Connor KilCormac staggered blindly through the thick tangle of vines under the canopy of trees as darkness fell and his life leaked out of him in great, red drops. The clash of iron rang in his ears and the stench of death was strong in his nostrils. His blood-matted hair hung in his blue eyes and his breath blasted from his open mouth in clouds of steam. Connor's strong right arm hacked at the vines and bramble with a bent and battered sword. His left hand was clamped against his throat and thick rivers of blood seeped out between his long fingers. From time to time the arrow that jutted from his broad chest would catch in the vines and send new shocks of pain through him.
At the base of a scorched and crooked tree, Connor stopped to listen for sounds of pursuit. He heard none, nor had he expected any. He could still see the laughing face of the Roman Centurion. He could still hear the jeers of the Legion as they parted to let him pass.
The Romans had begun to press deeper and deeper into the Emerald Isle on their frequent raids. Connor had rallied his kinsmen and the warriors of several neighboring clans to meet the legion's advance at Killaloe. They had been stunned by the number of Romans in their leather armor and confused by their military maneuvers. Still, the fur clad Celts had fallen on the Legion with screams to wake the dead.
Despite the hopeless odds, the battle had raged from dawn until the blood red sun began to sink behind the hills of Clare. Connor had been slashed with a hundred cuts and his neck laid open by the lunge of a Roman piker. Still he would not fall. With one hand stanching the flow of blood from his throat, Connor had fought on until the Roman corpses around him were piled up to his knees. Near blinded by blood and smoke, Connor slashed at anything that came near.
Soon the sounds of battle fell still around him and nothing seemed to move. Connor risked a moment to wipe the blood from his eyes with his sword arm and saw that he was alone. There was not another Celt standing. The Romans encircled him at a safe distance and dozens trained arrows on him. Connor saw the dead faces of his brothers and cousins staring blankly skyward into the lightly falling snow. His great heart broke.
"Bastards! Will no one fight me?" he cried.
The Romans made no move.
"Cowards! Will no one send me to my kinsmen in honorable death?"
Still no move from the circle of iron that surrounded him. Connor began to hack at the pile of bodies around him.
"Do the best of you lie before me? Are the rest only fit for the sack of helpless villages and the rape of little boys?"
An arrow flew from the circle and buried itself in Connor's chest, but the huge Irishman did not fall. Several others began to draw back their bowstrings when a voice called out "Cease Firing!"
A tall Centurion stepped to the front of the circle and ordered the Legion to withdraw. The soldiers began to move away. Tears mingled with the blood on Connor's face.
"Will no one face me? Will no one grant me death?"
"Creature," laughed the Centurion, "You are already dead." And then they were gone.
The snow was swirling around him now, as Connor pushed away from the gnarled tree. He plodded forward, no destination in mind, knowing only that if he stopped he would die. Darkness, blood and snow so clouded his eyes that he walked blindly. His exhaustion was complete. His mind cried out for him to stop, to rest, to sleep. But Connor knew that if he slept he would never wake. And then he saw the fire.
At first it seemed a firefly, dancing amid the snowflakes. As he drew closer he saw that it was a bonfire roaring before a tiny cottage. Embers flew upward and mingled with the snowfall, filling the sky with sparkle. He could hear it hiss and pop. He reached the clearing where the cottage stood and staggered into the open. A last clever vine tripped him and he fell forward, driving the arrow deeper into his chest. With the last of his strength he lifted his face to the fire and he saw the woman. Dancing.
She was a slender woman, past the age of youth, but firm of leg and bosom, and though she was naked, she did not seem to feel the cold. Her skin was as white as the swirling snow and the gleam of her perspiration made her seem to glow in the firelight. Connor could see her bright blue eyes flashing. Her full red lips were drawn into a smile of exertion and abandon. As she capered around the flames she tossed and whipped her long, red hair around her. Her full, firm breasts jutted out and up as she sucked life into her lungs. A thick thatch of red curls nestled between her muscled thighs and drops of sweat and snow glistened in it like diamonds in red satin.
