Cu Chulainn’s chest was tight. His throat, too, was tight. In fact his entire body seemed to shrink on itself, so much so that he felt pressure in his head every time he took a step. He, like their entire audience, felt a weight that day. Three days past the beginning of this long and painful fight and he still questioned whether or not this was worth the weight it would add. He wondered if Ferdiad truly had to die? If perhaps there was any chance of Maeve’s surrender and Ferdiad’s peaceful return home?
He dared not look down, lest he see the dried blood of all others who had fallen in this ford- for everyone who had entered it had, undoubtedly, died at his hand.
Dread settled heavy and twisted in the pit of his stomach as he raised his gaze to meet Ferdiad’s.
“Setanta.” Ferdiad began, his voice low- clearly not meant to reach their audience, “or Cu Chulainn, should I call you?” His smile was tense, forced, broken. “How you’ve changed.”
Cu Chulainn felt it. His fingertips were more calloused than they’d been when he and Ferdiad had met, the bags under his eyes more prominent. He had grown his hair out, so it now fell to his shoulders- something that, long ago, Ferdiad had asked him to do.
With Ferdiad, many years ago, he had celebrated a successful passing of the warrior Scatah’s harsh training. Together, they had allowed their childhoods to fade into the past. With Ferdiad then, he had grieved for the loss of his given name and grieved for the mother who had given him that name.
They played soldier side-by-side in training, and grinned wide smiles. And afterwards, they would rest together in the same bed. They had told each other little secrets while holding the other in a warm embrace:
“My real name is Setanta.”
“I do not have a family.”
They had quite a lot, but now, looking back, Cu Chulainn could only call it a wistful dream.
In the ford reality took place.
“My dearest companion,” Cu Chulainn spoke for the first time, “The man I held deepest in my heart, a level at which I have found no other. Ah, Ferdiad! Must we fight like this?”
Ferdiad took four great steps forward, standing only a handful of feet from Cu Chulainn.
He was gorgeous in a way completely opposite of Cu Chulainn:
Where Cu Chulainn was lean, Ferdiad was broad.
Where Cu Chulainn’s features were sharp, Ferdiad’s face was soft.
Where Cu Chulainn never hesitated in battle, Ferdiad was reluctant to engage.
They were in every way opposites and complementary to each other. As a team they were undefeatable, as enemies they should have been equal.
To Cu Chulainn, Ferdiad was everything he could have asked for in a man.
To Ferdiad, Cu Chulainn was the world.
They took one step backward in unison.
And from then on reality gained a sharp and clear perspective as they lunged and tore at each other; a dance they had perfected over the last two days.
But things changed when Cu Chulainn called for his spear. The Gae Bulg flew through the air, laying itself on the ground where Cu Chulainn might easily pick it up.
It took only one thrust.
The Gae Bulg pierced through Ferdiad’s hard skin splattering blood onto the dirt behind him. Like a bird over its prey, Cu Chulainn leaned over Ferdiad’s body, their gazes tied to each other as their fates were.
“You-” Blood gurgles from Ferdiad’s mouth, trailing down his chin.
The last of the light fled Ferdiad’s vibrant green eyes.
And half of reality crumbled around Cu Chulainn.
Distantly, he heard the crowd cheer. Someone screamed. Many someone’s screamed.
He fell to his knees, Ferdiad’s body clenched tightly in his hold. His ribs shook with sobs, his fingers dug into the shoulders of Ferdiad’s clothing.
He felt all of the grief of the world, the agony twisting inside of him as though it was his own body that had been pierced by the blade. It crept through his bones and burned him from the inside out.
He felt Ferdiad’s hand on his chest and his waist- tender, sweet, loving. He felt the cloth Ferdiad had wrapped over him when he had fallen ill. He felt Ferdiad’s hand on his wrist during training. He felt Ferdiad’s fingers grazing the skin of his abdomen, he heard Ferdiad’s voice talking animatedly about his future.
He felt Ferdiad’s blood pooling around his knees, soaking through his sandals, staining his feet red. He curled himself over Ferdiad, rested his head in the brown curls of Ferdiad’s hair. He felt the drops of his tears tainting it.
“It was not right.” He whispered “You were my one and only and it was not right, not right at all, for you to die by my hand.”
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