It was a dark and stormy night; at least, it was in some part of the world. In Ireland, it was a clear winter night, and the crescent moon hung like a glowing sickle over a small cabin in the hills. The cabin itself glowed from within, lit by a fading fire in the hearth and a candle in the window. The red flames were reflected by the shimmering ornaments hanging from a tree in the living room, and the angel at the top smiled benevolently on the young men asleep on the sofa beneath her. They slept soundly, untroubled by the past that they had run from, safe in one another's company, and on that Christmas eve, the Saints were at rest.