Height of the Crow.

By 880ad, a book closed on another life, taken by another’s hand, taken from the very place it was wrote. Far off, further into the land of Ireland, it was held in hand by a man favoured by the King.

Followed by his men, they returned home to a hero’s welcome. Famed for the recapture of Drogheda. The man carried the name Cormac, wasting no time in reporting to the King, he walks past those who praise him straight into Flann's tent.

Greeted by the King whose very person portrayed importance and noble fate, he sat eagerly on a seat, casting a gesture at the seat next to him, for Cormac to sit.

Saying with a smile “good friend, I am pleased of your return, do you bring word of our lands, I am eager to hear what you have to say.”

Confused yet taking a seat Cormac asks “my King...”

Flann interrupts “Cormac, you may speak to me as an equal, not as your King.”

Nodding Cormac responds “of course... Flann, it was… bad... dear friend... The Morrigan had cast her gaze on many a man on that land, both friend and foe alike, the town was baron, except one... one aged man writing on a strange book, he being scared not nor even reacted to our presence, continuing to write as though possessed, I understand little as to why you sent us there, while there are more pressing matters to attend to elsewhere, my King?”

Flann sighs and responded, “let us remember this, East is as important as the West and North is to South, as all need to be one for our aims to succeed.”

After a short pause he continued “you spoke of an old man and his book, tell me more of him?”

Cormac, responding with still disbelief in his voice from the recollection “little made sense to me, it was strange, he was the only person not graced with death as an escape, a soldier under our banner cut him down in frustration as he refused to acknowledge us and our orders. Here, the book sir.”

Handing the book to Flann, it being neither heavy or light and made from a material not seen before. It smelt of something foul.

Cormac uttered, “I give this to you sir, I neither need it, nor care for it, yet fear its contents for what it done to that man.”

In confusion he waves Cormac off continuing to stare at this book that’s in front of him. It was beginning of the feast to celebrate the returning warriors and as the moon was highest in the sky, Flann still sat in his tent fascinated by this book.

His curiousness finally overcoming him he opens the book finding nothing odd in its contents except for one thing, the writing. Writing on each page written in blood, the words written in his way of reading.

The story focuses on a man named Fagan, who grew old as all things do, his tail speaks of him along the river Boyne, his long brown hair starting to grey with a beard to match, he wore tweeted clothing covering over all his clothes with them nearly hitting the ground.

He wore old torn leather boots and his hand wrinkled with time, some of which he may not want to remember.

In his right hand he holds Ail, drinking it often until stopping to kneel at the water to wash his face, yet wishing it washed his guilt as well, he drops the Ail to the ground putting his hand in the water while a tremor there the hole time.

Splashing the water on his face, he sighs staring at the broken reflection, he stares and stares getting lost in the movement of the water, moments pass, and his face distorted seemingly briefly portraying a younger face gazing back at himself, as though the Ail drank casted tricks on his mind.

Perhaps it is his younger self staring in judgement, he thought, then breaking the trance by shaking his head, his reflection returned to normal.

Startled he staggers to his feet and began to walk back leaving the Ail behind, soon reaching a height overlooking the town surrounded with the scars of war.

Many spirits were sealed to the land from battles fought and men lost.

With a temporary truce and little in hostilities, many men found themselves battling starvation as their lands and crops were destroyed and burnt in campaigns. The town itself, now a third the size it once was, though still large for the time and held a large population within it.

He makes his way to the town’s entrance, taunted by local posted guards. “Here! The coward who led the flight from our foes, this land needs not your presence.”

Unfazed, he continues to walk in the town, through the entrance people could be seen repairing their homes and tending to the charred and burnt fields they have left in the hopes some lands may be saved, he was greeted by cows, sheep and chickens roaming the town streets freely, some limping and wounded, the stench of it all was foul and smoke often striking the throat.

Yet this man paid no mind to any of this, for the last number of seasons he did not care from that fateful event in his past.

So, continuing further on, still not breaking his silence, he enters his home, though with its damage it could barely be seen of as one, moving to his bed to the far right of the room and pulling of his hooded cloak he lay in the bed, trying to sleep with the aim of losing another torturous day into obscurity and speeding along the relief of the end granted by age.

His hand still shaking, he grasps it trying to settle it down. Later that day still tossing in his bed, he woke with voices getting louder and louder until he sat up shaking the delusions from his head.

The voices now lowering and his nerves calming, yet an early tone a woman was now visible in a darkened area in the room, not graced with the moonlight.

Her long black hair, mismatched eyes and a black shawl draped over her, covering her entire old and frail body, she seamlessly blended into the darkness as though it was coming from her directly.

“Fagan.” she says as though they were old acquaintances.

Unfazed yet now with a stern gaze he looks at the figure in the shadow, he spoke not a word.

The mysterious woman moves out of the shadow and approaches him, keeping some distance still she sat on the chair sighing saying, “what a long day, not yet over however, for you.”

Silently he sighs and acknowledges her with a subtle nod of the head.

She smiles, “you know, I wish to lift your pain Fagan.”

He nods his head once more and asked if his time has arrived, for him to leave and join is fallen men, his comrades.

Responding with a chuckle that indicated no. The encounter was interrupted with distant voices coming closer, both fell silent and once he looked elsewhere from the mysterious woman she had vanished when he returned his gaze, yet looking out the window once more he spotted a raven outside perched on the end of the roof.

Under the raven which then flew off, a group of armed men clad in mail armour with spear and shield in hand, his gaze quickly settled on a smaller soldier in the group.

