Of Aisling, and other thoughts.

My near death experience has made me think long and hard about Aisling's fate if my so-called Irish luck should run out and I end up buying the farm. What many Americans don't know is that given Ireland's long, sad history, the best that can be said of Irish luck is that if we didn't have bad luck, we wouldn't have luck at all.

Aisling is my wee traveling companion, a Galway country girl....who just happens to be only a few inches tall and lives most of the time in my custom whiskey hip flask. She's one of the Faerie-folk of Erin, specifically what is classified a "Sprite". Her image is featured as the bottom graphic of this journal. She was bonded to me by Ogma as my guide and traveling companion, and we've been together since I was a teen. Chronologically, she's older than me...how old, I don't ask--wouldn't be polite nor proper. But since Sprites live longer than humans, she hasn't matured much emotionally these several years. She's still as giddy and emotionally unbalanced as a 17-year old girl, just as I first met her.

On this trip I've been wracking my brains for ways to let her help, let her out of her confinement but that keep her safe at the same time. It's a definite challenge of late. She doesn't like being crammed up in the flask all the time, but so often it's for her own protection. I think intellectually she knows that, but emotionally still finds it hard to accept. She's so incredibly loyal to me.

It pains my heart to realize how irresponsible I've been with her since leaving Ireland's shores. She's a long way from home, and one of my worst fears now is being ambushed alone somewhere and killed with Aisling still bound in my hip flask...and slowly starving to death because no one knows she's there or how to let her out.

The guilt was so strong I asked Laurel out of the blue to look after Aisling if I should die in the upcoming assault. I don't think Laurel was expecting that, could see her eyes widen with surprise and alarm. I guess maybe I spoke too impulsively, but I can't help feeling a deeper emotional closeness to Laurel now. Sort of like the way wounded soldiers bond with their nurses in Army hospitals, I suppose. Shite, I've read too much feckin' Hemingway. I know that Laurel and Gunnar seem to have this thing going, whatever "it" is. I know that. I do. Still, a man can't help feeling how he feels sometimes...though I'm not sure I can put a name on what it is I do feel now, other than to say it's different now than when I first met the group.

I know I need to talk this all over with Aisling, and I know she's not going to like it, but we have to be clear on this issue. At the very least, I would like someone, preferably Laurel, to ensure Aisling's safe passage back to Ireland. Just get her to the city of Galway and she'll be fine. Aisling shouldn't be dropped off in Dublin; even though she knows the city well, she doesn't know how to get from Dublin to Galway safely on her own. I've always taken her.

Laurel's initial reservations were that she wouldn't know how to properly care for Aisling. Left unsaid was perhaps consideration of Nevermore's emotional response and possible jealousy. I guess just ensuring Aisling's safe passage back to Ireland is the most I could ask of anyone.

I don't like dwelling on any of this, but nearly dying at a hotel in California, if not THE Hotel California, has forced me to.

I do have a responsibility to Aisling to make contingency plans for her if I should die. We Scions probably all intrinsically believe we'll beat the odds, ascend to Godhood, and live forever. As the old Porgy and Bess song has it, "It ain't necessarily so".

I do look forward to sending Aisling into action to cut the power to the cultist compound. I worry about being able to collect her after the action is over. I want her to stay on scene and hide and keep sabotaging the power supply if their security forces manage to restore it the first time. We'll just have to make sure to sweep back by the main power allocation centre to collect Aisling on our way out. I don't want to have to rely on "Dad" to help me find her. He entrusted her to me, so she's my responsibility. Always has been.

It's a shame Aisling's not a full-sized human girl, as she's certainly attractive. I'm even amused when she exhibits flashes of jealousy when I flirt with other women in her presence. Even when she's pouty she's cute. But she will always be a sprite, and I will always be a part-human, part Godling Scion of Ogma.

I want her to have the best life I can provide for her, and I want to be able to spare her a violent death if at all possible. She's my scout, a second pair of eyes, but strictly a non-combatant. I thought of having her remove the CS canister, but the gas might have overwhelmed her, and there was always the possibility of her catching a stray rifle bullet, and that would've been the end of her. So instead I just held my breath and kept on fighting as best I could...and better, thanks to Laurel working her...magic...? on me, both during and after.

