Slánaitheoir
You're just off of a long guard duty when you find the body of a man - little more than a boy, really - lying unconscious on the beach. Upon a cautious approach, you realize that this stranger is wearing a monk's habit, but then you see the angry red marks on his wrists, the bruises on his face, and wonder what the hell a monk could have done to merit such treatment.
You shake the boy lightly, trying to stir him, but he's unresponsive to your touch. A quick check reveals that he is breathing, at least, and there's a slow pulse beneath your fingers when you press them to his cold neck. The robes he wears are thoroughly soaked through, and he has to be freezing in the chilly, evening air.
Without a thought for the risks you're taking in bringing a stranger back to camp, you heft the boy into your arms and carry him off, sneaking by the other soldiers that patrol the area and retreating back to your own tent on the edge of camp.
But, now that you have the boy safely in your tent, you're not quite sure what to do. Should you fetch the camp herbalist? No, surely that will raise questions you cannot answer (for a multitude of reasons and not just your own vow of silence). No, you'll just have to take care of the little monk yourself.
Should probably get him warm, first, you figure, and set yourself about the task of stripping the sopping wet tunic, ripped in some places, off of the pliant body laid before you. Beneath it, you find even more bruises that must span multiple incidents – some are fresh, deep purples; others are older, already healing, muddled pale greens and yellows. The worst of them is over his ribs, so dark a purple that it's almost black. There are lash marks on his back that have started to heal, as well. Minor injuries, too, skinned knees, other cuts and scrapes. Altogether, it paints a pretty clear picture – after all the things you've seen done (and done yourself, in some cases) to undeserving and innocent men, women, children, you can recognize torture easily enough.
A bad feeling washes over you about this whole situation and something tells you that you need to draw as little attention to this as possible.
Working quickly, you take the clothes and hide them away – you'll dispose of them properly when you get a chance. You leave the tent, only for a moment, to swipe a spare blanket and a pair of pants from the laundry pile; you gather an old shirt from your own meager belongings, though it will be much too large on the boy's small frame. You hide the injuries beneath the borrowed clothes as best you can. Then you wrap the both of you beneath the blankets, pressing yourself against him as much as possible to share your body heat – and even barely conscious, the boy clings to the source of warmth.
You let him rest, still on guard for any threats that may have followed him here, until you, too, find yourself lulled to sleep.
Diarmuid wakes feeling warm and content and safe for the first time since he left the implied security of the monastery. He should probably be afraid – he doesn't know where he is or whose arms are wrapped around him, after all, he doesn't know that he's actually safe. But he is not afraid. Wherever he is, however he got here, whomever he's with – it's already infinitely better than what he's escaped.
He shifts in the stranger's hold, turning to face the man he's sure must have rescued him. The man he finds is clearly a soldier, tall and broad, scarred and muscular, and surprisingly, he's awake - but when Diarmuid meets his eyes, he doesn't see the same sort of anger there.
"Shábháil tú dom?" He asks of the man who'd kept him warm through the night, but the only response he gets is confusion, a furrowed brow and questioning eyes. The stranger must not understand his native tongue, he figures, and tries again, this time in English. "You saved me?"
The man nods.
He doesn't say anything, though, which is odd.
"Thank you," he says, first and foremost. "My name is Diarmuid."
He still doesn't say anything, but he does gesture to his throat and the pieces are easy enough to put together from there.
"You cannot speak, friend?"
Another nod. With that figured out, Diarmuid adapts his questions accordingly, allowing for easy yes or no answers, and seems very adept at determining what questions the mute soldier asks of him, noting the quirk of an eyebrow or a curious expression in response to something he's said. They trade information this way for a long while, until Diarmuid moves the wrong way when he tries to sit up, irritating the bruises on his side.
The mute jerks his head toward the flap of the tent, toward whatever awaits them outside, and reluctantly Diarmuid follows. He's surprised by the expansive camp of soldiers he finds beyond the canvas walls – and he's reminded of a similar camp he's been in recently, but he doesn't want to think about that, not now, so he pushes the thought away and follows after his savior.
