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Okay. So. That mythological serial fic I was talking about? I figured I might start it. Heh. Introduction, at least. The first story.
Concrit very welcomed on this piece. *smiles* Thank you.
Title: The Kingfisher
Rating: PG-13
Universe: Kingfisher Cycle
Characters/Pairings: Dreamer/Kingfisher, Manannán Mac Lir
Summary: She did not remember who she was before this. She was born full-formed, on the backs of leviathans, in this, this Otherworld
Wordcount: 5725
Warnings/Notes: Starting from Irish myth, skewing perhaps wildly into a universe of my own construction. Will be other myths later. *smiles* This is the world of gods ...
Claimer: Mine!
Concrit very welcomed on this piece. *smiles* Thank you.
Title: The Kingfisher
Rating: PG-13
Universe: Kingfisher Cycle
Characters/Pairings: Dreamer/Kingfisher, Manannán Mac Lir
Summary: She did not remember who she was before this. She was born full-formed, on the backs of leviathans, in this, this Otherworld
Wordcount: 5725
Warnings/Notes: Starting from Irish myth, skewing perhaps wildly into a universe of my own construction. Will be other myths later. *smiles* This is the world of gods ...
Claimer: Mine!
The Kingfisher
She was born fished from the sea. Possibly. That was an old story, after all. It might have been the sky. She remembered a great, scaled back, monstrous and without end. She had thought it a leviathan, but it might as easily have been a dragon. Sea, sky. Currents, winds. They were all ... somewhat of a one.
She was born fished from somewhere, anyway. Sprung full formed, cast up from the firmament. She was born, to land on a sandy shore, cradled in sand and the playful fingers of waves, blinking up through silver fog to a great white disk, far above, that might have been a sun. She lay there for some time. Cradled in that scoop of sand and sea, blinking in some bewilderment at that distant sun. She was ... without memory. Without name. Without knowledge. She was lost, and freshly born, and entirely confused.
Which was why, when a face appeared above her, framed briefly in white as it passed before the sun, for a long moment she did nothing, save blink at it. The face ... blinked back, saying nothing, with eyes the colour of mist, and the tiniest smile tucked into the corner of a weathered mouth.
It was the smile that, eventually, moved her to speak, to raise herself. She did not know who she was, or how she had come here. But she knew that that smile, so exasperatingly patient and so smugly knowing, was not something she could bear to leave unanswered.
"Where am I?" she asked, rolling sideways in the sand, losing sight of the face and catching, instead, a glimpse of browned arms, smooth and strong, and her own hands, curled in sand beneath her as she pushed herself to her knees. Her hands, slim and brown and strong. Flexing amongst golden grains, blunt nails nestled in salt-dried and ragged skin, with torn knuckles, as though she had been fighting. She stared at them, for a second. She stared at them for a while.
"Where are you?" a man's voice repeated, low and light and smooth, from over her head. The voice to go with the face, she thought. A sliver of amusement in it like a tiny smile. "Hmm. You don't know?"
She tilted her head back, still on hands and knees, and glared at him through a snarl of hair, long and brown and tangled. She wondered, briefly, what colour her eyes might be. "If I knew, would I ask?" she growled, climbing laboriously to her feet, brushing damp sand from coarse, heavy cloth. She wasn't naked, she realised. She wondered why that was important.
"I don't know," her companion said, with that laughter still bubbling beneath the words, that smile still hidden in his mouth. "Would you?"
She glared at him, momentarily confused by the question. "Would I what?"
He grinned. Only for a second, just a flash, a crease of amusement that ran across his face and was gone again, as though chased, or hidden. "Would you ask, if you already knew," he explained. "I'm sure I don't know. People ask many questions, for many reasons, you know. How should I know which are yours?"
She blinked at him, stumped for a second. Not even very annoyed, just ... bewildered. This ... was not the time for this, she thought. Not when she was so freshly made. This was not the time for confusing conversations with ... who, again?
"Where am I?" she repeated, more firmly now. "And who are you?" Tilting her head to look at him, this strange man, with his cloak that seemed to shimmer blue-green, then silver, then purple, with his face that seemed one moment older, one moment younger. She ... was not sure she liked him, really. He was too confusing.
He bowed a little for her, sweeping his arms wide so that his cloak, now blue-green to match the waves, should trail in the surf. "I am Manannán, my lady," he said, with that secret smile. "Manannán Mac Lir. And this, for the moment at least, in this time and place ... is my kingdom."
She blinked at him some more, turning her head to follow the lines of his arms, looking out ... along a beach, the rise and fall of sea and sand and fog, and behind it ... trees? Fruit trees? Woods, she thought, anyway, as mist-shrouded as the rest of things. A strange kingdom, she thought. A small and empty place, at least for now. What was here, that he should claim it so?
"And you?" he asked, while she was distracted, while she was still watching the line of his hand, and the world encompassed there. There was ... an odd note to the question, something strange in it, but she could not tell what, and when she looked back to his face, there was no expression there. None save the smile, at least, but she began to think the smile no expression at all, nothing real, bland and empty as the mists. There was nothing in it, or everything, and one as useless as the other. His eyes twinkled faintly, like distant white-gold disks. "Who are you, who walks on my shores, my lady?"
She frowned. Dug inside herself, a little, as much as she knew how. She should know that, she knew. There should be an answer to that. People were not born fully formed, on the backs of dragons. She didn't know how she knew that, but she knew it was true. But ... there was nothing. No memories, or none specific to her. Empty as his smile, the space behind her eyes. She didn't like that.
"I don't know," she said, honestly, frowning at him. She didn't know that she should tell him this, thought vaguely that this might be a thing to keep secret. But there was no other answer. "I don't remember."
"Ah," was all he said. Or all there was in words. But 'ah', there were worlds in that. She heard them. There was knowledge in that, a knowing in that, and she seized upon it, reached out to take a fistful of his sleeve, the material smooth and liquid beneath her fingers, and hold him to her. Glare at him, seek the answers behind the shield of his benign smiling, reach the truth behind the mists in his eyes. She grabbed hold of him, a flash of violence, and this smile, this smile, did not have nothing in it. This smile was fierce, and delighted, and suddenly looking upon her as something interesting, something worthwhile.
She didn't like that, either.
"You know something," she said, low and rough, a little hum of threat. "You know something. Who am I? Where am I? You will tell me."
He grinned at her, his face settling now, into that older face, that creased and leathered face, grey eyes nestled in browned and creased skin. Fisherman's face, whispered something inside her, she knew not what. Fisherman's eyes, when there is something on the hook.
"Well now," Manannán murmured, watching her. "The who, I know not, my dear. But the what, the where? Those ... I might help you with."
A long pause, while he trailed off, looking at her expectantly, until she growled faintly against the urge to shake him. "Well?"
