Fionn bent over the water's edge. If the river looked so absolutely still. When his master Finnegas had cast the line in the shadow-laden water which coursed through these nameless woods, the surface had nary rippled, but had utterly consumed the lure. He wondered from what earthen deep this slinking stream came, and to what ocean deep it went, and just what the old druid sought from either source.
It looked like no fish Fionn had ever seen before. Slick black skin pulled taut over very few bones. Half the thing was a gaping maw of needle teeth. It had no eyes Fionn could make out, but thin little strands like hair were about where eyes ought to be. Finnegas had said the shining arm of Nuada Airgeadlámh had pointed to the spot, but Fionn wondered if it hadn't been something else which spoke to the druid.
Its skin curled up in wrinkles in the little fire, as if unused to the touch of warmth, even in death. The stench which came from it seemed to have driven off the animals, and no bird sang. Finnegas would return soon. He had warned the boy to not touch it. Leave it to burn. No matter what happened.
But it was such a waste, he suddenly thought. When next might the fair folk take from his people the hunger they'd set upon them? It was such a little thing, too, Fionn thought as he reached into flame and took the shrivelled corpse in his hand, not even thinking as he crunched its brittle bones between his teeth and let the hot greasy flesh slide down his throat and—
gods help him he could see
From somewhere beyond the maelstrom of vision, Fionn could hear Finnegas, weeping.
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