The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 24

"You are so beautiful it almost hurts to look at you," he said, running his fingers through her raven hair. "I never want to stop touching you. Will we have this . . . forever, Morrigan?"

A surge of panic went through her at his question. She was not the sort of woman to put any man and the word "forever" together in the same sentence. The closest thing she had to "forever" was her annual mating with Dagda, which ended the winter season and brought spring to her people. And if she had a choice, which she didn't, she wouldn't even have that relationship. She did her duty though, always, and she rarely had a choice in any of it. But now, with this man, she did. She had chosen him and suddenly, surprisingly, the thought of forever did not tie her stomach up in knots. Her mind wasn't racing to find a reason to rebuff his offer. Instead it was racing in an entirely different direction imagining hours, days, centuries, spent in his arms and his company.

"Yes," she replied. "We will have this forever."

Seven.

How Morrigan wished those words had been true. They did have several wonderful years together, happy and carefree years, before the taint of anger and betrayal touched them.

Before each battle Morrigan would come to him. They would spend hours making love, Cullen eager to learn everything she could teach him. Afterwards, while he slept, Morrigan would drag one sharp, black fingernail across her wrist and spill a few drops of her precious blood into his mouth. Her blood made him strong and she made him fearless. He went into each battle, accepted each challenge, with the knowledge that he could not be killed. Because she would not allow it.

Morrigan fulfilled her end of their bargain with enthusiasm. The name of Cuchulainn became feared and revered throughout the Celtic world. He was a walking legend. He was everything she had promised, and more.

As for herself, Morrigan found the time she spent with him to be the most pleasurable moments of her entire existence. With him she was not a G.o.ddess of war, she was not a harbinger of death, she was simply the woman he loved. And love her he did, with wild abandon. When he slid the clothes from her body, all her cares, all her worries, went with them and for those brief hours time stood still.

But it wasn't only their physical relationship that she enjoyed. Often she would take him into Faerie for an hour or two and they would spar in the meadow, the great warrior against the G.o.ddess of war. Sometimes she would even let him win. And after they laid down their swords they talked of the great battles of the past, battles that she had seen and that he was eager to learn from. It was his companionship that Morrigan valued above all else. Friends were not a luxury one often found in the pantheon.

It was perfect, perhaps too perfect to last. Every war has a turning point and Morrigan clearly remembered theirs that one moment when you realize that nothing will ever be the same again.

Cullen had just returned from the festival of Imbolc when Morrigan came to him unexpectedly. There was no impending battle, no pressing reason that he needed the strength her blood provided. She simply wanted to see him, wanted to erase from her mind the memory of Dagda's hands on her as they performed the ritual that would usher in the spring. Unfortunately, she could not as easily erase the evidence of the event from her body.

Cullen was trailing kisses up the inside of her thigh when he noticed the bruises. He paused and then slowly sat up, reaching one hand out to tentatively touch her skin. He laid his palm on her thigh, his fingertips covering each of the five purple marks.

"Who has touched you?" he whispered harshly.

She sat up, noticing for the first time the bruises Dagda's hands had made upon her thighs. Morrigan was immortal but Dagda was a king among the G.o.ds. She could not immediately heal the damage he inflicted, as she could any other wound.

"Dagda is a beast," she said, her disgust evident in her voice. "Let's not think of him, my love. In fact, I was rather hoping you would help me forget."

Morrigan reached for him but Cullen pulled away, staring at her in horror. She would remember the expression on his face for all eternity. It was the moment when everything changed.

"You let him make love to you?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, I would hardly call it making love," she replied. "And it isn't as though I had any say in the matter. It is my duty and it must be done. Surely you know that, Cullen."

He shook his head. "I just thought of it as a legend, a story like so many others. I never thought . . ." His words grew softer but his eyes grew harder as he regarded her. "I never thought that you would betray our love."

