Keeping the Faith "Mother!" I can do little else but whimper, the wound is bad, how did this happen? To me!, To me!, in the sky above I can see little, the sun flashes off a blade, a sword, arcing down, to hit a shield, the King’s shield! He lives, he lives, I did my duty…But Goddess, it hurts, it hurts, every breath is a labour, my body feels like strings, strings of a puppet, but the puppeteer’s hand has fell slack, and the limbs lie broken, my blood, I can feel it warm and flowing, my hand spasms as it clutches at my chest, sweet Badb! I’m dying, I…I tried to serve you well, I..I can feel blood welling up in my throat, I must rise, I can’t choke to death on my blood, I won’t, this is not the way I die, this is not it. I collapse back , running feet, I can feel them drum the floor near me, it hurts so, I hear the screams and realise that my own are adding to the battlefields crescendo, it slacks off and a face is pushed close to my own, I can feel another man’s blood drip onto my face, it is Angus! It is the King, I’m not alone! I’m not dying! I can’t! "HEALER!!, THE GREEN KNIGHT’S DYING!!!" That’s it, they’ll get to me, I can’t die, I’ll drink again tonight, laugh and sing, I’ll…… You are mine..
	"It’s too late, he’s dead" I reply, hands laid on the cooling flesh of the Stormcrow, the Green Knight. "He’s not!, he can’t be! You are wrong, cousin, try again, try harder damn you!" The King brushes his hand through his hair, coming back smeared with blood, his eyes flash with anger and rage, the Green Knight had thrown his body across the King’s that Angus be saved, but in doing so had fallen himself, and I couldn’t get across the battlefield in time. "I’m sorry cousin, I ,- " "I know Angus, I know, I must go, are you wounded still?" "No, I , there are my people out there dying, I can keep" "HEALER!!" I run off again, weary from healing, weary from the fight, but my brothers and sisters need me, It is Gabriel, someone points to him where he is limping from the battle, his leg bleeding badly, I rush over and tug at his cloak, he whirls and for a moment I think he does not see me, caught in the anger that makes warriors so dangerous, then his eyes fade and he winces from the pain. Wordlessly I place my hands either side of his wound and pray to my Goddess, Arianrhod. The lady of peace hears me and I can see the blood stop to flow, scab over, and dry, I peel the scab off to reveal fresh, pinkish flesh underneath, he is about to thank me when I see a warrior charge at us, for a moment my voice is stolen, I can but point, he spins and a second later I feel a splash of blood on my cloak as his sword hammers into the foeman. Gabriel is stunned as the man dies, stammering, "But I - He’s dead, I have cheated fate, I will live!" "HEALER!" The call comes again, and like a hound I am called to heel by anothers suffering, the wounded are all around, Nything, Fir Cruthen, Wolf, Viper, Young men and women hacked down in their prime, missing legs, and arms, eyes and faces, let this legion of cripples, this butcher’s army forever march towards the generals who advocate war for war’s sake, let none forget this, this butchery. I reach the wounded one, it is a young celtic warrior, his chest ripped open, by a claw, or some such wound, the edges are ragged and I have to wave away a black cloud of flies that has landed there, the battlefield is thick with them, I lay my hands on his chest, sweat rising to my forehead as I try one last time to summon up the healing magicks, one last time, he is a child in his father’s armour, he should be drinking and chasing his sweetheart, not bleeding to death on a stinking, dirty battlefield, but the magick won’t come, I will it to, I call as loud as my lungs will allow, I scream out my supplication to the Goddess, tears streaming down my face. But the battle’s din is louder, and my prayers it seems cannot be heard, "Mother!" he gurgles, clutching at my cloak, "it, it hurts mother.." I can do nothing, I cannot even weep anymore, all my tears would not be enough, an ocean of tears would do nothing for this one, this child, dying so far from home, Again I scream at the uncaring sky, all I can see are the bright arcs of Magick, the black flocks of arrows winging their way across the sky, and the ravens circling overhead, Ravens, the symbol of Badb, our high Goddess, I call to her, I scream my prayers, and a Raven alights next to me, it caws and it’s beady eyes link with mine. Let it go Isla MacRoth, this one is mine "NO!!- I can save him, I.. I can save him" "MOTHER!!!!" cries the dying boy, tears coursing his face, breath coming in wracking sobs, his clutch at my cloak is a death’s grasp, as if by holding to my cloak he can hold on to life, yet like his life, the grip weakens and his hand falls free. "mother…." He whispers as his eyes roll up in his head. My scream of impotent rage goes unheard amid the screams of the dying, this one rests with the Goddess now, there is nothing I can do, save comfort the dying. But there are so many, sweet Goddess, so many. "HEALER!" So many…
	I laugh as I spin to face my latest attacker, a fat little Nything cultist, hah- a nothing, nothing to a Shamanic master of druidry like myself, I smile as I roar out the words, "By the Power of the Spirits at my command and the holy power of the Lady Badb I use the spirits as my weapon and Spirit bolt thee!" I laugh again as the power leaves me, it is almost a sexual feeling of release, the bolt of semi visible energy pours from my fingertips, gathers itself and shoots towards the cowering cultist, the force strikes him square on, as I knew it would, and he screams once, before being cut off, his body writhing even as his heart and mind fail, pitching him into darkness unending. Running beside me is a group of warriors, poor fools who will never understand the power of magick, that one can feel like a God, striding through the foe with impunity, handing out death as you see fit, A second Spiritual bolt roars towards another attacker, killing him also, then a third at one of the group menacing our warriors, it is all like a game, I reach out and snuff their lives with but a thought, but a gesture, Ice cold pain wracks me as a blade blossoms from my chest, my hands flutter