"This was my home, once," Guthund said quietly, coming to a stop just ahead of Oisín.

The man followed, and the view from atop the hill took his breath away. Below them stretched a city that rivaled any Oisín could even imagine. A cobbled wall, tall but thin stretched impossibly on and on as far as he could see in either direction. The houses—or so he presumed from that distance—were detailed and his vision swam with their bright colors and jagged lines. He had thought his own home big, a town of thousands of fae that clustered in packed streets anytime he and Fuiseog came down from the castle along the main road. The city Guthund now presented, Oisín guessed, would hold a thousand times that number.

Without any other words, the two of them descended the hill and made for the gates. The great limbering iron grate sat rusted in its frame and wide enough across that seventeen wagons wheel-to-wheel could have passed through with room to spare. The houses, now close enough to inspect, were indeed extravagantly detailed, and yet much smaller than he had thought. Oisín himself was an average-sized fae, but even he would have to duck considerably to enter any of them. The colors up close on each roof and hanging across the street on wires were a myriad rainbow of shades Oisín knew in his heart shouldn't exist. He was so enraptured, Guthund had to nip at his hand to keep him from trampling a citizen hopping across the path in front of them.

"Oops, hey. Sorry about that," Oisín said, taking a step back from the small rabbit now cleaning its ears and glaring up at him. It wore a small tan vest, a pen in the pocket, but no other ornaments.

"Whatever," the rabbit said shrugging, and hopped along on its way.

Though it would have shocked Oisín a day before, a rabbit—or any animal for that matter—wearing clothes and speaking was no longer an entirely foreign concept. It had begun with Guthund, the single wolfhound who remained to guide him out of Cernunnos's woods. Along the path, the dog had been silent except for an occasional growl and nudge when Oisín began to slow; however, when they'd at last cleared the last grove of trees and emerged into the sunshine along a dusty dirt trail leading into rolling hills, the dog's barks suddenly morphed into words. At him jumping back and looking startled, Guthund had only given his best wolfish grin and sighed in relief that the torc had begun to work its magic. The first stage, apparently, was rewiring his brain to understand animal speech.

There had been a couple farms along the trail tended by all manner of beasts, one of which they'd stopped at once the sun had set and bartered a meal off the farmer in exchange for waking at dawn to help haul in the first load of wheat. These were the lands of Beithe Bríd, Guthund had said, queen of healing and domesticated animals. When a pet died, whether bonded to human or fae, it ended up in her lands to live out the life they'd wished to have with their masters. For some that meant taking up the farm they had grown up on. For others, they lived in the city going about their business under Bríd's castle. For Guthund, he had been born in the city, a direct creation of the goddess eventually gifted to Cernunnos to help guide any souls that wanted to trek further into Tir na nÓg into her lands.

Oisín rubbed at his scalp absently. Since the previous night, he'd had an incurable itch. On examining his reflection upon waking, he saw two small bumps forming just above both of his temples. Antlers, most likely, as Guthund had said. One day of his thirteen gone, and he was already growing antlers. If nothing else, Oisín wished vainly he would still be attractive as he slowly transformed. And that the snout wasn't the very next thing.

Guthund led the way through the city, and Oisín quietly marveled at the menagerie of animals that surrounded them. Though the concept was no longer so shocking, he was still amazed by the variety of pets people had kept in their lives. There were dogs, cats, rabbits, things he would easily imagine. But when a great beast lumbered past, several times his height and mottled in shades of yellow and brown, he wondered where such a thing even came from. Then again, he thought, Queen Fódla had been fond of keeping badgers. One in particular, an older one with a star-shaped patch of gray fur on its hindquarters, had been the messenger sent to bring Fuiseog to the fae realm.

"Guthund, do some people already understand animal-speech?" he asked suddenly.

"Of course, but it's not as common outside of the fae nobility. It does happen though. Why?"

"My spouse, Fuiseog, was born human but I have the suspicion now he could understand animals. He kept one particular badger close, like a confidante, though I only ever heard it squeak now and again."

"Oh, old Graystar? Yes, I imagine your suspicion is well-founded, Oisín. Queen Fódla never does seem to tire of talking about that little one. She probably passed the gift to her son."

