Seamus traced a figure eight across the top of his porridge
with a wooden spoon. Mixing in the goat’s milk only did so much to improve the
flavor. His ribs hurt from lying on the stone floor and his appetite was
non-existent this morning.
Seamus tried to reckon how long he’d been imprisoned. The gaolers who brought him his meals changed each day, and they never spoke a word. As the nights wore on, though, Seamus’s magical blood had slowly regenerated, and he was able to identify souls attached with each gaoler. Each gaoler was consistently employed over the course of each night, but each night it was a different gaoler.
Since regaining his strength, Seamus recognized that there were seven different gaolers. His memory for the distinctions amongst their detected souls only went back about two and a half repeated cycles. Two and a half weeks he’d had his second-sight back. Seamus hadn’t considered having his blood drained would weaken his magical abilities.
He stroked his face. His beard had grown back about an inch. Seamus reasoned that about a month had passed since they shaved his face, since Eamonn the undead leprechaun drank his whiskey laden blood. Seamus touched the bite marks on his neck. Eamonn’s relatively small bite marks on the right side of his neck. Lugosi’s larger marks on the left.
Seamus looked down at his porridge, then covered his eyes with his hand. Undead leprechaun, he thought. Seamus wondered if that’s what would eventually happen to him.
In the blackness of his shut eyes, Seamus saw a soul coming. An ancient and guarded soul. He then heard from afar the creature approaching. *Clack* step… *Clack* step… *Clack* step… The soul was unfamiliar, and even as it approached, the soul’s qualities remained nebulous. Am I still too weak to see clearly? Or does this creature willingly conceal its own soul? Seamus’s heart began to race. Ancient. If it was a vampire, there’d be no soul to see. But who could master the concealment of his own soul? Seamus kept trying to divine qualities from the approaching creature.
*Clack* step…. *Clack* step… The sound grew louder. Ancient? Guarded? Crutches? Crutches. The elf! Seamus got up off the floor and grabbed his urine bucket. *Clack* step… *clack* step… *clack* step….Silence. The elf had stopped. Seamus hurled his urine bucket at the barred window at the top of the door. True to aim, most of the urine splashed outside through the bars and out of the cell has the bucket clattered with a hollow, wooden, rolling noise on the floor. Stale leprechaun urine drained and dripped from the door.
*Clack* step…. *Clack* step… the jingling of iron keys. The door opened a crack. The elf pushed it open the rest of the way using one of his bronze crutches. Seamus’s urine bucket made a scraping sound as the door swung open and pushed it toward the wall.
“Please sit,” the elf said, seemingly unconcerned with the biological attack that had clearly missed its mark.
“I don’t recommend you take that approach with me in the future,” said the elf.
“Oh yeah? And why isth-” Seamus was cut short.
“Because you and I are in the same boat. We want the same thing,” the elf said.
Seamus kept trying to divine the elf’s soul. The elf wouldn’t let him in.
“Is that so?” Seamus asked.
The elf broke his gaze to look at the leprechaun piss that was pooling up at the cell’s threshold, then back at the leprechaun.
“Yes. We do,” the elf said.
“Then why are you concealing yourself?” Seamus demanded.
The elf and Seamus stared into each other’s eyes, both knowing full well Seamus was asking about his soul.
The elf sighed.
“A practice I must maintain. If I don’t, the vampire will know too much.”
“Vampires,” Seamus insisted, “There are two of them.”
“Yes, but only Lugosi can read thoughts,” the elf said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Elves, leprechauns, and to an extent, dwarves, have a natural talent for magic,” the elf said, “it’s in our nature. It’s in our blood. When you become a vampire, you lose your nature, you lose your soul.”
“Then how come Lugosi can read minds and Eamonn can’t?” Seamus asked.
“Because Lugosi was merely human before he turned. Eamonn lost all magical talent when he lost his soul. He has all the physical powers and constraints of a vampire, but at the cost of stunting his own abilities.”
Seamus’s mind was racing. There were so many things he wanted to follow up this knowledge with, to know more, but settled on repeating one question.
“Why are you telling me this?” Seamus asked.
The elf pulled something out of his vest pocket, wrapped in a purple cloth.
“I told you, because you and I want the same thing,” the elf said as he unwrapped the purple cloth before Seamus’s eyes, revealing the Serpentis dagger. Seamus recognized his dagger with the two gold snakes coiled around the silver blade.
“Yes, this is a fine blade,” the elf said, “And it’s mine, by the way.”
“Fecking elf! IT’S MINE!” Seamus roared as he tried to snatch at the dagger.
The elf recoiled only enough to keep the blade from Seamus’s grasp.
The elf cocked his gaze slightly, still staring at Seamus, Seamus glaring back in his greedy leprechaun hate. The elf continued staring back at Seamus with an amused patience, then raised his eyebrows as though expecting Seamus to learn or say something new.
Seamus stared intently at the elf’s face, looking back and forth at either of his green eyes, searching for some meaning. The elf let down the guard over his soul and Seamus watched it happen. The look of intense anger on Seamus’s face melted to shock and revelatory awe.
