Dullahan

Remembrance

THE DULLAHAN SITS HUNCHED, still aside from the shaking breaths that heave her chest and shoulders. Her head, still held by the fae man, keeps its eyes shut, features pained. Guilt cripples her, sinking deep claws into her mind and pulling it open to reveal every horrific act she has committed since she re-awoke.

The two fae who remain alive on the hill exchange a look of relief, both men breathing heavily as the adrenaline starts to drain from their system- their mission was a success, although it was not without losses. The leader of their party- the man who holds the dullahan's head- looks with regret at the body of one of his fallen comrades, throat slit and blood soaking into the ground around them. Their horses have come to a halt at varying distances, some part-way down the hill, others only a short distance away. Beneath them, down the long grassy slope, he can see at least more of their number moving- the small figure glinting in their armour. They are not mounted, and he suspects that the horse did not survive. He shakes his head as though to clear the thoughts, stepping toward his remaining companion, and offers a hand.

The other man takes it gladly, allowing himself to be pulled up, heavy armour still weighing him down. The head swings in his grip, but he is careful not to jolt it. The dullahan still kneels, and after a moment's hesitation, he approaches.

"Are you alright?" he asks, although he knows the question is stupid. They have done this before, bringing a dullahan back to awareness. It is never so simple.

Aeron Inessa Farran does not answer. He gives her a few minutes, glancing back at his companion again as they reach for their horse. Then, he steps forward and crouches beside her, hesitating a moment longer, before he reaches out and gently taps her arm, leather gloves protecting him from the steel she wears.

It is always hard to know exactly where a dullahan is looking, but he has experience enough to have a vague sense of when they are watching him. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end as her regard lifts to him, and he offers her head to her.

She stares at it for a moment, and then takes it from him. Her eyes open, staring up at her own ruined neck, and she speaks from her own lips. "I killed them."

The words are choked out, hoarse and quiet, and tears start to well in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, I killed them-" Her shoulders twist a fraction as she looks behind her, and he looks as well to his fallen companion. Grief tugs at his chest, and for a moment he thinks he might succumb to it. He shuts his eyes and takes in a deep breath- now is not the time to mourn.

He lifts his hand again, this time holding her arm until she turns back to him. Then, he smiles. There is a weariness to the expression, the grizzled acceptance of a battle fought, but there is also a genuine spark of relief and joy within it. "It's okay," he says softly, "It's okay. You're back to yourself now. You're going to be okay."