Oisín nodded, but stayed silent, and they continued on. Though impossibly large, the city did begin to slant upwards gradually towards the castle. At one point they passed a market, and Guthund stopped at a couple stalls to make small talk. Oisín as well wandered briefly, stopping at store fronts that piqued his interest: A long thin building completely filled with hundreds of bees the size of kittens, all talking over each other as they flew from honey comb to honey comb with jars to collect the excess; a racoon who kept licking their lips nervously as they showed off silver watches clearly painted gold; a hedgehog with thick glasses quietly sewing an extraordinarily long dress train surrounded by similar garments in that same impossible rainbow. The whole while, Oisín kept Guthund in his sight and followed along so as not to lose him.

Eventually, they passed out of the other side of the square and found themselves on the doorstep of the castle. Much as the city's, the iron gates were already up, unmanned, and nearly rusted beyond use. Guthund padded his way in without another thought. Oisín scratched his scalp again, and suddenly felt a wetness growing where he touched. He pulled his hand back, and there was blood streaked on his fingers and under his nails. He tsked to himself, wiping what he could on his undershirt, though he felt a small hot bead running down the side of his head. The wolfhound looked back at him, and chuckled.

"Glacann d’ainm brí." Your name takes on meaning.

Oisín rolled his eyes. Fuiseog would have maybe found the irony funny, but he wasn't here. Oisín crossed his arms and hoped Beithe Bríd wasn't a snob about the appearance of her guests. Or, she had a change of wardrobe for him. He still wore the same tunic and trousers he'd died in and carried his armor in a backpack at Guthund's insistence. Showing up ready for battle was bad manners, at least in Beithe Bríd's particular part of the afterlife. A shadow caught his attention, and he found that a hare dressed in a page's livery had materialized in front of them. It bowed.

"Your presence is honored and requested, Lord Oisín. Come."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The hare reached out a paw which Guthund placed his on top of and motioned for Oisín to do the same. As soon as his fingers brushed fur, they were gone from the castle courtyard. He found himself on one knee in a throne room lilting with song. A hundred birds fluttered between marble beams, singing a song that soothed the trouble in his heart. The tiles beneath him were checkered in gold and the same bright marble and led in a haphazard pattern towards a dais on which rested Beithe Bríd. She sat lounging on a large pile of pillows and blankets, resplendent in a long primrose dress ornamented with small clear quartz beads.

When she shifted to sit up straighter, the dress rippled and whispered in a way that was exactly a summer breeze. For a second, Oisín was whisked back in his mind to a particular day a few years prior, before Queen Fódla's passing, when he and Fuiseog had snuck out of the castle. They'd hiked through the foothills surrounding the town and stopped in the shade of an old oak to eat. Though the air had been heavy and hot, Fuiseog had simply intertwined his fingers with Oisín's and traced a small circle over and over on the back of his hand. Then, a light wind began to blow around them, light enough to cool them but not rob them of the sun's heat entirely. Oisín had then opened the basket he carried, handing Fuiseog a small pastry he'd swiped from the kitchen. Fuiseog took one bite, smiled, and pressed himself to Oisín...

"Remarkable."

Beithe Bríd's soft voice broke him from his spell, and he felt tears joining the blood to stain his face. The taste of the pastry, muddled on Fuiseog's mouth, was still fresh on his lips. A great shiver of longing ran through the core of his being. The goddess smiled.

"You are healed, kin of Fódla, though you did not know you were broken."

"Healed?" he asked hoarsely, finding himself weak suddenly.

"Death robs mortals of their stronger emotions. But it is those emotions you will need on your quest."

"You know of me, my lady?"

"I have seen your kind pass this way before. And like them before, I will give you what I can to help. Be warned, for many of the other Tuath Dé are not so...kind. There are rules, you see. Your people are known for their cleverness, but the gods are infinitely more so."

Oisín made to ask about the rules, but the goddess shushed him.

"Answers will come in time, dear Oisín. Each of the gods will have their tasks for you. You would be wise to heed them. Each is a treasured gift, if you will. And mine is patience." She gestured to the same hare that had summoned them to the audience chamber. "Gasta will show you to a room where you may refresh yourself and your garb. We will sit for a late lunch, and then I will hold you no longer."

It was only then Oisín felt the deep hunger in his stomach. He had never known how hungry death could make a person. Gasta hopped past him with a nod, and he followed after bowing to the goddess. The hare led him through an ornate doorway he noted quickly was decorated with carved figures of leaping stags. Dejectedly, he rubbed at his own nubs of antlers. I wish my antlers would just grow out already. At least I might look dignified then. The hallway too was decorated with the carvings, and thin but vibrant vines framed the windows. Gasta did stop eventually, though Oisín had not been paying close enough attention to count doors.

"Your suite, sir. Wash up, and I'll have a change of clothes ready for you."

