Long, long ago in Lough Arrow in County Sligo

Brigid pulled at the sweat-soaked furs, sticky layers of thick hide she had gratefully piled on that morning. They had kept her warm as the wind whipped around her, her frozen knuckles burrowed deep in the furs as she trekked across the frozen Irish countryside. But that was before Brigid knew the heat of battle. Even now, as she snaked closer, weaving through the trees, she could feel the wet heat radiating from the men, the clangs of their swords vibrating through her as she peered at each face—looking for only one.

She might have known nothing of battle, but Brigid knew one infallible truth—that her people would not survive a third. Even now, as she watched the Fomóire, the giant beasts, come against her people, the Tuatha Dé Danann, she could see the exhaustion on each man's face—bone-deep weariness that she longed to heal. A violent scar ran the length of the man's cheek nearest her, from the edge of his hair to the point of his chin, angry and gnarled—just as they all were.

She could, of course—with just a touch.

The icy wind whipped through her hair, tearing her red curls from the hood she had fashioned—a sign—and as clear a one as she was likely to get. Her purpose was not to heal; if she began, she would see herself snuffed out before she could make a genuine difference.

"Thank you, Mother," she whispered, reverent words torn from her parched lips, slipping deeper into the trees. Morrigan was a complicated and unnervingly powerful woman, and it did not shock Brigid in the least that she was keeping a close eye on her daughter, even though her father had roused her from her warm bed and sent her on this fool's errand.

It had been dark as pitch when Dagda had pounded at her door, her eyes open even before the first heavy fistfall. Tuireann had groaned, pulling her closer, and even then, she had longed only to sink into his embrace as if it might be her last—but she had pushed the hides away and risen to hear the words she had already feared were coming.

"Brigid, it's time," he had said, a weathered hand on her shoulder.

And so, she had kissed her man and her babies, piled on as many furs as she dared to rob them of, and the moment the horizon had turned a dusky rose, she had stepped out into the harsh winter morning. The day grew long, and her feet grew tired, but still, Brigid pushed herself, knowing that if she failed to find Bres and end this, her people were doomed—her people, her children, her man—even herself, a child of the Gods, daughter of the one true king of the Tuatha Dé Danann, daughter of the Morrigan.