They stop at another tent on the far side of the field, where the camp herbalist works mixing a draught for another soldier. He looks surprised to see the mute, but even more surprised by the unfamiliar Diarmuid. The mute lifts the edge of Diarmuid's borrowed shirt to reveal the bruises and nudges him forward gently.
"Well," the old man sighs, his voice thick with an Irish accent, "Get in here, then, and we'll see what we can do."
By the time the herbalist releases him with a paste of bruisewort slathered on his ribs and something for the pain, he's about ready to fall back asleep – apparently nearly dying is quite the exhausting experience. The mute is there, waiting, and he walks Diarmuid back to his tent, where a generous serving (Diarmuid suspects it is also most of the mute's serving) of food – actual food – awaits him.
After eating eagerly, the mute watches him settle back into the blankets.
Diarmuid breathes a slightly painful sigh of relief. Maybe he really is safe here.
You're amazed at how quickly and how remarkably well Diarmuid settles in to life in the camp, especially for a boy who's never known anything outside of the structured life at the monastery. The little monk learns the camp routines quickly and is eager to help out wherever he can even as he heals from his injuries. Mostly, this seems to entail helping the camp herbalist with gathering necessary herbs and plants. Conveniently, this task also frequently requires you to accompany Diarmuid if he has to venture too far from camp in search of them.
Diarmuid goes on about this or that as the two of you move through the edges of the Gaelic clan territories, musing on whatever intriguing thought comes to his mind – talking more than enough for the both of you – and you listen, revel in his insights and beliefs. You're awed by how much faith the boy still has despite all he's endured.
He talks solemnly of how the herbalist reminds him of Brother Ciarán. He talks of how Brother Cathal had spoken of the uses of animals as they'd gathered seaweed and razor clams on their little beach in Kilmannán, and how he'd wondered at the first man to be desperate enough to think of eating a razor clam. He talks of Brother Rua, the best storyteller among the monks. He talks of home, and how he doesn't have one anymore even if he won't tell you why just yet.
Diarmuid finds the herbs they'd been sent for and you both return to camp.
It takes a while for Diarmuid to open up to you, to tell you all the details of just what led to your fateful meeting.
And it starts with a name: "Sir Raymond de Merville."
It's a name you recognize. You know of the burgundy and white fox banners, know which battles you've seen them fly in. You know that their company makes camp somewhere northwest of your own current location, where you're all trying and mostly failing to rein in the Gaelic clans. You know that Sir Raymond isn't someone you particularly respect, that his reputation has preceded him throughout the Crusades and even since, and that if even a quarter of the rumors you've heard about the man are true, he deserves nothing less than hell itself.
Diarmuid tells you the tale over the course of a long night, hushed whispers and quiet sobs in the sanctity of your shared tent on the edges of the camp. He tells of his simple life at the monastery and of the relic they protected there. He tells of the Cistercian who'd come to fetch it on behalf of the Pope himself. He tells of de Merville's men, who'd sworn to protect them on their pilgrimage to deliver it to Rome, of Sir Raymond's cruel betrayal and of the ambush in the hollows and of the slaughter of the Cistercian, Geraldus, and of his Brothers, Ciarán and Rua and Cathal, who'd tried to protect the relic to the end. He tells of his short-lived flight with the sacred stone, of his capture, and of the tortures he endured at the hands of Sir Raymond and his men. And then, finally, he tells of his escape - somehow, he'd gotten hold of something sharp, gotten free of his bindings. When Sir Raymond and his right hand man, Dugald, arrived to torment him, he'd waited, biding his time until they were close enough and then he'd struck out – the element of surprise had allowed him to stab an unsuspecting Dugald in the neck, dropping him before he could even look surprised. But then an enraged Sir Raymond was attacking him, pinning him to the ground with his hands curled tight around his neck and spitting all sorts of threats about what glorious new tortures would befall him now that they actually had a reason. He'd still had hold of his makeshift weapon and he'd swung wildly, desperately, and managed to make contact. Sir Raymond had fallen aside, screaming in pain at the injury to his face and Diarmuid had taken what little chance he'd had and run as fast and as far and as long as he could. He'd stolen a curragh, but no oars, no supplies, and the next thing he knew, he'd woken up in this very tent, a mute soldier a solid, warm, comforting weight next to him.
