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The Season of the Wolf	By : LadyOfTheSouthernIsles Category: G through L > Hellboy Views: 1434 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellboy or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter List
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For an instant, an eternity - a time out of time – everything stopped. Still. Flat. No colour, no meaning... Nature bled dry. Nuada's body was hardly his own, his mind not at all. What he'd just witnessed, the evidence of his own eyes… It was monstrously impossible and yet it had happened. Numbing disbelief consumed him. The cold, stone remains of the elven baby lay at the base of the towering menhir and he willed her to move, to cry, to do anything other than lie there. But she didn't move and she didn't cry, and all she could do was lie there, lifeless.
He staggered then, the burden of the human boy in his arms suddenly more than he could bear. Another step and he steadied himself, transferring Treasach's weight back onto the boy's own feet as he did so. If only it were so easy to step back through time: the space of a heartbeat, a handful at most… all the time it took to kill a living, breathing child.
It was Treasach's moan of anguish that shattered the frozen moment. The awful, stupefying feeling morphed into something different altogether and time started moving once more. Nuada swiftly set the boy to one side. He turned his face – a face hard with hate and inexorable purpose – towards the cold, white fields… and the two horsemen who had already covered nearly half the distance to the forest. In the twinkling of an eye he was gone, leaving the crippled boy and the rest of the elven warriors standing there staring at the empty space where he had just been. A heartbeat later he stood amongst the trees, sword drawn and the promise of death in his eyes as he watched the humans approach.
… …
As he and Mathúin galloped across the winter fields, Garbhán knew he'd had a lucky escape. The Aes Sídhe warriors were an entirely different kettle of fish to the elven villagers they had fought earlier in the day, and the Gods had surely been watching over him tonight - though they needn't expect any thanks for it, not after they had neglected to similarly favour the rest of his men. Years of hard work destroyed in just one night! Less than one night! It would take a long time to build up such numbers again. He would have to somehow recover from the disaster - and strike back. The dirty, creeping sióga had cost the Clan na Dáirine dearly this night and thoughts of vengeance were already fermenting in the Toísech's mind. It was a shame the elves turned to stone when they died; the fleshly head of an elven warrior would have made a fine trophy to hang around the neck of his horse, or nail to his dwelling-house in the clan's stronghold. A scowl marred his face as he glanced down at the bare neck of the horse he was riding now. He already had a fine string of trophies but it was back up on the rise, along with everything else he had been forced to leave behind. Another loss to lay at the feet of the elves, though they were welcome to his twisted fool of a son; that was the one thing he was not sorry to leave behind.
His lips curled in a sneer as it occurred to him that for once in his life the boy had done something right. Who could have guessed that the puling elven brat would come in handy after all? There had come a time in the fight when Garbhán had realised they were not going to win against the elven warriors. He'd swiftly searched round for some means by which to save his own skin and his eyes had skimmed past Treasach. Unsurprisingly, the idiot was cowering beneath one of the large standing stones and Garbhán had no doubt he was also sitting in a puddle of his own piss. That was when the Toísech remembered the elven baby. He had looked more closely at his son then and sure enough, there it was: shielded behind the fool's body, crying and fussing in his bent, misshapen arms. It was as good a guarantee of safe passage as Garbhán had ever seen.
He'd hung back after that, stealthily moving closer to the edge of the enclosure, and finally, after slicing open the belly of a snapping, snarling war dog intent on ruining his plans, he had slipped behind the stones and made his way round to the one against which his idiot son and the elven whelp were sheltering. On seeing what his chieftain was up to, Mathúin had quickly followed. Along the way they'd found Berach who was leaning against another of the towering menhirs, badly wounded and gasping for breath. He was still standing though, and so had been useful - up to a point.
And things had gone exactly as Garbhán planned. The elves had quickly stood down once he'd gotten his hands on the whining brat. Even their hard-faced leader had been forced to back off. Give me the baby, he had said. Well, he'd gotten the whey-faced little sióg alright and would no doubt be bitterly regretting that he'd ever tried to best Garbhán of the Clan na Dáirine. The Toísech felt a surge of satisfaction at the thought. He spurred his mount on; they were almost at the trees now.
