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nightly1602 · 5 years

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The Spear

Prologue: Gae Bolg

“Let’s go for a swim.” She suggests as she takes off her grey wool sweater. She bends down to start undoing the laces of her boots. “All of this walking, makes the muscles feel stiff and cold water has a nasty way of fixing that.”

The sigh she gets from him, makes her crook an eyebrow.

Thomas rolls his eyes. “You’ll get pneumonia. If she finds out you’re out and about doing this before your shift on Friday, it won’t be just you getting a very angry call from Berlin.”

“And that’s why we aren’t saying shit, aye?” Owen cuts back as she kicks off the russet coloured leather. “What she doesn’t ken, will do us and her much better.”

“Your mother has a way of knowing things, Owen.” Thomas sighs, as he crosses his slim arms over his chest. He was in one of Owen’s wool sweaters. It was one that Cara, Owen’s mother, had lovingly sewed a hood to its dark green fabrics. “Words travels fast, but words travel faster when news of a dumb Scottish runt nearly drowns herself in Loch Coruisk just inches away from the spear of Cú Chulaind. Could you imagine the irony in that.” He jokes playfully.

“Ah, so you figured it out.” Owen beamed as she rolled her socks together into a tight ball and places the wad under the tongue of her boots.

“You’re so funny, Owen.” Thomas mocks.

“I’m not joking.”

Thomas nearly faints in complete aghastness. It takes a moment for his brain and mouth to properly form words as he sputters curses and resentment. He turns red, causing the vein in his throat to enlarge. “Really, you idiot?!” He screams in disbelief. “Just because it’s a chance for adventure and magic doesn’t mean you can bring it back home to boast about. Remember what happened with the fae falls! That scar still tingles weirdly, you know?” Thomas screeches in the middle of the mountain glen.

“Oh, it isn’t about that. I’d be a fool to go in for such a reason. There is a lot more to it than my usual ploys for buffoonery.” Owen tuts as she discards her leather wristbands and rolls up the sleeves of her long sleeved shirt. She kisses her silver Claddagh ring as she slips it off her finger. She tiptoes over to Thomas to avoid the thistles and pointy shore stones as she places the ring in his palm.

He still looks at her in disbelief and absolute frustration as he accepts the ring.

“Emer needs it.” She calls behind her back as she leaps from black rock to black rock. “If I am going to be doing this whole wolf thing we need it for the ritual and we both know my aunt is one for genuine rituals.”

“Genuine Rituals?!” Thomas spat. “You’re going to bring her the spear that your grandfather cursed? That’ll go well for her!”

Owen stared at him blankly. “Well, yeah. It started many things. The hunters, our packs becoming unified, the rise of our legendary Scathach, our first ever alpha in Scotland I might add.” She points. “ It is a very valuable piece of our family history, Thomas. I thought these were the things you learned the nights of your official adoption?” Owen grinned devilishly.

“You’re a seeker of drama, Owen Kilroy,” Thomas muttered harshly under his breath. “You are nothing but trouble.”

“I must agree, I do enjoy a good shock and awe. It’s a bit of a bonny sight, seeing your older brother seething with rage ready to rip yer scalp off in a fell swoop.” The scot gave a brisk chortle as she padded along the rocky shore of the loch. Behind her, the mountains of Cuillin stood proudly, supervising the foolish escapade. The waters of the loch mirrored the excited energy of Owen. Gentle whitecaps pushed through the surface as a breeze carried the smells of mountain grass and fresh springs to the tall girl’s nose. Dawn had broken a few hours ago, and for the first time in a long time, the sun greeted the pair with great glowing rays. “However, I want this to be a special artifact. Edwin and Padraig chose father’s notebook and his quill. Eliza took mother’s broach and Riell took grandfather’s belt buckle. Why can I not have an artifact of a man that brought not only our families together but a grand tale for us all to tell about our heritage?”

Thomas’s jaw was as tight as a wire.

“Ah, to hell with ya.” The redhead dismissed continuing her padding journey among the slippery moss and rock. “Mother will have my ears redder than a baboon’s arse, but it will be worth it. I want them to know, I’m serious about this. If I go through the trouble of this, they won’t think of me like a child anymore.”