Morrigan leaped from the bed. "I have done nothing of the sort!" she snapped, her temper rising. "I am a G.o.ddess, Cullen, and you cannot hold me to the same morals as your simpering human women. The rituals must be performed. Would you rather I hadn't done it? Would you rather live in eternal winter until every man, woman and child in Eire dies of starvation because the crops cannot grow? That is the price of my fidelity, Cullen. Would you pay it to serve nothing more than your vanity?"

He looked away, having no answer to such a question.

"I thought not," she said coldly. "I do what I must, Cullen. It does not touch what you and I have. If you throw away what we have because you cannot accept that, then you are a fool."

She waited for him to say something, anything, but he did not. Feeling as though he had driven the Sword of Nuada through her heart, she vanished in a blinding flash of light.

Eight.

After that Cullen began taking human lovers. Morrigan told herself that was how it should be. After all, she would have him for eternity. It would be selfish of her to deny him the experience of a human life and all that it entailed. But no matter how she rationalized it, it still hurt. She still went to him; she had to. He needed her blood to fulfil their bargain and she would not allow all her plans to be ruined because she had been foolish enough to lose her heart to a human.

Sometimes she came to him at night while he slept, giving him her blood without ever waking him. And sometimes she came to him as she had before, simply because she missed the feel of his hands on her skin. He never again mentioned Dagda and she steadfastly refused to acknowledge the presence of any other woman in his life. They would make love and then spend hours afterwards, talking and laughing. In time it was almost as it had been before. Almost.

Things had changed between them and Morrigan could not pretend otherwise. It was as though all that resentment and doubt was a black cloud hovering just outside, pushing at the door, looking for any crack it could use to seep back in. And then one night Cullen opened the door and the black cloud rushed in, engulfing them both.

She was lying in his arms, content and happy, when he suddenly announced, "I'm getting married, Morrigan."

She went very still, a coldness washing over her. "Is this your idea of vengeance?" she asked calmly.

"Of course not," he replied, genuinely shocked. "Why would you say such a thing?"

Morrigan sat up and looked down at him. "What else am I to think, Cullen?"

"That I want children," he said. "Legitimate children to bear my name. The men I lead, every day I watch them teach their sons to shoot a bow or wield a sword. I want to hold a child of mine in my arms, Morrigan. Emer can give me that. She's a good woman."

"Then I wish you the best," Morrigan said harshly and pushed away from him.

Cullen grabbed her wrist. "She's a good woman, but she isn't you. No one will ever replace you in my heart, Morrigan. This doesn't touch what we have, were those not your words?"

"That was different," she snapped, jerking her hand from his grasp.

"How is this any different than you lying with Dagda?" he demanded. "It is a means to an end, is it not?"

"The difference is that I do not willingly choose to be with him. You have a choice." She laughed harshly as she slid her cloak on. "Think what you like of me, Cullen, but you, with your wife and your string of harlots, have betrayed me far worse than I ever did you." She turned and looked down at him with cold disdain. "Goodbye, Cullen, you will not see me again until it is time for you to fulfil your end of our bargain."

Before he could reply Morrigan was back in Faerie, as far away from him as she could get. And even there she could hear him calling her name. Furious, she stomped through her castle, breaking anything that had the misfortune of being near to hand. When the novelty of that wore off she became tempted to cross the Veil again. A good war would be a perfect outlet for her anger. Queen Medb of Connacht was always good for a slaughter or two.

Morrigan sighed and sank down at the foot of the grand staircase. It was her own fault for believing in him. Was anything he'd ever said to her true? Or was it simply a means to an end, as he'd put it? Keep the G.o.ddess happy and she'll give you anything you want.

Morrigan put her head in her hands. Getting involved with a human had been a grave mistake. It wasn't jealousy she felt for his future bride, or for any of the women he'd lain with. She was a G.o.ddess and no mortal female would ever threaten her vanity. No, what she felt was a deep sense of resentment that, by the very fact that they walked with him in the human world, they would always have a piece of him that she could not touch. That was the price the G.o.ds paid for dallying with mortals.

But he would not be mortal forever. He would still be with her when these humans were nothing more than dust and bone. She should swallow her pride and forgive him. She could afford to be magnanimous.

