It was cold in the man-place, the city. As usual, the humans holed up within their wooden prisons, refusing to admit the glory that came with the night. They would never stalk prey in total darkness, nor gallop through the woods. Their loss.
He would never gallop through those woods, the Laiodheach reminded himself. He was not Alsandair, not the cat. It simply didn't make sense, he told himself. How could a cat end up in a man's body? He would have asked the black one, but the black one was gone, and anyways, the black one had tried to kill him.
He sighed irritably. The nights were always the worst. The cat came out then, and his thoughts were often the thoughts of Alsandair. They were so often inappropriate for an elder of his age. If it ever came out that he was not only mad, but heard voices in his head...
They were not voices really, but memories and ways of thinking. But then, how could a mere human know the difference? They were beings incapable of great thought, not like the fae nor himself and his siblings...Their blood was plain and diluted, with traces of magic showing up only occasionally.
The minstrel sighed again. Why would he continue to be plagued by such thoughts? It was unfair, that the fae-kin would punish him so? And what had he done to deserve it? In neither of his lives could he remember even meeting one of those proud beings; he surely could not have irritated them. They had, it seemed to him, made mischief simply for the sake of it.
That angered him, that they could-and would-meddle with his self. They would pay...they would burn...his sister would aid him in tearing them from limb to limb. They were the masters, not the fae, and the beings would learn that.
But at the same time, he quailed from the thought of their anger. Surely he dared not to offend such beings of great power. He had heard the songs. What could a mere, homeless minstrel do? And he was old, too. There would only be a couple more years for him to live. He had survived four decades with the intruder; he could survive a bit more.
The Laiodheach shook his head impatiently. Couldn't he even think about his plight without dual reactions? The cat was brave, young, and eager. He did not forgive. The man was wary, old, and exhausted, trembling at the might of the fae. It seemed that there was no way for him to bring peace to himself. Fear struck his heart, but at the same time, a bloodlust grew within him. Someone would pay for the sins done against him.
Who, he wondered not for the first time, had ordered the cat dead? And who had ordered the man dead? Did the dual even exist, or were they figments of his imagination? Had he been pursuing a delusion for half of his life.
Not half of his life, the cat replied. Alsandair had much longer to live. It was this weak body that would wear out, and with it, the man. But the cat would go on.
Too tired to pursue the mysteries of his existance, the old man found himself a bench. Cathair rested, rejoicing in the night and the peace it brought. But the cat was alert and wary. He knew that that predators, not peace, prowled during the night. And the woman sitting besides his body was one.
The Laiodheach turned bloodshot eyes to the woman curiously. She was a predator, he knew. But as to what kind, he couldn't guess, only that she would have been dangerous if she should so desire. The cat was surprised to find a kindred soul, but the minstrel was not. He had sung too many songs to not know what lurked in those cities.