“Owen-” Thomas began to counter. He was cut off as she dove into the freezing dark gray waters. “Just be careful of the loch sprites.” He sighed greatly. He pinched the bridge of his nose. With a huff of frustrated air, he wrapped his arms around himself to stay warm against the early spring air. He sat himself down, crossing his legs and began to play with the yellowed grass around him. “If you drown, I will not come and get you.” He murmured grumpily.

The cold had shocked the air from her lungs, as she dove into the early spring waters of the loch. Her skinny jeans stuck to her long legs as they soaked themselves to her bones. She was thankful that she had the right mind to remove the wool sweater before diving in. It would have been too heavy, probably ready to drag her to the murky depths of loch weed and catfish.

She waited for her body to get used to the cold, letting a few air bubbles slip from her thin lips. Soon she floated in the dark abyss of the loch, letting her body gently sway along with the current. She would soon need to kick up for air, but she knew she had to wait a bit more than that.

Her throat began to burn, causing her lungs to feel heavy as loaded stones. She just wanted to exhale her held breath and breathe in again.

The water sprite from the falls in the back of her family’s farm had promised her they would be here. Had guaranteed it, in fact. She would have to give that fae quite the earful if it had given her lies.

Her eyes began to sting as she kept them open to view the depths.

It was then that she had heard the giggling and the sound of fast water movement. A calm took over Owen, lulling her to release her breath into the water.

“Hello, little wolf.” A collective voice had sung to the young Scot. “You are a bit far from home. Is this you, offering your soul to the loch?”

Owen could feel the weight of drowsiness approach her as she slowly shook her head.

“Mmm, tis a shame that. You would have made quite the collective piece.”

More fast water movement caught her ears. Soon they came from the murky water, their ethereal movements captivating like a shark. Their skins bore the colours of muddy river beds. Their hair swayed with the current resembling the leafy vines of loch weed. “What are you here for, little wolf?”

Owen beckoned them closer.

The more curious of the group had obliged, closing the distance. Its finned slim arms circled around her waist. It curled it’s long finned tail around her right leg. Staring deeply with large fish eyes, it waited for Owen.

The current of water whisked the Scot’s fiery red hair around her body. She leaned herself closer, nudging the water sprite with her pointed chin to place her lips at their ear.

“Gae Bolg.“

It was as if her body had been kicked by a horse. The air rushed from her lungs as she was transported through the sucking black waters of a whirlpool. Her body ragdolled to and fro, crashing her limbs to jutting rock and loch beds.

In a flash of light, she rose from the water. Her lungs screamed for air as she gasped and coughed. Her hands found purchase as she sat herself up into a porcelain claw foot tub. She wiped the water from her face as she took shuddering breaths, while she instinctively pulled herself out onto the cold marble tile.

Water spills and pours from her soaked body, her clothes clinging tightly to her as the loch water glued the material to her skin.

She had been in this place before. It brought such a familiar pang as memories coursed through her tall frame.

It gives her a shiver as recognition takes on full effect. The bathroom she finds herself in, is as extravagant as its owner. With gold lined floor to ceiling tiles of beautiful stained glass windows, a bloody bidet. There are only three people she knows who would gladly shit in something as insane as that.

“Berlin.” She mutters as she takes long gulping breaths of fresh pompous air. It smells too clean to be a place for someone to bid their personal…biddings.

Water drips from her as she crosses the length of the washroom to the large dark stained wooden door keeping a sentinel watch of the privacy of its patrons. It gives an effortless push as she enters into one of many grandeur long hallways of the Berlin mansion. On the top of the ceiling are ugly old paintings of the old alphas of the Berlin; their portraits trimmed in gold and faces scoured of real emotion. As a child on diplomatic family vacations, Owen had despised this place entirely. It wasn’t like her family farm, where sheep graze amicably and family worked hard to keep their homestead together. Where calluses were a reward of character and not something that Samara Weber would spit at with disdain.

Puddles followed her as she meandered her way through the halls. A sour expression overtook her face as she hunched her shoulders, trying her best to fight off the annoyed shiver crawling through her skin.

It didn’t take her long to find herself at the great doors of the throne room.

Sure, her mother’s family had resided in great stone castles on the seasides of Ireland and her father’s family had lived as lairds in loch strongholds. She had seen her fair share of throne rooms, but the Germans couldn’t help but overshadow their guests and kingdoms with riches. A copper taste hit her mouth as her annoyance rose. Her bare feet were starting to get to be too cold and uncomfortable.