Connor opened his mouth to call out to her, but no sound came forth. Still, she turned and looked. She seemed un-surprised to see him. She walked to him, making no attempt to cover her nakedness. When she reached him she squatted before him, her legs apart, her elbows on her knees. She studied him, tilting her head from side to side like a curious pup. With one graceful hand she smoothed his matted hair away from his face.
"Are you the one?" she asked.
Her voice was like music. Connor remembered the legends the longboatmen had told, of the Choosers of the Slain, the warrior women who took the valiant to their rest. "Yes," he said, and then all was blackness.
Although Connor was twice her size, she lifted him into her arms and carried him into the cottage. The fire in the clearing faded to embers as she passed. Once inside, she stripped him of his blood-soaked clothes and laid him on a straw mat in front of the hearth. She extended the smallest finger of her left hand and touched the log inside. In seconds, there was a roaring fire. She turned to Connor and with a firm but gentle pull, tore the arrow from his broad chest. Then, starting at his head, glided her hands over every inch of his skin, taking stock of each of his injuries. As her fingers touched each one a tight grimace would tug at her face, as if she was feeling each little hurt. Her parted lips let out a gasp as she brushed his manhood. Though soft in sleep, it lay well across his thigh, and his balls, the size of duck eggs, slung low between his long legs.
Connor was a giant of a man, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. His arms were heavy and deeply corded from years of swinging sword and axe. His stomach was flat and hard as the earth and his taut buttocks rested above iron-hard legs.
The woman touched each part of him, and a sad smile of longing came across her lovely face. Her breath came in soft gasps, and her large nipples burned red as spring—ripe rosebuds. Her delicate hands cupped her bare breasts and her eyes closed. She seemed to draw her thoughts down into her heart and she squeezed her breasts together as if to hold them in. Then she set to work.
She took a jar of thick, pungent oil from the mantle and set it by the fire to warm. The water in the kettle was steaming now and she wet a cloth and cleaned the blood and grime from Connor's body. His breath barely caused his chest to rise and his skin had the pallor of death. He flinched not once as the hot water touched him, and steam rose from his body as from a quenched fire.
When he was clean, the woman took the jar of oil from the fire. She took two fingers of her right hand and dipped them into the oil. With her oily fingers she traced an arcane symbol on her forehead, speaking softly in a tongue unknown to men. She then moved her hand to her chest and traced another symbol above her heart. Then her fingers moved down her belly to the soft cleft between her legs. She slid her two oiled fingers between the soft folds of her sex and began to rock to and fro.
After a few moments, she withdrew her slick fingers and began to rub the blend of oil and woman's juices into each of Connor's wounds. The wounds were many, and she worked with care. Once she had anointed each of his wounds she poured oil into her hand and began to smear it across her breasts and belly. When her body was wet and glistening she threw herself on Connor, gripping his hair tightly in both hands. She pressed her mouth to his and breathed into him. Her hips rose and fell as she rubbed her oiled pelvis into his groin. And, though his member was still soft in his unconsciousness, she took care that he did not enter her. Connor's body began to twitch and buck. His fingers clawed into the straw mat and every muscle of his hard body tightened. His breath came in deep gasps and his skin began to glow like the lights of the northern skies. Then the woman reared up, clamped her thighs tight, raised her hands to the heavens and let out a long wail. It seemed to pour out from her soul, and pull the last of the strength from her body. She fell beside Connor and slept, a smile of contented exhaustion on her lips.
The morning sun found a thick blanket of snow covering the land. The woman of the cottage was up and at her work. A pot of thin broth was steaming in the cauldron above the fire. A fresh baked loaf was cooling on the sill. Connor slept.
The woman was dressed in a skirt and vest of softest leather. She wore no blouse beneath the vest and her breasts bounced playfully, a nipple peeking out when she would lift her arm. Her feet were bare and her flaming hair was tied in a thick ponytail that hung to her tapered waist.
She gave the pot a last stir, then knelt beside her sleeping giant. She sighed as she looked at his beautiful, naked body. His tan skin was without mark. It showed no sign of the abuses it had suffered the day before. His thick, long neck was without scar and the broad table of his chest bore no hint of violation. She smiled at her handiwork.
