Who: Saint Patrick and Nemain, then open to Saints John and David What: Thwarted revenge during what were thwarted visits When: Saturday morning-evening Where: Several places, ending up at Patrick's apartment Warning: A bit of gory exposition and blood Notes: Re-post from earlier today. Sorry, I'm arguing with myself about it!
Patrick had headed out in the morning, with the explanation that he would be gone all day. He wanted to visit Clio first because it had been a few days. Then he was going to stop by Joseph's to fill him in on John, since Joey had asked Patrick on a date and Patrick figured his friend deserved an explanation. He also planned on bringing a cake because he hadn't been asked on a date in a while and it was the first time he said no because he had someone. Before it had always been out of self-preservation or his religion. Now he felt slightly guilty even though chances were Joseph didn't care. He was still going to pick up cake to bring.
He never got to either place.
He could feel the Morrigna behind him as he walked to Clio's and since Lucifer had already attacked the poor muse, he didn't think he needed to bring her to the attention of a trio of war-goddesses who seemed dead-set on annoying the shit out of him. He knew what the Morrigna were capable of. He had seen it first-hand, and read even more. They would rip your entrails out and wear them as necklaces if they wanted to. The last thing he wanted was for the Morrigna to have Clio-entrails necklaces.
Patrick took a wrong turn, and then another and then another. He was tailed the entire way and he started to feel like this was going to ruin his entire day. They weren't going to let up and he didn't feel like walking all over the city. He had no idea where he was by the end of it, and he resolved to just take a cab somewhere when a sense of indignation rose up in his throat and instead of finding a cab, he jackknifed off into an alley and when he was deep enough into it, he turned around and looked up.
There was a crow on a window ledge above him. He glared at it. "Are you just going to follow me around for the rest of eternity!? Fuck off!" he screamed like a crazy person, resorting to swearing he would repent for later. "Go away!" He was sick of being tailed by them, which was of course, exactly what they expected. He made a move to leave the alley, but the crow flew down from the window, landing in front of him. The shape of the crow morphed and bent and twisted, the raven-black color of the feathers becoming jet-black hair as the crow took the form of Nemain.
Patrick immediately averted his eyes, a blush rising to his features. "Oh...you would be naked."
"You've seen me before," Nemain reminded him. Patrick didn't remember what she meant. He didn't remember being seduced by her and sleeping with her. He remembered waking up alone, but the rest was a blank and he didn't connect the two.
"Huh? N-nevermind. Stop following me," he said, his eyes still on the ground. She stepped closer to him and he could see her feet, stark white against what must have been freezing pavement.
Nemain smiled a smile he never saw. "Your wish is my command Naomh Padraig."
Then Patrick felt pain in his head and nothing else.
*********
When Patrick came to, he found himself tied to a chair in what could only be described as Hell's cellar. He was surrounded by filth and in front of him, Nemain was sitting on a table, watching him with a smile. She was, thankfully, fully dressed but the expression she wore chilled Patrick to the bone.
It didn't help that he was tied down. His breath caught in his throat as he started to panic about nothing more than the ropes around his wrists.
Shackles. The heavy weight of shackles closing on his wrists and neck-
He didn't even care what Nemain did to him; all he wanted was to be out of the ropes. They reminded him of the ship. Of watching his home disappear behind him and the green hills of Ireland, the land of his captivity, growing larger and larger-
"Let me go!" Patrick screamed at her, twisting his wrists around so he could try to escape.
"You are a present for Macha," Nemain explained with a shake of her head.
Patrick whimpered, and he said nothing more as he struggled against the ropes and she watched him. She was enjoying it. One glance at her face gave that way. And when he slowed to stop giving her the satisfaction, that was when his rational brain took over and he realised he could get out of this. The chair wasn't all that sturdy, and there was a wall behind him. His legs weren't tied down. Apparently Nemain just assumed his arms would be enough. And Patrick reasoned that, looking at him, he could understand why. He didn't exactly look like a prize-fighter.
Patrick forced down the panic which was trying to choke him and he set his jaw before becoming completely still. That was fine. God was with him. Patrick drew a deep breath. He thought of John, waiting for him at home (though he was probably filling his day just fine). He thought of his brothers going about their daily lives. He thought of anything that gave him comfort. He hummed music in his head. And he counted his breaths. He remembered John's soothing voice. That worked more than anything else.
"Macha is going to be disappointed," Patrick finally managed to say, and miraculously, his voice didn't waver.
Nemain slid down from the table and she walked over to him, kneeling in front of him. She placed her hands on his knees and Patrick had to force himself not to spit in her face. He didn't think angering her would help, but having her that close to him didn't sit well. Especially not after his nightmares. "I am sorry for what I did to your sister. I did things differently then," he explained. And every word of it was true. "I am sorry for what I did to all of you. I should have spread the word and let the people decide for themselves." The truth behind the things he had done in Ireland was that not all of it was kind or even justified. Some of it was good and progressive, but you could spread God's word without eradicating the people who opposed it.