She pushed through the doors and halted her slopping padding steps as she came upon the scene.

Samera Weber, the alpha of the Berlin had a tiny stone sprite pinned to the center of the floor. Two large wolves licked at their maws as they paced back and forth, snarling lowly. The tall woman hovered over the stone sprite, screaming in old German.

Owen watched in terrified awe as she stood frozen at the opening of the throne room door.

Samera tilted her head to see who had intruded her obviously very terrifying and illegal interrogation of the fae below her. The scot gave a great gulp as the woman rose to her full height and began to stalk languidly across the flooring. There was something about her green eyes that made Owen step back.

In her step, she had nearly tumbled over a young boy. She landed on her backside with an annoyed oof.

“Felix.” Samera cooed.

Owen had looked perplexed as she witnessed Samera kneeling to the boy, who seemed to be only about eleven.

Felix Weber was not eleven. Felix Weber was her age.

She stopped thinking immediately as realization sunk in that Samera had either ignored her or hadn’t seen her yet. She held her breath as the tall brunette stroked the dark sepia cheek of her son. Samera kissed his forehead before turning herself around to walk back to her work at hand. The boy coldly stared at the creature as he placed himself beside his mother and began to kick its face with a snarl.

That was proof enough for the Scot to realize that the boy was definitely Felix Weber. He had always been an arse it, she wouldn’t have put it past him to do such an act to a defenceless creature.

Confusion took over Owen, causing the cogs in her mind to spin madly. This was too real to be a dream, but too weird to be real life. There was only one way to test the reality of the situation.

She rose to her full height, leaving behind a large puddle of water. She strode briskly over to the Germans, with heavy focused steps she placed herself beside Samera Weber. “Hey, you annoying fucking cow!” Owen barked hotly in the woman’s ear.

The stone sprite turned her head to look at Owen, pleading for mercy in its eyes. The Scot’s newfound arrogance dissipated as she watched the scene unfold further.

Samera did not give her the time of day as she continued her interrogation. The Sprite’s eyes glued to Owen before they began to speak in clear Gaelic.

“What you are seeing, is the truth of what has happened. Do not forget this. I am the key and she knows the lock to what I open. Be wary Owen Kilroy. Wolves like you have sharp teeth, but they can be easily broken by women like her. Her son will cause wrack and ruin once he turns and gains the power from the object they get from me.” The Sprite spoke quickly, tears lining its angular jagged face.

Owen sputtered to speak as she tried to make sense of what the sprite was saying. Her gut twisted as she watched Samera grabbing the sprite roughly by the arm and dragging them to the rostrum of the throne. A dutiful guard moved from the side of the throne quickly as Samera barked out an order, drawing a large dagger from a scabbard at his side. He presented the dagger to the German and bowed out of the way.

Samera spat something angrily.

“Do not look away. You must witness.”

Panic grew in Owen.

She tried to run forward, but it was as if she was in a dream. Her body felt weighted like lead as she tried to run forward, to do anything to help the creature.

The iron dagger slid into the rock sprite’s neck and down into their spine. Rock cracked as black oozing blood poured. The sound of metal grating against cold stone caused Owen to inwardly sink. The sprite screamed and writhed under Samera’s grip of its body.

The German alpha threw the dagger to a grand clatter down the marble steps. The stone sprite stilled, finally ending their pained screams. Death must have come for the poor creature. Anger filled the Scottish girl like an explosion. Sure, she had her fair share of breaking tiny boring laws, ones that did no harm to anyone like; breaking and entering into hallowed lands of the fae, or even speaking to the fae as if they were common schoolmates. One was to have respect for the fae and their mystical ways. One could not just skip about bothering the fae for common mortal advice and pleasantries within their territories.

And one certainly could not murder a fae in cold blood with such malicious intent. That was far beyond all treaty agreements held by packs and fae. If word got out that Samera had done such a crime, it would probably cause the biggest shit storm Owen had ever witnessed.

As if to make matters worse, Samera added body mutilation as she dug elbow deep into the carcass of the fae. Black blood spattered her cheeks and white linen shirt. She blew at a strand of loose russet hair in the way of her eyes as she focused on the job at hand.

