The first breath he took tasted like rot and soiled dirt.

Always did.

Because Eoghan Conroy did not start the day on his bed, nor in the woods where everything started. No.

It began with earth’s gelid and obscure embrace, as little by little his body found some warmth to make blood flow once again within his veins—giving him back his movements. Control. And just like the other days, Eoghan had force his arms to move, sink his fingers deeper and deeper so he could claw his way out.

Just so he could take one breath of fresh air, even if the rot still clang to him like an inborn illness.

When the man finally found his way back to the surface, he gasped. He coughed. He crouched and braced himself.

“…name…I know it now…” the man whispered, his words as shaken as his voice.

Thirty-one times did Eoghan’s body taste the creature’s blade. Thirty-one times did the wails chase him down. Thirty-one times did he stare at Death’s most ardent servant.

Thirty-one times till he finally learned the name of the being responsible for all his misery. All his suffering and fright. The being he crossed paths only once.

And once had been enough.

A chill. Something so raw and intimate, it crossed his skin like a lover’s caresses, yet perverted. Tarnished. consumed by malice and wickedness. It forced his eyes to wander, it forced the man’s heart to stop and listen.

To the crackling laughter echoing in those woods.

It was as if Death had found him again. Eoghan’s eyes moved their gaze against their will, wails and moans echoing ever so faintly within the wood’s uncanny whispers. And as the man’s eyes moved, soon enough, he saw it. Found them.

A smile that stretched from ear to ear, revealing blackened teeth drenched in blood. A hair that moved as if made of shadows, so dark it should not belong in the world of the living. A skin that was pale and like moonlight, echoing a departed light. Eyes that made all stars envious of their glow and shine, possessing a gaze that was more mesmerizing than the starriest night sky.

Something that appeared to be the most beautiful person to have ever existed in this world.Something that asked Eoghan a question—and he cursedly answered.

“I-I know who you are now…” The creature continued to stare at him, hair dancing against the wind at an unnatural, slow pace.

Eoghan bit his lip and clenched his fists, reaching out in the depths of his being for some ounce of courage. Of hatred and loath to make so that his voice would not fail, that his fear would not show. Just enough to make him appear brave and confident. To give him enough reasons to believe there was hope, still.

“The name you fought so hard to conceal—it’s in my possession now! And before your vile curse takes its roots in my soul, I will regain my freedom!”

He blinked.

Just once.

Yet one blink was enough to miss it, as the creature disappeared and the air behind him moved. Sending another chill. Another tarnished caress.

“…speak.”

Eoghan felt the creature’s fingers running through his arms. Exploring his skin. Eoghan heard the creature’s word crawl into his ears—low, soft, endless. And it felt like both their voice and touch were carving out his heart open with frozen blades.

“…my name…speak it. Sing it. Proclaim it.”

‘Call to me with thy dying breath.’

Not a request—a demand. He knew.

Tears ran down his face, afraid to remain in his eyes for too long. And the voice he could barely find, it echoed the dread of the gallows. Carried the stench of all thirty-one deaths he had suffered so far.

For, he knew, was their name.

“Mórbhach.”

The creature took a sharp breath, inhaling close to his neck. As if relishing his scent.

“What shall be done, little man? With thy hope and thy tears.”

Before Eoghan could meet the fae’s gaze again, he closed his eyes. Yet though he could shield his eyes from theirs, he could not do so with his other senses. With his skin. And as he felt the creature’s long tongue licking his face, all Eoghan could do to prevent himself from collapsing was sink his nails deep into his hands.

So he could focus on the pain instead of the horror.

“What shalt be done with thy wailing heart, as another night passes by?”

Eoghan felt it. Something holding his heart—a cold, firm grip forcing it to stay still.

“How many nights shall pass by till thy will fade? How many times must thou crawl out of this rotten dirt till thou catch a glimpse of light?”

The dark fae grabbed him by his chin, long nails brushing against his skin. And as their grip tightened, his eyes were forced open.

Making him fall deep into their starry-eyed gaze.

And stare at his own demise.

“Death craveth thee still, little man. And Death shall keep craving till all nights are spent. Yet thou mayest sing the name and call upon Mórbhach as oft as thy heart desireth…Death shall never answer. For It heedeth only my call.”

A gust of wind rushed past them, and suddenly the fae was gone. Leaving only their crackling laughter to echo within the woods, the sound echoing in Eoghan’s mind again and again as he ran away from that place.

‘Again and again, the Dullahan shall come, little man…’

‘Night after night, Death shall claim thee.’

From those wails.

“Give me the strongest one you have. Please.”

The men exchanged eyes between them, not bothering to hide their unsettledness as they glanced at him. The oldest man, the owner, squinted his eyes before continuing to wipe the glass.

“Aren’t ye Conroy’s wee nephew?”

“…it is I, yes,” Eoghan’s voice was faint, tired.

“Ah, thought so. Same eyes, ye ken? Did ye see yer ma, then? Poor lass must be heartbroken.”

Eoghan gave a short nod as he shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. One of the others leaned closer to him, his face contorting in a grimace.

“Must’ve come straight from the funeral, to be wearin’ this face on ye. Oi, stop feckin’ about with the glass and pour the lad a proper drink, Angus!”

“Aye aye.” The older man put the glass in front of Eoghan with a loud bang, and it didn’t take much for him to be pouring the liquid until it was a quarter full.

Conroy stared at the glass for a long second before meeting the owner’s gaze again.

“Leave the bottle, please.”

Before any could argue with him about the price, Eoghan dropped a small pouch at the table. The sound that escaped from the leather was more than enough to lure their gazes. Yet whatever opinion they had of him and his family, all changed the moment he spoke his question after drinking enough from the bottle to set his stomach ablaze and make his head melt.

“The Blood Huntress Cailleach—where does she live?”

Not too long passed before Eoghan was thrown out of the place with a black eye and a broken nose. Coins fell into his head and lap as Angus spat next to Conroy’s shoes, throwing the empty leather pouch on the younger man’s face.

Eoghan didn’t trouble himself to clean the blood—his focus was on the vest’s pocket. When he felt the metal flask, a small joy found its way into his heart. He found out about the hidden moonshine somewhere around his tenth death.

Some days, he got himself a broken nose just so he could steal it.

I need to find where the Huntress lives, still…

The man made his way to the MacNeil’s house—the last place he found any clue about the witch’s location. With some fortune, he could convince them to help again. Aid him further, this time. Before the wails reached him.

Before the Dullahan came for him, again…

Eoghan took three sips of the moonshine, the alcohol going down his throat hotter than liquid fire, before he raised his hand to knock at the door. Yet before he could move, before the alcohol could warm his body—

A chuckle.

A breeze.

And when his head turned despite himself, despite all the desperate pleas Eoghan made in his mind as his body moved on its own, when his eyes wandered, he saw.

Sitting on top of a rock far away, at ease. Comfortable.

Waiting.

Smiling.

‘Listen to the wails, little man…’

‘Listen how tenderly Death calleth thy name.’

As the chill ran across his skin, sinking deeper into his flesh all the way to his bones, Eoghan felt nauseous. Dizzy. Powerless. With no strength in his legs to keep him standing, nor warmth in his body to keep him moving.

Eoghan Conroy opened the flask and drank till not even one drop was left. Till his body was so numb, his hands had ceased their shaking. Till his faltering heart and feeble mind could only think about the moonshine’s bitterness.

Then, he knocked on the door.

Hoping that, this day, he would at least die alone.