The Lady in Green

The Lady in Green
Behind the door to Quinn’s room, a small figure materializes. The form shifts from old crone in a grey shroud to a vapory mist floating with long copper hair and a flowing white dress. The shape settles on a solid mass of a young woman with raven black hair that flows down her back. She wears a beautiful emerald gown. Her eyes lock on the still woman laying in the hospital bed. On gossamer strings, the entity floats toward the bed. She raises her hand and runs it over Quinn’s leg, then her side and rests her fingers on Quinn’s forearm. 

A sweet, low chant seeps from the visitor’s lips. It grows louder and ends in a high-pitched screech. As the horrendous cackling subsides, Ciaran barrels through the door and stops short in front of the miniscule female. He coughs repeatedly. His words stuck in his throat.

“Ah, my dear boy, so good to see you again.” A breathy voice trickles from the women’s sealed lips. 

Ciaran stares at her. Terror freezes him in place. He closes his eyes and tries to squelch the memory of the fire. The blaze that had engulfed his mother. He shakes his head, remembering his mother is still alive.The woman standing before him in Quinn’s room, is the same that appeared to him the day of his mother’s death. Her dress and hair were different then, but her eyes have never changed. They are still glowing orbs of red and gold. She keened the same way, then. 

“Nooo!” Ciaran screams out and shoves the woman away from the bed. “You can’t have her.”

The woman turns to Ciaran. Her eyes soften. She moves her hand towards his face. He shirks back and her hand falls on empty air. A small laugh escapes her lips. “Are you afraid of me, dear boy?” She asks.

“I will not let you take her,” Ciaran declares.

“I do not take anyone.” She moves closer to him and this time her hand grazes his cheek. “I am just the messenger.”

“She will not die!” Ciaran’s voice resonates off the walls.

Ciaran’s yell invades the hallway. The door flies open. Ainmire stands in the threshold taking in the scene before him.

“What is the banshee doing here?” Surprise peppers his words.

The young woman glides toward Ainmire. She wraps her arm around his and pulls him into the room. Ainmire tries to pull away from her, but the petite female latches firmly to his arm. She is stronger than her diminutive frame suggests. Ainmire winces as her grip gets tighter.

“Why my dear Leprechaun King,” her words drip of caramel and honey. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” She pulls him closer to her.

Ainmire pushes away, but only achieves a small amount of space between them. “Banshee,” his voice cracks. “Why are you here?”

Her shrill laugh causes the hair to stand up on Ainmire’s neck. Ciaran wraps his arms around his chest. He shivers like a cold breeze just enveloped him. The banshee looks between the two men, then focuses her attention back on Ainmire.

“If I said I was here for you, dear King, what would you do?” A wide smile decorates her face.

Ainmire finally shakes free of her grasp, He laughs, a low almost wicked bellowing sound. “Banshee, you know I cannot die. Why come for me?” 

She flicks her hair, bats her eyes, and giggles. “Maybe, I want a date. I hear you are single.”

A small sigh drifts from the open door. “I think you are mistaken, banshee.” Branna stands in the doorway smiling mischievously. 

The banshee looks towards the door and sucks in a hard breath. Her eyes flicker between gold and red, giving them a fire effect.

“How, how are you here?” She waves her finger at Branna.

“Did you not know I could not die as well?” Branna tilts her head.

“But Isolde said,” the banshee stops and shakes her head. Her long hair flies around her.

“Isolde said what?” Branna smirks.

The banshee just shakes her head and stares at Branna. Her mouth gapes open, the words failing to escape.

“I am guessing Isolde failed to tell you I was immortal.” Branna makes a clicking sound. “Since I am alive,” she smiles at Ainmire, “I will say he is not single.”

The banshee closes her mouth and collects herself. She laughs fakely, then pulling on her dress says, “I was only kidding, dear. I came for her.” She raises her finger towards Quinn.

Ciaran moves in between Quinn and the banshee. He uses his body to shield Quinn from the banshee’s sight. “You cannot take her.” His voice is stoic.

“Again, dear boy. I do not take, I just,” the banshee shrugs one shoulder. She tilts her head towards Ciaran, “inform.”

“She does not need to be informed,” Ciaran waves at the door. “So you can leave.”

“Leave?” The little fairy floats toward the ceiling, circles the room, then cackles when landing too close to Ciaran. “Why would I leave so soon? She is not dead yet.”

“LEAVE!” Ciaran bellows. “NOW!” 

The force of his words cause the banshee to step backward. She stumbles but recovers before she falls. Her face twists in a gnarly sneer. She transforms into the willowy figure with long copper hair and a flowing white gown. She shrieks and throws her hands over her head. The banshee appears as a wailing ghost. With each screech, the banshee grows in size.

Ainmire clears his throat. All attention turns to him. “She has been granted a blessing by Danu. She is immortal.” He says flatly as if it were a fact everyone should know.

Dian Cecht steps into the room. He raises his hand and exclaims, “She is Brigid’s child. You cannot touch her.”

A collective “What?” echoes through the room.

Ainmire is the first to speak. “You must be mistaken, Dian Cecht. She is human.”

Dian Cecht smiles and rests his eyes on Quinn. “You can ask her.”

Under the covers, Quinn begins to stir.