Morrigan, however, was a war G.o.ddess and a generous nature had never been one of her virtues.

Nine.

Over the following years Morrigan became quite adept at avoiding Cullen. He still called to her on occasion but she resolutely ignored his summons. When he had need of her blood she would enter the castle disguised as a servant and slip it into his goblet, leaving quickly before she succ.u.mbed to the urge to eviscerate Emer on sight. Indeed, Morrigan had not set eyes on Cullen in years, not until the night she discovered that Queen Medb had convinced the sons of Calatin dark mages the lot of them to forge a mystical spear capable of killing Cuchulainn. He could not ride against Medb's army, for Morrigan wasn't certain she had the power to save him from such a weapon.

She found him alone in the stables, preparing his chariot for the coming battle. The sight of him made her steps falter and her heart race. His body, once lean and rangy, had filled out into a solidly muscled frame her fingers itched to touch. The boyish beauty of his face now held a rugged masculinity that was breathtaking to behold. If she could have created the perfect man, she could not have done better than the one standing before her.

Walk away, her conscience told her. Find another warrior, for this one will only bring you pain.

She could release him from their bargain. She could choose another to lead her army, someone for whom she had no tender feelings. She could do things differently the next time. She could . . . not. He was hers and she would never let him go.

"Cullen," she said softly.

He was crouched down, one hand braced on the wheel of his chariot, inspecting the axle. She saw his body stiffen and his knuckles turn white. Slowly he stood and, almost reluctantly, he turned his gaze to her. She walked forwards, watching him watch her. She could see the desire in his eyes and for a moment she could not remember what could have been important enough to drive them apart.

He had a bit of straw in his hair and she reached up to pull it free. Before she could touch him, his hand clamped around her wrist and his expression grew cold and hard. She sighed. That she remembered all too well.

"Why are you here, Morrigan?" he demanded.

"It is time," she replied simply.

"Time for what?"

"For you to fulfil your end of our bargain."

He stared at her blankly for a moment, not comprehending her words. And then a look of understanding crossed his face, followed closely by fear and anger.

"How dare you?" he railed. "How dared you abandon me and then come here and tell me this? You promised-"

"I promised to make you into the greatest warrior not only of your time but of any time. And in return you promised yourself to me at the end of your life. You never asked when the end would come, Cullen."

"That is unfair, Morrigan," he accused. "How could I have expected it would be when I was merely thirty-five?"

She looked closely at him. "Thirty-five? Truly? You look so much younger."

It must be the immortal blood in his veins, she thought. Interesting.

"What has that to do with anything?" he snapped, dragging her thoughts back to the issue at hand.

"It has everything to do with everything," Morrigan replied. "I need a warrior in his prime, Cullen. If you were to live to be a wizened old man, you would be of no use to me. I do not have the power to turn back time."

"I would be young again when I enter the Summerlands," he pointed out.

"Yes, but once you are there I can never bring you back to the human world. I must take you quickly between your death and the afterlife, Cullen. I must turn you into something dead but living, something more than human but not yet a G.o.d, something that will confuse the magic that pulls a soul into the Summerlands. It is the only way for you to remain here."

He scowled at her. "You would make me a monster."

"No, Cullen. I will make you into something glorious," Morrigan said vehemently. "I will give you a portion of my G.o.dhood, a small bit of my power. I will make you young and strong and beautiful forever, just as I promised. But it must happen soon. I did not mean to spring this on you so suddenly, Cullen. When I saw you . . . well, the years sometimes pa.s.s more quickly than I expect them to. I will give you time to say your goodbyes and get your affairs in order, but you must fulfil your promise by Samhain."

He looked at her and Morrigan could hardly bear the resentment shining in his eyes. This was not how she had imagined it all those years ago. She had been so certain that, when the time came, he would love her enough to come with her willingly.

"You said you did not come here to take me. Then why are you here?" he asked.