With a small chuckle of victory, she pulled out an object from the body. She pushed it aside, letting the limp form fall down and roll to a stop before Owen’s feet. Its cold beady black eyes bore into Owen. Her gut clenched tightly as bile rose to her throat. A cold slimy shiver ran up her spine as she felt pressure batter the inside of her head. She felt it hard to breathe as her throat closed around itself as anxiety and fear curled around her innards. Dizziness slammed into her like a freight train causing her to collapse to the cold floor.

Silently, as the pressure increased in her skull she watched as Samera, smiling largely as a Cheshire cat, strode to the young boy who had stoically watched the scenes unfold. Her heeled boots clicked with each step before she knelt before him. She presented the object, a beautiful silken ribbon, adorned with harsh Norse runes.

“Gleipnir will be our weapon.” She explained.

Air rushed over Owen suddenly, pulling the scene away from her as her mind slowed in and out of unconsciousness. One moment she was stuck in Berlin, the next she was in the lap of her father reading old Gaelic legends and Norse sagas. Then she was brought back to the wrestling matches of a fae child she had befriended in her youth. And then she was suddenly swallowed by water.

The sprites had swum circles around her like hungry sharks. The more curious one still clung to her, brushing its webbed double jointed fingers over Owen’s freckled cheeks.

“You have witnessed.” The curious one had murmured, drawing its lips along her jawline. “Are you worthy of our cause, Owen Kilroy of Clan MacLeod?”

Her mind was in a molasses-thick bliss. She had slowly turned her head and begun to nod.

“The Stone sprite was Akumo. A trusted and loyal subject of our glorious Queen. A worthy protector. They were taken from protection seals and stolen by Samera’s wolves. Someone had broken the bonds of secrets.” The united voices explained solemnly as the curious one began to untangle themselves from the redhead’s body. “The Queen will witness your first shift, little wolf. Prepare your family.”

She could feel herself drifting away more and more. She began to sink into the depths of the loch, slipping in and out of the dark abyss of her mind. Her bare feet touched the sand, rock and weed covered bed before fish of all sizes swam out of her way as her knees were next to touch the bottom.

“Gae Bolg is just at your arm’s reach. Overcome and grab it.” The collective voice whispered as her hearing seemed to make them sound so far away.

The silent ambience of the loch water movement pulled her further into letting go. It was peaceful here. This would be a good way to go if Owen wasn’t as stubborn and greedy to have a more energetic death of much bigger idiotic proportions.

Mentally, she chided herself.

She couldn’t see her father quite yet. She had to make him proud first. She couldn’t help but shake her head as another more powerful hum slammed into her ears, calling for her, beckoning.

With the last remnants of mental clearance, she willed herself to swim forward to follow the buzzing that drew her forward. Her throat burned for fresh air and to taste life and not the gritty sandy loch. She wanted to see clear blue skies and rough angry seas.

They were her favourite thing. Rough angry crashing waves along sea coasts took her breath away with how gloriously rebellious it could be. It’s what she strove to embody.

So like a crashing ocean wave, she rolled forward, digging her hands into loch silt and clenching weed to drag herself. Her calloused fingertips then touched something metallic causing the humming to grow louder and fierce with promises of legendary action. She let herself feel the excitement as her hand closed around the pole handle. She gripped it so tightly as she brought her knees to her chest before slamming her feet into the silt to propel herself upward.

She was going to bloody well make it to the surface, dead or alive. She trusted that if Thomas saw her body floating to the surface he would rescue her.

That fucker owed her.

With a might challenging of the gods, she clung to the metal pole as she swam up desperately. She choked on the water as it entered her nose and mouth, but she paid it no mind as she willed herself to swim faster. She almost got to the surface before she was grabbed roughly by the midsection, expelling the remaining air from her lungs. She dared not unclasp her hand as she was being dragged through the water. Her eyes slowly closed leaving her last thought to Gae Bolg.

#The Spear #the berlin chronicles #Owen Kilroy #Thomas Blair #The wolves of Chuiland #The Skye #Werewolves #my gay werewolf scottish and german babs #gay werewolves #This is all werewolfdays fault #nightly writes #The beginning tales of the crown #Ive been kicking myself to try to eventually post this #I am rewriting this series #I deleted the last three chapters I had written ages ago from the blog #Welcome to the story of Owen and Nore #A tale of two packs and their mischievous daughters #Thomas is my child and if any of you hurt him I'll kill you with a corn chip #Thomas

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