It took far longer than it should have for Michaél, Ardgal and Dagda to be thrown into the Forgotten Cells. Their procession was halting, having to stop and hold back at the slightest sound. However those on guard were focused on what lay beyond the wall, not what was happening within and any others, Tadhg and Cormac included, were likely striving to get some much needed rest. So it was that their path was virtually deserted as they were shepherded deep down into the lowest echelons and chasmic underbelly of Dún na Rí’s vault.
Outside the council chambers three more of Farda’s betrayers had been lying in wait with vice clamps to prevent any Omen or claíomhs being drawn. Even still they had continued to press their blades against their skin all the while and Dagda rubbed his neck where blood flowed from several small but painful cuts. His hands were fastened rigidly behind his back and his mouth was latched in place, thankfully though they had relented from covering his eyes. Judging by the amount of levels they had descended down into in what seemed like a neverending trek to their cells, Dagda figured they must be near the bottom. He had never been down so far, in his younger years he, Tadhg and Cormac had often dared and teased each other about who would go the furthest, tales of Druaidíi which had lost themselves in its dreary depths never to see the light again were common for the younger gens and the smallest sound would send them running for their lives. Truly the cells had not actually been used in even the oldest Druaidíi’s memories.
When the first Druaidíi at the onset of the Great Flood had been compelled to move underground their population was substantial and order was rigorously imposed on its inhabitants. Even minor aggressions were said to earn one time in the vaults cells and to avert any accidents each cell was bound by ancient powerful magic that blocked any Omen, even if Dagda were not restrained he would be left with no access to his source. Of course he was not in any cell, he was in the Forgotten cells, where it was rumoured that once you were put in you were never brought out again, a sobering thought and one he wished he hadn’t recalled.
Once the noise of his captors faded back up from where they came and the last flickers of light had disappeared Dagda was plunged into a silent darkness, his breathing the only sound. Michaél and Ardgal had been brought down to this level too but that was as much as he knew of them. Dagda felt his way around the cell, from his estimation he made it about six by eight ft with no furnishings or amenities available. Dagda sat himself down by the corner, alone but for his thoughts, thoughts he’d rather not have had for company. Of all that had occurred in the past month, the Milesian-Partholón alliance, the death of King Breogan, even the invasion of Belvoir and defence of Dún na Rí, none had shaken him so much as this. Dagda knew and had heard the history well enough, after the Great Truce and Alliance, the last of the Druaidíi’s survivors on Aileann had been compelled into relocating to Dún na Rí to be with the rest of their kin. Some had been nomads surviving in what forests they could constantly moving from place to place, most though had came from Tearmann Thíos Thalamh, Farda’s home.
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They had come after the destruction of their home by a Partholón force which had laid siege to their forest at Groveall. A sensitive topic even today it was not spoken of, amongst the youngers which had all been born into Dún na Rí it was just another tragic example of their past. For the olders though, for them it was different, I did not see it, not fully.
But now he knew, those seemingly innocuous family rivalries, tensions, cutting remarks, it was there alright. From Dagda’s understanding it was Farda’s own recklessness that had caused the disaster and subsequent discovery and destruction of his city. Plainly, to him and his followers there was evidently a far different understanding of the event.
Admittedly it would have been a drastic change for those at Tearmann, though Druaidíi had always maintained a High Lord, historically each vault had its own leader. The High Lord rarely imposed their will on the other vault’s affairs lest on matters of great importance and the vault leaders were generally left to their own devices. Farda clearly resented the loss of such power.
Yet that had all happened over 280 years ago, sure some arguments broke out now and again, especially after drink but Dagda couldn’t remember Farda having ever showing signs which could have signalled such a betrayal. Indeed Farda had been a prominent member amongst the Druaidíi and was present for all of the major decisions taken within the last century or so. And now at the hour of their greatest need he had chosen this, to sacrifice Ardgal and probably Michaél and Dagda too just to curry favour with the Milesians. Something had changed in him, something has pushed him to this madness, something or someone.
How could none of us have seen it coming. Is it a testament to the conniving, scheming nature of Farda that we didn’t see…. or it is a reflection on us.
Farda had control over the guard line up and had seemingly bought or cajoled enough to allow him implement his plans. Dagda cursed himself and cursed Ardgal and Michaél, too. They should have known better, they should have seen it coming. Dagda vowed right there and then that if he survived to never trust those around him. No matter how close or secure one might be, betrayal is just an opportunity away and all it takes is one slip, one sign of weakness and you are exposed. Farda’s betrayal began with trust, mine will not come so easily.