"I came to warn you not to ride out against Medb's army tomorrow. The sons of Calatin, whom you slayed, have finally sought their vengeance. They have used the darkest of magics to forge an enchanted spear. If you are pierced by it, it will kill you, Cullen. I will gladly grant you more time, but I cannot save you if you go into battle tomorrow."

He threw back his head and laughed. "I am Cuchulainn. I do not need a woman to save me."

Morrigan narrowed her eyes. "You arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You are only alive because I wish it! If it weren't for me you would be nothing more than a common soldier. I made you everything you are and I can take it away just as easily."

"Then do your worst, Morrigan," he said fiercely, "for I will not run from this battle or any other."

Morrigan sighed. She had set out to create a great warrior and she had succeeded. Unfortunately, he also had the ego of one. Well, on the morrow he would learn not to believe all the stories the bards told of him. He was not immortal. Yet.

Ten.

The following morning, Emer and indeed every man, woman, and child Cullen encountered on his way from his chamber to the stables begged him not to ride against Queen Medb's army. Obviously Morrigan had been whispering portents of doom in their ears as they slept. His irritation turned to fury when his horse, his faithful Liath who had pulled his chariot in countless battles, would not allow Cullen to harness him.

"d.a.m.n her," Cullen cursed. "Is not even a man's horse sacred?"

He was in a fine rage by the time he finally got Liath harnessed and drove out to join Conchobar's army. That is, until he reached the river. What he saw there tempered his anger with fear. It was a sight every warrior dreaded the Washer at the Ford. The old woman was said to appear to soldiers who were meant to die in battle. The doomed would see her washing their armour in the river . . . and today she was washing his.

"I know I told you to do your worst, Morrigan," Cullen called out. "But this is simply petty. It's worse than causing Emer to be barren."

The crone transformed herself into the beautiful G.o.ddess he knew. "I did nothing of the sort," she a.s.sured him. "Not that I couldn't, but I didn't. And I am not being petty. I am the Washer at the Ford. This is my duty as a death deity."

Cullen snorted in disbelief and drove his chariot through the shallow water to the opposite sh.o.r.e, never looking back.

Morrigan had to admit to herself that she was being a little petty. Perhaps she had gone too far, but the man needed a lesson in humility before she made him immortal. But she didn't realize it would be so hard for her to watch. Taking the form of a raven Morrigan circled the battlefield, flying high over Medb and Conchobar's armies. She was a war G.o.ddess and normally she enjoyed watching two worthy hosts clash on the field of honour. This once, though, she took no joy in it, for today she would have to see Cullen die.

She spied him, driving his chariot deep into the heart of Medb's army. The first spear flew through the air and its aim was true; it would strike him. Before she realized what she was doing, Morrigan reacted on instinct, using her power to shift the trajectory of the spear away from Cullen. Instead of hitting him, it pierced Liath's chest, causing the big horse to stumble and fall.

"Oh d.a.m.n," Morrigan cursed, "Cullen loved that beast."

Above the din of the battle she could hear Cullen's roar of outrage. It was followed swiftly by a cry of pain as the second spear pierced his side. Morrigan had been a death deity through time immemorial but letting that spear hit its mark was the hardest thing she had ever done. She watched helplessly as Cullen drew the weapon from his body and fell from the chariot.

An eerie silence descended over the battlefield as both armies watched the great warrior struggle to his feet. With one hand over his wound Cullen stumbled forwards, cutting one of the reins from the harness of his dying horse. The soldiers watched as he slowly and painfully made his way to the edge of the field. Once there he fell against a standing stone, blood pouring from his side to pool at his feet. With single-minded determination he took the rein and lashed himself to the stone.

"I am Cuchulainn," he shouted, "and I will not die on the ground. I will take my last breath standing, as a warrior should."

A cheer of pride went up from Conchobar's men but they could not reach Cullen, trapped as they were on the other side of Medb's army. Morrigan flew down, landing lightly on his shoulder. She rested her raven's head on his cheek to let him know she was there.

"I'm an arrogant a.s.s," he whispered, the pain now slurring his words. "But I am now yours, if you'll still have me."