The Knight of Mórbhach

When a new ‘day’ began, Eoghan Conroy did not move.

He remained still.

He tried to understand what he had seen. What he had heard.

The voice and words that felt all so familiar yet were still different. Belonging to ‘days’ that were not his. The sight he had grown almost too used to, yet from another perspective—the one that looked not from above but from within the earth.

One by one, he forced himself to recall the ‘days’ he had suffered through. The patterns he had followed. The memories he kept recalling.

The deaths.

All the many painful, desperate, imaginable deaths.

And to what purpose? To what end?

To find out the name of the fae who cursed him?

To find out the lair of the witch who could save him?

To find out a way to be rid of Death’s stain?

All those ‘days’, all those deaths…was he anywhere close to any of those ends? Was he anywhere close to ending that curse?

How many more nights he had left? Had it been a thousand yet?

Would he be able to endure a thousand more? And then a thousand more after it? How was this new life and its endless ‘days’ any different from what he had before? From waking every time the sun rose, so he could follow the same pattern he did all the other days. To have things repeat themselves, again and again.

Was there ever any chance of him becoming free? Of him creating a new pattern with his own hands, and living through it without any pain or ache? Of others accomplishing the same?

His father never broke free from his ‘days’. He was a man who traveled and brought back whatever he had fancied most before going on a new journey. One that was different, but the same. His mother continued to be but a misplaced outlander, replacing her absent roots with a man who could provide for her. Did it matter if the man was his father, his uncle, or the stranger consoling her during the funeral?

Did it make the pattern truly different? No matter how countless patterns he followed and unraveled, how many directions he fought to take, all his ‘days’ ended the same.

…what was Life, then?

What was Death?

Eoghan Conroy pushed his way out of the dirt. The world around him was not the same.

It was different.

He walked around the trails until he found something. An old, broken horn. Something that, perhaps, could’ve belonged to a past ‘day’.

“…I can feel you lurking, fae. Come out. Face me once more, like you had done before.”

The breeze that brushed behind his ear carried more than their laughter.

It reeked. Burned.

“…wilt thou sing my name once again, woeful one? Wilt thou now cry out for vindication, upon beholding the truth of thy curse?”

A chill. A voice that pierced his soul with claws made of frost and wickedness. That commanded his heart to beat with dread and fright.

Yet Eoghan Conroy strengthened his grip. He found the voice within him that had yet to be tainted with fear and despair.

“I wish to correct myself. To provide you once again with my answer to a question asked in a moment of fragility and ignorance.”

The breeze became more gelid and uncaring. And caressed his arms and legs before the creature was standing in front of him, once again.

The ‘day’ starting to lose its light, once more.

“And which question is that? Canst thou recall my words? Remember their taste and scent?”

Ah, those eyes…

Never once were they not beautiful. Never once were they not haunting.

“I recall them,” the man replied, the tears in his eyes too hesitant to fall.

“Yet canst thou recall the words thou once spoke? The tune to which thou moved thy feet?”

What did he say then?

That first day, what was his answer? Did he remember?

…did it matter?

“It matters not the ‘days’ forsaken in blood. I shall give you a new answer now.”

The dark fae laughed, their grin filling their lips.

“Yet what of thy fate, creature?”

A chill.

The wails.

‘The Dullahan comes for thee…’

The headless horseman walked toward him with no haste, dragging the long blade across the soiled ground that was, for them both, their final resting place.

Eoghan could still feel it. Moving within his veins, dominating his every being, consuming his mind. Terror. Panic. Dread. Yet he recalled the pattern. He repeated it.

“…come.”

The sword spun three times on the Dullahan’s hand, the man opening both arms as he waited for another death. As he recalled all the other patterns and ‘days’ he had lived through, wondering how Death would touch him that time.

How intimate and familiar would it be this ‘day’.

With a strong embrace, the blooded sword pierced his abdomen, going all the way through his back. And although their embrace was tight and tender, neither Death nor Eoghan Conroy had any warmth left to share.

“…I see you,” his woeful self whispered.

And sunk the broken horn deep into the Knight’s chest.