He laughed, light and clear, and the mocking edge faded from him a little. Age settling on him a little more heavily. She began to think that might be the way to know his moods. Not the smile that said nothing, but the weight of years that seemed to come and go at a whim. The man who looked at her now was older, less fey, more ... Kingly, she thought. Stern, and not unkind. He wore age well, and as an answer.
"Come with me," he said, more softly. "Come to my home, dear lady. Sit with me a while. And I will answer what I may, of the questions you have. Will that suffice? Will you come?"
She stood still for a minute. Thinking. Suspicion flowered, ebbed. Did not quite disappear. But ... there was nothing else. So.
She nodded, letting her hand slip from the lightness of his cloak, and gestured for him to lead her on.
He led her off the beach, into the woods behind. She had blinked, a little, at the sight of them. Trees were not normally like this, she thought. Following behind him, her head tilted back so that she could look above her, where silver branches hung with apples interlocked overhead, and blocked the path to that white-gold disk of sun. Like no trees ... Well. Like no trees she had known. But then, she had known very little, it seemed. The woods were quiet, almost musical, and the light was very pale. When she looked back down, looked forward once more, he was looking back to her over his shoulder, and smiling faintly.
His 'home', as it turned out, was not far. What little there was of it. The path climbed quickly, twisting through the trees, almost doubling upon itself, and then, suddenly, they broke free, from tree and from mist, and stood upon a clifftop, green upon pale stone, beneath a sun now more gold than white, looking out ... upon an endless sea of mist, a rolling without end, and beyond ...
Beyond, rising and falling from the silver shroud, dark and gleaming beneath the sun, were the scaled backs of leviathans. In the distance, too far to reach, too far to know, but there. Vast coils that rose and fell, the monstrous backs of dragons.
She made a noise, then. A gasp, a hitch, something. He looked at her. He watched her watching them, those distant dragons. And he smiled. Just faintly.
"Come sit with me," he said softly, touching her elbow, worn fingers rough and gentle against her skin. "Over here."
She followed dazedly, eyes still darting out, still catching on dark risings in a sea of mist. He guided her, gently enough, to a space, a clearing set in the white rock of the cliffs, with pale stones to sit on, and a firepit beside a bubbling, crystal spring. Not much of a home, she thought distantly, but didn't particularly care. He set her upon a stone, still smiling faintly at the sudden distance in her eyes, at her sudden distraction.
"Would you like a drink?"
She blinked at him, at the cup that suddenly appeared before her face, called suddenly back, and not, she felt, very happy about it. She shook her head, brushing his hands aside, though carefully, not to spill. The cup ... something in her distrusted it. Some fragment of memory, of instinct, that recognised a fisherman's eyes. It warned her ... not to drink, to eat. And there was a flash of ... something, then. In his eyes. A dark flicker, not of anger. She blinked again.
"Where am I?" she asked. Once more, again, but different now. A different tone, a different question. She had been born on the backs of dragons. She would know why.
He stood back from her, stretched the long line of a lean spine, the water forgotten in his hand as he looked down at her. Thoughtful, now, a frown shaping the creases of that face. Studying her, seeing something, she knew not what. Then, he moved away. Drifted across the clear space, and sat down on a stone of his own.
"I call this Emhain Abhlach," he said, quietly. "The Isle of Apples. But the answer you're looking for, the wider answer, the name for the mists and the worlds within them ..." He smiled, faintly. "This is the Otherworld, my dear. The Land of Dreaming. And you. You ... are asleep."
She ... stared. That ... Of all answers, that ... had no meaning.
"Asleep," she repeated. Flatly. Not even a question. What ... what was this? And he was smiling again, that smug little one, tucked away. He was amused at her, again.
"Asleep," he confirmed, more to perpetuate the cycle than anything, she thought. "The Otherworld ... Hmm. How to explain this." He shifted, settling himself more comfortably in the hollow of his stone, rolling the cup absently between his palms.
"When men dream," he began, then paused. "My apologies. When people dream. Their minds, or souls, or however you think of them ... Those things come here. To the worlds of dreaming. It is ... the world beneath, beyond, between. It is ... all there is, in a way, though it may not interact with the world beyond, with the waking world. The Otherworld ... Here, there are gods, my dear. Here, there are all things. When people dream, they create a space, here. A world of their own, in the mists, where they the dreamer are Fisher King." A small, vague smile. "The Otherworld is born from them, maybe. Or only their souls from it. It's hard to tell. But here is where the dreamers are. And you, my dear ... you are dreaming. You sleep. Somewhere."
She stared at him. Nonplussed. That ... Still, that did not mean anything.
"Then ... you are a dream?" she asked him. He did not feel it. He didn't seem hers at all, no part of her dreaming. If dreaming she was. "You ... are not real?"
He laughed, at that. Rough and sparkling, a storming, delighted thing. There was that flicker, in his eyes again. That dark thing that was not anger.
"No, my dear," he laughed, smiling at her above the cup in his hands. "No indeed. Or none of yours, at least. This ... This is not your dream, dear lady. Emhain Abhlach is my dream, and I its king."
She frowned, leaning forward. Resting sea-scored hands on stained knees, thoughtful, curious, searching. "But you said. We make our own kingdoms. How then?"
Fisherman's eyes, then. That watching thing, that thought her useful, interesting, worthy, of some thing she did not yet see. Of some thing she felt might be feared. There were things in the mists of his eyes. Things she did not like.
"Sometimes," he said, musing. "Sometimes, a dreamer ... steps outside. Finds the edges of their kingdom, and ... slips through. Into the mists. Onto the backs of dragons, and other things, other spirits in the mists. This is the Otherworld. Here dwell gods. Amongst others. Sometimes ... a soul may lose its dream, slip free, and ... be lost. Caught between, and lost to the world beyond. Those souls ... may be found by many things."
Something froze, in her chest. Something stuttered, a nameless fear. "And ... what happens to them then?" she whispered. No shake in her voice. But some, she knew, in her eyes. There was age in him, once again. There was something old, and not smiling, now.
"That depends," said Manannán, so softly it might be a threat, or hushed benediction. "On where they fall, on where they land. On who should find them, in the mists, or in some kingdom. On who should want them. On what should lure them close."
She did not stand. She did not flinch. Not in the face of him. Not for the threat, or promise, or warning in his eyes, the mists that shone like white disks in creases of worn skin deep as trenches, abyssal. She trembled, only faintly, but she did not flinch.
"And who has found me?" she asked of him. Calm, direct. There were cuts on her knuckles, she remembered. Before, perhaps, he found her. She had been fighting, on the backs of dragons. Who? And was this, was he, any different?
He smiled then. This one sad, and warm, and so very ancient. For who, she wasn't sure. She didn't know. But if there was a threat in it, if there was darkness, then it was already passed, the deal already struck. The knowing in this smile. It was for what had already happened.
"I am Manannán Mac Lir," he told her, quietly. "I told you there were gods, here. I am one of them." A smaller smile, a flicker. "A god of seas, and mists. Of the between places. I am ... a guardian. This world, the Otherworld ... It is my world. Not only this Isle, my little kingdom. All of it. I am ... Well. In some ways, I am the Gatekeeper. That ... is who has found you. That is where you are."
