Dullahan

3 - Journey - 1

VOICES CAME TO HIM, raised in terror but reaching him as though through water. His head swam, and he was dizzy even before he opened his eyes. The room spun, corners of the familiar kitchen swaying and distorting nauseatingly. He was alone in the room, the warm fire only adding to the wavering walls and floor. His head felt stuffed with cotton, thoughts thudding dully against his skull. His face hurt, his cheek warm and wet. He lifted a hand to wipe it, missing at first, his arm feeling like someone else's as his hand brushed his cheek. He was only vaguely aware of the streak of red that marked the skin. He lay on his right side, and struggled to prop himself up on his arm, head too heavy to hold up straight. He saw the doorway to the sitting room, and he saw the hand that lay on the floor just within. Was that his mother's?

He opened his mouth to call for her, dry throat scratchy and rough, the words dying in a fit of coughing. Shadows moved in the other room, sliding over the walls. The yelling seemed to die down, fading into the distance. He tried again, managing to find his voice to call for his mother. Pain washed over him and he whimpered, crawling forward on the floor toward the doorway. Why didn't she come?

He pulled himself a short ways, having to stop as the pain grew in intensity. He could see more of the room beyond- his mother's shoulder now in sight. She wasn't moving, lying still on the floor. The sight sparked alarm in him, but the feeling was distant and lacked urgency. Why was that wrong? His thoughts moved too slowly to keep up, and he pulled himself closer, unable to gather the strength to stand. He reached out, and his hand caught hers, fingers touching.

He recoiled at the coolness of her skin, the sensation sharp, slicing through the fog of his mind. There was something so wrong about it- she shouldn't be cool, she should be warm. He blinked in incomprehension, staring at the face he could now see. Her eyes were shut, her expression peaceful.

He caught movement again from the corner of his eye, and looked up to see a tall, armoured figure standing in the open front door, sword in hand. They breathed heavily, shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm. They lifted the sword, running the blade between the gloved fingers of their other hand, and a thick, dark liquid dripped from their palm. Eldred frowned, wondering if they had cut themselves, until he realised that the gloves were intact, and that the blade itself had been the source of the blood. The realisation brought sound to his throat again, an involuntary squeak that filled the space between them.

The reaction was immediate, the figure dropping the sword with remembered urgency, twisting and darting toward him. Movements frantic, they drew up beside him. He tried to move away, his arms clumsily pushing back, but the figure was too fast, wiping the bloody hand on the cloth that hung from their back, reaching toward him to pull him into a sitting position, hands bracing him on either side, turning him back toward the kitchen door.

Confusion replaced the distant alarm, and he tried to squirm free of their grasp, to get back to his mother- surely she was just asleep? Perhaps he could wake her?

"Do not look." The voice sounded calm on the surface, although an edge to the words suggested some deeper emotion that Eldred's mind was too muddled to pick up on at the moment.

"She-" he started, coughing again as his throat stung. One hand broke free, held as he was by the figure and he reached behind toward his mother's hand, patting the floor as he searched blindly.

"There is nothing to be done," the voice spoke again, sliding arms clad in cold metal behind his back and beneath his knees, and all of a sudden there was no floor beneath him and he was in the air. He stared up at the ceiling, frowning, and then looked at the dark-visored helmet of the armoured figure from that morning and earlier that day. She did not look at him, instead staring straight ahead, toward the back door that she seemed to be walking toward.

He wriggled again, twisting his head to look around her, to see the shape of his mother lying limp on the sitting room floor, her skirts pooled around her, arms resting either side of her. A pool of red spread from the far side of her head, soaking into the floor and slowly inching forward. His vision started to swirl again, dark spots appearing as the wave of lightheadedness grew stronger and stronger, until the darkness enveloped his vision once more, and everything went black.