A flood of images bombarded Seamus’s mind. Images the elf was sending. First, Seamus saw the room he woke up in after the abduction, the cider and the cold food on the table. Then the same room darkened, scattered and bloodied. Then only one image sat in Seamus’s mind, an iron skull with rubies for eyes. A pale bony hand wrapped around the top of the iron skull, lifting it from the table it had rested.
Lugosi, standing over him, wielding a twelve pound iron skull in his hand. The vampire lifted the shot of iron above his head, then swung it down on his ankle. The iron skull impacted an unseen ankle with the sound of several small bones breaking.
Seamus snapped out of the vision, checking his own ankles for damage. Then realized it was the elf who’d had his ankle broken by Lugosi.
“He also drained me,” the elf said as he showed Seamus his inner arms, revealing one large, healed scar on each bicep.
“Why wouldn’t he just kill you?” Seamus asked.
“Because he needs me. And besides, you get more blood out of a living host than a dead one. And our magical blood is rarer than human blood,” the elf said.
“Did he drink all of the blood he took?” Seamus asked.
“No, he only drank some. He stored the rest,” the elf said.
Seamus realized that he and the elf both wanted to kill Lugosi. Seamus looked at the elf, then back at the Serpentis dagger.
“You mean to kill him with my dagger?” Seamus asked.
“The blade is made of silver. And it’s my dagger,” the elf insisted.
Seamus searched the elf’s soul. Seamus’s eyes grew wide with shock.
“Dirk?” Seamus asked. “The Dirk? The Legendary Dirk of Hibernia?!”
Dirk barked out a laugh.
“I haven’t heard it called that for centuries!” Dirk said.
“What do you mean?” Seamus asked.
“You don’t know really know Latin, do you?” Dirk asked.
Seamus shook his head.
“Only a few spells, here and there,” Seamus said.
“You’re from Ireland, right?” Dirk asked.
“Do a faeries shit in the woods?!”
Dirk smiled.
“Hibernia…” Dirk said, “is what the Romans called Ireland before their empire collapsed.”
Seamus was at a loss for words.
Dirk mounted his bronze crutches and made for the door.
“Mentis meum Obscuro. That’s how you conceal your own soul from the sight of others. And I'll give you the dagger back when the time is right,” Dirk said as he hobbled over the pool of Seamus’s pee.
Seamus stayed sitting on his pile of hay in the jail cell.
Dirk pivoted about on his crutches, looking back into Seamus’s cell.
“Aren’t you coming?” Dirk asked.
Seamus said nothing, still processing all the information he’d just received.
“Lugosi expects production, production, production… and it’s your first day of work.”
Seamus tried to reckon how long he’d been imprisoned. The gaolers who brought him his meals changed each day, and they never spoke a word. As the nights wore on, though, Seamus’s magical blood had slowly regenerated, and he was able to identify souls attached with each gaoler. Each gaoler was consistently employed over the course of each night, but each night it was a different gaoler.
Since regaining his strength, Seamus recognized that there were seven different gaolers. His memory for the distinctions amongst their detected souls only went back about two and a half repeated cycles. Two and a half weeks he’d had his second-sight back. Seamus hadn’t considered having his blood drained would weaken his magical abilities.
He stroked his face. His beard had grown back about an inch. Seamus reasoned that about a month had passed since they shaved his face, since Eamonn the undead leprechaun drank his whiskey laden blood. Seamus touched the bite marks on his neck. Eamonn’s relatively small bite marks on the right side of his neck. Lugosi’s larger marks on the left.
Seamus looked down at his porridge, then covered his eyes with his hand. Undead leprechaun, he thought. Seamus wondered if that’s what would eventually happen to him.
In the blackness of his shut eyes, Seamus saw a soul coming. An ancient and guarded soul. He then heard from afar the creature approaching. *Clack* step… *Clack* step… *Clack* step… The soul was unfamiliar, and even as it approached, the soul’s qualities remained nebulous. Am I still too weak to see clearly? Or does this creature willingly conceal its own soul? Seamus’s heart began to race. Ancient. If it was a vampire, there’d be no soul to see. But who could master the concealment of his own soul? Seamus kept trying to divine qualities from the approaching creature.
*Clack* step…. *Clack* step… The sound grew louder. Ancient? Guarded? Crutches? Crutches. The elf! Seamus got up off the floor and grabbed his urine bucket. *Clack* step… *clack* step… *clack* step….Silence. The elf had stopped. Seamus hurled his urine bucket at the barred window at the top of the door. True to aim, most of the urine splashed outside through the bars and out of the cell has the bucket clattered with a hollow, wooden, rolling noise on the floor. Stale leprechaun urine drained and dripped from the door.
*Clack* step…. *Clack* step… the jingling of iron keys. The door opened a crack. The elf pushed it open the rest of the way using one of his bronze crutches. Seamus’s urine bucket made a scraping sound as the door swung open and pushed it toward the wall.
“Please sit,” the elf said, seemingly unconcerned with the biological attack that had clearly missed its mark.