She shook her head. Not negation, just ... uncertainty. The words were good. But she had no way of knowing how to trust them.
"Who am I?" she asked, in a voice so quiet she was not sure he could hear. "What do I do?"
He tilted his head, cloak deepening to grey-purple, an evening sky. He watched her, very gently.
"I don't know your name," he said at last. Thoughtful, gentle. "I don't know where you are from, how far you traveled to reach my shores. I do not know your dream. I cannot find that for you."
He watched her, as he said it. Watched, and beneath that gaze, she straightened. Instinctively, even despite the words. Proudly, even despite the meaning. For the reason she had stood to face his smile. Because she could not else. Because something in her, that had been born on the backs of leviathans, something that had fought in places she could not remember ... That something demanded it. Without conscious thought. She straightened beneath his gaze, and met those mist-coloured eyes with challenge.
"Then?" she asked. Demanded. Her hands, brown and strong, curled to fists. Not threatening. Ready. She thought one must always be ready, here. She thought that was what this world might be for. "What then, king-in-the-mists?"
He blinked, startled. Blinked, then chuckled, taken aback, almost proud. Definitely delighted. She still wasn't sure how much she liked that. How much she trusted him, like that. But there was something in her that thrilled to it. Something that delighted, herself, in the dark flashes of eagerness behind those smiling eyes.
"Oh, lady," he murmured, eyes fixed upon her. "Oh yes. Did you slip, or did you leap, I wonder? But no matter. No matter." He quieted, for a second. Studied her that little more. And then ... "I can tell you how to find it, instead?" A grin. "Your dream. Your life. The way back to the waking world. I can ... tell you how to find it."
That. That.
She growled, surged upwards from her seat. He did not move, did not blink at the sudden violence in her eyes. No more flinched from her than she had from him. But he watched her, his cup cradled in his hands, and his grey eyes were shining.
"Why do you do this?" she asked, shaking in fury. "Why must you ... Why do you wait, and give only cryptic answers?"
"I am a god," was his answer. Vaguely rueful, as though he knew, a little, that it was not a good one. "It is ... what we do, my dear. Or some of us. The ones ... The ones you will have to be wary of, out there. The ones ... you must know to beware."
She paused. Tension easing from her shoulders, the rush of anger tempered. Thoughtful. She looked at him. She looked at him. His eyes met hers, bland and smiling, secretive, empty as mists. Waiting. Judging. And why? Why.
"How do I find it?" she said at last. A request, now. Not a demand. Her head was tilted, still, her expression thoughtful. Weighing him, this time. Not only reacting. Judging in her turn. Watching, in her turn. She was newly born, she remembered. There were things ... she did not know.
And to live, in this world where one might find oneself lost and fighting in the mists, she must learn. Not slowly, she thought. She could not afford to learn slowly. He knew that, she thought. And, maybe ... he delighted that she knew it too.
"Come here," he instructed, beckoning her closer, waving her to sit beside him. She hesitated, a little. But ... not for long. "Look at this," he told her softly, when she was seated at his side, cushioned on his cloak. He held out the cup, once more. Dark wood, with water clear as crystal. She blinked at it.
"And so?"
He smiled. "Your reflection," he said, with some amusement. "Look at your reflection. Tell me what you see."
She blinked, nonplussed, but did as he asked. Suddenly, as he said it, she was curious. She remembered wondering, when she had woken on the beach, what colour her eyes might be. What form she might take, beyond the roughness of her hands, and the wild tangle of her hair.
She was ... strange, was her first thought, looking down. Meeting the eyes of the woman looking out at her, from the confines of his cup. She looked ... strange. A face she did not recognise, for all she knew she should. Blue. Her eyes were blue. Perhaps a little greyish. Pale, anyway, in a face browned by sun, framed by snarls of dark hair that brushed her shoulders. A narrow enough face, slim, somehow ... blunt. But mostly ... strange. This face had no meaning. She did not know it.
"That is your face," Manannán murmured, beside her. "The face you wore in the waking world. You would not have learned to change it, not so new to this world."
She looked at him. Away from the confused stare of blue eyes that recognised her no more than she did them. She looked at him, and knew her look beseeching. She did not really care.
"Look for that face," he said, gently. "Walk amongst dreams, amongst the kingdoms of my world. And look for that face."
"Why?" she asked. Soft and distant.
"Because it will live in the dreams of those who have seen you," he explained, very gently. "Those who knew you, in that other life. They will dream, at least sometimes, of this face. Of you. And ... Though the two worlds do not always match well, at the very least, those dreams should be close to yours. To the one you lost. They should ... show you the way back."
She blinked. Not confused, this time. Her eyes were burning faintly. Her throat was hollow. "And ... if I cannot find it? If ... there is no-one to dream of me?"
His face aged. Grew old before her eyes, dark hair whitening, silvering into mist. But not in sadness. Not in pity. There was, suddenly, a darkness in him, this time a threat, a fear, an ancient sorrow, a depthless fury. His face aged, and inside his eyes there was a storm, a shaking thing that quaked the water in the cup between them. She felt herself stiffen. Felt herself fight the urge to flinch back.
"That is ... for later," he said, a rumble of a distant, powerful thing. "There are things ... Find it first. Search first for your dream. Do not ... think yet, beyond that. Do not ask, beyond that. Not yet. You understand?"
She did not. More, she would not. "Why?" she snapped, cold in the face of him, steel against the sudden storm. Why. She would not play for him, nor be sent to search for hopeless things. "Why?" she demanded of him.
Still darkness, inside him, as he stared at her. Still thunder. But again, that flash. Something that ... delighted. That admired, she thought. Better than amusement. Better than threat. But also, she thought, infinitely more dangerous.
"There are ... things," he said at last. "In this world. In the mists. You ... will see. You will ... meet them. You'll understand, then. You'll know, then. But ... not before. I do not think you should know, before."
"Why not?"
He glared at her, for that, faintly exasperated, and for the first time, she felt her own mouth twitch, curve a little. She felt herself smile, for the first time. And, looking at her, so near beside her ... his mouth twitched a little, too. Something ... more genuine than most. Some smile more real than many.
"Because I say so," he answered shortly, but with a grin in it. "Not that you will accept that, I begin to see. But I, my dear, am yet a god. I do not answer to your demand."
She smiled a little wider. Tilting her head to watch. To wonder curiously: "And what are gods?" Musing, smile widening for the flash in his eyes at that, consternation, some fierce delight, a dark determination. "What are gods, that you are different from me?"
"Later," he murmured, low and delighted. "Later, my dear. Though ... that does remind me. I can think of one answer, to that. Part of it." He raised an eyebrow, challenging, and she blinked up at him. Confused, once again.
No matter. There was an easy way to fix that. All it involved, was to outwait a god. And he, she thought, this Manannán, was only patient when he was in the mood to be.
