold and exposed flesh to the back of my head. It's not normal for me to feel the back of my shoulders or neck (let alone the head itself) so exposed. The pale skin is unblemished by wrinkles, but with a few prominent moles on my neck and one "beauty mark" on the left of my nose.

                           My eyes of dark amber look positively radiant with child-like wonder as I clap for the equally infantile performers. Lips curled into a joyous smile, mask the pain I feel from standing, as well as the disdain towards these so-called dancers who have barely broken a sweat to earn such a grand paycheck. This whole experience is made all the more aggravating as the stands are filled to the brim with the filthy rich who paid an absurd price to be here; all in the name of charity write-offs, and being photographed with everyone else in 5-figure suits and dresses.

                           I fight the urge to tug at the collar choking my throat and simply nod in agreement with the man at my side who just had to let me know that the performance was "truly an experience." The line was delivered in practiced BBC-English pronunciation that would have gotten him in a fight only decades ago in this part of Ireland. He appears to be in his 70s, with barely any hair left on his head and a spattering of age spots covering his tanned canvas of flesh that he might call "exquisite," were it on display at a gallery. He leans over and kisses the woman to his other side on the cheek. She -who was on her phone for most of the show- throws out a series of compliments of her own in a stereotypical valley-girl accent. As the kiss was on the cheek, it's impossible to tell whether she is his daughter or date; a riddle which isn't made any clearer as she pouts that we "all MUST join them in their penthouse," which is met with a chorus of agreement from those surrounding her and a slight wince from her "daddy."

                            I'd rather die... Well there are innumerable things worse than death that I would take over another moment of this, but still;
"I'll have to pass," I apologize, with the very believable regret that an average man in his 30s would have at such an offer. "Thank you both so much for a wonderful evening, but I really must get to putting your generous donations to use."
"Ah, yes! Which foundation is this one for, sir?" He asks while subconsciously eyeing his martini, left painfully low on the ground.

                           I can't help but chuckle at this question; not in mockery, but amusement. It isn't that Mr Trent doesn't care where he's disposing of his money, but rather that he gives so much away that he has forgotten which charity event he's currently attending. I bend down to one knee, feeling my entire back and lower body set on fire and return to a standing position to hand him his medicine with a wink. No-one in the stands is paying any attention to the relics in the corner, as they instead return to the mingling and networking they were up to before the show began. Pride, nonetheless, isn't something that wears down as fast as joints or nerves. It holds firm along with foolishness and ignorance. Mr Trent's hands tremble slightly as he beams in joy and mouths silent gratitude before taking a careful sip of the drink.
"It's the Copper Hounds Foundation, Mr Trent. The little nature preserves all over the world. I look forward to discussing the details with you on Wednesday for brunch."
"Oh, yes, the caves and reserves. I'd love to see how they're doing." For a moment his eyes become unfocused. He pulls out an ornate golden pocket watch and takes another, much deeper drink while watching the hands quiver.

                           "The plaque was breathtaking," he mumbles quietly. "I'm sure it will last centuries." There was no questioning where his mind was at this moment. Every mortal of a certain age reaches this destination. The journey almost at an end, they finally have time to look back and think on how they arrived here.

                           There were many plaques in each of the Copper Hound Nature Reserves dedicated to all the biggest donors from throughout the years. Mr Trent had been a particularly large donor and hence his plaque was sized proportionally. His fortune was made from "garbage disposal" which had a mysteriously friendly relationship with cruiselines and cargo ships that travelled back and forth to underdeveloped countries. He had sold the company and retired almost a decade ago before the people of those countries learned and spoke up about what "the first world" were doing to their land. He couldn't make things right properly, what with NDAs and courtroom decisions, but he was at least doing his best to buy some peace of mind for himself as the time ticked away.

                           Finally he tore his eyes away from the pocket watch and tucked it back into his waistcoat.
"Wednesday then?" He asked, extending a wrinkled hand that seemed more steady after two doses of gin.
"Wednesday," I agree, shaking his hand gently and lingering a moment as I notice an unusual rhythm, completely out of sync with the still ticking pocket watch. I pause for just a moment, listening to Mr Trent's heart fighting its own last battle before I look up into his clouded blue eyes, still holding his hand. His eyes were full of a certain weariness that mine had never developed. A calm acceptance of what was to come, whereas my own were always sure that I would cling on to fight in another battle. "Thousands of years," I correct him with a gentle tone. his eyebrows raise slightly in confusion at my seemingly random outburst. "The plaque is made of thick bronze and treated well. It will be there for millennia, along with all the land and life that you're helping to protect."