to it, cutting themselves on the sharp metal edge, NO! Not me!, not like this! A brutish savage cultist pushes me off his spearhead with his boot and I tumble to the floor, amid the mud and the corpses, all around me men and women lie, broken and bleeding, I feel an impact on my legs and find the cultist who stabbed me has been killed, an arrow protruding from his head, my hands scrabble great furrows in the dirt and mud, suddenly my hand clasps another, a rough hand, it fastens to me with a vice like grip and I grab back, for some reason it is comforting, turning my head, though it feels like wearing a molten iron collar to do so, I see the man is wearing the armour of a Nything cultist, he is staring back at me with pain crazed eyes, blood trickling from his mouth. His hand clasps tighter, he is trying to speak, bubbles of blood burst as his lips move, "And to think the Nything promised me eternal life…." I grinned, it seemed funny to me too, he laughed, a short bark, then died, "don’ die brother, we still have to go to the well for father" "brother?" "bro-……."
	"That’s it!" I call to the Stag, ‘My magick’s gone!’ "Good, Gwydion done magick, now then fight like warrior!" The feral huntsman replied. I snorted, what would he understand, damn him, I’d just blown all my magicks on killing the enemy, I was now as harmless as a fly, having been trained as a ritualist all my life I could hardly fight like the warriors, I tried again, even to summon the most basic magicks, to confuse and befuddle the foe, but no, nothing! Shit! I snatched up my dagger and joined the armoured and armed warriors, what else could I do, I just hoped that someone, somewhere, was keeping score, and that we were winning.
	The child ran around the edge of the skirmish, slipping on the blood slicked floor, picking his way through the corpses, before coming to the man bowed on the hill, he scampered up the slight rise, where the figure looked up, blood dripping from his face, and freely flowing down his arm, which appeared shattered. He coughed, then spoke, "Wise Father, I have news from the Healers" The figure spoke, yet it was not seemingly his voice, this voice sounded older, as something dragged from the depths of the abyss, devoid of light or cheer or happiness, "And what is the news, runner?" The figure sighed. "Milord Morgan, they say they have no more healing sire" The figure nodded. "I have had the same message from the Shamans and the Mages, they too have nothing, and my brothers and sisters drop like flies, I try to mystically shield them, and it is like beating my head against an oak, it is a cold day yet I sweat as if it were the desert, I am bleeding, possibly dying and I can do nothing…" The figure shifted, bowed awkwardly under the weight of some unseen force, "Do you believe in the Goddess, boy?" "Of course I do, Wise Father, Badb guards us" "Then pray to her, for in her hands is this day disposed" "Is that all I should do Milord" "It is all any of us can do….Send me the King" The boy ran to fetch the King, the day seemed darker now, as if a malignant hand were squeezing the battlefield dry of everything it held, men, women, and the blood, the blood of all.
	"Bastard!" I snarled as the blade bit deep, my leg feeling like it had been flayed, above me the Stag drove the Sun Spear into the flesh of the cultist who had stabbed me, the blade of the holy weapon glowing with the light of ten suns, and all the heat, all the intensity of that glow, focused on that one cultist, who screamed, writhed, then died instantly. The Stag crouches by me, wild looking, yet in his feral demeanour I detect concern, surely I’m not that bad. "How is it Gwydion?" "Ah’m Ok yeh big bastard, give me room, I’ll stand" "Or mebbe I won’t" I grunt as I collapse to the floor, "Do me a favour, get us a healer or something" The Pack, the Stag’s cohort, of which I was one, looked at each other, I caught the look, "Ah, c’mon lads, what’re yeh on about, it’s not that bad" "There’s no healing left Gwydion" spoke one of the Wild Elves. "Ahhhh, Shit!" I moaned, waves of pain hitting me, "Well, look, get us a healer when the battle’s over, someone back at camp, yeah? C’mon, carry me out of the battle" The Pack exchanged another Look. "What’s wrong, c’mon lads, tell me!" The Stag spoke, "It’s bad Gwydion, there is no where to carry you to, we’re surrounded, and you won’t last without healing" I felt tears mist my eyes, "Shit, that’s it?" They nodded, one of them, a young elf called Tuathal handed me a hipflask full of whiskey, I drank, and fixed my stare upon them, "Fetch me my dagger, and a length of cloth…..Right, now bind the wound, tight..AGGH! Tighter, so the blood can’t flow!..That’s it, right, give me another sip of that whiskey, cheers lads, carry me up there, lets get stuck in again"
	The King joined Morgan on the hill, both were wounded and blood flowed freely, "Well" "Well"..replied Morgan. "Fancy meeting you here." They both laughed, but only briefly, the screams louder than their merriment. "What do we do Morgan?" "What can we do, Angus" "We have no magick, our warriors are dying, our bards are hoarse from shouting encouragement, and they too are falling, and the druids, I’m sorry Morgan, but the druids are falling, no magick left, and Badb love ‘em, every one of them picks up a weapon and keeps going- but, but it ain’t enough, we have to consider what to do now" "Do you advocate retreat?" "NO!, No Morgan, I couldn’t, not and look them in the eye when we pull out, I could not give the order." "Good, for I would wish to kill you if you did." Angus laughed, then looked at his advisor, Morgan had not laughed, "You’re not joking are you?" "No" "You really are a piece of work" The King said angrily, "What makes you so sure you are right" "Do not lecture me on my emotions, I know I am right" "Your bodyguard , Jaw’is is among the fallen, he has been slain, and you sit here spouting that!" "It is because so many have died, and so many more will, that I will not back down one inch, we must keep the Faith, Angus, Our lady will provide victory for us, or we will all die, that is all there is to it" "I go, to win a battle- and you be damned!" Angus shouted. He never saw Morgan grin as he walked off angrily.
