Eoin
In the water’s reflection, Eoin saw a young and virile king of Scotland staring back at him, even though he was centuries old, according to his rough calculations—and he certainly felt it. He never asked to be king, he never felt good enough, even though that was apparently his destiny from the very beginning.
Sometimes he felt, as he sat by his favorite waterfall in Caledonia, therefore, the most secluded place in the kingdom, that he was slowly losing himself—part of his soul that no one could see.
He leaned back, hoping to feel the cool, refreshing mist of the waterfall on his face, but it was just a foolish wish. He felt utterly lost and could not contemplate a way to feel otherwise.
Eoin buried his musings as he stripped down, running to jump off the nearest cliff by the waterfall. The earth crumbled under the balls of his feet as he dove without a second thought into the dark, torrent water below.
He allowed his body to sink as deep as it could go before swimming up for air. Through the distorted lines of the water, he saw someone waiting for him, not just anyone, but her. Even though his lungs burned in protest, begging to inhale, he was reluctant to surface. If only he had the ability to breathe underwater, becoming one of the mythical creatures that, as legend had it, existed in the Mealt Falls. But he could no longer avoid this conversation.
There was agony in almost feeling it—on the precipice of feeling, in which lay the acute pain and frustration. The land around him, the one he called home was perceived as dull and lifeless and it could no longer fulfill him.
“The court is in absolute chaos, as you well know.” She said ignoring his repeated pleas, unable to see his inner turmoil. “Nobody knows what to do with themselves, some have gone further on the fringes of our dimensions than even you! If we were to have a visitor—"
“It’s been years, no one is coming, you don’t have to worry about that.”
All he wanted to do was run away…run through the shaded glen, with bountiful woods described to perfection, yet without its vibrant color he knew to exist. He would attempt risky jumps and climbs that in any other world would be fatal. Just as he did today, and every day before her intrusion. Instead, he got up from the bank of the loch to find anything to busy himself with, anything to give her the polite hint to leave.
She got up as well, not taking the unmistakable hint. “Even though you don’t see yourself as the king, Eoin of Accolon, you’re still our leader. You were made to be one, and I know you’re finding it hard to ignore out here.” She walked alongside him, observing his makeshift camp.
He suddenly became self-conscious of what his new choice of home would reveal about himself and walked into the clearing with the view of the castle on the hill. A ray of sunshine, perfectly positioned to accentuate the dark stone of a foreboding Scottish fortress, indicated the lateness of the afternoon. Adalind followed just as he designed and placed a soft hand on his shoulder. He needed her to go back to that prison, that enclosure, that tomb.
“Just go home, Adalind, you belong there, not me. Come to think of it, I entrust you with any and all leadership responsibilities. I bequeath it all to you, as my lawfully written wife.” He dropped to his knee in the most dramatic fashion and took her hand. She yanked it out with a huff that amused him beyond words.
“Eoin, I cannot hold that position by myself! You know I can’t convince everyone to return when the time comes…”
That’s all it took, the very lie she came to believe, for him to lose every ounce of his composure. “We are in a book!”
He let the weight of it, the echo of his firm utterance sit there for her to comprehend. When tears began to brim at the edges of her eyes, he exhaled and whispered, “We’re a story, Adalind, that’s it, we’re characters someone created. We won’t have a visitor, a reader, any time soon. It’s not real…none of it is real.”