                           At this he smiles, and his eyes become a little more gentle and present than I've ever seen them in our years of meetings.
"Could you bring some more of the photos on Wednesday - of the land itself I mean. I did so enjoy your explanation about their unique oddities."
"Of course," I respond, finally releasing his hand. "I'll e-mail the photos to you on my way home. You can have a look at them tonight and we'll talk in length at brunch." I can't help but feel my true smile fade as the girl, younger even than I look, wraps her arms around Mr Trent's waist from behind and beckons him away to the car. "It has been a pleasure, Mr Trent... I will see you next time." As he's dragged away, I hardly hear him respond something about the brunch that will never come.

                           I make sure to send the photos immediately, as the theatre begins to clear out. I don't dare to sit down, knowing that it will be all the more painful when I have to get up. By the time I'm done selecting the best photos on my phone and sending the message to Mr. Trent, I am already left practically alone. Half a dozen or so underpaid employees have already begun cleaning the discarded remains that the suits have left behind. One wishes me a good evening on my way out, with a smile almost as believable as my own. I simply nod and smile back as I make my way out into the cold and damp Belfast night.

                           Belfast has long held a special place in my heart. The city itself was so modern, yet history and nature surrounded it in all directions; mountains that had once served as lookouts, henges that had survived since the stone age, and more than a few remains of castles and other structures that had stood tall for centuries. Even recent events which had proven so tumultuous for the status of Ireland as a whole hadn't managed to tear the city apart.

                            Left foot forward. Right foot forward. It shouldn't be too long of a walk. I only need to find an alley, park or any quiet road with no peering eyes to make my way home. The sun is already setting and the chill of the autumn air is biting at each of my joints. Add to the usual suspects a cool burning sensation each time I take a deep breath of the damp city air. The pain was such that it took me 15 minutes of the death march to finally realize that I had a tail. Not the sort of tail I'm comfortable with, rather a stranger who was following the same winding path to nowhere as me.

                           This wasn't the first time I had been followed in the mortal realm and I assumed it had something to do with my clothing. I had to look the part when meeting with rich benefactors, so here I was in an immaculate 3-piece silver suit with a dark green dress shirt underneath. The collar covered the thin gold torc at my neck, but the silver bracelet on my wrist likely appeared as a gaudy watch to anyone with discerning eyes.

                           The autumn air grows colder as I begin focusing on my tail's presence. I listen intently to their footsteps, refusing to turn my head and give away that I sensed them. The footsteps were heavy, but landed properly from heel to toe. Their pace matched my own and didn't cause their breathing to speed up at all. They were fit and healthy, or as good at faking it as me atleast. I breathe out a long, silent stream of air and see the frostbreath catching the last few rays of sunset. The air is now not only cold, but also imposing as if weighed down by some unseen force. This is when the growl begins. A deep guttural sound that could almost be mistaken for a bear based on it's volume. At the first bark of the Cú Sídhe any average mortal would have left as their heart rate soared and every shred of their instincts commanded them to flee. As if on cue, a group of youths that had been standing by the entrance to a park burst into a sprint down the road, none of them quite sure why, yet too afraid to question their own logic. Still, this shadow followed on, seemingly unfazed by the warning.

                           Not a mortal then... might as well extend an invitation. By this point we had traded the dark asphalt roads for a pale stone path that ran through the park. In reality it was just a small clump of greenery barely the size of a modern supermarket. It had a large clump of trees around its edges to block out the sights of the city and in my case shroud my departure. Each of our footfalls produced a satisfying crunch as the leaves below crumpled back into the earth. These trees were hard at work, giving back to the land which they would need to live off of through the winter. With every couple of steps came the offerings from the stewards of the Earth; plastic bottles, takeaway boxes and cigarette butts which hopefully hadn't been thrown directly into the drying leaves. I left the path behind and led my shadow under the canopy of a group of tall elms. When I was certain it was just me and them I finally blinked my eyes, closing them for milliseconds to the Belfast green and opening them to the much deeper woods of home.

                           The forest here was different. The trees reached up and then intertwined their branches so that you couldn't see the sky, only a patchwork of gold and brown that shimmered with iridescent whimsy. I took a deep breath of the Aer and felt all my aches and pains subside in an instant. Sinking back against the tree, I hear the soft crunches as my tail, still unshaken by the change in scenery, rounds the corner of the trunk to find me leaning against it peacefully.

