Into the Mystic

One of his people came to him with the rumour of singing coming from the forest bordering the village to the southwest of the dún. She had come to him specifically, because she still followed the ways of the Creideamh Sí… his mothers way.
He chose not to tell his father or the court, but to investigate alone.

There were countless tales of creatures and shadows that longed to seduce men to their death within those woods, but he’d always preferred the stories his mother had told him, from the times before love stories became seduction warnings, and adventure a thing for vagabonds.
The brush was thick but he knew how to manoeuvre through it. The glade itself was quite plain, really. He couldn’t deny the distinct sensation though… like the stir in the air before a thunderclap. Taking it in a second time, he saw it anew, and it was beautiful. A small still water pond, the decaying log of a tree that had fallen at its edge covered in moss. A cluster of stones covered in lichen. Brambles, ugly, but wild, strong, and tenacious, grew along the thrush on the other side of the clearing. The glade was large enough that the rare blue sky of the day stretched overhead. The trees were ancient it seemed to Nuada, one in particular was gnarled and twisting, and he was drawn to it.

“Hello! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

A voice like bright harmony and laughter startled and eased Nuada at once. He searched, and found them in the boughs of the tree he’d been admiring.

His legs were dangling below, hands braced into the branch that supported him. He beamed down at Nuada with a mixture of joy and curiosity… not a trace of fear visible to Nuada's eye. He squared himself to the being and smiled. It was barely visible, but it was there, and his eyes brightened. “You’re not afraid of me.”

He cocked his head, legs ever kicking. “I don’t think I am. Should I be?” He dropped from the branch and landed softly, and stepped forward, barefoot and unarmed, his copper hair blazing in the late-day sun.

“I don’t know,” said Nuada. “The rumours are of a hateful spirit dwelling here, and hate usually comes from fear.”
“Hateful?” They responded in confusion. “I don’t understand! I’ve only just started visiting, and all I do is sing.” Then they looked away, sad, and Nuada didn’t know why, but he felt sad, too.

“People think you’re trying to seduce them.” Nuada explained.
He scrunched up his face and reached a hand lazily above him to hang casually from the branch he had dropped from. “What does that mean? I was just hoping to meet some mortals now that the prince has made things safe again.” As suddenly as the frown came, it left him again. “You’re the first to come!”

Nuada's mouth quirked, and his eyes widened in a childish grin… a rare sight. “You’re one of the sídhe!” He looked closer now.

Other than his height, he was entirely ordinary looking… until he noticed his eyes. His pupils… were gold.

They didn’t seem to notice Nuadas awe. “Mm.” They responded absentmindedly. “I’m Lasair Tarraingthe.” Lasair swayed from the branch with his feet still on the ground.

“That’s not really a name.”
“Of course it is!” He said unoffended. “It’s what I’m called! That makes it a name!” He was impossibly tall, and thin. His face was bright, his eyes wide with wonder. His wild copper hair curled and spiked in nearly every direction, and there were bits of leaves and twigs caught in it. He seemed to Nuada like… a child. A child with ancient eyes whose very name made his heart ache to hear.

He gripped his sword just slightly, but he didn’t draw. It was a show of respect, not a threat. “I’m called Nuada,” he offered, slowly.

Lasair blinked. “You’re him.” There was no hiding the awe in his voice.

“I am.” He said coolly. “Though I didn't know my reputation preceded me amongst the sídhe.”

“The Prince Druid?” He said as though it was common sense. “Of course it does! You’ve given us hope again!”
“Hope for what?”
“Hope for mortals! To rejoin you! To meet you.”
“Well.” Nuada opened his hands in a gesture open to assessment. “You’ve met me.”

He cocked his head, again, and said without a single note of cruelty. “You’re short. Are you short?”

Nuada laughed, and it felt like sunlight cast on cobwebs after too long in the shadows. “A little, yes. You are… tall.”

They stood there for a long moment, trust stretching between them, taut and fragile like new thread.
“Why is it that the sídhe know me?”
“Your ancestors on one side have destroyed our thresholds and shared spaces. Your ancestors on the other tended those places, and even communed with some of our own leaders. You had a choice,” Lasairs eyes brimmed with tears when he said it, “and you chose hope.” Lasair looked at him then… truly looked. He saw Nuadas quiet sincerity, his will… the pulse at his throat. Steady and alive.

This one will end. That was the first thought. And I will feel it. But still… he stepped closer, and Nuada stiffened but not out of surprise, and was surprised to feel the tips of his ears grow hot. He had never blushed before, but he guessed he was.