Nemain reached out and she touched his cheek and Patrick gritted his teeth together as she did so. "You're going to die," she informed him.
"Not today," he hissed back, wrenching his face away from her hand. He could be sorry. It didn't mean he was going to let this happen.
Nemain slapped his face lightly, just to get his attention. His eyes widened and he stared at her, afraid to look away. "My job is to foresee when soldiers die, Padraig."
"Good thing I'm not a soldier then."
Nemain made a face at him, her eyes glaring. She stood and retrieved a piece of broken glass which she carried over to him. She used it to slice his arm open, despite his struggling. She did so three times, and though the cuts were not too terribly deep, Patrick gasped and sucked in his breath to deal with the pain. "Stop!" His eyes watered and he looked up at Nemain, scared there was more pain coming.
Instead, Nemain tossed the glass aside and she ran her fingers across the blood that had pooled to the surface, glaringly crimson against his pale skin. Patrick grunted as she did so, and then he watched in horror as Nemain wiped the blood from his wounds all over her face, until it was stained red. "Three cuts," she growled. "Once for each of us."
As an intimidation technique, it was quite a good one. Patrick recognised it. It was pre-Christian Irish for 'I killed your entire family and I liked it and now I am going to kill you'.
Nemain reached out for his face with her bloody hand, grabbing him by the jaw. She curled her fingernails into it, and Patrick glared up at her as she held his face still. "I will bathe in your blood, Saint."
Patrick simply looked at her a moment longer, and then he closed his eyes and he prayed for deliverance from this. And, somehow, he knew God would provide just that, as He had so many times before.
*********
Nemain watched him for hours. Patrick knew what she was doing. The Morrigna were war-goddesses but they covered fear and intimidation as well. Nemain was staring at him, waiting for him to crack. Waiting for him to beg for something. To be let go, or to be spoken to, or even for more blood, as long as it wasn't the waiting. And for every moment Nemain stared at him, Patrick stared right back. It was a measure of his will and he would not be found wanting.
Sweat beaded on his brow, despite the cold. He refused to drop her gaze. Sweat broke out on his back as well, but he didn't look away. He wanted to drop his gaze, but he refused. All the while, he distracted himself with thoughts of John. With memories of what had been, and what would be when he got home. It gave him the strength to stare back.
Nemain broke the gaze first. She turned her blood-stained face away from him when a door opened somewhere off to the left. If Macha had finally arrived, Patrick was about to be relieved of his head.
Frantically, Patrick looked around the room he was being held in, but he didn't see any other ways in or out. Nemain must have gone in the direction he had to go, which was annoying, but he wasn't going to let them behead him sitting down. If this was going to happen, he was going to fight it.
Patrick placed one of his unbound feet under the chair, and the other in front of it to try to give himself the leverage to raise up off the ground, chair and all. It wasn't easy, but by rocking the chair a few times, he managed it. He then backed up as quickly as he could with the chair still tied to him, and slammed himself and the chair into the wall.
The wooden chair splintered and fell apart, the two armrests still tied to his wrists. Patrick groaned from his spot against the wall in a pile of chair, but he managed to pick himself up as two war goddesses rushed at him.
Patrick didn't know if it was luck, fate, God, or just the belief that he had beaten them before, but somehow he grabbed ahold of those armrests in his hands and he slammed one into Nemain's face, while he struck Macha in the stomach with the other one.
And then he was running.
He ran so frantically, it took him quite a while to realise he wasn't being chased. He had no idea the Morrigna had let him go; had planned on letting him go from the beginning unless he didn't try to escape. He didn't understand the idea of testing your enemies, he just knew he wanted to get away.
Patrick doubled over, leaning against a building to catch his breath. He had no idea where he was, but the street in front of him had a wealth of taxis driving by. Patrick made a cursory attempt to wipe the blood off of his chin, and he removed the armrests from the rope around his wrists, though it was too difficult to untie the rope one-handed.
He hailed a cab and rode home in silence. He was pretty sure the cabbie was terrified of him. The ropes, the panic and some of the blood proved too difficult to hide, so Patrick didn't try. Patrick tipped him five dollars.
The stairs of his apartment building were taken two by two until he reached his door on the top floor. Patrick let himself into the apartment and the second he was inside the door with the deadbolt drawn, his knees gave out and he fell to the floor, bruising them both up.
