This was inspired by a poem in the front of 'Patrick' by Stephen Lawhead.
I apologise in advance for any inaccuracies/liberties taken with the general Irish/druidic theme.

Thick layers of darkness crush my body, forcing air from my lungs, thoughts from my head. I have been here for what seems like an eternity, entombed within mounds of moist earth. They say it will teach me patience and perseverance, will curb my wild side, will allow my spirit to fly free. Maybe I will die here and become one more small voice in the dark. There is no option of escape. It has been attempted before, though it is an affront to the Gods, requiring appeasement at all costs. Atonement is possible only through the triple death; body pierced, struck by stone and surrendered to the water. That is not a fate I will gladly surrender myself to. So I come full circle, traveling around and around this argument until such day as my release arrives. It cannot be long now. Seven cycles entombed is my sentence, my trial. Not for me the trials of a warrior. I have seen the trials of the she-bears, to stand in a ring of warriors casting spears and emerge unscathed, not a hair touched. To bend and jump and run whilst plucking a thorn from ones heel with no slackening of pace. These tribulations are not for one such as me and so I wait under earth and fire and water. I will be patient and trust that I will not die, that my mind will not twist and warp under the pressures. I will wait.

A chasm opens in my murky prison. A beam of light stabs through the inky darkness. Pain blossoms behind my eyes sending bruised echoes around my mind. I am dazed, dazzled, bemused, unsure of where and what I am. Then enlightenment dawns, I am free, I have survived, the task is done. Eyes sting and stream, I fight against atrophied muscles, force them to do my will, to engage in actions long alien to them. The task must be completed in the proper manner or all is forfeit. This I know from a dimly remembered past. The struggle must go on. Eventually I win the battle and stagger up, unencumbered into the sunlight. I am free. Joy fills every corner of my being, I am a ray of light, unceasing, eternal in my freedom. How wonderful is this world to those who may wander as they wish?

Then I see them, grim, bearded, robed in impenetrable grey. They do not smile and I wonder why? How can they not see the world as I see it, as one newborn to its delights and splendours. The cares and troubles of this world weigh heavy on their shoulders. I feel a hand on my back and turn to be ensnared by grey, unblinking eyes. Silence reigns for a time and I tremble with fear at the pain and sorrow in those eyes. Then, as one, they speak,

Seven times seven staffs hit the floor as one, beating in an inhuman rhythm and I sink, my joy but a distant memory. I feel the woes of the world on my shoulders, I feel the pain of my brethren. My staff is beating on the ground in a rhythm far beyond my comprehension. I have knowledge, such knowledge, of all the depravities of humankind. I cling to my moment of joy, fleeting now, cling fiercely to the little hope I have, slender and near drowning under the sea of their sorrows. Then a whisper in the grey twilight,

'Now you begin to understand.'

And I truly wish that I did not.