                           As I thought, a young man in his mid-twenties now stares at me. He is fit and healthy, with clearly defined muscles wrapped in a practically skin-tight grey shirt. His blue eyes appear weary and worn, especially considering the lack of age on the rest of him. Dark bags weigh down an otherwise weightless face and there is a rim of red at their edges. Upon seeing me waiting for him, those eyes have gone wide with fear and he swiftly snaps into a defensive fighting position. Lower body in a wide stance. Upper body closed with one fist at his chin and the other slightly forward. It's not any fighting style I've ever seen. Either something new or more likely self-taught combination of things he had seen on TV.

                            "You followed me into my Tír to fight? Just how young are you?" Looking around at the forest in question, I'm surprised to find it so quiet and subdued. There's a visitor. Normally you'd be pestering us with fervor. I look up to find that even the tree leaves that had been dancing with joy were still now, as though the whole land was holding its breath.

                            "You have a flair for the dramatic," the young man declares as he dissolves out of the fighting stance. The words were spat out as though venom making his youthful voice sound almost juvenile. He followed them up quickly with "You think some stupid magic tricks will scare me off?"
Magic tricks?... he's incredibly young if that was the first time he's felt the effects of Aer before. Perhaps even less than a century. If he really wants dramatic, I can give him a filí greeting.
"The sun is setting in the land of men and this Tír is prepping for rest.
Twilight eludes The Copper Hound den yet quiet comes at his behest.
Speak now your will, tail of mine, for my patience is running thin.
Sídhe, Daoine Maithe, spirit fine, for NOW I call you kin."
At this point, the man begins looking around at the scenery, eyes shooting around at the forest then back to me at rapid speed as he carefully edges backwards.
"Wh-what have you done to me? Where is this? Did you drug me!?"

                           "Eehe?" For the first time in... I don't know how many centuries, I actually find myself baffled and involuntarily cock my head to the side. The young man has begun hyperventilating as he takes his focus off of me and realizes the world behind him has changed as well. All he finds is more of the huge trees in a forest that has him ensnared from all directions. "Seriously, how old are you?" I ask, unable to understand why such a simply trick was able to terrorize one who didn't feel the bark of the Cú Sídhe. The question might as well have been in another language as the only sound the man hears is the rapid beating of his own heart, a war drum that has awakened his fight or flight reflex.

                           I take two steps forward, seeking to grab him by the shoulders and find some way to calm him down, but in the same instant he has span and began running off into the distance, frantically sprinting and stumbling over the uneven earth which has been shaped largely by the roots of the trees beneath. I'm left standing in disbelief with one hand raised out towards his fleeing shape as it shrinks into the distance. Only now is it that I notice the thin, fingerless glove on my left hand with auburn fur spilling out of the edges. As the man leaves, the wind seems to pick up around me and the canopy above seems to be trembling. Long waves of copper hair blow into my vision and I feel floppy, furry ears twitch in recognition. Subconsciously, I had let my Uisce form transform back into my most comfortable shape. Just how old are YOU now...

                           At the whimpering of the spirits above, I shake my head in defiance. "And what made you think he was a mortal man? I'd like to see a mortal that doesn't quake at-" the statement caught in my throat, my brain finally catching up to my mouth.
Whatever he is, he managed to enter The House of Copper Hounds. My hand slowly reaches down to a basic leather pouch wrapped around my hip. I stroke the buckle clasp gently, the simple copper feeling cool to the touch. Above, the trees are shaking violently, the tremble from before having become a fevered dance. Leaves of gold and brown rain down all around me, their silent landings drowning out all other sound.
Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump.

                           The fair folk love a good game, especially when it comes with riddles and pranks. A mortal... a mortal in my Tír. A mortal who doesn't fear the bark of the Cú Sídhe yet shits himself at a little transportation. The scent trail is fresh and potent! A colonoscopy is in order!

                           The House of Copper Hounds is my Tír. It's a realm made of Aer outside of the constraints of reality that bends to my will. In this realm I could easily appear at the mortal's back with only a thought, yet I instead find it more enjoyable to track him through the woods. Surrounded by my own Aer the aches and weariness of age have faded and my first surprise in centuries has awakened the hunter I once was. Whether Cú or Sleá, I had always needed something to hunt, be it meat or mystery.

                           Left foot forward-right foot forward. With each stride I am surging past several large trees. The earth beneath my feet is just the right balance of soft and springy. Nature has provided it all the nutrients and form it needs without the risk of humans shaping it for their own devices. My lungs are full of Aer as my steady breathing gives me all the strength I need to hunt any prey.

