The Celts were detail folk, so I must be related to them. If not, then I shall adopt myself. See the Tara Brooch? The brooch of the Hill of Kings. Hear the Stone crying out? A rightful king has finally stepped up, the stone cries out its approval. The hill parts, the king rides through. Brave king, foolhardy king, druid-approved king.
I saw the Stone in Edinburgh Castle, but I think it was the wrong one. Lia Fail is not of simple sandstone, it of black stone from the Holy Land, or so some say. Hidden from Oliver Cromwell, no one shall find it except Sir Walter Scott. The proud Scots sing of when they took the stone back, in their native language which the English of long ago failed to stamp out. The Scots are strong and hardy, dwellers in the highlands.
The Stone of Destiny? What destiny? I have no destiny. I am not royalty; I am not even a Celt. But I can dance just as well as any Scot, play haunting tunes upon my fiddle, and see fairies around any corner. I am a person of smallest detail, I hide the smallest details in writing and art for no one to find. They cannot find them; they are blinded by the fairy dust I have blown in their eyes.
I am the Moor Child, with strange wild hair and the ability to disappear into a crowd, fading from sight. I wander among the moors, finding the safe paths. I am a Changeling, friend of a bagpiper and shepherd boy. We shall bring back the human exchanged for me in the cradle, returning her to my mother. I am Cadi, traversing Dead Man’s Mountain in search of the Sin Eater among the Appalachian Mountains which no one on the west coast knows how to pronounce properly.
I am a brooch; I shall hold your cloak about your shoulders to keep you from the fearsome winds of Scotland. There are endless knots etched on the brooch, each encased in a small shape not quite a triangle, not quite a square, not quite a rectangle. Of course not; I am not a Greek or Roman geometrician, I am a Celt.
Swirls and whirls, braided ropes of gold, faces of all manner of creatures with empty eyes. Trace a shiver up your spine. Feel the icy chill? That is the fairy slowly freezing you to death. Is the highland lake friendly? Is it a friend? Are the lake fairies your friends? Be wary, yes wary, or the fairy may turn you to stone until you glimpse the lake in all its seasons and find it a friend.
See the endless knot of the Tara Brooch? That is the tale of the Celts.