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The Heartseller (Original story, published 2020)

Hey! Here's my original story that was published in 2020. It's heavily based on Irish fae stories and I have actually posted it here before, but it was about three-four years ago, and since my following has grown I thought I might as well post it again! It's aged, but, it'll always be special for being the first original story that ever got properly recognized

CW: Death of a child, grief, spousal and implied parental abuse

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Three-hundred men died tonight.

Hurry now, you know how it goes. Douse your fires, snuff your candles, dim your lanterns.

Three-hundred men have died, the Heartseller will be over the hill.

The Heartseller will be over the hill.

---

Róisín Ó Ceallaigh’s brother had died first. The only son of her bloodline and younger than her by ten years. He was a boy too brave to live long. Róisín had never believed in the stories, so she went and bought the brightest lantern she could find and hung it high above her door.

Shannon Mac Gabhann’s husband was next. Men who batter their wives are always terrible with swords. Cowards they all are, and I have long seen my share of cowards. Her candles remained lit as a wish.

Eithne de Paor’s son had lived for hours. His brothers took him to their mother who held his hand and stroked his hair and sang to him until he slept. Of her twelve other sons, none would put out the lantern for her. She sat before her fire, tending to it, dozing in her chair. Waiting.

---

I went to Róisín first.

She was sleeping when I found her. I remember thinking how peaceful she looked, for a woman who just lost her only brother, and how peaceful she looked for Róisín Ó Ceallaigh.

Róisín was a large woman, her skin tanned and freckled from work in the woods, hands calloused from lumber. She wore wild sturdy curls that formed a mane around her face. A face you look at not because it is beautiful, but because it demands it.

I waited, it would not take long.

Róisín Ó Ceallaigh woke, when she saw me, she sat up in bed. She crossed her lumberwoman’s arms over her chest and said, “You’re real then?”

“Yes, Róisín Ó Ceallaigh.”

She raised one red eyebrow. “You know me?”

“I know you. I wouldn’t come if I didn’t know you.”

She smiled with one corner of her mouth, looking out her bedroom window into the glow of the lantern outside. “So, I should have put out the lantern.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

Róisín said nothing.

“Heartseller,” she said. Testing my title. “Heartseller. How do you go about it? The stories never make it that far.”

“You give it to me.”

“Give it?”

“Not for nothing,” I said. “You sell it.”

“But you’re the Heartseller.”

“It is not a title I chose,” I said. “We never choose our titles.”

She furrowed her brows as I said it. She ran a hand up her shirt, pressing down on the skin in the center of her chest. Feeling her heart beat below her fingertips.

“What will you give me?”

“Anything.”

She glared at me. Her eyes were green as emeralds and sharp as knives. “I know your kind,” she said. “It is not anything.”

“It is.”

I did know Róisín Ó Ceallaigh. I knew she was the oldest of eight children. I knew she had six sisters that were all cast aside by their father in favor of their brother. The youngest of them, who had killed their mother on her birthing bed.

I knew Róisín Ó Ceallaigh had built the very house I entered. I knew there were still splinters lodged in her calloused palms, that she felt nothing in her fingertips and had a nail on her left thumb that had gone black and fallen off. I knew somewhere in this house two of her sisters slept, and they had fled with her instead of living under her hellish father’s thumb. Who slept now, sonless, in the castle on the hill that looms above the village.

“Then you know,” she said. “You know me.”

“Róisín Ó Ceallaigh,” I said. “When the sun rises, you will have everything your brother had. Your father’s castle will be yours, everyone in this village will be your people. Your sisters will live lives in silk, and your birthright will be yours. Firstborn.”

Róisín removed her hand from her shirt. She let her hands fall onto the bedding beside her and gripped the blankets. She held her head high.

“So be it, Heartseller.”

Róisín Ó Ceallaigh’s heart was red. It glowed and pulsed like an ember, so full of life. It would stand proud amongst the others, it would be one that never faded. It would outlive the sun.

---

Shannon Mac Gabhann was awake.

She sat by the window and watched the night pass. Beside her sat a little red candle, dripping wax onto the windowsill. In the light, Shannon looked as if she was fading. Shannon was already a ghost.

She saw me coming up her entryway path, she took her little candle, and opened the door. The wax from the candle melted and pooled on the flesh of her hands. She did not flinch.

“Shannon Mac Gabhann,” I said.

She moved from the doorway, standing to the side, and gesturing for me to come in.

Shannon did not build her house, and neither did her husband. Her house was one of the oldest and largest in the village, her husband’s grandfather had built it. It was full of trophies. The house was her husband’s grandfather’s, the animal skins covering the floors and the horns adorning the walls her husband’s fathers, and Shannon, her husband’s.

“I know your kind,” she said. The red candlewax now streamed down the back of her hand. Oozing through her fingers. Bright against her white skin. “Give me what I ask and nothing less.”

I bowed my head to her. She raised her chin and ran her free hand over her belly. “Of course,” I said. “I deal not in tricks.”

Shannon Mac Gabhann. I knew she used to be beautiful. The most beautiful woman for miles. Beautiful enough to attract others of my kind, and I knew then she was careful. Then she didn’t step into the circles of toadstools, then she left gifts by the window, and then she sprinkled salt by the door.