	"You were a good Pack member Gwydion" "Yes, and good druid as well!" "We of the Pack will remember you…" The Pack tenderly laid out Gwydion’s corpse as he had fallen, Gwydion had kept going until every drop of blood had left him, until his strength had failed and eyes dropped shut, his dagger was red with foeman blood, and more wounds criss-crossed his small frame, he had fought till the end, he had kept the faith.
	The three women walked slowly up the rise towards the haggard figure at the top, Morgan wiped blood from his eyes as he watched the battle in it’s dying throes, he could see it all, from here he saw the acts of heroism, the Fir Cruthen host cutting and cleaving through the foe, he could see Angus lead the last desperate charge, all magicks gone, all that was left the indomitable rage and spirit that was the birthright of every Fir Cruthen. But he also saw the cost, he saw Jaw’is, his bodyguard, fall beneath the cruel blows of a Nything Daemon, outclassed, but still battling, he saw his apprentice, Gwydion, die, dagger flailing in all directions as he fell, he saw his best friend Paddy hacked down, laughing at the foe as he went. He saw the mothers bereaved, he saw the men crying amid their own blood, weeping for loved ones they would never see again, he saw the healers screeching and distraught, helpless in the face of such slaughter, he saw it all from his hill, and he wept. The old Crone crested the hill and poked him in the ribs sharply, he looked up into a face that bore the stamp of the insane. Well well, what’re you crying for dearie, you’re alive, and the battle’s won- the Nything’s destroyed The old hag spat noisily on the floor, one cataract ridden eye staring blindly ahead, one poisonous yellow one fixed on his face. The thin druid looked at her, his mind reeling, he could not speak, but mutely pointed at the battlefield, where men drowned in their blood and cried their last, dragging themselves around on ruined limbs. War’s war, dearie, these thing’s happen, here- you’re staggering a little, lean on my shoulder, hush, shhh now, it’s over, it’s won. Presently the druid looked up, supporting him was a middle aged woman, red haired and emerald eyed, she pointed at his blood, We’ll get that sorted out for you, we are pleased with you, little druid, we are pleased with all our children this day, you believed, you all believed. When Morgan looked again, in front of him stood a beautiful warrior maiden, raven haired and grey eyed, wearing bloodstained armour, she was breathing heavily, as if excited by the blood spilled below, the field that was clearing, as the victorious armies walked off the field, bearing their slain. She sheathed her sword, and the sun came out amid the clouds, the pressure lifted from his shoulders, and he stood proud, she was beautiful, in the same way as a battle won, when you are still alive to celebrate, but terrible, in the same way as war always is. Go back to your people, give them our love He blinked, and could hardly speak, "Goddess?" There was no sound but the cries of the crows alighting on the bodies of the foe, and then, as if through a waking from a dream he heard he bawdy marching song of the Fir Cruthen "WELL I WAS DRUNK LAST NIGHT, I WAS DRUNK THE NIGHT BEFORE, TONIGHT WE’RE GONNA GET DRUNK LIKE WE’VE NEVER BEEN DRUNK BEFORE VICTORIOUS!, VICTORIOUS! WE HAVENAE HAD A PINT BETWEEN THE LOAD OF US GLORY BE TO BADB, THERE AIN’T NO FUCKIN’ MORE OF US FOR WE ARE THE FINE FIR CRUTHEN" Half laughing, half crying, he joined in as the host left the battlefield, they’d won, they’d kept the faith, he found his voice singing along "GLORY BE TO BADB, THERE AIN’T NO FUCKIN’ MORE OF US FOR WE ARE THE FINE FIR CRUTHEN." On the hill, the Maiden, Mother and the Crone looked at each other, it was a long time before any of them spoke as they watched the celts march home, singing their praises. Was it a trick of the light, or were there tears on their faces as they watched?

© ANDREW DUDGEON 1999