"You need a name," he laughed, leaning back from her in some exasperation. "Is that not a sterling difference, between you and I? That I may answer, when asked who I am, and you may not?"
She blinked, touched by a sudden hurt, though only vaguely. Her face was strange to her. How could she know a name? He gentled, then. Smiling ruefully, realising, a little, what he had done. Gentle, as he reached around her to touch lightly at her far shoulder.
"Look into the water again," he said, gently. "Look at your face, once more." She frowned, but complied. "That is the face you seek, my dear. But ... it should not be the face you wear, I think. It should not be the face others see."
She shot a look at him, frowning. There was ... a darkness, in that, around the edges of that. She felt it, a little, watching the seep of years in his face to confirm it.
"There are beings out there," he explained, softly, darkly. "That will lead you astray, if they know what you seek, if they know what signs you look for. They will seek to fool you, to lay false signs, and lure you to places you do not want to go." A small, black smile. "There have been others, before you. Other lost ones. There are things ... that know to prey on them. There are things ... that will seek to have you, my dear. That will seek to draw you down." A rueful flicker. "It is not safe, this world of mine ..."
She shook her head, at that. Raised her hands wordless between them, turned them so he could see the damage to them, so he could see ... the first thing she had realised, about herself. The first part of her she had understood, in this new life, where she had been born full-formed. He blinked at them, at her. He blinked. And then he smiled.
"Yes," he said, so softly. "Yes," he murmured, almost reverently. "You have a chance, my dear. A fighting chance. Oh yes, you do. But we should add to it, I think. We should give you ... some weapons more again."
"Yes," she agreed, and there was sharpness in her smile. There was eagerness, dark and glittering. He bared his teeth for her. He smiled a dark return.
"You must change your face," he said, leaning close, looking down to her reflection in the water. "Most of us do, here. We are ... spirits, after all. The products of dreaming minds. We may appear however we please. And that way ... That way, they do not know the face you seek. The face you keep hidden, all to yourself. And you ... if people see that face, they may dream of it themselves, add it to their kingdoms, whether knowing or not, and you will never know the true dreamers, those who knew you before. So ... We hide it. We change it. To match ... a new name. A new self. Your Otherself. You see?"
She did. She saw. But ... "What do I change it to?" she asked, reaching out to rest her hand over his about the rim of the cup. To rest slim fingers over larger, rougher ones, and watch them hold the quivering echo of her face. "Who shall I be?"
He looked at her. A frown, long and thoughtful. Bemused. "You ask me?" He said it suddenly. Almost hesitantly, for all the amusement, the power, the knowing. He was frowning. So she smiled at him.
"You found me," she noted softly. "I was born out there, on the back of a dragon. But you found me. And this is your world. Why shouldn't you name me, then?"
He watched her. A flicker in mist-coloured eyes that might almost have been fear, or at least worry. A vague trepidation, that excited her, some little bit. That thrilled her, just a touch.
"Hmm," he mused, distantly. "Not wise, perhaps. Not wise, my dear. But ... since you ask ..."
He turned to her fully, his eyes now sharp, now shattering, reaching inside her. She sat still. She did not flinch before them. She had decided. Somewhere in this meeting, in this birthing. She had decided, at least before him, she should never flinch. She should never cower. And maybe ... maybe not only before him. She had been born with wounded hands. She had been born fighting. That, she thought ... should always remain true. No matter what waited, in this world of his. That ... should always stay true.
"Kingfisher," he said abruptly. Eyes still fixed to her, still intense, though they softened at her questioning glare, at her wry bemusement. He shook his head, laughing a little, and waved the hand behind her shoulder out beyond them. Out at the mists, and the rising of distant dragons. "We are Fisher Kings, are we not? Those of us who dream kingdoms from the mists. We are Fisher Kings, who shape our worlds around us. But you ... You have lost your dream. You have no kingdom. So not a Fisher King. You are ... a darting thing, diving between worlds." He paused, grinned, bright and laughing and full of teeth. "Kingfisher, then. The reverse, the fragile, the darting thing. A fisher, searching. Kingfisher."
She frowned, shaking her head at him, bemused. Bemused, but not ... Hmm. Not displeased, perhaps. More fragile, less fierce than she would have thought for herself. But then ... But then the dangerous thing, in him, was a fisher too. The thing that looked on her with that darkling flash, predatory. That was a fisher-thing, too. Yes, she thought. Yes. That was ... not bad. That was ... acceptable.
She smiled, then. A thing with more teeth than his, a splintered, warning thing, that she thought he might delight in. She smiled, and looked into the cup once more. Held that reflection, held it in her mind's eye, fixed it there, that she should not forget. She looked at the browned skin, the blunted features, the pale eyes, the sea-swept hair. She looked at the woman who had been her, and might be again. She looked, and took, and held. And then, she turned back to him.
"Look into her eyes," Manannán whispered, rough and low and dark, turning her face back to the cup, a sea god's hand beneath her chin. "The eyes, they stay the same. Sit inside them, until they are the seat of your power, the place where your soul sits. Hold them. And then ..." There was darkness in his voice, a low, laughing thing, a powerful thing. "Then, change all about them. Form the face about them, form the shape about them. You are dreaming. So shape the dream, my dear. Shape yourself, Kingfisher."
And she did. While something bubbled up inside her, some rushing, laughing, delighted thing, the thing she thought had raised fists on the backs of leviathans, the thing that challenged the fisher-thing in his own eyes. That thing surged inside her, that thing delighted inside her, and her reflection inside that cup ... shimmered. Melted. Changed.
Kingfisher, she thought, the beat of wings inside her head. Kingfisher. Her eyes shone blue, but not alone, now. Blue-green, iridescent. Feathers in her hair, jewel-toned, shining, sharpening her face, toned brown about those eyes. Feathers spreading down her shoulders, her spine. She felt them, the prickle of them, laying flat for now, ready. She liked that. A shift of clothing, too. A light shimmer of cloth, not unlike his cloak, flashes of light red and gentle brown among the blues, the green.
Dramatic, she thought, laughter bubbling up inside her. So dramatic. But. Dreaming, he said. In this land of gods and dreamers, dragons and the darkling things that fought upon them. Dreaming, he said. Kingfisher, he said. Hunter, he said, seeking things lost, fishing in the sea of mists. Well then. Well then. A Kingfisher she should be, should she not?
And no-one, no-one, would see the face beneath this. No-one could look on this, and see what she had been, and sought to be again. And that ... that was the point, was it not? That was what this new face, this Otherself, was for.
"Yes," he murmured, beside her. She leaned sideways, tilted the cup to him, so that his reflection shone beside hers. Not old, now. Not ancient. Younger again, fiercer again. The man from the beach. Fisher, she thought. Fighter. This was his fighting face, that laughed, and showed no darkness. This was his face that did not flinch.