Patrick was exhausted and he was quite thirsty. He hadn't eaten since that morning and it had been hours and hours and he was hungry. His head and arm ached and he was sure his entire body would later. He badly wanted a drink to calm his frayed nerves. All those needs could be attended to soon. But just for a moment, Patrick needed to rest in a heap on his own floor and realise he was safe. He still had his head. He wasn't seriously injured. And he had outsmarted the Morrigna. Or so he thought. He was okay. He was still alive and he still had his head.
He was still breathing.
The clicking of canine toenails signalled the approach of Downpatrick and Patrick looked up at his dog, reaching out for him to scratch his ears. Downpatrick licked at the dried blood on Patrick's chin and Patrick pushed him gently away, glad his wounded arm was hidden in his sweater. "Ew, Downpatrick, don't." Patrick breathed in and then he called out. "Dewi, John? I'm...I'm home!" He knew he sounded feeble and afraid. It was okay to sound that way now. Here was where he could show his fear. "I-I need help!"
He stayed there in his little pile on the floor, dried blood on his chin, and he waited for the people who loved him to come pick him up.
David finished watering his plants and stepped back. The glasshouse for his plants had been a genius idea, and he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before now. Bryn poked his head out from underneath a leaf and gamboled over, rubbing around David's ankles. The kitten was surprisingly fearless, and it was adorable, but David still worried about him sometimes.
Locking the door behind him, David headed back across to the stairs, kitten held firmly in his arms. He was aware of the metaphor he was projecting onto his pet, looking after him as he wanted to look after his brother, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He put Bryn down as he stepped back into the apartment, smiling in a mixture of amusement and contentment.
That is, until Patrick, in a heap on the floor, with blood on his face. David dropped his watering can on the floor and sprinted to Patrick's side, scooping him up and quickly assessing him for broken bones. "Patrick! What happened? Speak to me!"
Patrick reached out for David, trying to show his brother he was okay with a firm grip on David's arms. "I'm alright," he reassured his brother. Then he held out his wrists which still had the rope around them. "It was the Morrigna but I'm okay. Can you get this off me? Please get it off me!"
David hoisted Patrick up, pulling one arm across David's shoulders to support him as he half walked, half dragged him to the sofa. Once he was up off the floor, he went to get a knife to cut the rope.
"Hold still. The knots are tight, so I'm going to have to cut them," he cautioned, his voice soothing so Patrick wouldn't freak out at the blade.
"It's okay," Patrick said, giving his brother a shaky smile. "I trust you." And he did. The knife in his brother's hands scared him far less than the ropes around his wrists did. "Oh goodness, Dewi, I thought they actually were going to take my head."
"Who were?" David kept his voice casual, but his resolve was starting to harden. It didn't take too long to carefully cut enough through the knots to untie them, and David carefully removed them, rubbing his fingers gently over the red skin, pushing the sleeves back to check them. "They cut you?" he asked, as he noticed the blood staining his brother's skin.
Patrick winced as the fabric of his sweater was pulled away from the dried blood of wound. "Ouch, fuc- uhm...heh." Patrick pulled his injured arm away a little, gazing at it as if in shock. "Three times," he said with a nod. One for each of the Morrigna. Badb, Nemain and Macha. Dewi," Patrick said, looking up at his brother. He was still shaking a little. "I need a drink." And then, because it required clarification, "of water. I'm thirsty."
David nodded, storing the information away, then got up and went to the kitchen. He poured a glass of water and dampened a soft cloth, coming back with them. He put the water in Patrick's good hand and knelt in front of him holding the other, dabbing away the blood. "What do they want from you?" he asked, pained by the attack.
Patrick gulped the water down all at once, trying to moisten his dry throat. When the glass was empty, he put it aside. It was hard to keep his other arm still to let David do his thing, but he managed though he sucked air through his teeth whenever it hurt.
"I don't know," Patrick answered honestly. "I...I think they just wanted to mess with me. Nemain said I was going to die today. Macha had just gotten there when I got away. I don't know what would have happened," he explained, still half in shock.
"Why do they want to do this?" David pressed his lips together, frowning over his work. When he'd got the worst of the blood away, he fetched a cotton pad to bandage the cuts. "Do they have nothing better to do with their time?"
"I...took away their worship," Patrick admitted. "They're Celtic deities and basically...I made them obsolete. And I may have cut Macha's head off, but she was going to cut off mine! It was a long time ago, I don't remember it. But they do. Hold on," Patrick said, and he stood from the sofa. "I need to disinfect it. She cut me with dirty glass. And I have rubbing alcohol somewhere..."
David rocked back on his heels, watching Patrick walk away. "There's Dettol in the bathroom cupboard," he said, and once Patrick's back was to him, he went to the window, peering out into the night. Those pagans would not have given up so easily, he was sure, if their vengeance was this resilient after so many centuries.
Patrick made his way to the bathroom cupboard on knees that didn't seem to want to hold him up. He walked anyway, refusing to let the Morrigna keep him down. He grabbed the disinfectant and returned to the kitchen. The glass he had been cut with had been disgusting and grimy and the last thing he needed was an infection.
