Bran stayed by his side, occasionally exploring a rustle in the undergrowth or a flicker of movement, but not as boldly as he would have in the mortal realm. He seemed spooked, cautious, and Fingin didn’t blame him. This place unnerved them both. Though the air remained warm, he didn’t sweat. Though the water sparkled, no light source appeared. Though creatures abounded in the hills, none came close but the butterflies. They continued to ignore both man and dog as they made their progress along the silver path.
The green mist retreated as they approached, always the same distance away. However, a spot appeared in the distance upon the path. This spot grew larger, and Bran said, “That’s what I smell, I think. They’re coming closer.”
The form resolved into the shape of a man. The shape, but not the color. Dark brown skin, gnarled and rough like the bark of an ancient oak tree, covered him. His lack of clothing revealed him to be male. Green leafy hair cascaded down his back, rustling in the breeze and with his movement.
As they came closer, Fingin halted and waited for the stranger to approach them. He held his hands open in a sign of welcome.
The creature examined them for several moments before speaking. “And what manner of creature do I see before me? A human and a hound? For what reason have you tread upon our lands?”
His throat dry, Fingin stammered, “I s-search for my k-kin.”
The Fae, for so he must be, circled them both, studying them from head to toe, making clicks with his tongue, as if assessing them for danger or dessert. “How intriguing. And for what reason do you search for them here?”
“Someone t-told they lived here.”
In an instant, the Fae appeared before him, a mere handspan from Fingin’s face. The human jerked back, startled by the sudden movement as Bran growled. “Told by whom?”
“B-b-b-b-brigit.”
After a moment of dead silence, the creature threw his head back and laughed. “Brigit! Brigit sent you? Oh, that must be the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages.”
He continued to laugh, bending over in his hilarity while Fingin and Bran exchanged glances. The laughter went on so long, Fingin clenched his fists. His purpose didn’t seem this funny to him. The creature grew silent, his merriment subsiding. He resumed his regard for the pair. Without warning, he stood close to Fingin, his earthy-smelling breath misting on Fingin’s skin. Fingin gasped and took a step backward, but the Fae walked forward. “So, sent by Brigit into the land of the Fae. What assistance can you expect here, mortal? You cannot hope to complete such a vague purpose.”
Fingin didn’t answer. How should he answer such a statement?
The Fae cocked his head, making his leafy hair rustle again. “Still, I might use mortal servants.” He snapped his fingers, and a blue light formed at his woody fingertips. Fingin stared at the blue light. It mesmerized him, drawing his attention despite trying to look away. Bran whined next to him and pawed at the ground. The scent of burning leaves and lavender swept around him.
His feet moved against his volition. First one step, then the other, toward the Fae. That creature took several steps backwards, still holding his fingers up with the blue light, leading them down the path toward the yellow haze end of the path.
Bran barked, and the blue light disappeared. The hound growled, his hackles raised, and he bared his teeth at the Fae. Fingin, now free from the beguiling light, shook his head to dispel the fog that held his mind. He stopped stepping forward.
The Fae frowned and snapped again, but though the blue light reappeared, it no longer held the compulsion it had before. Fingin maintained his position and crossed his arms. Bran growled again.
“How are you breaking my magic? You are a mere mortal. You should have no such ability!”
Fingin glared at the creature who would have enslaved them both. “I don’t know. But I’m glad we can.”
This time, the brown Fae growled back, stepping forward with menace and anger clear on his bark face. Fingin’s blood ran to ice, but Bran returned his menace threefold.
With a great roar, the Fae shoved both hands forward, and a massive force slammed into Fingin’s chest, throwing him back. He skidded along the silver gravel path, the wind knocked from him. Bran suffered similarly, his yip turning into a mournful whine.
He struggled to regain his feet, but the Fae moved too fast for him. Without touching him at all, the Fae pummeled him with unseen blows, connecting to his face, his chest, his legs, and his arms. With no way to fight back, Fingin curled into a ball.
Bran’s barks grew more frantic, and he snarled at the Fae, but couldn’t get close, either. The same force that knocked into Fingin kept the hound from attacking their assailant.
Through his agony, Fingin croaked, “Bran, leave him! He is too strong.”
An eternity later, the Fae tired of his sport. Soon, all fell quiet once again.
Every part of him ached. His muscles and skin blistered as if he’d come too close to a hearth fire. He tried to move, but his body screamed in protest. He forced one hand to lie on Bran’s flank, checking to see if his hound breathed. When the warm body shifted, drawing breath in and out, Fingin sighed in relief. This Fae had already angered him beyond belief, but if he’d harmed Bran—
He wanted to crawl off the path and shelter amongst the trees, in case some other murderous Fae traveled this way to accost them, but his body wouldn’t obey him. Even if it did, he mustn’t move Bran in case he hurt the wolfhound