                           The man was easy to track due to the smell, not actually excrement but rather fear. As though that wasn't enough, he also ran unevenly, his panic causing him to leave deep, obvious tracks. It only took moments of pursuit for me to be upon him. There was no reason to pounce and frighten him even more. Instead I moved from tree to tree using their cover and some distance to get ahead of him and lay in wait.

                            Beyond the treeline, the world opened up into a seemingly endless expanse. The land sloped down revealing the entire forest was raised up roughly 3 feet from the rest of the earth, a large mound that was visible for miles on the largely flat island. Off in the distance were a large lake, two mountains in the distance which were tall enough to be capped with snow and finally the ocean as far as the eye could see. if you had a better vantage point you would be able to see the forest was in the middle of the island and the mountains and lakes surrounded it, the actual count being three of each. Once you had left the forest and looked back at it from the outside, it hardly looked any bigger than the park of the mortal world. Trees of all varieties formed a ring at the top of the mound, looking like a wicker basket as their roots and canopies twisted and curled around one another at top and bottom.

                           The mortal took several long moments to take all of this in. Looking with disbelief at just how far from human civilization he had come. He had burst out of the treeline and stumbled down the short slope, arriving on his knees to greet the rest of the Tír. The mountains and ocean troubled him greatly and held him up for a while until he audibly gasped at how outwardly small the forest he had just fled through for almost 10 minutes was. He didn't even notice me watching him and leaning against a particularly thick hazel tree before collapsing to the ground, seemingly having a panic attack.

                           Sighing, I shook my head and strutted over to this poor young thing. I had seen this level of stress and anxiety before, even felt similar levels of terror in my own life, but it took centuries for me to be cursed with them. Humanity is blessed with so much wisdom in such a short time. It took me 2 whole lifetimes to begin questioning issues of morality and free will, let alone the huge philosophical ones that were now haunting him.

                           "Hey, don't worry," I tell him while kneeling down to pat one of his shaking shoulders. "No harm will come to you here, that much I can promise. I'll answer any questions that you have, but you'll have to answer some for me as well." The young man's face turned up to look at me. His eyes now less weary, and instead wide like a child's. His face was drenched in cold sweat and his tanned skin had turned pale. I extend a warm hand to him, hoping to help him up and deliver my line, already practiced on dozens of past Sídhe: "Welcome to The House of Copper Hou-WUH!" Did this child just really pass out!? What do you do when a mortal faints!? Take him to a bed? Leave him in case of spine injury? Water!?

                           "WHAT DO I DO!?" At the sound of my panicked scream the world around me comes to life. Immediately I am surrounded by a myriad of curious creatures which have been hiding from the scent of a mortal. Translucent blobs of energy rise out of the ground, their wide expressive "eyes" (really just darker spots in the form) gaping in worry. From the empty air appear a series of unusual characters. Some were small and humanoid but with inhuman features, others barely visible shimmers of light that resembled the air itself. On the more visible spectrum there were horses, sheep, seals, dogs, spiders, snakes, birds; all manor of earthly creatures and a few mythological beasts that appeared along with those that were mostly, if not entirely, human presenting. Some shape-shifted from beast to human as they arrived, while others remained more comfortable as they were. Several water dwelling creatures had taken the opportunity to ride inside of bodies of water that had risen out of the lake and travelled by their own conscious thought.

                           "Kill it," came a cold, commanding voice from the trees nearby. "I thought we needn't suffer their kind here."
"Might I suggest releasing it back on Midgard?" Another asked. "It doesn't seem to have the sight. It will probably just be sent to the Narrentürme and be right as rain in a few months."

                           

A grey hand, with a few fungi growing directly out of the flesh was raised up to silence everyone else. Knelt down on the ground, hardly anything could be seen other than what looked like a large conical hat with white fabric hanging off of it. The figure gently touched the mortal's chest in silence for a moment, as still as the earth itself. As they stood, the hat was revealed to be joined to their head and actually a huge mushroom. Beneath the mushroom was an androgynous form wearing Chinese robes of an earthen hue, made all the darker by various marks of dried earth, particularly at their extremities. They simply nodded to let everyone know he was alive. If there was anyone to trust about the mortality of any living being it was "The Corpse Eater," Xi Shi. They wordlessly tapped their wrist with a long delicate finger while staring intently into my eyes to make sure I got the message. He'll wake soon, I nodded in affirmation as they drifted back towards the shade. So we have to decide what to do with him right away...

 

"I can get the spear," declared the cold voice from the treeline, venom dripping from each word. "Unless you want it done faster..." a large scorpion tail poked it's way out of the treeline but didn't dare to come any closer.


