A/n: This fic is connected to Aingeal Coimhdeachta and is a great thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and alerted it. This is the first part of how Niamh came to know Gabriel told from her Point Of View. It is still a bit cryptic but as you read more of my stories, things (i hope!) will become clearer. See you at the bottom and hope you enjoy. :)
I have, in my long and eventful lifetime, met some very interesting characters. It is only to be expected really, that you meet a great number of oddballs when you spend your free time passing between worlds and wandering to the ends of them. In fact I have spent lots of time in the past in an attempt to acquaint myself with several of these unusual beings. But the most strange of all that I have ever encountered, I met by complete accident. Well, that is what I would call it but some may argue for a better definition.
It is easy to associate him with pain. Surprisingly not because of the fact that once you know him he is a constant pain in your arse, but because the first time I ever saw him, I was in blinding pain.
Torture is a strange thing. Every person who completes it has their own unique reasoning for it. Some do it for revenge, others important information. The one thing common across all motives and methods of the act is that it lacks mercy. I found out the hard way that no matter how much you kick and scream and bite and beg, mercy will never be granted to you.
My tormentors were crueller souls than most. They did not cut me because I held in secret their friend or brother, nor because I had ever wronged them in the past. No. I was simply in the wrong place at the worst possible time.
I did not realise at first just what they were or how deep their hatreds rang towards me and my clan. Realisation came dawning afterwards, when they had me trapped and powerless.
Astonishing how they claim to be the most right and good beings to walk this earth. Two of them held me down while I screamed and cried, feeling it most necessary to whisper and murmur to me how bad I was, how evil and impure and how soon they would rid the world of all those alike me. The third, the eldest and most revered of the trio, made sure that he was always the one in charge, always the one to inflict the actual physical pain. His weapon of a choice was a horribly beautiful knife, wrought from pure and cold iron and bathed eternally while it rested in the juices of rowan berries.
For twelve days and nights they kept me locked away. The pain would come by night; beginning as darkness fell in the evening and ending with the first rays of sunlight. Every dawn I was only seconds from death. I cried unashamedly for it, for them to let me fade, but they wouldn't. Each new day they'd heal me, just enough to keep my heart faintly moving and my mind conscious of the hurt they delivered to me.
It was the night that he appeared that my abuser delivered my worst scars. He taunted me and inquired about the whereabouts of my wings. He delighted in telling me the newest rumours among the human creatures; they now were convinced that my kind sported wings and could fly. He knew as well as I did that I had no such things and so he brutally promised to craft me some. His brothers laughed merrily at his wit and obliged once again to hold me down while he completed his task - an intricate design carved into the smooth and pale skin of my back. An artistic arrangement, he assured me, a heavenly depiction of wings.
The finishing touches were being made and I could feel my wounds weeping profusely, my body feeling cold despite the warmth of my blood. I was ready to give myself up, sure that this had to be the end, when I felt the blade stop in one of its many tracks along my skin. Something, to this day I'm still not sure, deep inside of me willed me to open my eyes.
I heard the greeting voices long before my eyes registered an image.
"Little brother. Perfect timing."
I could feel myself quiver. With the addition of another one, they would probably keep me going for yet another round.
Some words I could not understand passed between the four and then suddenly I was alone with him in the room.
Had I the strength to, I would have been terrified as I watched him approach me, the beloved knife in his hand. But all I could manage was to keep my eyes open, while they threatened to flutter shut.
He stopped by my side, arm holding the weapon outstretched. My eyes wandered upwards, dying gold meeting the softest blue. Forgetting myself, I said to him what I thought it would be my very last words, in my own language.
"Thoil. Le do thoil." Please. Please.
He gave me the strangest look in the world, a trademark one of his that appears on every single one of his many faces, which I only learned to recognise centuries later. Finally, after several awkward moments passed between us, he sighed as if he now carried the weight of a world on one of his shoulders. He breathed another sigh, as he bent down 'til he was resting on his hunkers, his head now level with mine. He gingerly picked up one of my dying hands in his own and murmured, more to himself than me,
"I am going to live to regret this."
A/n: I hope to continue the story of Gabriel, Niamh and Harry because i am really starting to fall in love with them and their situation. I have some (i think so anyway) great ideas for upcoming stories featuring the three so i hope you'll stay tuned in during the next few weeks.
Thank you so much for reading, and if you have the time and effort please spare a review. :) I will take all opinions, promise. :)
Have a good day/night!