You are filled with a barely contained rage on Diarmuid's behalf. It's the closest you've come to speaking, that urge to comfort Diarmuid after he tells you his story, and to curse de Merville with all the words you have left in you. You don't speak, though. You reach out, pull Diarmuid close and offer comfort the only way you can – with soft and calming touches and careful measured looks that you hope relay the things you cannot say – but that Diarmuid always seems to understand regardless.
You make another vow – that as long as you live, no one will ever harm Diarmuid ever again.
You're exhausted and near frozen when you finally return to your tent after a long guard shift and you're more than ready to join Diarmuid beneath your warm blankets and get some rest. You expect to find the boy snoring softly, wrapped up tight in the blankets, like always, and you're fully prepared to have to wrestle your share of them away enough to wrap yourself up in them, too, but something is wrong.
Instead of the soft snores you've grown used to, there are these quiet little whimpers and he's drawing in these quick, desperate breaths. As your eyes adjust to the lack of light inside the tent, you realize he's shaking – but not from the bitter cold of the winter winds outside. He's got his arms curled tight around his knees, coiled up into the smallest ball possible.
"Please," he begs, but it's not you he's talking to.
Nightmares. He's having nightmares.
"Let me go," he asks of his demons. You can guess who they are, whose faces they wear, "just let me go."
You move closer, shifting slowly so as not to startle him, and sit down at his side. This close, you can see the tears, see how tightly he's got his eyes screwed shut. You reach out, like you would if you were trying to calm a skittish colt, and settle a hand on his shoulder. Your thumb brushes against his neck and you can feel his heart racing. A layer of cold sweat coats his skin.
He flinches away from your touch.
You don't take it personally; you've been here before.
You shake him lightly, to try to snap him out of whatever dream he's trapped so deeply in, to try to draw him back to reality, where he's escaped the living nightmares, where you won't let them touch him again, where he's safe. But maybe you underestimated his level of consciousness because in a second he's up and fighting you, blindly throwing reckless punches about in an attempt to escape this imagined capture while he calls out for his lost brothers. One flailing fist hits you hard in the nose, makes you sees stars for a moment, but you hold on, riding out the waves of his panicked, anxious dreams until he's clinging to you instead of fighting you, sobbing into your shoulder and clutching at your tunic instead of trying to get away. You hold him closely, tightly, trying to ground him back in the here and now. You're pressed in so close to him that your foreheads touch; you use your hands to soothe him because your voice cannot.
It seems like hours pass before his panicked breathing settles into deep, gulping breaths, until the shaking subsides. You're both exhausted, and the first lights of dawn are already breaking over the trees.
"Sorry," he manages, finally, "The dreams… I… They're so real…"
You know the feeling, you've had nightmares of your own for a long time, you've relived a lot of battles. Nothing stops them short of time and distance, but distractions can chase them away for a while and that's all you can offer him right now.
You're already so close and it only takes the smallest of movements to bridge the distance between you, to tilt your head just a little bit, to press your lips against his in a cautious kiss, not quite sure how he'll react to you.
He pulls away, but not far, his brown eyes searching yours and whatever he's looking for he must find there, because a second later he's kissing you, too.
Weeks have passed. Bruises have healed, nightmares have faded, kisses traded.
But then things change.
Diarmuid is just returning from fetching some water for the herbalist when the mute rushes up to him, and he can see by the look on the other man's face that something bad has happened. "What's wrong?" He asks, already dreading the answer.
"Riders!" Someone calls, before the mute can relay whatever information he has. It isn't unusual in and of itself – there are frequently riders approaching the camp, bringing supplies or messages or new orders – but then he sees the banners of burgundy and white on the horizon.