"What now?" she asked, and there was something musical in it, now. Something shaking, like the echoes of silver boughs, in the woods beneath the mists. He smiled at her. And there was an endless sadness in it. He smiled at her. And there was joy.
"Now, Kingfisher?" he asked, with a thrum in it, a low thunder that shook bright apples on their branches. "Now, you dive between the worlds, my dear. Now, you dive out into my Otherworld, and ... see what you shall see."
And if there was a darkness in that, and an avarice, and a promise of secret things he yet kept from her ... Suddenly, in the vividness of this dreaming, she did not much care.
She was a fisher, here. She had been born on the backs of dragons.
And she had a dream to seek.
She was born fished from the sea. Possibly. That was an old story, after all. It might have been the sky. She remembered a great, scaled back, monstrous and without end. She had thought it a leviathan, but it might as easily have been a dragon. Sea, sky. Currents, winds. They were all ... somewhat of a one.
She was born fished from somewhere, anyway. Sprung full formed, cast up from the firmament. She was born, to land on a sandy shore, cradled in sand and the playful fingers of waves, blinking up through silver fog to a great white disk, far above, that might have been a sun. She lay there for some time. Cradled in that scoop of sand and sea, blinking in some bewilderment at that distant sun. She was ... without memory. Without name. Without knowledge. She was lost, and freshly born, and entirely confused.
Which was why, when a face appeared above her, framed briefly in white as it passed before the sun, for a long moment she did nothing, save blink at it. The face ... blinked back, saying nothing, with eyes the colour of mist, and the tiniest smile tucked into the corner of a weathered mouth.
It was the smile that, eventually, moved her to speak, to raise herself. She did not know who she was, or how she had come here. But she knew that that smile, so exasperatingly patient and so smugly knowing, was not something she could bear to leave unanswered.
"Where am I?" she asked, rolling sideways in the sand, losing sight of the face and catching, instead, a glimpse of browned arms, smooth and strong, and her own hands, curled in sand beneath her as she pushed herself to her knees. Her hands, slim and brown and strong. Flexing amongst golden grains, blunt nails nestled in salt-dried and ragged skin, with torn knuckles, as though she had been fighting. She stared at them, for a second. She stared at them for a while.
"Where are you?" a man's voice repeated, low and light and smooth, from over her head. The voice to go with the face, she thought. A sliver of amusement in it like a tiny smile. "Hmm. You don't know?"
She tilted her head back, still on hands and knees, and glared at him through a snarl of hair, long and brown and tangled. She wondered, briefly, what colour her eyes might be. "If I knew, would I ask?" she growled, climbing laboriously to her feet, brushing damp sand from coarse, heavy cloth. She wasn't naked, she realised. She wondered why that was important.
"I don't know," her companion said, with that laughter still bubbling beneath the words, that smile still hidden in his mouth. "Would you?"
She glared at him, momentarily confused by the question. "Would I what?"
He grinned. Only for a second, just a flash, a crease of amusement that ran across his face and was gone again, as though chased, or hidden. "Would you ask, if you already knew," he explained. "I'm sure I don't know. People ask many questions, for many reasons, you know. How should I know which are yours?"
She blinked at him, stumped for a second. Not even very annoyed, just ... bewildered. This ... was not the time for this, she thought. Not when she was so freshly made. This was not the time for confusing conversations with ... who, again?
"Where am I?" she repeated, more firmly now. "And who are you?" Tilting her head to look at him, this strange man, with his cloak that seemed to shimmer blue-green, then silver, then purple, with his face that seemed one moment older, one moment younger. She ... was not sure she liked him, really. He was too confusing.
He bowed a little for her, sweeping his arms wide so that his cloak, now blue-green to match the waves, should trail in the surf. "I am Manannán, my lady," he said, with that secret smile. "Manannán Mac Lir. And this, for the moment at least, in this time and place ... is my kingdom."
She blinked at him some more, turning her head to follow the lines of his arms, looking out ... along a beach, the rise and fall of sea and sand and fog, and behind it ... trees? Fruit trees? Woods, she thought, anyway, as mist-shrouded as the rest of things. A strange kingdom, she thought. A small and empty place, at least for now. What was here, that he should claim it so?
"And you?" he asked, while she was distracted, while she was still watching the line of his hand, and the world encompassed there. There was ... an odd note to the question, something strange in it, but she could not tell what, and when she looked back to his face, there was no expression there. None save the smile, at least, but she began to think the smile no expression at all, nothing real, bland and empty as the mists. There was nothing in it, or everything, and one as useless as the other. His eyes twinkled faintly, like distant white-gold disks. "Who are you, who walks on my shores, my lady?"
She frowned. Dug inside herself, a little, as much as she knew how. She should know that, she knew. There should be an answer to that. People were not born fully formed, on the backs of dragons. She didn't know how she knew that, but she knew it was true. But ... there was nothing. No memories, or none specific to her. Empty as his smile, the space behind her eyes. She didn't like that.
"I don't know," she said, honestly, frowning at him. She didn't know that she should tell him this, thought vaguely that this might be a thing to keep secret. But there was no other answer. "I don't remember."
"Ah," was all he said. Or all there was in words. But 'ah', there were worlds in that. She heard them. There was knowledge in that, a knowing in that, and she seized upon it, reached out to take a fistful of his sleeve, the material smooth and liquid beneath her fingers, and hold him to her. Glare at him, seek the answers behind the shield of his benign smiling, reach the truth behind the mists in his eyes. She grabbed hold of him, a flash of violence, and this smile, this smile, did not have nothing in it. This smile was fierce, and delighted, and suddenly looking upon her as something interesting, something worthwhile.
She didn't like that, either.
"You know something," she said, low and rough, a little hum of threat. "You know something. Who am I? Where am I? You will tell me."
He grinned at her, his face settling now, into that older face, that creased and leathered face, grey eyes nestled in browned and creased skin. Fisherman's face, whispered something inside her, she knew not what. Fisherman's eyes, when there is something on the hook.
"Well now," Manannán murmured, watching her. "The who, I know not, my dear. But the what, the where? Those ... I might help you with."
A long pause, while he trailed off, looking at her expectantly, until she growled faintly against the urge to shake him. "Well?"
He laughed, light and clear, and the mocking edge faded from him a little. Age settling on him a little more heavily. She began to think that might be the way to know his moods. Not the smile that said nothing, but the weight of years that seemed to come and go at a whim. The man who looked at her now was older, less fey, more ... Kingly, she thought. Stern, and not unkind. He wore age well, and as an answer.
"Come with me," he said, more softly. "Come to my home, dear lady. Sit with me a while. And I will answer what I may, of the questions you have. Will that suffice? Will you come?"
She stood still for a minute. Thinking. Suspicion flowered, ebbed. Did not quite disappear. But ... there was nothing else. So.
She nodded, letting her hand slip from the lightness of his cloak, and gestured for him to lead her on.