Now Shannon Mac Gabhann was small, despite her belly being round and full. Her hair had grown past her waist and was as yellow and firm as straw. Her eyes were clouded, and her arms pale as the moon, streaked with formless marks of blue.

“I want a husband,” Shannon said. Her voice was shaking, the words I want were foreign to her. “A good husband, you hear? A strong husband. A kind husband.” Her clouded eyes were now a deep blue, and they caught the light of the flame in a way that mimicked courage. “I want a husband who will love me.”

“Hush,” I said. I reached for her. I ran a strand of her ruined hair through my hand, where it became fine and soft once again. “I only ever give what you want.”

She looked up at me, and she smiled.

Shannon Mac Gabhann’s heart was white, with ribbons of blue moving on the surface, like worms, trying to dig in deeper. It likes to be held, so I hold it. I hold it as close to me as I can.

---

Eithne de Paor sat in her chair.

The fire was lit, and her children were not with her. Eithne de Paor could not walk, her chair had wheels to get around. She sat in it, crumpled, every joint in her body as hard as a knot on a tree branch.

She swung her head over to look at me, her neck permanently crooked, she moved each part of her body separately and with great effort. I believe she could see me, even through her milk-white eyes, for when those eyes fell on me. She sighed and nodded her head.

“I told them,” she said. “Put out the lantern before midnight.”

“They didn’t believe you?”

She shook her head. “They think I’m a mad old woman with mad old stories, Heartseller.”

“I don’t come to the mad.”

“Oh, that isn’t true.”

With a trembling, jointed hand, Eithne picked up a long iron fire-poker that had been leaning against her chair and jabbed at the logs with it. Her blind eyes reflecting the flames like a mirror, she prodded until the largest log fell, and the flames burst forth, swallowing the new air. She looked content, closing her eyes to allow the fire to warm her face.

“Go on then,” she said. “Do your bidding.”

“What is it you want?”

She opened one eye. Against the fire, it glowed orange. “You’re supposed to know, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I know, but I do not understand.”

“What’s so hard, Heartseller?” she said, closing her eyes again, leaning her head against the back of her chair. “I want you to take my heart.”

“I…I can’t take it.”

“Why not? There’s nothing else I want.”

“You could want wealth,” I offered. “Gold. I could fill your walls with gold.”

She shook her head. “What am I to do with gold?” she said. “I’m too old to buy those silk dresses or heavy jewels. It’d be wasted on me.”

“If not for you, then for your children.”

To this she scoffed. “Of all the things my children need, it is not gold.”

“Power then,” I said. “Come the morning, you will rule this land. Every inch of it yours, to command as you please, all the people your people. To love you, like you deserve.”

She crossed her arms over her lap, knitting her fingers together. “I don’t want power,” she said. “And I am loved.”

“Maybe not a queen’s power,” I said. “I could give you power over the sun, and the moon, you could take them down and hold them in your home. The stars even. Weave them into your hair.”

“My hair is thin,” she said. “What would I do with the sun and moon?”

Here I paused. I thought of what brought me here, of the hearts that drove me over the hills. Yes, there was one last gift I could offer.

“Your son,” I said. “Your son, back from the dead, just as he was.”

“My son is at peace,” Eithne said. “I do not want him back.” She took a long breath. “Take my heart”

“I can’t.”

“I give it to you.”

“You can’t give it,” I said. “You have to sell it.”

Eithne de Paor smiled.

“I know your kind,” she said.

“You all do.”

She sat up in her chair, as tall and proud as her crooked spine would allow.

“Give me your heart.”

“What?”

She placed one hand on the wooden wheel of her chair, with a great creak of the floor the chair turned to face me. Eithne de Paor smiled through me.

“Your heart, Seller,” she said. “I want your heart.”

I have heard the stories the people tell of me. The songs.

They are different each time, some say I am cloaked in black, while others say I am as naked as a newborn. Some say I ride on an ashen horse, and others say I have a wagon that simply pulls itself. I have been told I have blinding red eyes, and I have been told I have no eyes at all. I have even been told I am the brother of Death, and I have been told there is nothing like me in the world.

Of all the stories, there is one thing that never changes. Two undisputed rules among the people.

The Heartseller has no name.

The Heartseller has no heart.

“You know me,” I said to Eithne de Paor.

She smiled. “I know you, Heartseller.”

My heart was red.

My heart glowed and pulsed like an ember, so full of life. My heart stood proud amongst the others, it was one that never faded. My heart outlived the sun.

My heart was white.

My heart had ribbons of blue moving on the surface, like worms, trying to dig in deeper. My heart liked to be held, so hold it. Hold it as close as you can.

But my heart is black.

It is black and dotted with stars. It is a little piece of the night, carved from the sky. My heart is old, and it has seen more than I ever have, or ever will.

My name was Róisín Ó Ceallaigh, the firstborn of my family, and the rightful heir to everything my brother had.

My name was Shannon Mac Gabhann, I was the most beautiful woman in my village, and I will be loved.

But my name is Eithne de Paor, and I am free of my children. I am free of my home.

Three hundred men have died across the hill. Hurry now, put out your candles, dim your lanterns.

Three hundred men have died.

The Heartseller is coming over the hill.

#my writing #original writing #original fantasy

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