Inside, there was a large tub set into the floor, looking as if it were carved from a single massive slab of granite and polished to an unnatural sheen. Along the edge, there was a jar of soap root and a cotton towel interwoven with golden swirls of stitching. The tub was already full and having stripped off his worn and slightly bloody clothes, Oisín discovered the water was still warm. He stepped in slowly, letting a deep sigh escape. Regardless, he wasted no time lathering the soap and scrubbing around his antlers and his face. The water swirled with muddy red as he rinsed. When he felt clean, he pulled himself back out and dried. As promised, a small vanity had appeared on one side of the room with a neat pile of folded garments on top; though, annoyingly, he found his own clothes and backpack gone. He considered his reflection. Nothing about him screamed that he was dead. There was still the same spark in his eyes, his skin hadn't paled any, even the wound from where he'd been stabbed was gone. All that was changed were the antlers now sprouting from his temples. Though, he admitted to himself, they had grown considerably even since leaving the bath. The velvety bone had begun to branch out like those of the carved stags. There's one good thing, at least. He unfolded the clothes and found a similar tunic and trousers to the ones he'd shed, albeit fancier. Underneath was a modified set of mithril chainmail, more similar to that worn by Fuiseog than Oisín's own plate armor. It fit him perfectly though, and with matching leather boots, he almost felt complete. All that was missing were his sicas and Fuiseog.

Gasta still waited outside the door, and at Oisín's nod of approval, they were off. The audience chamber had been transformed in his short absence. The long floor was now lined with tables of light fare: berries still glistening with dew; glass pitchers of water already forming condensation from the afternoon heat; small crustless cucumber sandwiches. One low table spanned the whole center of the room, lined by animals sitting on cushions conversing quietly, and headed by the goddess herself picking at a plate with her fingers. She caught Oisín's eye and waved him over. She motioned to the cushion beside her.

"Take your place, lord, and dine. Gasta," she smiled at the hare, "Be merry and rest. Your duty is fulfilled."

Without another word, the hare was off and joined his friends near the far end of the table. Oisín sat on his cushion and sighed. A plate was set before him, covered in exactly what he would have grabbed from the buffet. He ate, but his focus was far away. It would be a long journey still to reach Aengus, and he dreaded how long it would take to convince the god of love to take pity on him. He wondered what these tasks Beithe Bríd spoke of from the other gods would be.

"You still doubt," the goddess said softly.

"Yes, my lady. Did the others before me even reach Aengus before their time expired?"

"Some," she said, "Some not. Some discovered along the way they no longer desired to return to the living world. I warn you of the other gods, but it's never them to worry over. Many will not hinder you any more than I have. It is Aengus you should cast your mind to, how best to convince him."

"Has anyone succeeded?"

"No."

That single word sent a spike of anxiety through Oisín's chest. No one?

"As I said," Beithe Bríd continued, "Many lost their purpose along the way. Your resolve to return to your liege must be steadfast, and the love in your heart stronger." She smiled at him. "I think you'll be fine, personally. I have eyes through all the pets of the world, and Graystar has seen your undying love for Fuiseog. It is admirable, and rare."

"Thank you, my lady. I will take your confidence as the second lesson."

At that Beithe Bríd laughed, a sound that filled the room and brought an unbidden smile to every animal's face as well as Oisín's. She didn't say anything else, but Oisín knew he'd said the right thing. He continued to eat, licking the juice from his fingers as he bit into plump apricots and spreading lingonberry preserve on a thick crust of bread. When he was full, and the goddess had finished her plate, he rose from his cushion. She raised a single hand, and the whole of the chamber abruptly went silent. She rose as well and embraced Oisín.

"Good luck, kin of Fódla. I have one final gift before you depart."

She waved her hand once more. Guthund and a black cat with a crooked tail and dressed in a decidedly-human hooded cloak of sorts strode forward. Oisín knew, without having to ask, that this was the last time he would probably see the dog.

"Guthund, as was his purpose, led you to me, but he cannot traverse past my lands. You would normally be on your own, but there is another who seeks Aengus. This is Nico, who left his human rather abruptly not long ago. He's...not exactly on the same quest as you, but he does journey to Aengus. This is my final gift, so that neither of you journey alone into the dark."

Oisín bowed. "Thank you, my lady. I promise I will watch his back as thoroughly as he would mine."

The cat grinned. "That I will. Yes, siree."

The goddess bid them farewell, and with a touch they were at the gates on the other side of the city. Oisín sighed, gave a weak smile to Nico, and started the next leg of his journey.