He led her off the beach, into the woods behind. She had blinked, a little, at the sight of them. Trees were not normally like this, she thought. Following behind him, her head tilted back so that she could look above her, where silver branches hung with apples interlocked overhead, and blocked the path to that white-gold disk of sun. Like no trees ... Well. Like no trees she had known. But then, she had known very little, it seemed. The woods were quiet, almost musical, and the light was very pale. When she looked back down, looked forward once more, he was looking back to her over his shoulder, and smiling faintly.
His 'home', as it turned out, was not far. What little there was of it. The path climbed quickly, twisting through the trees, almost doubling upon itself, and then, suddenly, they broke free, from tree and from mist, and stood upon a clifftop, green upon pale stone, beneath a sun now more gold than white, looking out ... upon an endless sea of mist, a rolling without end, and beyond ...
Beyond, rising and falling from the silver shroud, dark and gleaming beneath the sun, were the scaled backs of leviathans. In the distance, too far to reach, too far to know, but there. Vast coils that rose and fell, the monstrous backs of dragons.
She made a noise, then. A gasp, a hitch, something. He looked at her. He watched her watching them, those distant dragons. And he smiled. Just faintly.
"Come sit with me," he said softly, touching her elbow, worn fingers rough and gentle against her skin. "Over here."
She followed dazedly, eyes still darting out, still catching on dark risings in a sea of mist. He guided her, gently enough, to a space, a clearing set in the white rock of the cliffs, with pale stones to sit on, and a firepit beside a bubbling, crystal spring. Not much of a home, she thought distantly, but didn't particularly care. He set her upon a stone, still smiling faintly at the sudden distance in her eyes, at her sudden distraction.
"Would you like a drink?"
She blinked at him, at the cup that suddenly appeared before her face, called suddenly back, and not, she felt, very happy about it. She shook her head, brushing his hands aside, though carefully, not to spill. The cup ... something in her distrusted it. Some fragment of memory, of instinct, that recognised a fisherman's eyes. It warned her ... not to drink, to eat. And there was a flash of ... something, then. In his eyes. A dark flicker, not of anger. She blinked again.
"Where am I?" she asked. Once more, again, but different now. A different tone, a different question. She had been born on the backs of dragons. She would know why.
He stood back from her, stretched the long line of a lean spine, the water forgotten in his hand as he looked down at her. Thoughtful, now, a frown shaping the creases of that face. Studying her, seeing something, she knew not what. Then, he moved away. Drifted across the clear space, and sat down on a stone of his own.
"I call this Emhain Abhlach," he said, quietly. "The Isle of Apples. But the answer you're looking for, the wider answer, the name for the mists and the worlds within them ..." He smiled, faintly. "This is the Otherworld, my dear. The Land of Dreaming. And you. You ... are asleep."
She ... stared. That ... Of all answers, that ... had no meaning.
"Asleep," she repeated. Flatly. Not even a question. What ... what was this? And he was smiling again, that smug little one, tucked away. He was amused at her, again.
"Asleep," he confirmed, more to perpetuate the cycle than anything, she thought. "The Otherworld ... Hmm. How to explain this." He shifted, settling himself more comfortably in the hollow of his stone, rolling the cup absently between his palms.
"When men dream," he began, then paused. "My apologies. When people dream. Their minds, or souls, or however you think of them ... Those things come here. To the worlds of dreaming. It is ... the world beneath, beyond, between. It is ... all there is, in a way, though it may not interact with the world beyond, with the waking world. The Otherworld ... Here, there are gods, my dear. Here, there are all things. When people dream, they create a space, here. A world of their own, in the mists, where they the dreamer are Fisher King." A small, vague smile. "The Otherworld is born from them, maybe. Or only their souls from it. It's hard to tell. But here is where the dreamers are. And you, my dear ... you are dreaming. You sleep. Somewhere."
She stared at him. Nonplussed. That ... Still, that did not mean anything.
"Then ... you are a dream?" she asked him. He did not feel it. He didn't seem hers at all, no part of her dreaming. If dreaming she was. "You ... are not real?"
He laughed, at that. Rough and sparkling, a storming, delighted thing. There was that flicker, in his eyes again. That dark thing that was not anger.
"No, my dear," he laughed, smiling at her above the cup in his hands. "No indeed. Or none of yours, at least. This ... This is not your dream, dear lady. Emhain Abhlach is my dream, and I its king."
She frowned, leaning forward. Resting sea-scored hands on stained knees, thoughtful, curious, searching. "But you said. We make our own kingdoms. How then?"
Fisherman's eyes, then. That watching thing, that thought her useful, interesting, worthy, of some thing she did not yet see. Of some thing she felt might be feared. There were things in the mists of his eyes. Things she did not like.
"Sometimes," he said, musing. "Sometimes, a dreamer ... steps outside. Finds the edges of their kingdom, and ... slips through. Into the mists. Onto the backs of dragons, and other things, other spirits in the mists. This is the Otherworld. Here dwell gods. Amongst others. Sometimes ... a soul may lose its dream, slip free, and ... be lost. Caught between, and lost to the world beyond. Those souls ... may be found by many things."
Something froze, in her chest. Something stuttered, a nameless fear. "And ... what happens to them then?" she whispered. No shake in her voice. But some, she knew, in her eyes. There was age in him, once again. There was something old, and not smiling, now.
"That depends," said Manannán, so softly it might be a threat, or hushed benediction. "On where they fall, on where they land. On who should find them, in the mists, or in some kingdom. On who should want them. On what should lure them close."
She did not stand. She did not flinch. Not in the face of him. Not for the threat, or promise, or warning in his eyes, the mists that shone like white disks in creases of worn skin deep as trenches, abyssal. She trembled, only faintly, but she did not flinch.
"And who has found me?" she asked of him. Calm, direct. There were cuts on her knuckles, she remembered. Before, perhaps, he found her. She had been fighting, on the backs of dragons. Who? And was this, was he, any different?
He smiled then. This one sad, and warm, and so very ancient. For who, she wasn't sure. She didn't know. But if there was a threat in it, if there was darkness, then it was already passed, the deal already struck. The knowing in this smile. It was for what had already happened.
"I am Manannán Mac Lir," he told her, quietly. "I told you there were gods, here. I am one of them." A smaller smile, a flicker. "A god of seas, and mists. Of the between places. I am ... a guardian. This world, the Otherworld ... It is my world. Not only this Isle, my little kingdom. All of it. I am ... Well. In some ways, I am the Gatekeeper. That ... is who has found you. That is where you are."
She shook her head. Not negation, just ... uncertainty. The words were good. But she had no way of knowing how to trust them.
"Who am I?" she asked, in a voice so quiet she was not sure he could hear. "What do I do?"
He tilted his head, cloak deepening to grey-purple, an evening sky. He watched her, very gently.
"I don't know your name," he said at last. Thoughtful, gentle. "I don't know where you are from, how far you traveled to reach my shores. I do not know your dream. I cannot find that for you."
