On the Isle of Skye, weavers feared to dye wool green. To steal the Fair Folk's hue invited malice, but Donald ignored the old taboos.
He ground copper rust with grave-dirt, brewing a pigment so bright it throbbed with unnatural life.
He brushed the slurry across his coat. The wool drank it greedily.
By midnight, the dye spread beyond the seams. Green thread rooted into his flesh, creeping up his wrists, blooming across his chest. His skin transmuted into damp moss. Where he bled, clover sprouted.
The colour was hungry, and it was taking him home beneath the ancient hill.
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