The Dullahan took a few steps back, shaken, hesitant, bemused. Eoghan grabbed the sword’s handle and pushed. The pain that coursed through him, he knew it well. And the way that sword should be handled—

That, too, he knew far too well.

Eoghan pierced Death in the chest once. Then he pierced It again in the stomach. And as the headless horseman stumbled away, Eoghan threw himself at the Knight. Pulled the broken horn away and created a new pattern—a new path toward the Dullahan’s heart.

As the Death punched him again and again—in the head, in the face, in the stomach, in the shoulders—he endured. He embraced the pain and its decaying nature, again and again, as his blood still soiled the earth.

Then, he found it. He grabbed it, with both hands.

A heart that had long been forsaken and rotten. A heart whose purpose was no longer to beat for Life.

The second he found the blackened heart in his hands, the Dullahan stopped moving. The world became quiet once again.

No more wails.

No more whispers.

No more laughter.

Before Eoghan moved away from the body, before he shifted his gaze, he knew.

He felt it.

The starry-eyed gaze upon him.

“…my answer…will you hear it again?”

His voice struggled to be heard, the words echoing a pain he could no longer feel in the same way.

Mórbhach smiled.

“Speak. Declare it. Proclaim thy words with thy dying breath.”

With one hand, Eoghan Conroy held the cut in his abdomen tightly. With the other, he held the sword that had once belonged to the Knight of Death.

A sword that, he could feel—sense it—had been forged by Mórbhach themselves. A blade that had killed and put an end to endless patterns. A blade that was forged for Death’s hands, and only Its hands.

He was struggling to breathe. He was struggling to speak.

Still, Eoghan Conroy spoke.

“…Life is but meaningless patterns woven together. Futile patterns one can recall and attempt to relive in the foolish hope of achieving something different, yet that, in the end…will always lead to the same ends. No matter how much effort…and time…one exerts upon themselves to change it, all patterns shall bestow upon them the same fate.”

The dark fae’s hand found his face once again. Touched him. Caressed him.

A touch with no warmth, yet more tender and familiar than any other.

“Thou sing about Life in a curious tune...yet canst thou sing about Death in a tune that is just as harmonious? As lyrical and beautiful?”

And as those eyes met his, Eoghan let himself fall into that gaze once more.

He let himself smile.

“Fate itself. What sustains Life, the purpose of all its patterns. The candid answer one can never escape from, the reason one lives…that…is Death.”

‘What shall be done now that Death was undone by thine hands, o woeful creature?”

Even without Death, Eoghan could feel his end approaching. The ‘day’ that would become his final ‘day’ at last.

An end to all the endless patterns, the endless pain.

The man placed one knee on the soiled, blooded ground.

And raised Death’s sword toward its creator.

“…Death is Fate. Death is Eternal. It shall never unbecome or fade, for it is Yours to command. And my time…is worth no more than a paltry penny. A time that is yours to take.”

Mórbhach took the sword with their hands, the cold, crimson blade reflecting the mesmerizing glow of their gaze.

Then, they raised the sword toward the sky.

Toward the distant, uncaring moon.

‘My Knight of Death…sing my name’

Eoghan could hear it.

The wails. The whispers. Yet this time, they were his.

The man smiled, his words tasting of blood and rot.

“Mórbhach.”

When the blade fell, his time finally ceased. The ‘days’ finally ended. No new pattern emerged. For Eoghan Conroy walked through patterns no longer.

He was their end.

On that ‘day’, no darkness was vaster and no shadows more gelid. The head and face that had once belonged to Conroy’s nephew grew smaller, it was swallowed by Mórbhach’s gaze till it became one more star in their beautiful eyes.

The being who had no warmth to share

The dark fae whom mortals dreaded to encounter. Whom mortals feared to utter their name.

The Unseelie who walked through the woods, always watching, always listening.

The one whose words the headless horseman obeyed and followed. For Death was Mórbhach’s Knight.

A being who, like Death Itself, was eternal.

Carrying the Fate one would never escape from.

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Thank you to everyone who read 'The Knight of Mórbhach' until the end! I am incredibly grateful for the support and time, and truly hope you enjoyed. Also, that I was able to give you a satisfying end m(_ _)m

An 'Author's Note' will be published soon~