Rage Against The Dying Of The Light

Untitled Part 2

"Do you regret it?" came the disapproving question from Wednesday, voice dripping with barely concealed hate and... was that jealousy she heard? It would certainly sound like him. Mad Sweeney was well alive after all, thanks to her.

The seer looked up, eyes dulled to an exhausted ocean's colours, but a stubborn spark lingered in their depth. "Never." She held his gaze, satisfaction and a sliver of pride oozing from her worn form. A small part of her of course regretted all the things she would be missing. But even in her current predicament, she couldn't find it in herself to see what she did as anything but right.

She had lost weight. Melted down to a weakened body barely capable of keeping her standing. Her hair had taken an ashen colour too. Death was steadily making its way to her, and she would welcome it when it would be by her side. "He's worth it all." She studied his features, "jealous?" she couldn't help but prod. Wednesday's face pulled into a grimace, not hiding his feelings this time. Surprisingly, no response came from him. The seer half expected her death to come from his hand any moment. But, surprising her again, he did no such thing and simply left. There was nothing to be won here any more.

The Seer closed her eyes, contempt washing over her despite the pain. She could almost feel his light, even from here. It had a steady, stronger glow now. A small smile graced her lips.

She had saved the light. Stopped it from being robbed from this world.

She felt the final tug of life in her guts. Wobbling to a standing position, she slowly made her way outside, away from the roads, parking, and lost bungalows. Fields slowly stretched around her, small woodlands peeking above the tall grasses to greet her. She sat down at the junction between both habitats, against an old gnarled oak.

Gentle warmth hugged her flesh, and a kind wind kissed her skin. The grass welcomed her lightened weight, and the fields' flowers stood watch. Home was all she felt.

On a last breath, the Seer trusted her gift to the wind, "I dedicate this death to you, Shuibhne", and the Seer left, taking with her the curse that had been laid on the once God-King, restoring his story to him and some of his former greatness.

Somewhere in America, a Leprechaun swore colourfully at his broken beer bottle, and pulled back for a punch, a toothy grin on his face. Were you to look carefully, you would see his hair had a healthier, redder streak, his skin a healthy glow, a wicked gleam in his tricksy eyes, and an overall strength emanating from him. And he, would definitely notice the extra power in that punch he just delivered, and his thoughts would go to the one person who put him back on his feet.

It was only right. He had been a King. He had had a family and a well long life with plenty a story to tell. But he wasn't done yet, no. There is still much to be lived, many more stories to be had, and a strong light to shine the way.

"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, Rage against the dying of the light." Dylan Thomas