He watched her, as he said it. Watched, and beneath that gaze, she straightened. Instinctively, even despite the words. Proudly, even despite the meaning. For the reason she had stood to face his smile. Because she could not else. Because something in her, that had been born on the backs of leviathans, something that had fought in places she could not remember ... That something demanded it. Without conscious thought. She straightened beneath his gaze, and met those mist-coloured eyes with challenge.
"Then?" she asked. Demanded. Her hands, brown and strong, curled to fists. Not threatening. Ready. She thought one must always be ready, here. She thought that was what this world might be for. "What then, king-in-the-mists?"
He blinked, startled. Blinked, then chuckled, taken aback, almost proud. Definitely delighted. She still wasn't sure how much she liked that. How much she trusted him, like that. But there was something in her that thrilled to it. Something that delighted, herself, in the dark flashes of eagerness behind those smiling eyes.
"Oh, lady," he murmured, eyes fixed upon her. "Oh yes. Did you slip, or did you leap, I wonder? But no matter. No matter." He quieted, for a second. Studied her that little more. And then ... "I can tell you how to find it, instead?" A grin. "Your dream. Your life. The way back to the waking world. I can ... tell you how to find it."
That. That.
She growled, surged upwards from her seat. He did not move, did not blink at the sudden violence in her eyes. No more flinched from her than she had from him. But he watched her, his cup cradled in his hands, and his grey eyes were shining.
"Why do you do this?" she asked, shaking in fury. "Why must you ... Why do you wait, and give only cryptic answers?"
"I am a god," was his answer. Vaguely rueful, as though he knew, a little, that it was not a good one. "It is ... what we do, my dear. Or some of us. The ones ... The ones you will have to be wary of, out there. The ones ... you must know to beware."
She paused. Tension easing from her shoulders, the rush of anger tempered. Thoughtful. She looked at him. She looked at him. His eyes met hers, bland and smiling, secretive, empty as mists. Waiting. Judging. And why? Why.
"How do I find it?" she said at last. A request, now. Not a demand. Her head was tilted, still, her expression thoughtful. Weighing him, this time. Not only reacting. Judging in her turn. Watching, in her turn. She was newly born, she remembered. There were things ... she did not know.
And to live, in this world where one might find oneself lost and fighting in the mists, she must learn. Not slowly, she thought. She could not afford to learn slowly. He knew that, she thought. And, maybe ... he delighted that she knew it too.
"Come here," he instructed, beckoning her closer, waving her to sit beside him. She hesitated, a little. But ... not for long. "Look at this," he told her softly, when she was seated at his side, cushioned on his cloak. He held out the cup, once more. Dark wood, with water clear as crystal. She blinked at it.
"And so?"
He smiled. "Your reflection," he said, with some amusement. "Look at your reflection. Tell me what you see."
She blinked, nonplussed, but did as he asked. Suddenly, as he said it, she was curious. She remembered wondering, when she had woken on the beach, what colour her eyes might be. What form she might take, beyond the roughness of her hands, and the wild tangle of her hair.
She was ... strange, was her first thought, looking down. Meeting the eyes of the woman looking out at her, from the confines of his cup. She looked ... strange. A face she did not recognise, for all she knew she should. Blue. Her eyes were blue. Perhaps a little greyish. Pale, anyway, in a face browned by sun, framed by snarls of dark hair that brushed her shoulders. A narrow enough face, slim, somehow ... blunt. But mostly ... strange. This face had no meaning. She did not know it.
"That is your face," Manannán murmured, beside her. "The face you wore in the waking world. You would not have learned to change it, not so new to this world."
She looked at him. Away from the confused stare of blue eyes that recognised her no more than she did them. She looked at him, and knew her look beseeching. She did not really care.
"Look for that face," he said, gently. "Walk amongst dreams, amongst the kingdoms of my world. And look for that face."
"Why?" she asked. Soft and distant.
"Because it will live in the dreams of those who have seen you," he explained, very gently. "Those who knew you, in that other life. They will dream, at least sometimes, of this face. Of you. And ... Though the two worlds do not always match well, at the very least, those dreams should be close to yours. To the one you lost. They should ... show you the way back."
She blinked. Not confused, this time. Her eyes were burning faintly. Her throat was hollow. "And ... if I cannot find it? If ... there is no-one to dream of me?"
His face aged. Grew old before her eyes, dark hair whitening, silvering into mist. But not in sadness. Not in pity. There was, suddenly, a darkness in him, this time a threat, a fear, an ancient sorrow, a depthless fury. His face aged, and inside his eyes there was a storm, a shaking thing that quaked the water in the cup between them. She felt herself stiffen. Felt herself fight the urge to flinch back.
"That is ... for later," he said, a rumble of a distant, powerful thing. "There are things ... Find it first. Search first for your dream. Do not ... think yet, beyond that. Do not ask, beyond that. Not yet. You understand?"
She did not. More, she would not. "Why?" she snapped, cold in the face of him, steel against the sudden storm. Why. She would not play for him, nor be sent to search for hopeless things. "Why?" she demanded of him.
Still darkness, inside him, as he stared at her. Still thunder. But again, that flash. Something that ... delighted. That admired, she thought. Better than amusement. Better than threat. But also, she thought, infinitely more dangerous.
"There are ... things," he said at last. "In this world. In the mists. You ... will see. You will ... meet them. You'll understand, then. You'll know, then. But ... not before. I do not think you should know, before."
"Why not?"
He glared at her, for that, faintly exasperated, and for the first time, she felt her own mouth twitch, curve a little. She felt herself smile, for the first time. And, looking at her, so near beside her ... his mouth twitched a little, too. Something ... more genuine than most. Some smile more real than many.
"Because I say so," he answered shortly, but with a grin in it. "Not that you will accept that, I begin to see. But I, my dear, am yet a god. I do not answer to your demand."
She smiled a little wider. Tilting her head to watch. To wonder curiously: "And what are gods?" Musing, smile widening for the flash in his eyes at that, consternation, some fierce delight, a dark determination. "What are gods, that you are different from me?"
"Later," he murmured, low and delighted. "Later, my dear. Though ... that does remind me. I can think of one answer, to that. Part of it." He raised an eyebrow, challenging, and she blinked up at him. Confused, once again.
No matter. There was an easy way to fix that. All it involved, was to outwait a god. And he, she thought, this Manannán, was only patient when he was in the mood to be.
"You need a name," he laughed, leaning back from her in some exasperation. "Is that not a sterling difference, between you and I? That I may answer, when asked who I am, and you may not?"
She blinked, touched by a sudden hurt, though only vaguely. Her face was strange to her. How could she know a name? He gentled, then. Smiling ruefully, realising, a little, what he had done. Gentle, as he reached around her to touch lightly at her far shoulder.
"Look into the water again," he said, gently. "Look at your face, once more." She frowned, but complied. "That is the face you seek, my dear. But ... it should not be the face you wear, I think. It should not be the face others see."
