The First 'Day'

Too much time had passed since that day.

Far too much.

At that point, the man could hardly reach the memory of that very first day. The day before all other ‘days’ began. One devoid of patterns and the uncaring distance of Time, a moment where Death’s sheer coldness had yet to touch him and smear him with its foul stench.

A day when there were no wails.

No whispers.

“…I shall take my leave now, mother. Take care.”

Eoghan left the grieving woman in a cool, empty house. A place that, although filled with furniture and cheap decorations, held nothing of value within. No worth memories to be remembered and appreciated.

His mother said nothing to make him stay. She did not beg, much less shed more tears—those, she had used plenty during the funeral. In fact, not a single person confronted Eoghan that night and requested him to stay a while longer. To every single one of them, he was Conroy’s nephew.

Eoghan’s father had met his mother during one of his trips. A man who had been away from home for almost ten months and suddenly came back with an outlander—a woman with child. Their handfasting ceremony was performed by the local priest, with only two pairs of eyes to bear witness. Eoghan was born six months later.

It was not until Eoghan was three years old that his father left for another trip, and never came back. People in the village did not complain when he did, much less his mother, and Eoghan recalled far too little of his father to have an opinion on the matter.

He did, however, recall his uncle.

How his father’s younger brother began supporting and helping the abandoned Mrs. Conroy after her husband’s disappearance. How his uncle would gaze at the woman when he thought no one was looking, how the man’s voice would become mellow and tender whenever he addressed her.

How, for some reason, the man never really treated him the way Eoghan expected him to—as family.

For that reason, when Eoghan received an offer from his maternal grandparents to go live with them, there was nothing to consider. By his seventh birthday, he had already left. And the only reason he came back was to pay his homage to the man he recalled. The one who had aided and stood by his mother’s side when needed so desperately.

He was set to depart the very next day.

As soon as the sun rose on the horizon, Eoghan would go back home.

"Young man, might I beg for a moment of thy time?”

Normally, he wouldn’t.

Normally, he would apologize and be on his way. In that place, too many people knew of his family—their history.

Yet before taking a stroll in the woods, Eoghan bought some drinks.

And when he looked the stranger’s way, he saw their eyes.

He only saw their eyes.

So beautiful. Mesmerizing.

“…my time is cheap and therefore holds little value to be held with such importance by yourself. Please, feel free to use as much of it as it is needed.”

The stranger smiled, and that sight alone took his breath away. The more Eoghan stared at them, the less he was certain if the stranger was a woman or a man, and to his dismay, he realized little it mattered.

That was the most beautiful person he had ever laid eyes on. A beauty that extended to their lustrous hair and lyrical voice.

And that person asked him a question.

“What is Death, as seen through thine eyes?”

Eoghan was taken aback by those words. His body lost its warmth, his heart skipped a beat.

Perhaps because he had spent the past hours suffocating in an enclosed space, filled with death’s stench.

Perhaps because, even with the cool breeze on his face and the alcohol on his stomach, his uncle’s face continued to burn within his mind. Haunting him. Forcing him to recall.

Eoghan Conroy gave his reply.

He could not recall what he replied.

He could only remember how the stranger stepped closer. How their eyes shone even brighter, their smile flourished more.

“And what art thou to Death, that thou proclaimest to know It so well?”

By that point, with those words, even with all that beauty and glamour, the looming idea of Death was enough to make his body recoil. To force his eyes to look away and gaze at the distant moon, instead. To find solace in the cold night instead of the starred-eyes who gazed so intensely at him.

“I am but a man—no more, no less. Though Death has never attempted to claim me, it showed itself plenty. Enough for me to recognize its vile stench, and its cruel touch. Wouldn’t one say that is more than enough? In this poor life we are all forced to live, to already know Death this well, is it not enough for a man to pay his dues with God?”

In that moment, as he gazed at the sky above and let the cool breeze rob him of some of his warmth, Eoghan Conroy’s words carried nothing but honesty. His reply was candid and truthful, even if some of the words tasted like cheap whiskey.

Then, a chill.

A crackle.

A chuckle.

‘O woeful creature…how pitiful art thee.’

As Eoghan Conroy turned his gaze back to the beautiful stranger, the world around him shifted. Became something else.

The stranger was still beautiful. Their eyes still focused on him, their shine never lesser.

Yet the smile…that gaze…

It carried something foul.

Something nefarious.

Conroy’s feet tried to take a few steps back—tried to guide him away from that uncanny world that more and more began to surround and dominate him.

He tripped.

He fell.

‘Have thou no shame or fear, mortal, to proclaim such falsities to me?’

Someone like him could not comprehend. Could barely process and absorb the things unraveling in front of his eyes. The way the shadows and the darkness took form, the way they began to crawl and move. The way the moon lost its glow while those eyes shone brighter.

The way his entire being was screaming at him to run away, how he knew he had to run away, yet could find no strength to do so.

‘Fear no more, woeful creature. Such a transgression shall be forgiven with ease—worth no more than a paltry penny. Thou said so, thyself.’

When the stranger knelt by his side, Eoghan thought he would die.

When they placed their fingers on his face and caressed him, he heard his heart give a silent plea.

When their grin widened, and their voice softened, he cried.

‘Thy time holdeth no worth nor weight, for it is the cheapest coin of all—one thou can spare it in abundance.’

And when the stranger’s hand sank into his chest and took a hold of his beating heart, Eoghan Conroy wished they would kill him.

For at that moment, he knew.

He felt it.

Death’s touch.

‘For a hundred thousand nights, my Knight will come for thee. For a hundred thousand nights, the Dullahan will claim thy soul.’

The leafless trees curved his way. Bowed to them.

‘For a hundred thousand nights, thou shalt face Death and stare It in the eyes—succumb to Its fate.’

The wind blew colder, harsher. It robbed him of every ounce of warmth he could have left.

‘Only when the sun doth rise upon the hundred and one thousandth day shalt thou be free from Its hands.”

Instead of crushing his heart in their hands, the stranger caressed it. Played with it using their fingers. And as they did, Eoghan Conroy felt no pain.

He only heard the wails.

The stranger’s eyes bore themselves on his own, their smile enveloping him on such a vicious feeling, it made his body tremble as it ached to reject that touch.

And on that day, his first death came not from the Dullahan and its blooded blame.

But from a gelid kiss given by a being with starry eyes and lustrous dark hair.