Aided Chon Culainn
He doesn’t remember exactly —
The field before him seemed to stretch indefinitely into a sea of red. Connacht, Leinster, and Munster . . . each of them had sent their finest warriors and now the Hound could only guess that about seventy percent of their forces lay drowned within its shallow depths. And it's here, pondering a landscape of his own making — here, while meeting the terrified gaze of their enemy leader that Cú Chulainn realizes . . . he doesn’t quite remember when ‘I’m okay with dying young’ became ‘I want to die young’.
. . . And when did ‘I want to die young’ become ‘I want to die’?
“Why won’t you die?” Lugaid rasped under his breath, flinching harshly when Cú's gaze darted back to meet theirs. A good question, honestly. The alliance of the three other provinces of Éire had conspired and succeeded in breaking every geasa he had. Succeeded in stripping him of every divine trait and talent. For all intents and purposes, the demigod had been rendered mortal . . . and yet here he still stood. Intestines pooled at his feet and bled dry.
There’s still something to do, his heart reasoned as if that were explanation enough. He was content in knowing Finnscoth would be in good care . . . Conall always was a better father than he ever was after all. He was content in knowing Emer was safe; that the nightmare he was plagued with would never come true. And he was almost content with the idea of Ulster being safe without him . . . a majority of its enemies laid strewn at his feet at this very moment. So let’s say . . . ten percent? Cú smiled softly to himself.
He’d need to stay standing just a bit longer. It takes some of his fading strength, but he manages to scrape his own guts from the ground to use as a makeshift rope. Little attention is paid towards Lugaid’s horrified expression as the Ulsterman secures himself to a rock with it. Disappointing, really. A warrior faced with his own mortally-wounded opponent and yet he was too scared of a living corpse to move. Pathetic.
To think this is the man they insisted on giving his daughter’s hand to for a truce. ( Turned traitor now, no one would stop him for 'solving' this issue even if they could. )
Oh yes, right . . . ten percent, though. He was confident whittling down the enemy’s numbers by that portion should leave a reasonable amount for Conall to clean up. The Hound knew from the moment the nightmares began, the moment the call of battle ate at him that he would not leave this battlefield alive. He knew Conall would never arrive on time and I hope you’ll know I forgive you, brother . . . and I’m sorry for the state you are sure to find me in. This was fate after all, one he embraced long ago. One he pulled closer, and closer, and closer . . .
Ulster would be safe after this. Emer, Finnscoth, his foster mother and every dear friend . . . He did everything right, so don’t deny him this simple, selfish desire now. To never darken. To never fade. That wish to shine so brightly that he would outshine even the sun — and to be completely extinguished in the next instant, never to have to dim.
Cú thinks he remembers when that vague distinction was made now — of how reckless, youthful abandon for the sake of fame became a quiet bid for rest. It was a gradual, creeping thing that followed longer than he could ever outwardly admit. It was heavy. He dragged it along with him every step even as both him and it grew. A constant companion of grief and fatigue that even his divine blood could not save him from — because he is human. Isn’t that a comforting thought?
I’ll see you all soon, he thought as he readied his spear one last time. His childhood friends lost in a war he wasn’t ready to win by himself . . . every classmate that never made it to see the day he was bestowed their master’s spear . . . brothers-in-arm and friends alike, lost to time and war . . . Liath Macha . . . . . Láeg . . . . . . Ferdiad . . . . . . . . . . . Connla.
Soon. Just wait. He had just one last thing to do.