Eira Coch: The Red Snow. A Winter's Tale.

History, as always, is told in the forked tongues of the oppressor. Surely, you must know that at least. Figured it out after all these years. Though recent events suggest differently. You really are weak, aren’t you? Man. Sad really.

I was a man once. A strong one. Feared far and wide for my prowess. My ability to snatch a man off his guard with a single arrow was known across the realms. I was a knight to be revered. And feared, of course. It was after all, the nature of my duty.

I would like to think that I may have been an exception. A better mortal. Alas! I am not. I am nothing more than a footnote in the annals of an ancient tome.

It was such a long time ago, but memory serves me for a slave. I remember the sting of frost on my breath that night. I remember the sword – strong in my hand, and the standard of the great lord clinging to my grasp. I would die for him that night.

It was Arawn himself who gave me the command. It was not to be questioned. I served him as his shadow might but for the clutches of ego that made me vain. No longer passive and trailing his every move, I yearned to step out from under the shade he cast. My own entity. Ruler of the Otherworld, conquering mortals and Gods alike. This life for which my die had been cast was no longer enough, if at all it had ever been.

Across the beacons I rode on horseback, the ice crunch of hooves cracking through the silence. At the allotted clearing – the Devil’s knife on the edge of Llyn Barfog, Hafgan was waiting. My betrayal was balanced on a blade’s edge. I watched in spin like the ceniog of destiny. As the last whispered secret spilled like blood from my lips, my transformation had begun. Arawan had always known who I would become. And God’s do not forgive those to weak to rise beyond the nature of mere man.

Now, they call me only Hirlas.

And here, I roam the woods, bound to the will of the master I betrayed. My legs are hooved and my antlers cling like icicles to my matted winter skin. The forest is endless – stretched out before me like a cruel and unrelenting dream from which I can never awaken. I do not feel the cold anymore, nor the warmth of the early morning sun. I feel only the weight of Arawn’s command and my own folly.

Tonight, the wind carries a gentle heartbeat. It is steady and strong and growing louder. My senses heighten as I feel the presence of a mortal drawing in.

My antlers catch the light of the moon as I turn, illuminating him a steady glow. A hunter. His body wrapped in the furs of his past conquests; bow slung across his back.

The hunter moves with reverence, each step sinking into muffled snow. His eyes are unwavering as he imagines the triumph of his shot. I know that look well. His bow creaks softly as he draws it, the string taut and impatient. Ready.

I am rooted to my place.

He is caught off guard, hesitating as he wonders why I do not run. Doubt flashes dak across his eyes. For a singular moment, I see it in his face: awe, perhaps, or a flicker of doubt. He knows I am no ordinary stag. His hand trembles, the string loosening beneath the weight of his choice.

“What are you?” He whispers through a suspended wind.

Above us, the moon shifts. The trees lean inwards, their shadows curling like the dark tendrils of an afanc around the hunter. His breath halts as the earth shifts. All is vast and cold. The weight is undeniable.

Arawn has come.

“You have served me well, Hirlas,” he says, his voice matching the heavy breath of winter. “But there is final task before your penance is complete.”

I step backward, “Another soul for your halls?”

“No, no” Arawn says, his eyes alight with the cruelty I have come to know so well. “Your own. Your own antlers, imagine Hirlas, will adorn the palaces of the men you sought to undo. Fitting, no? A Christmas gift to the mortal king. The pride of the Christmas feast”

The snow falls heavier, blanketing the ground in silence. The hounds’ howls rise again, distant but drawing closer. Arawn’s words settle into me. Soothing,

It is not redemption he offers but an ending.

And for the first time, in centuries of winter, I feel the gentle flicker of warmth.

“So be it,” I say, as I lower my antlers in defiant surrender.

The arrow glints.

I do not blame him. He does not know that he, too, has an untold destiny. A plaything for a world he has yet to know.

The snow beneath my feet stains Christmas crimson.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

An attempt at an entry for the wonderful Stephanie's latest prompt, ypu can read about it and take part here:

C x