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A Stroke Of Midnight :: Гамильтон Лорел
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“Most of us acquire the marks as we enter our power in adolescence, or even adulthood,” Rhys said.
“I remember my father telling me that our tattoos were why our people painted themselves for battle. The mark of their deity to protect them.”
“Once, long ago,” Doyle said, “the marks on their bodies did protect our followers. Protected them better than any armor, for it was a conduit to the power of the sidhe they invoked.”
I realized that Doyle was talking to me like he used to, distant and formal. Was it Ivi’s presence that had made him distance himself, or had something else happened?
“We were their gods,” Rhys said.
“We were not gods,” Doyle said, and his voice went lower with anger. “We thought we were gods, but when the gods themselves departed, we learned otherwise.” He stared out into the darkness, as if he saw things long ago and far away. “They stripped for battle, painted themselves with our symbols, and were slaughtered because we no longer had the power to save them.”
“A stubborn lot, the Celts,” Ivi said. “They kept painting themselves long after it stopped working.” He sounded wistful.
“They thought they had done something to make themselves unworthy,” Doyle said, “so they strove to become worthy again.” He turned away, gave me only the braid that trailed down his dark cloak. “We were the ones who were unworthy.”
“All right, that’s it,” I said. “Why is Doyle beating himself up like this? What did I miss?”
“He’s pouting,” Rhys said.
Doyle turned his head, just enough to give Rhys a look that would have made most people run screaming. “I am not pouting.”
Rhys grinned at him. “Yes, you are. You’re pouting because the marks of power are on Galen and Nicca’s bodies, and not yours. Two of us who never had the tattoos to begin with, and now they have the first ones, and we don’t.” The grin had faded by the time he got to the end.
“I don’t remember being told that it hurt to get the marks. I thought they just appeared.”
“Some did,” Rhys said, “but for the first few of us to gain them, it was bloody, and it hurt like hell.”
The three of us agreed.
“You were one of the first to gain the marks?” Doyle asked, not angry now, but looking at him.
Rhys nodded. “Cromm Cruach is only the last of my names, not the first, Doyle.”
Then Doyle asked something that was very unsidhe, very rude. “Who were you before Cromm Cruach?” The older sidhe never asked that of anyone.
“Most of us acquire the marks as we enter our power in adolescence, or even adulthood,” Rhys said.
“I remember my father telling me that our tattoos were why our people painted themselves for battle. The mark of their deity to protect them.”
“Once, long ago,” Doyle said, “the marks on their bodies did protect our followers. Protected them better than any armor, for it was a conduit to the power of the sidhe they invoked.”
I realized that Doyle was talking to me like he used to, distant and formal. Was it Ivi’s presence that had made him distance himself, or had something else happened?
“We were their gods,” Rhys said.
“We were not gods,” Doyle said, and his voice went lower with anger. “We thought we were gods, but when the gods themselves departed, we learned otherwise.” He stared out into the darkness, as if he saw things long ago and far away. “They stripped for battle, painted themselves with our symbols, and were slaughtered because we no longer had the power to save them.”
“A stubborn lot, the Celts,” Ivi said. “They kept painting themselves long after it stopped working.” He sounded wistful.
“They thought they had done something to make themselves unworthy,” Doyle said, “so they strove to become worthy again.” He turned away, gave me only the braid that trailed down his dark cloak. “We were the ones who were unworthy.”
“All right, that’s it,” I said. “Why is Doyle beating himself up like this? What did I miss?”
“He’s pouting,” Rhys said.
Doyle turned his head, just enough to give Rhys a look that would have made most people run screaming. “I am not pouting.”
Rhys grinned at him. “Yes, you are. You’re pouting because the marks of power are on Galen and Nicca’s bodies, and not yours. Two of us who never had the tattoos to begin with, and now they have the first ones, and we don’t.” The grin had faded by the time he got to the end.
“I don’t remember being told that it hurt to get the marks. I thought they just appeared.”
“Some did,” Rhys said, “but for the first few of us to gain them, it was bloody, and it hurt like hell.”
The three of us agreed.
“You were one of the first to gain the marks?” Doyle asked, not angry now, but looking at him.
Rhys nodded. “Cromm Cruach is only the last of my names, not the first, Doyle.”
Then Doyle asked something that was very unsidhe, very rude. “Who were you before Cromm Cruach?” The older sidhe never asked that of anyone.