The last of the armed men was not a man but what looked like a child, the boy looked no older than 16, an increasingly common sight in forces of these lands, with the wars having given many to the very woman he presumed visited him not moments ago.

The men he seen approaching did not seem at ease but instead alert, scanning their surroundings as they moved as though their homeland was the very hostile territory they were opposed to.

Word itself spread like a virus of conflict once again, coming to the land a large enemy host was reportedly approaching from the lands to the east.

Conflicts on the border regions had common occurrence even in the uneasy peace. Yet the populous had found ease believing that such reports were not true and had come from those who had let the fear of the Gods cloud their judgement.

Fagan knowing the woman’s words to be true gave up on his fruitless hope to rest and rose to his feet.

Seeing it was best too as the sun had begun to bring the light down on the land though not enough yet to expel all darkness.

Not long after clothing himself and placing his shawl over his clothes which were covering many of wounds scattered throughout his body which more than one would have robbed him of life when receiving them in the past.

He left his house which at this time felt more like a prison than a place of safety, after closing the door the sounds of distant mass panic and movement met him.

Faint shouting and the noise of pack animals and goods being moved into the area, when he got closer, he understood more what was in the process of happening.

Without yet seeing the mass body of what was making the noise, he had realized it was those fleeing the lands from the east seeking refuge.

Setting his eyes on the host, the great moving mass looks as though it was a living snake winding its body down the mountains itself and moving into the city before dissipating.

Men, women and children accompanied by pack animals carrying all they can, including the sick, ill and dying.

Among them also, many armed men though they were in battle attire, it seemed they were more armed with the intent to protect their belongings and loved ones, rather than the body of refuges as a hole.

There was no cohesion of effort from any to affect the order of the group.

Moment's pass, though it felt much longer along the far hills, where the body of people emerged into view, there was distant screaming and cries of the dying.

What could be seen was the column of people breaking from the body and fleeing, being scattered like grains of sand in the wind as what could vaguely be seen.

Another body of people going now having crashed into the fleeing citizens, looked more like an incoherent mass.

The people now warned of the imminent danger now upon them, much in part due to those losing their life’s in the hills in the distance, panic now infecting everyone, many who were armed rallied in groups and many more armed themselves with what they could lay the hands on, even our women and young refused to remain idle and helped bring the weak and sickly past the fast becoming defensive lines.

Gazing at the group of men readying themselves in the battle lines, a few faces would be spotted from past campaigns Fagan commanded, many now like himself carrying aged faces and body’s much like Fagan himself, though their zeal and strength was still without question.

Eyes could be seen meeting his own as Fagan armed himself like many of the others, a shield gripped in one arm and sword in the other, a slight smile came about him as though old friends had reunited.

Understanding the opportunity, or cure given to him by the gods Fagan thought to redeem himself, to those who’s family’s grieved loved one under Fagan’s command in years past, his death if blessed to him was a pleasant thought as a possibility.

As this all occurred the gazes of few past comrades changed from vague curiosity or dismissal to slight admiration and respect.

The suppressed respect of the old veteran for a moment was eased so much so that though few, a few older men rallied alongside Fagan.

Though silent they stood alongside each other bracing for the enemy which now had reached the foot of the hills and began to amass in battle array opposite their own forces.

Glancing the left and right, men spoke words of encouragement, there words finding many ears, as the spirits of the young raised, making them step up to the mark.

Those eager and those whose age blessed them with courage began to advance, the rest in turn followed weak in moral or not.

When the distance was closed by both advancing forces many broke into a run and a great roar echoed out over the land from the men.

Shields crashed against shields and swords against swords, the weapons carried on both sides spared neither rich nor poor, old or young and soon many lay slain on the field.

Fagan and his men having entered the fray fought with all the youth of their past, driving many in front of them they proved there worth however their skill and experience alone could not protect them and one by one these men too met their end.

Fagan having slew a foe watched his lifeless body fall, his helmet having fallen off revealed a young boy like many seen throughout his own force.

Stunned into guilt suddenly he remained motionless in among the mas of fighting men. Freed from this stun only by the sight of a crow overhead circling the battlefield with its sight cast on many below.

He shouts, "is this my time?"

Feeling it to be the old woman he felt the presence of fate as the crow's eyes set their sight on him.

Suddenly with his attention having been elsewhere Fagan was struck in the flank by a foe, wheeling and delivering a fatal blow in return he slew the warrior before collapsing and seeing the carnage which had unfolded, the army in rout and many being cut down in flight from the field leaving a desolate battlefield littered with the dead and dying, the fighting itself moving now to the towns and villages and many fled to them for refuge.

Fagan himself with what energy he still possessed stumbled to the river he had been by the day before, losing his strength he fell by the water side.

The water now calm and peaceful like all things should be, it gave him a sudden and brief sense of piece, a long forgotten feeling he has missed, and with a tier of relief he looked again at the water, now, once again seeing the young boy in its reflection, the very same young boy from before.

Yet this time he knows this face is not a younger reflection of him, he sees this young face as a reflection from behind him in the water and turning around he sees.

A boy, posed to strike Fagan dead, fear in his eyes, the boy is gazing at him and in silence he returns the gaze until flan lowers his head in acceptance, his eyes gently close, finally, he will be gifted piece. The crow, she echoed out another cry.

The tail and cure of the very man lived on in the book as no more of the story was destined to be told with the rest of the book having not survived the damages of war, placing the book to one side, a man was left impacted by another, another who himself was imprisoned by the very thing many squander, not willing to fade into obscurity like many others, letting destiny take hold, and history begin.

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Written by: Ethan McCloskey

Inspired by: Mickey Breslin