Sir Raymond de Merville.
Diarmuid feels as if something has taken all the air out of him, and his ribs ache with a phantom pain at the sight of those damned fox banners. "No," he gasps, what should he do now? Should he run? Should he hide? Surely, he has no chance at either, de Merville has well-trained tracking dogs who could find him with no trouble. He feels his breathing pick up, can hear his heart racing, the sounds around him disappear into a weird ringing noise.
Hands land on his shoulders, soothing and gentle, a grounding weight that pulls him back from the edge of panic yet again. He's not alone this time.
The mute urges Diarmuid away from the center of camp, back toward their tent, before any of the approaching riders can catch a glimpse of him.
But just moments later there's an announcement. Sir Raymond is calling for everyone's attention, but neither of them leaves the safety of the tent; they can hear well enough from within. "Nous recherchons un jeune moine qui serait récemment apparu sur la côte près d'ici," the man proclaims. "Le garçon est recherché pour meurtre et destruction de la sainte relique qu'il a été chargé de protéger. Il y aura une grande récompense pour toute personne qui me fournira des informations."
Diarmuid, who doesn't know French, is still and tense at the mute's side. "He's after me, isn't he?" he asks, quietly.
A nod, the hand holding Diarmuid's grips tighter.
That night, when darkness falls over the camp, Diarmuid finds himself abruptly pulled from beneath the blankets. He hadn't been sleeping, no. He'd been far too worried about de Merville and his men being so close to dare to sleep, but it's still unexpected. The mute soldier presses a finger to his lips in a signal for silence before he can ask any questions and he finds himself being led from the tent and towards the woods just beyond the nearest row of tents.
The two of them quietly weave through the closely-packed copses of trees and tread carefully over the thick underbrush, trying to minimize the sounds of the crunching leaves and snapping branches underfoot. A little further ahead lays a clearing and Diarmuid frowns in confusion when he sees the lone horse hobbled there, with a saddlebag stocked with meager supplies strung over its haunches.
"You want me to go?" Diarmuid asks, already fearing what will happen to him should de Merville manage to catch him again.
The mute shoots an incredulous look in the boy's direction. He doesn't seem to have appreciated the suggestion that he'd ever send Diarmuid off alone – let alone with someone like de Merville after him. He mounts the horse and holds a hand out, his intentions are clear.
"We're both running?"
A nod.
Diarmuid looks back the way they came, back toward the camp and the life that the mute soldier is abandoning for him, for this chance to get him away from Sir Raymond de Merville. "I can't let you do that for me."
The mute is having none of it, though. He lurches forward and catches Diarmuid's hand in his own, hauls him up and onto the horse in one smooth motion. He lets Diarmuid settle behind him, arms circling around his waist before he kicks the horse into as fast a walk as it can manage with two grown men on its back.
"What would I do without you?" Diarmuid wonders to himself, holding tight to his savior.
A horn sounds in the distance.
De Merville's men have found you.
Diarmuid looks at you like the worlds about to end and maybe it is, but you guarantee it will end for you first because the only way anyone is getting to him is if they're stepping over your dead body to do it. You abandon the horse and instead rush Diarmuid down a steep hill, in search of some place to hide him away from your pursuers, but options are scarce. Finally, you see a little rock lean-to, almost a cave, enough that he'll be safe from three sides and leaving you to defend the last. You urge him in as deep as he can go into the dark shadows it provides and let your hand linger on his face for a moment before you draw your sword and take your leave.
