From Legend of Lady MacLaoch book 2:
The Year of Our Lord 1210
Outer Hebrides, Scotland
The voices hushed as her shaky voice filled the hall. The old woman took the ceramic cup of leaves that the powerful Viking had just drunk from, she peered into its depths and closed her eyes as her fist tightened about the still warm earthenware, “Once the boughs of love begin to be gently rocked by her embrace, you will want of nothing else, so long as ye both walk this land. But it is foretold, in the feral times of man, that another will come to stand between you. If it should come to pass, if his vengeance against you should succeed, your spirit will forever walk this land until someday your retribution will break the bounds of nature to settle – finally – the score. Blood will be spilt, hearts will be broken and vengeance once started will not be stopped.”
The powerful Viking placed his mug of ale down and smiled distastefully at the woman the towns folk called witch.
“His vengeance? And what is the name of my enemy – I will slay him now.” He said and bellowed out a laugh that shook the stones of his castle-like home.
The old woman shook her head in disgust, “Grandson, ‘tis not a man you will know until you have crossed him. Only when the blade he wields touches your skin will you know.”
His gaze cooled dangerously as it looked back to her piercing black ones, “What you speak of is treason. Will you condemn one of your people to a traitors fate?”
“I did not say that the sword would be held by your kin—”
He smiled wolfishly then, “That is right, you said nothing other than a man – whom I have yet to meet – will someday strike at me in anger.” He looked about him in the crowded room, his kinfolk deathly silent, then looked back at her. His smile still in place, “Grandmother, you speak of every man who wishes to sit upon this seat.” He said and laughed gesturing to his intricately carved wooden throne backed chair.
The old woman nodded and got up from the long wooden table, she made her way around the table, one hand on it for balance as the crowd murmured and laughed with their chief. She made her way to her grandson’s seat and smiled holding her hand out to him.
“What is this? You wish to read more into my future? Perhaps get a name to which I can use?”
She just continued with her placating smile with her hand out stretched.
Reluctantly the Viking placed his hand in hers, where she turned it over and tracing the lines in his wide palm she spat into it.
The Viking pulled his hand back but her double grip was unusually strong, and her words murmured swiftly over it as they struggled.
Trying to pull his hand back he hissed, “You are a pitiful old woman. Remove her.” He said nodding his man toward her and shoved her back with his other hand.
She stumbled back, then stood up straight. It was as if she became taller than her own height, her eyes shifted like black sand and the room went silent. Looking down at her grandson, the most feared man of the outer Hebrides, she said, “Remember this warning. For it will be your last: Seek the unobtainable and be blinded by love and love in turn will blind you, causing your spirit to roam these lands for eternity.” She said and wrapped her filthy rags tighter about her old bones before she shrank back down and a wide hand who’s wrist was golden clasped, gripped her shoulder.
The Minory chief stood then, towering over her, “I hear you grandmother, but those words will be your last to me.” He gestured to his man, “Take her to the church of the misty cliffs.” Then to her, “You will stay there from now until your last breath.” He said then watched as she was removed from the room, his army of men behind him.
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