Patrick gritted his teeth and then over the sink, which probably wasn't the best place to do it, but he didn't care, Patrick held his injured arm out and he poured the disinfectant over the cuts.
The wounds foamed up angrily and Patrick grunted in pain. With his good arm, he reached for a n opened bottle of liquor in the cupboard. He removed the cork with his teeth, since it was barely in the bottle neck anyway, and he spit it into the sink as well. And as the disinfectant worked, bringing tears to his eyes, Patrick took a deep swig of the alcohol.
Pulling the curtains tight, David checked that every window was covered before following Patrick into the kitchen. He hung back a little, disturbed by how much Patrick had to live with, the burden he carried, and now this on top of it. When Patrick took a drink, though, he stepped forward, gently taking the bottle out of his hands.
"You don't need this," he stated, pushing the cork firmly home. "You need water and rest and prayer." He didn't condemn Patrick, but he was firm about it.
Patrick groaned, but he let the bottle go without a fight, wiping at his lips with his good hand. His arm had mostly finished foaming like a rabid dog, so he washed it off, giving the sink a little clean as well, before drying his arm with a paper towel. Then he turned to look at his brother.
"A bandage is probably a good idea. And water. And rest. And prayer. And...food." Patrick leaned back against the kitchen counter and he put a hand over his eyes. "I was really scared, Dewi. I was there for hours. And I...I hate being tied up. It's...it's worse than anything else they did."
David nodded, turning away to put the bottle out of sight, then coming back to pop a mince pie into Patrick's mouth. "Eat and be thankful. I know you hate it. But you're home now, safe and sound. There are plenty more mince pies where that came from. I can make you up some beans on toast? Quick, hot, comfort food to warm you up." He fetched the bandage quickly, so Patrick didn't have time to reconsider the booze, and strapped up the cuts securely.
Patrick chewed on the mince pie that David had popped into his mouth and he nodded when David suggested beans on toast. People didn't eat it so much in the US but they were missing out. Patrick loved it.
He finished off the pie, and he was thankful for it. So was his stomach. Then Patrick reached out and he caught David by the arm as he fussed. "Hey," he said softly. "I think more than anything, I just need a hug from my brother," Patrick said, pulling David close. "Thank you. How are you always so calm? It's amazing."
David laughed, which turned into a heavy sigh as he let Patrick hug him. "It's all a very good act," he said, not completely joking. Feeling Patrick safe and here and solid in his arms was reassuring. David kissed his cheek as they separated. "John will be here soon. Then you'll have two people to defend you."
Patrick took a deep breath and he let it out slowly. He reached out and touched David's hair lightly before going to sit down at the table so he could be near David without standing up. It was all a little much.
"You do both do a very good job of that," Patrick said with a smile." He took another deep breath, and he wished he still had the bottle of alcohol. He hadn't gotten completely drunk since the night he had been hit by the car, even if he had had a drink here and there. He shouldn't ruin that now, but he wanted to. "I was supposed to see Clio today. And Joseph. Joseph asked me on a date," Patrick rambled. "I don't even- They're coming out of the woodwork, Dewi. Meanwhile these Celtic war goddesses want to cut my head off, and I'm not even sure what end is up."
"A date?" David was a little startled, but he covered it up by reaching in the cupboard for a good old-fashioned can of Heinz baked beans. Those shops that imported British food were a Godsend. "Are you going?" Even more disturbing than being involved with John was the concept of being romantically involved with a mortal. "Not that it matters... You can go see them tomorrow. Why not take John with you? Except, maybe not to see Joseph."
Patrick chuckled then and he looked up at David, "no I am not going on a date with my friend Joey. I was going to tell him about John. Joey won't care, he was only asking me on a date to bring me out of my shell. I think. Though I don't...want to leave the apartment for a while. I like it here where I am not tied up or beheaded."
"Home is where the heart is," David agreed a little vacantly as he pushed bread into the toaster. "I will have things to do tomorrow, so we shan't be under each others' feet all day. Stay in, where it's safe, until you have your feet under you again. Downpatrick and Grey Cat will guard you." At that David glanced around to see where Bryn had gone when he was occupied with Patrick, and smiled when he spotted the kitten curled into a fuzzy ginger ball on the sofa, cuddled next to Downpatrick, who looked back at David with long-suffering eyes.
Patrick picked at the bandage around his arm because he tended to fiddle with things. "I'm going to eat and then take a shower and then sleep for a week while I pray that the Morrigna will just...leave me alone. They've followed me everywhere for weeks. I understand I did a bad thing, but I'm not that person any more. I don't even look like he did! Though they probably would be afraid of Grey Cat. He's fierce."