                           "Do you really think this man is a threat to us!?" I curse at The Scorpion. They don't say anything, instead simply retracting the tail in acknowledgement. "Whoever he is, he's the first human to make it into The House of Copper Hounds. I didn't bring him, he just followed me. Moreover, he didn't have any reaction to my bark." I voiced my thoughts aloud as some of the older Sídhe and Daoine Maithe shared equally puzzled looks.

                           Every creature that learned to harness Aer would eventually create their own Tír; It was only a matter of centuries, or in some cases millennia. The House of Copper Hounds was my Tír: a world that was shaped out of my consciousness and bent to my will. Like the Tuath Dé reaching out to heroes and champions, my Tír occasionally opened an entrance for others subconsciously. Thus far it had only ever done so for other Sídhe and Daoine Maithe who needed somewhere to escape to, usually away from humans whose thirst for colonization was seemingly endless. Over the centuries it had become a hub for all kinds of supernatural creatures to escape to or hide in.

                           "I'll take him back to the crannóg and see if we can't calm him enough to talk when he wakes." At this, many of the creatures surrounding the mortal faded out of view instantly. Some Sinking into the earth, others dissolving into the air, the water creatures flowing back to their lake. Those that remained were an odd mix. Young looking tricksters that enjoyed toying with mortals, animals who had likely never met a human, and those that were standing guard, centuries of distrust towards these creatures scarred into their core.

                           I quickly rifled through the messenger bag, now half crushed under the man's weight and found the mystery went both ways. A press badge, laptop (which I didn't have the time to go through) photographs of me in my modern look with several clients, and pages upon pages of research on The Copper Hounds Foundation. From it's history to the corporate structure. Even some copies of tax records had been collected by this journalist. Whether he was trying to expose me, dig deeper into my benefactors or even blackmail me, I couldn't know. Whatever the case, it only enriched the mystery surrounding this supernatural mortal.

                            The flapping of wings snapped me out of my mystery. The rhythmic sound not unlike the crashing of stormwaves on the open sea. A large black crow with white markings on it's chest and back glided out of the forest. She landed gracefully, wings curling upward only at the last second as two human feet stepped forward on the ground and the rest of her form became that of a teenage girl. The petite girl had straight, jet-black hair down to her waist that was hastily pushed out of her eyes. Those eyes and her extremities were what marked her clearly as a Sídhe. The same colour as her hair, the eyes were just pools of black, darker than the night sky and deeper than any ocean abyss, framed by long thick eyelashes that gave her even more of a child-like appearance. She wore nothing but a white dress that hung off of her form on two thin straps, exposing the deathly pale skin of her shoulders, arms and calves. from her finger tips just beyond her wrists, as well as her feet to midway up her calves were black, seemingly matted in Ash and cracked as if charred the whole way through. She placed a long wooden spear against the tree next to her, the bronze tip resting gently in the same spot I had just been leaning, more than a foot above Taibhse's own head.
"You may have forgotten how to heal human ailments, but other things don't leave you. Keep in nearby, just in case. ... I want to hear his story too." With that the girl turned, her human form burning away and drifting in the breeze as ashes, while the crow flew back into the woods, likely leading the way back to the crannóg: the home within The House.

                           Abandoning the mortal, I stood up from the ground and made my way up the slope to the spear. Unnamed. Unloved. A tool used for killing and nothing more. It's copper head reflected my own troubled visage. Taking it timidly in one hand I feel my body become complete once more. It naturally rotates in my grip so that the point aims down and slides through my hand till I catch it at the proper position. As I turn back to face the young man, the spear points towards his chest, the weighted metal tip dragging the whole shaft down.

                           "Sleá, this battle won't be easy but it's far from your last. Quit acting like a pup and raise your spear, Brehon!" The voice was warm yet fierce like a Summer storm. Motherly wisdom and kingly command all at once. A tone that couldn't be forgotten, despite the language it was spoken in having been lost and remade countless times.

                           I return to the mortal's side, spear in hand and pause for a moment that feels like an eternity, more than a dozen sets of eyes waiting for my next move. The spear seems to be getting heavier as I hold it in one hand, still pointed at the heart. The tip was thin and sharp enough to slide between ribs, yet strong enough to break through bone when my force was applied.

                           "So..." I draw the attention of the Sídhe all around me, loyal and accepting of whatever course of action I decide. Their eyes move from the tip of the spear to the man, then back to me a series of times as I consider how to ask this. "Which one of you wants to carry him? This spear is a little heavy to dual wield." I catch the top part of the spear in my left hand, right still held low. The arc of the spear cuts the tension as we turn back towards home.