She touched me and now I have a hard time keeping me eyes off her, stealing a glance here, there. Gods, the guilt. It's like I'm a little Jesuit schoolboy all over again, even though I walked away from that belief system ages ago. 12 years of Catholic school sticks with you, good and bad. Part of me thinks of going to confession, laying all my troubles to a Father Rodriguez or Padre Gonzales out here in California...not because I believe any of it anymore, but just to talk about it to a third party not involved with no stake in the issue.

I need to drive these errant thoughts from my head and stay focused on the mission. Or at least grab a pint to calm my nerves. Alas, I don't think there are any friendly Irish bars between where we are now and Badger, California, or that I have time to pop into one, even if it exists. Shite.

As I lay dying...

I had been considering how and whether to enhance my status in the Pantheon; the question was rendered academic when several bursts of .223 cal. Remington rifle rounds tore through my Garda-issue bullet proof vest. It all happened so fast. I was too absorbed with that damned laptop, so damn proud of myself for hacking past its password encryption...thank you Trinty College Dublin for making me at least quasi-L33t on computers. There I was, bent over the hotel desk, absorbed in the sea of data. I was still feeling a wee bit of pride for successfully identifying the Irish artifact that Laurel had found.

How else to explain being caught utterly flat-footed by the squad of heavily armed cultist militia that stormed that hotel suite...looking for all the world like a typical American SWAT unit, only without any identifying logo or badges. I should be a dead man. I guess in hindsight I should be grateful it was only a CS canister and not an actual fragmentation grenade. If this had been Belfast, it would have been a fragmentation grenade. As luck would have it, this was a posh hotel in Fresno, California.

The world seemed to go into slow motion around me. It was like watching a movie all around me but feeling rooted to the spot. I watched Jack, Gunnar, and Nate spring into action...saw Laurel take the first burst of fire, then felt the searing burst of pain as my own body began absorbing hot American lead. I flashed back to the UN peacekeeping missions I'd been on in Africa as an Irish soldier, still only a teenager. Then the bloody mess in Kosovo. My life seemed to flash before my eyes when at long last my instincts took over and I threw down the heavy oak chair, whipped out my Garda-issue Sig P226 from its holster, crouched for cover behind the chair and drew a bead on the nearest rifle-toting lunatic.


We exchanged fire, but it was Laurel who flanked him and dropped him. Though wounded herself, Laurel had rushed to my side...I don't know what she did exactly, but when she touched me on the shoulder as I dove for cover, the agonizing pain seemed to fade away from my immediate awareness, and from somewhere deep within me I found the courage to fight on. I was also dimly aware of sniper fire incoming from across the highway, and that my friend Gunnar was engaging the sniper with that insanely modified .50 cal Desert Eagle of his. Nate and Jack were methodically taking down these black clad tactical SWAT-wannabes. When I finally gathered my wits, I drew a bead on the last black clad figure standing and let loose with such a ferocious volley of 9mm hell from my Sig Sauer P226;

I saw the man go down, crumpling under my withering barrage...he went down and I still kept firing until my slide locked back. Empty magazine. I hit the slide release, inserted a fresh magazine and clicked the lever, slamming the slide forward in nearly one fluid motion. Out of targets, utterly exhausted, drenched in sweat, my knees buckled and I collapsed onto them. Laurel sprang into action like a guardian angel, tended to my wounds and kept me from going into shock. We both invoked some divine intervention that day.

We had the Intel we needed. We knew where the abducted Scion children were being held captive. But unless we could stabilize these wounds, I was going to be checking in to UCLA Medical Center for an unplanned extended stay. Ogma be praised, I felt blessed with a higher level of awareness and understanding than I'd ever felt before. Laurel invoked a divine presence herself and was able to at least stabilize me. I had only recently learned to heal myself...drawing on deep reserves from within me...it took a lot out of me but I somehow managed to restore myself to full health...the bullet holes closed, the sinews and tissues reconnected...I don't know if any arteries had been severed, or vital organs hit...I think most of the high speed rifle ammunition had passed through me...at such close quarters the rounds had not traversed sufficient distance to begin tumbling.

I was right as rain again, ready to join my team in the assault on The Order's compound. We had to strike now; time was of the essence. My body, at least, was ready. But goddamn I could sure use a bloody pint of Guinness to calm me nerves. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph...! I realize I'm no spring chicken anymore, but I'm in no hurry to be buried back in the Auld Sod just yet.