You move loudly away from the cave, all pretense of stealth gone as you try to draw them away from Diarmuid's hideout before the battle begins, but, as you near the bank of a small stream that cuts through the woods, begin it does. And it is brutal and bloody. The first man you take out easily, with nothing more than a few parried strikes and a swift slice to the throat, but he is by far the only easy kill. The second nearly knocks your blade away, but you manage to force his own sword into his gut and he goes down, gurgling blood. A third tackles you into the water and tries to force you under, but you grab hold of his hair and rip, pulling away a good chunk of his scalp and maybe some ear along with it – you grab the sword you lost in your struggles and end him. Two more come at you at once, forcing you to split your attention between them – a delicate balance of keeping one opponent at a distance while striking at the other – a dance that takes entirely too long as de Merville attempts to slip by you toward Diarmuid's hiding place, and made even more complicated by their weapons – one with a long handled axe and the other a short dagger. Forced to rush to finish these two, you take a slice to the arm from the dagger, but while that man is striking, you slip your own blade between his ribs and he falls, leaving you with just the axe-wielder. It takes more effort than you'd like, but eventually you force that one to the ground, and use the other man's dagger to stab him in the chest until he goes still.
And then you're after de Merville.
You chase after him desperately, knowing how close he is to Diarmuid. When you reach him, you grab hold of him and spin him back toward you, dodging out of the way of the mace he swings at you. You're pleased to see the man has a wicked scar around his eye – from Diarmuid's escape, you know. The fight begins with parried blows and near misses. You're evenly matched for a moment but at some point he gets in a lucky swing and you take a hit to the ribs with the mace, knocking the air from your lungs and he does get you down, then, but not for long. You're back on your feet in mere seconds, but he strikes you again, a solid hit to the hip that drops you to your knees in the sand, he kicks your sword out of reach.
"You will suffer and he will watch. I will kill you just as I killed the other monks and then, maybe, when I am done with him, I will kill him, too," he threatens, pointedly eyeing the little cavern.
You grab a handful of river sand and throw it at de Merville's face as he taunts you, and use the opportunity it gives you to get back on your feet once more.
You're a little worse for wear now, but you're certainly not going to give up. You attack before he can, getting in too close for him to swing the mace at you with enough power to do any damage. You're manic, by then, lost in the bloodlust of battle and when you see him scrabbling for the dagger at his belt, you set upon him first, attacking with the only thing you have available to you – your teeth.
When it's over, when the blood has stopped flowing from Sir Raymond de Merville's neck and there isn't anyone else left to fight, Diarmuid runs to you.
But you're not yourself just yet – or maybe too much yourself – and you react as if the battle still rages on. Diarmuid is none the wiser and you pin him down immediately, likely before he even has time to register that you've moved at all. Your hands, of their own volition, go for his throat.
"It's me, it's me," he cries out, trying to fight through your battle haze, hands desperately scrabbling at yours. "It's just me."
His words, his voice, break through to you and you release him just as fast as you'd been on him, rolling off of him and holding your hands up to show that you mean no further harm. Not that it matters – you're revolted with yourself that despite your vow, despite everything, it was almost you that hurt him. How could you -
But, he follows you, kneeling in front of you, pressing in close. His hands are on your face, uncaring of the blood coating it. His hands are calming and gentle, and he presses his forehead to yours, grounding you the same way you'd grounded him back in the tent, trading desperate, relieved kisses that you both made it out alive.
"We have to go," he tells you, after you've stayed like that for a long moment. He pulls you to your feet. You try to hide how much your injuries hurt, but your limp gives you away, makes him slow his pace and slide beneath your arm to aid you as you hike back up the hill to the horse. He gives you this deeply worried look as you struggle to mount back up, but you do, letting him lead for now, sitting behind him and holding on tightly as the horse marches on.
And, together, you run.
Slánaitheoir - Savior.
Shábháil tú dom? - You saved me?
Nous recherchons un jeune moine qui serait récemment apparu sur la côte près d'ici. - We are looking for a young monk who would have recently appeared on the coast near here.
Le garçon est recherché pour meurtre et destruction de la sainte relique qu'il a été chargé de protéger. - The boy is wanted for murder and destruction of the holy relic that he was charged to protect.
Il y aura une grande récompense pour toute personne qui me fournira des informations. - There will be a great reward for anyone who will provide me with information.
(Per Google Translate for French and Irish)