She shot a look at him, frowning. There was ... a darkness, in that, around the edges of that. She felt it, a little, watching the seep of years in his face to confirm it.
"There are beings out there," he explained, softly, darkly. "That will lead you astray, if they know what you seek, if they know what signs you look for. They will seek to fool you, to lay false signs, and lure you to places you do not want to go." A small, black smile. "There have been others, before you. Other lost ones. There are things ... that know to prey on them. There are things ... that will seek to have you, my dear. That will seek to draw you down." A rueful flicker. "It is not safe, this world of mine ..."
She shook her head, at that. Raised her hands wordless between them, turned them so he could see the damage to them, so he could see ... the first thing she had realised, about herself. The first part of her she had understood, in this new life, where she had been born full-formed. He blinked at them, at her. He blinked. And then he smiled.
"Yes," he said, so softly. "Yes," he murmured, almost reverently. "You have a chance, my dear. A fighting chance. Oh yes, you do. But we should add to it, I think. We should give you ... some weapons more again."
"Yes," she agreed, and there was sharpness in her smile. There was eagerness, dark and glittering. He bared his teeth for her. He smiled a dark return.
"You must change your face," he said, leaning close, looking down to her reflection in the water. "Most of us do, here. We are ... spirits, after all. The products of dreaming minds. We may appear however we please. And that way ... That way, they do not know the face you seek. The face you keep hidden, all to yourself. And you ... if people see that face, they may dream of it themselves, add it to their kingdoms, whether knowing or not, and you will never know the true dreamers, those who knew you before. So ... We hide it. We change it. To match ... a new name. A new self. Your Otherself. You see?"
She did. She saw. But ... "What do I change it to?" she asked, reaching out to rest her hand over his about the rim of the cup. To rest slim fingers over larger, rougher ones, and watch them hold the quivering echo of her face. "Who shall I be?"
He looked at her. A frown, long and thoughtful. Bemused. "You ask me?" He said it suddenly. Almost hesitantly, for all the amusement, the power, the knowing. He was frowning. So she smiled at him.
"You found me," she noted softly. "I was born out there, on the back of a dragon. But you found me. And this is your world. Why shouldn't you name me, then?"
He watched her. A flicker in mist-coloured eyes that might almost have been fear, or at least worry. A vague trepidation, that excited her, some little bit. That thrilled her, just a touch.
"Hmm," he mused, distantly. "Not wise, perhaps. Not wise, my dear. But ... since you ask ..."
He turned to her fully, his eyes now sharp, now shattering, reaching inside her. She sat still. She did not flinch before them. She had decided. Somewhere in this meeting, in this birthing. She had decided, at least before him, she should never flinch. She should never cower. And maybe ... maybe not only before him. She had been born with wounded hands. She had been born fighting. That, she thought ... should always remain true. No matter what waited, in this world of his. That ... should always stay true.
"Kingfisher," he said abruptly. Eyes still fixed to her, still intense, though they softened at her questioning glare, at her wry bemusement. He shook his head, laughing a little, and waved the hand behind her shoulder out beyond them. Out at the mists, and the rising of distant dragons. "We are Fisher Kings, are we not? Those of us who dream kingdoms from the mists. We are Fisher Kings, who shape our worlds around us. But you ... You have lost your dream. You have no kingdom. So not a Fisher King. You are ... a darting thing, diving between worlds." He paused, grinned, bright and laughing and full of teeth. "Kingfisher, then. The reverse, the fragile, the darting thing. A fisher, searching. Kingfisher."
She frowned, shaking her head at him, bemused. Bemused, but not ... Hmm. Not displeased, perhaps. More fragile, less fierce than she would have thought for herself. But then ... But then the dangerous thing, in him, was a fisher too. The thing that looked on her with that darkling flash, predatory. That was a fisher-thing, too. Yes, she thought. Yes. That was ... not bad. That was ... acceptable.
She smiled, then. A thing with more teeth than his, a splintered, warning thing, that she thought he might delight in. She smiled, and looked into the cup once more. Held that reflection, held it in her mind's eye, fixed it there, that she should not forget. She looked at the browned skin, the blunted features, the pale eyes, the sea-swept hair. She looked at the woman who had been her, and might be again. She looked, and took, and held. And then, she turned back to him.
"Look into her eyes," Manannán whispered, rough and low and dark, turning her face back to the cup, a sea god's hand beneath her chin. "The eyes, they stay the same. Sit inside them, until they are the seat of your power, the place where your soul sits. Hold them. And then ..." There was darkness in his voice, a low, laughing thing, a powerful thing. "Then, change all about them. Form the face about them, form the shape about them. You are dreaming. So shape the dream, my dear. Shape yourself, Kingfisher."
And she did. While something bubbled up inside her, some rushing, laughing, delighted thing, the thing she thought had raised fists on the backs of leviathans, the thing that challenged the fisher-thing in his own eyes. That thing surged inside her, that thing delighted inside her, and her reflection inside that cup ... shimmered. Melted. Changed.
Kingfisher, she thought, the beat of wings inside her head. Kingfisher. Her eyes shone blue, but not alone, now. Blue-green, iridescent. Feathers in her hair, jewel-toned, shining, sharpening her face, toned brown about those eyes. Feathers spreading down her shoulders, her spine. She felt them, the prickle of them, laying flat for now, ready. She liked that. A shift of clothing, too. A light shimmer of cloth, not unlike his cloak, flashes of light red and gentle brown among the blues, the green.
Dramatic, she thought, laughter bubbling up inside her. So dramatic. But. Dreaming, he said. In this land of gods and dreamers, dragons and the darkling things that fought upon them. Dreaming, he said. Kingfisher, he said. Hunter, he said, seeking things lost, fishing in the sea of mists. Well then. Well then. A Kingfisher she should be, should she not?
And no-one, no-one, would see the face beneath this. No-one could look on this, and see what she had been, and sought to be again. And that ... that was the point, was it not? That was what this new face, this Otherself, was for.
"Yes," he murmured, beside her. She leaned sideways, tilted the cup to him, so that his reflection shone beside hers. Not old, now. Not ancient. Younger again, fiercer again. The man from the beach. Fisher, she thought. Fighter. This was his fighting face, that laughed, and showed no darkness. This was his face that did not flinch.
"What now?" she asked, and there was something musical in it, now. Something shaking, like the echoes of silver boughs, in the woods beneath the mists. He smiled at her. And there was an endless sadness in it. He smiled at her. And there was joy.
"Now, Kingfisher?" he asked, with a thrum in it, a low thunder that shook bright apples on their branches. "Now, you dive between the worlds, my dear. Now, you dive out into my Otherworld, and ... see what you shall see."
And if there was a darkness in that, and an avarice, and a promise of secret things he yet kept from her ... Suddenly, in the vividness of this dreaming, she did not much care.
She was a fisher, here. She had been born on the backs of dragons.
And she had a dream to seek.
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