Unravelling Patterns

When Eoghan Conroy opened his eyes on that new ‘day’, all he could smell was the stench of decay.

Of rot and death.

A stench that did not belong solely to the soiled dirt anymore.

When he crawled his way out, the same trees greeted him. They were the same, yet different. Like the chilling breeze that made its way toward him, eager to rob him even more of the scarce warmth his body was desperately holding on to.

It was the same breeze as all the other ‘days’.

Yet different.

…what did I reply?

On that first day, what did I say?

His answer to what had been, at first, an odd yet simple question. One that could’ve been asked with the ingenuity and innocence of an infant. One he had replied in the same spirit.

What did he answer?

…how do I see It?

What is Death, to me?

Around him, a laughter crackled through the air.

‘Again and again, the Dullahan shall come for thee…’

‘Again and again, the Knight shall rise and crave thy heart.’

From all the ‘days’ Eoghan lived through, from all the nights he met his demise and became a prisoner of pain, had he ever felt the presence of Death as strongly as on this ‘day’? Had the world ever looked so…blighted?

Had Life ever felt so futile?

“…they never truly stop, did they?” The words tumbled out of his lips, their sound being lost amidst all the others.

Between all those wails.

Those whispers.

They had always been there, ever since the ‘days’ began. Haunting him. Imprisoning him. And Eoghan Conroy had done his best to run away from them—to mute those sounds and escape that gruesome, ruthless punishment bestowed upon him.

Yet he never tried to see where they came from.

The wails.

The whispers.

…they are certainly coming from somewhere.

Perhaps…

He could find it, their source.

Their origin.

On that ‘day’, Eoghan did something different. Something he had never done before, a pattern he had never dared to unravel much less search for. The man closed his eyes and listened. Paid close attention to those sounds, the ones that crawled into his eyes like chilling nails and feasting insects. He listened—

And began walking toward them.

However, it was challenging. The wails were not akin to a hare’s prints left in the earth for a hunter to follow. They were not like the distant breeze that followed a direction before it got lost. At times, they were everywhere—desperate sounds longing to be heard and noticed. At others, Conroy couldn’t be sure if he was hearing anything at all, the sounds seemingly coming from within his own head.

Yet there was another thing he could follow, was there not?

A feeling he felt with his own body, something that pierced deeper into his flesh and bones only in certain instances. Something that drenched his every cell and string of hair until the man could not move a single muscle.

Terror.

Directions his feet would be far more reluctant to take, paths his gaze would avert, patterns his mind kept thwarting and struggling to hold on to. Things that would give him the chill. That made him feel and sense those eyes upon him.

Thus, Eoghan Conroy fought against himself. Commanded his eyes to look, his hands to seek, his legs to guide him. Bit by bit, step by step, little Conroy’s nephew walked through those bleak, forsaken woods while seeking for those wails.

And from time to time, a laughter.

A smile.

Appearing between dark, leafless trees. With a long hair dancing against the wind, a hair so black and lustrous it put the darkest night in disgrace. With a gaze so bright and endless, it surpassed the glow of a thousand stars.

A being so wholly mesmerizing and beautiful, it was dreadful.

‘O woeful man… Hast thou not yet weary? Art not thy feet and soul sore?’

Eoghan’s body trembled from within, his very existence trying to refute and repel the path he was set to take. He bit his cracked lip, clenched his dirtied hands.

“Shouldn’t you be the tired one, o great fae? Shouldn’t I be the one questioning your judgment and sanity, when all you have been doing for so many a time is wasting your attention and time with a woeful creature such as myself?”

Mórbhach’s grin widened. From ear to ear, not an inch less, it bloomed on their face—revealing their black, sharpened teeth.

Then, Eoghan blinked—and the dark fae was gone.

The sounds became louder.

This whispers, more wretched. The wails, more pitiful.

Eoghan Conroy continued to walk. Even as his legs kept losing their strength and making him fall, the man would sink his own nails into his flesh and make him bleed. He would force that meager pain to give enough reason for his body to stand once again. For his feet to move.

Just like so, little by little, through his rotten sweat and soiled blood, the man found it. Felt it.

Where the wails were coming from.

And at that moment, on that new ‘day’—

“…ha…”

Eoghan Conroy felt the urge to laugh.

As he fell to his knees, new tears burned their way across his face like melting knives. What first began as a broken chuckle soon took shape and force. A unhinged noise that came from deep inside, crawling his throat and bursting out from his lips.

For truly, had Life even been so worthless?

Eoghan stared at the earth beneath him—its stench far too familiar, its touch far too intimate, recognizable. Then, whatever had caused him to laugh rotted and festered within him. Leaving only but rage.

The man began to dig.

With the same hands and nails he used to crawl his way out of the dirt all those ‘days’. He threw that soiled, reeking earth away. More and more, until his hands had become soiled themselves, until dirt had dug itself into his flesh, the man moved that earth away.

As he did, what had been for far too long wordless wails and meaningless whispers, began to take shape.

An old, forgotten pattern.

Thou speak of Death with such a nonchalantly demeanor, thy kin could mistake thee for one who met Death thyself.

That voice, those words—he knew them. Yet they were different. They did not belong to one of Eoghan Conroy’s ‘days’. They were not his.

And the wails, they were not merely laments and cries.

Fear no more, o woeful creature. For thy transgressions shall all be forsaken and forgotten. For thou shall know Death as never before.

They were pleas.

Desperate, frightened pleas.

When the sun set and robbed that ‘day’ of its light, Eoghan Conroy finished digging. And even before the wails and whispers became loud enough to deafen him, the erratic heartbeat was all Eoghan Conroy could hear.

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

This time, the voice he heard—the words he recalled—did belong to one of his ‘days’. To the oath made by the Star-eyed Unseelie on that very first ‘day’ to Eoghan Conroy.

And as the wails and whispers embraced him, as the wind blew fiercer and colder, the hand of Mórbhach’s did reach for him. Grabbed him by the neck, crushed his airway, made Eoghan gasp for air to no avail.

A blade, so cold yet tender, sank deep into his stomach. Once, twice, thrice. So many things fell, so much blood, so many parts of him carrying the stench of Death. The man did not beg or cry, he only listened.

The wails. The whispers.

The laughter.

That ‘day’, the world around him was the same, yet different. The new pattern he had found, it was different.

That ‘day’, Eoghan crawled out of the soiled dirt just the same. Yet he followed the wails. He followed his Fear. And that ‘day’, as Eoghan found the origin of those wails, the Dullahan did not come for him—

He came for the Knight of Death.

The creature buried underneath the soiled dirt.