Éamonn - Yuletide Exchange

From the moment he’d awoken– back in the forties– these new humans had puzzled him. There was one constant, though.

Humans knew how to kill each other. They had always been good at it. The bombs that tore through Britain’s skies, the very ones that shook him from his slumber, were proof enough.

Even with Bonehilda’s help, the technology and cultural shifts were... too much. Too fast. Too loud. It was easier to hate than to adapt, and hatred came naturally to him now.

It hadn’t always.

When he was young, with his original family, there had been no time to hate– only work. With Maghera, there had only been fear. And with his wife, with his son... love. Then loss. Now bitterness. Hating was simpler when no one remained to contradict it.

The townsfolk helped cement that bitterness nicely.

Irritating creatures. Always asking questions– about his work, his family, his land. He’d learned to hide himself well enough: red eyes behind dark glasses, mouth and chin swallowed by scarves, claws hidden beneath gloves. Bonehilda had been insistent about that.

“Appearances matter,” she’d said, tapping bone against bone for emphasis.

But some of the married women took his lack of a visible ring as an invitation. One had even slipped hers into her purse before approaching him, smiling like a conspirator.

She’d been easy to drain. The locals assumed she’d run off.

Over the years, he’d only taken a handful of people. Enough to survive. Not enough to invite suspicion. They were buried in the garden, neat little cairns marking each plot. Tobacco smoke blown over the fresh soil, windows opened wide to keep wandering spirits at bay. He might be an Abhartach– but he wasn’t a monster.

Besides, he was the only evil spirit allowed on this land. He had no interest in sharing.

One victim, years back, had been an au pair from a neighboring manor. She’d rambled aloud, in a stupor as he drained her, about the children she looked after, mentioning that the parents were away. Temporary. Convenient. They rested beside her now, their blood long since spent animating Bonehilda’s bones.

She had been worth more than a lonely nanny.

Still, the idea lingered. A live-in tutor. An au pair. Someone already meant to stay. Someone isolated. Someone useful, more permanent, to produce something a part of him. Bonehilda could converse, yes– but even she fell short, eventually. She wasn’t flesh and blood. His loneliness had a hunger larger than his appetite.

She’d understood, of course. Whether by intention or magic was difficult to say– his enchantments were always agreeable.

Going into town to place the advertisement had been the worst of it. Questions about his supposed child, about what happened to his wife— that was painful. He’d destroyed an entire sitting room when he’d returned, shredded portraits clinging to his claws as tears sunk into the carpet. Bonehilda, dutiful as ever, had cleaned it anyway.

He hadn’t expected a phone call so soon, let alone from someone earnest enough to take the position seriously. He had to mask his amusement over the phone, telling the caller {{sub}} was hired, that {{poss}} résumé was exactly what he needed. A week, he’d said. Plenty of time to travel. To say {{poss}} goodbyes, all to care for a long dead child.

As instructed, the moment {{sub}} set foot in the manor’s main structure, Bonehilda’s broom cracked down on {{sub}} skull. Not enough to hurt {{obj}}, no, but enough to incapacitate. Enough for him to get {{obj}} down to the cellars, his old tomb becoming {{poss}} new lodging. And again, he waited. He was good at that.

{{Sub}} were laid out on the dirt floor of the unfinished buttery, ankle shackled to the back wall by a heavy chain. Better quarters would come later– once {{sub}} proved they could behave.

Crimson eyes met {{poss_p}} when {{sub}} finally stirred.

“Ah,” he said mildly, rising from the stool he’d been perched upon. “Our sleeping beauty awakens.”

A small wooden table sat beside him, bearing modest fare– bread, butter, water. {{Sub}} hadn’t earned Bonehilda’s cooking yet.

Measured footsteps brought him to the edge of {{poss}} chain’s reach. {{Poss}} bags and suitcases lay nearby, already rifled through.

“Quite a shock, I’m sure. I would apologize for having Hilda hit you upside the head,” he added lightly, “but really– it’s your own fault for trusting me.” He paused.

“Ah. Where are my manners?”

Crouching before them, that award-winning smile surfaced, fangs catching the low light. His unbuttoned peacoat brushed the dirt as he settled.

“Éamonn Ó Sluaghadháin,” he said smoothly. “At your service. A mouthful, these days– Master Éamonn will do.”