… …
Nuada's eyes narrowed and his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword as the riders drew near. The time to act had arrived. He stepped out from behind a bare-limbed branch - a dark-clad figure in the moonlit landscape - and whispered an ancient word of summoning. It carried on the air, rippling through the night, and the galloping horses harkened to the sound. For Nuada had an affinity with the birds and beasts of the forests and fields and with those who gave service to both elf and man, and they were willing to heed his call. Leaning back on their hindquarters, the horses dug their rear hooves into the ground and came to a sliding stop. The humans were taken completely unawares; one was catapulted off his mount whilst the other, the Chieftain, smacked violently into the crest of his horse's neck. Dazed by the blow, he struggled to regain his seat. Nuada whispered another word and the steed reared up, throwing the Toísech to the ground. The horses then wheeled around and galloped back towards the ruins on the hill. Savage satisfaction flared in the elven prince's breast as he ran swiftly to the fallen men.
On reaching them, a quick glance at the first one told him the human was out cold – either that or dead - and would give him no trouble. The second one, the one he wanted alive, was trying to stand. Nuada let the man flounder for a moment longer then stepped in front of him.
Garbhán looked up - and got a nasty surprise. His gaze collided with the elven warrior's. He read his own death in those cold, merciless eyes and a sickening wave of panic swept through him. But instinct took over, incinerating his fear in a blaze of fury. He knew he had only one chance to get out of this alive. He didn't bother going for his sword; he'd be dead before the blade cleared the scabbard. Instead, he coiled his muscles and fell onto one hand, feigning weakness. His other hand went straight for the dagger in his boot. Frenzied rage lent him power and agility, and he sprang forward with a mighty roar, slashing wildly at his elven nemesis.
Nuada was ready for him though. Bracing his legs, he twisted his torso back and away from the thrusting knife. The Chieftain somehow managed to land a blow all the same but so intent was Nuada on his purpose, he barely flinched as the sharp bronze blade cut deep into the muscle of his thigh. His hand had already formed a fist around the hilt of his sword and he channelled every ounce of strength he possessed through bicep, forearm and fist as he smashed the solid, silver pommel into Garbhán's jaw, shattering bone and laying the man out cold on the hard, winter ground. He swiftly sheathed his sword and bent down between the two unmoving humans. Seizing the Toísech's arm with one hand and the second man's with the other, he straightened up and lifted his eyes to the ancient fortress on the rise. In less time than it took to blink, he was back there with the humans in tow.
Nuada's appearance caused a murmur of surprise amongst the rest of the Cosantóirí but there was no opportunity to comment. He immediately snapped out a series of orders. "Áed! Fearghal! Take those three back to Bethmoora and get them to the healers." He nodded at Tadhg and two others who had been badly wounded.
The warriors moved quickly to do their captaen's bidding. They didn't need to be told that they were to use the hidden paths of their people - the paths of magic - to return to Bethmoora. They were gone in an instant, taking their injured companions with them.
"Cearul. Lorcan," continued Nuada. "Rekindle the fires then help Uileog and Meallán gather the bodies of the dead war dogs and burn them. They gave valiant service tonight… and they gave their lives. They should be honoured accordingly."
Cearul and Lorcan acknowledged the prince's orders and headed towards the large pile of branches which the humans had collected earlier. Uileog and Meallán started moving away too.
"And remember," Nuada called out, his voice flint-hard.
All four halted in their tracks.
"Kill any human who hasn't yet died from his wounds. You can leave their filthy carcasses where they lie." As Nuada spoke, his eyes fell on Treasach: a miserable, sobbing lump, hunched over the cold, stone corpse of the elven baby. "Except for that one," he added, nodding at the human boy. "He is under my protection."
That last was yet another surprise. The remaining elves all wore questioning frowns on their faces as they looked at their captaen and prince.
Nuada paid them no heed. He glanced down at the two unconscious reivers, both still held firmly in his grasp, and sneered. "As are these ones… for the moment." He turned away from the group, effectively dismissing them, and scanned the grounds of the ancient fortress, looking for something.
