So, asking him to relinquish control of his mind was not anathema to him. Tritus didn’t know that he could deny her anything. On an exhale of breath, he succumbed to her demand. Almost immediately, the pain at his temples withdrew, and the muscles in his body softened.
Tritus heard Cailleach sigh in response, and in the next instant, she was everywhere, flooding every corner of his mind. She burrowed into his memories, dragging his consciousness with her. Cailleach flushed through the last few months of his life in a matter of moments, as if they were ripples on the surface of a pond. Then she was arrowing deeper into his long-term memory, and it felt as if he were being carried down a long, dark tunnel. And at the end of that narrowing tunnel, he could see an object, glowing dully in the oppressive darkness.
He could feel Cailleach’s excitement grow when she noticed that object, as if she’d sought its existence. Within moments they were before it, and now that distance no longer blurred its lines, Tritus recognized the object for what it was—a book.
Cailleach didn’t hesitate to reach out and snatch it up. Her pale fingers eagerly flicked through the pages. The action made him dizzy until she suddenly stopped randomly, one finger resting on a page.
He peered over her shoulder and looked down at the book. It was a picture of a vessel—one he’d traveled upon. The image razed across his mind’s eye. It was one of his memories. The emotions, the taste, the smell of the ocean—all his senses clamored, giving effect to that memory as if he was reliving it in that moment.
He was on the longship, voyaging to the west, hope in his chest as he sighted the rugged landscape of a new land—
Before he had time to relive the rest of that memory, the pages flickered, and he was, yet again, at the mercy of the Winter Goddess. Then, just as before, just as suddenly, the motion stopped as her finger landed on another page. This time, Tritus was in a bed.
He was a man, his shaft wrapped in the warm folds of his first woman. A woman many years older than he was, and well-seasoned in the game. He felt the swell of emotion and the rush of satiation as his semen surged forth—
Tritus was again rudely yanked out of the memory, but not before he felt a lick of desire stab in his mind. It had a feminine edge, and before he could question whether it belonged to Cailleach, the pages in the book were flickering, rustling backward even quicker than before.
Cailleach’s finger stopped on another page, and it took Tritus a moment for the world to right itself before he was able to look down and focus on the image. It was a clearing, and as familiar to him as night and day.
He was five years old, a wooden sword in hand, warm, sticky blood running down his cheek from a cut to his temple. The sword felt heavy in his hand, his body bruised and aching, but all that was forgotten as he lifted his eyes from his fallen foe and caught the proud look in his father’s eye—
An intense stab of impatience exploded into his mind, and Tritus could feel the frustration of the goddess before him. It was testament to the fact that she hadn’t found what it was she sought. The pages flickered again, traveling at an alarming speed until there were only a few sheets of the book left. Then, there was only one.
Tritus held his breath as Cailleach paused and looked down at that single page at the end of the book. Initially, Tritus saw nothing but darkness. But then the images propelled into motion, and his most ancient memory played out.
The firelight flickered in the small room, casting uneven shadows over a woman on a bed. She was on her hands and knees, legs spread wide as a robed man leaned over her. The smell of iron was heavy, mixed with the odor of woodsmoke, a result of the fire that roared in the corner of the small hut.
The man grunted, then barked harshly, “One more push! Now!”
The woman screamed in agony, biting down hard on the wood between her teeth. Seconds later, there was a slither of sound and a wailing cry.
The man didn’t hesitate to reach for the dagger attached to his belt. He grabbed hold of the cord that connected the baby to its mother and ran the blade through with a swift motion, tying what was left of it with a piece of twine from his pocket. He then took the time to take his first look at the child. But as he gazed down at its face, he froze.
The woman’s voice was raspy, a thin reed of sound. “Is it a boy?”
“No.”
Her face fell at the response, then a look of determination crossed her features. “I don’t care. Give her to me.”
The man jerked, taking a step away from the baby. “No. It is not for you.”
The woman’s gaze flew to his face, noting the white brackets that lined his mouth. “What is it?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”
Her sharp tone caught his attention, and the man cut his gaze to hers, his face taut with tension. “You cannot claim the child. He is devil-spawned!”
The babe let out a mewling cry, and the robed man stumbled back from the bed, his eyes wide with fear as he held the dagger out in front of him.
The new mother stared at him, at first confused at his confirmation that she had birthed a boy, but then her protective instincts kicked in when she recognized his threatening actions. Ignoring the overwhelming exhaustion that came with labor, she swiveled on the bed and crouched protectively over her new-born son, baring her teeth—more animal than human—and snarled, “Get out!”
The man didn’t hesitate, turning in a whirl of brown robes. He knew who the woman was, what power she would wield now that the babe was born. There was a rush of freezing air as the hide across the door momentarily lifted.
Alone, the woman finally looked down at her mewling babe.
Her gaze was arrested by what the man had seen; small, nubby horns were nestled among dark curls on the top of its head. The sight caused her heart to squeeze painfully. He looked just like his father.
Breath tight in her chest, she carefully enfolded his body in soft muslin before wrapping him in numerous furs. When he was warm and secure, she rose from the bed, reaching for her robe. The change in elevation made her dizzy, her vision whirling at the shift in body weight. She lurched forward, reaching out for the edge of the bed.
“I can do this,” she gritted out into the silent room. “I must do this—for my son.”
Brow furrowed with concentration, she stood to her full height, reaching again for her robe hanging on a hook by the door. Wrapping it around her body with shaking fingers, she drew it tightly around her form to hide her bloodstained birthing gown. Not pausing to reconsider her actions, the woman bent down and picked up her precious bundle, before pushing past the hide to the night outside.
Her progress was painfully slow, a stumbling, shuffling gait that felt like it took forever. Her birthing gown slapped wetly against her naked legs with every step, the blood still flowing from her core.