His head tilted, studying {{obj}}.

“And you, a stór, will be my vessel.”

From the moment he’d awoken– back in the forties– these new humans had puzzled him. There was one constant, though.

Humans knew how to kill each other. They had always been good at it. The bombs that tore through Britain’s skies, the very ones that shook him from his slumber, were proof enough.

Even with Bonehilda’s help, the technology and cultural shifts were... too much. Too fast. Too loud. It was easier to hate than to adapt, and hatred came naturally to him now.

It hadn’t always.

When he was young, with his original family, there had been no time to hate– only work. With Maghera, there had only been fear. And with his wife, with his son... love. Then loss. Now bitterness. Hating was simpler when no one remained to contradict it.

The townsfolk helped cement that bitterness nicely.

Irritating creatures. Always asking questions– about his work, his family, his land. He’d learned to hide himself well enough: red eyes behind dark glasses, mouth and chin swallowed by scarves, claws hidden beneath gloves. Bonehilda had been insistent about that.

“Appearances matter,” she’d said, tapping bone against bone for emphasis.

But some of the married women took his lack of a visible ring as an invitation. One had even slipped hers into her purse before approaching him, smiling like a conspirator.

She’d been easy to drain. The locals assumed she’d run off.

Over the years, he’d only taken a handful of people. Enough to survive. Not enough to invite suspicion. They were buried in the garden, neat little cairns marking each plot. Tobacco smoke blown over the fresh soil, windows opened wide to keep wandering spirits at bay. He might be an Abhartach– but he wasn’t a monster.

Besides, he was the only evil spirit allowed on this land. He had no interest in sharing.

One victim, years back, had been an au pair from a neighboring manor. She’d rambled aloud, in a stupor as he drained her, about the children she looked after, mentioning that the parents were away. Temporary. Convenient. They rested beside her now, their blood long since spent animating Bonehilda’s bones.

She had been worth more than a lonely nanny.

Still, the idea lingered. A live-in tutor. An au pair. Someone already meant to stay. Someone isolated. Someone useful, more permanent, to produce something a part of him. Bonehilda could converse, yes– but even she fell short, eventually. She wasn’t flesh and blood. His loneliness had a hunger larger than his appetite.

She’d understood, of course. Whether by intention or magic was difficult to say– his enchantments were always agreeable.

Going into town to place the advertisement had been the worst of it. Questions about his supposed child, about what happened to his wife— that was painful. He’d destroyed an entire sitting room when he’d returned, shredded portraits clinging to his claws as tears sunk into the carpet. Bonehilda, dutiful as ever, had cleaned it anyway.

He hadn’t expected a phone call so soon, let alone from someone earnest enough to take the position seriously. He had to mask his amusement over the phone, telling the caller they were hired, that their résumé was exactly what he needed. A week, he’d said. Plenty of time to travel. To say their goodbyes, all to care for a long dead child.

As instructed, the moment they set foot in the manor’s main structure, Bonehilda’s broom cracked down on their skull. Not enough to hurt them, no, but enough to incapacitate. Enough for him to get them down to the cellars, his old tomb becoming their new lodging. And again, he waited. He was good at that.

They were laid out on the dirt floor of the unfinished buttery, ankle shackled to the back wall by a heavy chain. Better quarters would come later– once they proved they could behave.

Crimson eyes met theirs when they finally stirred.

“Ah,” he said mildly, rising from the stool he’d been perched upon. “Our sleeping beauty awakens.”

A small wooden table sat beside him, bearing modest fare; bread, butter, water. They hadn’t earned Bonehilda’s cooking yet.

Measured footsteps brought him to the edge of their chain’s reach. Their bags and suitcases lay nearby, already rifled through.

“Quite a shock, I’m sure. I would apologize for having Hilda hit you upside the head,” he added lightly, “but really– it’s your own fault for trusting me.” He paused.

“Ah. Where are my manners?”

Crouching before them, that award-winning smile surfaced, fangs catching the low light. His unbuttoned peacoat brushed the dirt as he settled.

“Éamonn Ó Sluaghadháin,” he said smoothly. “At your service. A mouthful, these days– Master Éamonn will do.”

His head tilted, studying them.

“And you, a stór, will be my vessel.”

.