“I don’t recommend you take that approach with me in the future,” said the elf.
“Oh yeah? And why isth-” Seamus was cut short.
“Because you and I are in the same boat. We want the same thing,” the elf said.
Seamus kept trying to divine the elf’s soul. The elf wouldn’t let him in.
“Is that so?” Seamus asked.
The elf broke his gaze to look at the leprechaun piss that was pooling up at the cell’s threshold, then back at the leprechaun.
“Yes. We do,” the elf said.
“Then why are you concealing yourself?” Seamus demanded.
The elf and Seamus stared into each other’s eyes, both knowing full well Seamus was asking about his soul.
The elf sighed.
“A practice I must maintain. If I don’t, the vampire will know too much.”
“Vampires,” Seamus insisted, “There are two of them.”
“Yes, but only Lugosi can read thoughts,” the elf said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Elves, leprechauns, and to an extent, dwarves, have a natural talent for magic,” the elf said, “it’s in our nature. It’s in our blood. When you become a vampire, you lose your nature, you lose your soul.”
“Then how come Lugosi can read minds and Eamonn can’t?” Seamus asked.
“Because Lugosi was merely human before he turned. Eamonn lost all magical talent when he lost his soul. He has all the physical powers and constraints of a vampire, but at the cost of stunting his own abilities.”
Seamus’s mind was racing. There were so many things he wanted to follow up this knowledge with, to know more, but settled on repeating one question.
“Why are you telling me this?” Seamus asked.
The elf pulled something out of his vest pocket, wrapped in a purple cloth.
“I told you, because you and I want the same thing,” the elf said as he unwrapped the purple cloth before Seamus’s eyes, revealing the Serpentis dagger. Seamus recognized his dagger with the two gold snakes coiled around the silver blade.
“Yes, this is a fine blade,” the elf said, “And it’s mine, by the way.”
“Fecking elf! IT’S MINE!” Seamus roared as he tried to snatch at the dagger.
The elf recoiled only enough to keep the blade from Seamus’s grasp.
The elf cocked his gaze slightly, still staring at Seamus, Seamus glaring back in his greedy leprechaun hate. The elf continued staring back at Seamus with an amused patience, then raised his eyebrows as though expecting Seamus to learn or say something new.
Seamus stared intently at the elf’s face, looking back and forth at either of his green eyes, searching for some meaning. The elf let down the guard over his soul and Seamus watched it happen. The look of intense anger on Seamus’s face melted to shock and revelatory awe.
A flood of images bombarded Seamus’s mind. Images the elf was sending. First, Seamus saw the room he woke up in after the abduction, the cider and the cold food on the table. Then the same room darkened, scattered and bloodied. Then only one image sat in Seamus’s mind, an iron skull with rubies for eyes. A pale bony hand wrapped around the top of the iron skull, lifting it from the table it had rested.
Lugosi, standing over him, wielding a twelve pound iron skull in his hand. The vampire lifted the shot of iron above his head, then swung it down on his ankle. The iron skull impacted an unseen ankle with the sound of several small bones breaking.
Seamus snapped out of the vision, checking his own ankles for damage. Then realized it was the elf who’d had his ankle broken by Lugosi.
“He also drained me,” the elf said as he showed Seamus his inner arms, revealing one large, healed scar on each bicep.
“Why wouldn’t he just kill you?” Seamus asked.
“Because he needs me. And besides, you get more blood out of a living host than a dead one. And our magical blood is rarer than human blood,” the elf said.
“Did he drink all of the blood he took?” Seamus asked.
“No, he only drank some. He stored the rest,” the elf said.
Seamus realized that he and the elf both wanted to kill Lugosi. Seamus looked at the elf, then back at the Serpentis dagger.
“You mean to kill him with my dagger?” Seamus asked.
“The blade is made of silver. And it’s my dagger,” the elf insisted.
Seamus searched the elf’s soul. Seamus’s eyes grew wide with shock.
“Dirk?” Seamus asked. “The Dirk? The Legendary Dirk of Hibernia?!”
Dirk barked out a laugh.
“I haven’t heard it called that for centuries!” Dirk said.
“What do you mean?” Seamus asked.
“You don’t know really know Latin, do you?” Dirk asked.
Seamus shook his head.
“Only a few spells, here and there,” Seamus said.
“You’re from Ireland, right?” Dirk asked.
“Do a faeries shit in the woods?!”
Dirk smiled.
“Hibernia…” Dirk said, “is what the Romans called Ireland before their empire collapsed.”
Seamus was at a loss for words.
Dirk mounted his bronze crutches and made for the door.
“Mentis meum Obscuro. That’s how you conceal your own soul from the sight of others. And I'll give you the dagger back when the time is right,” Dirk said as he hobbled over the pool of Seamus’s pee.
Seamus stayed sitting on his pile of hay in the jail cell.
Dirk pivoted about on his crutches, looking back into Seamus’s cell.
“Aren’t you coming?” Dirk asked.
Seamus said nothing, still processing all the information he’d just received.
“Lugosi expects production, production, production… and it’s your first day of work.”
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