(3) Caomhnóir

 

“I sense that you have not dropped this human entanglement of yours,” Alasdair stated, his visage stern with disapproval.

 

“Nor will I, mo ceannasaí,” Keegan responded. There was no defiance in his voice, just certainty that even his commander could not argue with, although he had tried several times before.

 

“As I have told you, as long as he does not endanger you I will allow it to continue.” Alasdair tapped one nail on his desk. In his present form, the gryphon could pass for a very large, muscular human male. Only small things would give him away to those in the know. The nails at the end of his fingers and toes were longer and thicker than those of a normal human, there was a definite beak-like quality to his nose, his ears were slightly pointed, and his hair was comparable to a lion’s mane, thick, luxurious and tawny gold in color.

 

Keegan on the other hand looked just as he had when he died, completely human although he was now far from that. He was a Caomhnóir, under the command of Alasdair.  Caomhnóir, or Guardians, were males, and very rarely females, who died while in the midst of committing one of the seven deadly sins. To redeem themselves, if they wished to, they are given a chance to help protect mankind. Their commanders were always mythological creatures, stewards with the ability to shift into human-like forms so that they could move among mankind, supervising the Caomhnóir.

 

Keegan’s sin had been the shedding of innocent blood. As a young man he had lived on the streets of Dún Bhun na Gaillimhe (Galway), surviving by thievery and hiring himself out as a bullyboy for whichever pub owner was willing to pay him.

 

It was during one of his forays into the wealthier part of the city that he had run into a man and his daughter, well-dressed citizens, the father with a full purse hanging from his belt. Being weakened by hunger as it had been a lean week, Keegan had been clumsy in his attempt to separate the man from his coin, and thus he had found one wrist gripped firmly in the man’s hand. Slashing wildly with his blade, he had stabbed the man, who had instantly released him. When the daughter screamed for help he had acted on instinct, covering her mouth while wrapping his arm tightly around her throat. He might have made his escape if the guards had been less swift to respond to her cry of fear. Their shouts as they approached had only intensified his grip on the girl’s throat as he threatened to kill her. When one of the guards slashed his sword across Keegan’s neck, his death throes had snapped the girl’s throat and she died at the same instant.

 

Where she had gone when she died, he of course never knew. He, however, had found himself in the vale of dead sinners. It was there that he was offered a choice. He could spend eternity suffering for his sin or become a Caomhnóir.  As he had told Thom soon after they had met, he was no fool. Dead was dead and he might as well make the best of it.

 

He had chosen to become a Caomhnóir.

 

And so, for the last nine centuries he had traveled back and forth through time, dealing out death to those who merited it in the eyes of his commander, Alasdair; and in the eyes of the one who was the Rialóir Deiridh (final ruler) of all Caomhnóir.