The other warriors didn't quite know what to make of the prince's last comment but they had their orders and he obviously had nothing further to say to them. Cearul, Lorcan and Meallán moved off to do his bidding but Uileog called out to him. "Captaen! Sir!"
Nuada swung back round and pinned him with an impatient glare. "Yes?"
Uileog had thought to question Nuada further – about the boy and the other two humans - but something in the prince's terse manner gave the older elf pause; he was suddenly unsure of his ground. It was an uncomfortable sensation, one he was not at all used to. In fact, the last time he had experienced it had been several thousand years ago when he'd been about Nuada's age now; he had been getting a dressing down from Rí Balor. He'd long forgotten what for but he did recall the feeling. It struck him that he might be in for another verbal flaying, this time from the king's son. Perhaps he would be wise to give the prince time to master his temper. Noticing Nuada's torn, bloodied pants and the wicked-looking gash on his thigh, he quickly changed tack. "Would you like me to see to the wound on your leg?"
Nuada glanced down in surprise. He hadn't really noticed it, except on the edge of consciousness. He noticed it now though. A searing spasm of pain bit deep in the muscle and he staggered as it threatened to fell him. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his eyes to Uileog's again and snapped out a reply, short and to the point. "No!" Without another word, and with only the barest of limps, he headed for the far side of the ruins, dragging the two unconscious reivers with him. He stopped before a large menhir, where the brambles grew thickest, and let go of the men's arms. For a moment he just stood there, catching his breath and fighting the pain in his leg. And then, with a grim look on his hard, stone-chiselled face, he set about his business…

References:
Áed: (Irish Gaelic) an old Irish name meaning 'fire'.
Aes Sídhe (ays sheeth-uh): (Irish Gaelic) the term for a magical race in Irish mythology - can be likened to elves.
Berach: (Irish Gaelic) name derived from the word biorach meaning 'sharp'.
Captaen: (Irish Gaelic) captain.
Cearul (KAR-ul): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'fierce in battle'.
Clan na Dáirine: (Irish Gaelic) Dáirine Clan. The Dáirine were the proto-historical rulers of Munster
prior to the 7th century AD and may have been an especially violent tribe based on the cognate meaning of their name (Dari (o) - tumult, rage). Their ancestors are known as the Clanna Dedad in the Ulster Cycle, one of the four great cycles of Irish mythology.
Cosantóirí Bethmooran an Fae: (Irish Gaelic) The Bethmooran Defenders of the Fae (the army).
Cult of the Severed Head and Celtic influences generally:
Arguments have been advanced for the existence of a Celtic Cult of the Severed Head based on surviving Celtic mythology, extant carvings, and the writings of early Roman and Greek historians. Diodorus Siculus writes of the Celts in his 1st-century History that: "They cut off the heads of enemies slain in battle and attach them to the necks of their horses. The blood-stained spoils they hand over to their attendants and striking up a paean and singing a song of victory; and they nail up these first fruits upon their houses, just as do those who lay low wild animals in certain kinds of hunting."
Though the generally accepted view is that Celtic origins are to be found in the Hallstatt culture (the predominant Central European Culture from 8th – 6th centuries BC), some historians argue for a different locus of origin and pattern of spread (i.e., developing in coastal settlements and spreading inland into Europe) at a much earlier date (c. 1300 BC). I've taken the earlier date and a very loose reading of history as the basis for some of the details in this chapter.
Fearghal: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'man of valour'.
Garbhán: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'rough one'.
Lorcan (LOR-kawn): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'silent' or 'fierce'.
Mathúin: (Irish Gaelic) Modern Irish form of Mathghamhain, a name meaning 'bear'.
Meallán: (Irish Gaelic) possibly means 'lightning'.
Rí: (Irish Gaelic) King.
Sióga (she-o-ga) (s. sióg): (Irish Gaelic) fairies, elves.
Tadhg (TAYG): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'poet' or 'philosopher'.
Toísech: (Irish Gaelic-Old Irish) leader or chieftain.
Treasach: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'warlike' or 'fighter'.
Uileog (IH-lig): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning 'resolute protector'.
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The Season of the Wolf