Prompt: A fic of any length about Thomas Cahill.
Warning: A good bit of cursing from the Briton Brothers.

-=-(*)-=-

September 15,
In the Year of Our Lord, 1499

She was a fairy. The boy tightened his furious scowl and kicked at a particularly audacious stick in his path. Luke's voice - curse his older brother because he always, always, always took everything for himself with those greedy, snake-like eyes, even thoughts - still echoed in his head about five notes higher than it normally would've sounded. Don't touch her, Thomas. Don't look at her because she'll obviously be cursed forever from your clumsiness, Thomas. She's fragile, Thomas. Go out and play with something less breakable, Thomas. Go and do anything, Thomas. If Jane wasn't a fairy, why did everyone bother protecting her, or at least acting like she was some kind of porcelain doll? She wasn't a doll in the least. It had been almost two years since she was born and she still pooped her diapers like fresh ones weren't going to be in short supply. "Go do something, Thomas." The boy mimicked Luke in an unbecoming falsetto before kicking an innocent rock. He was going to do something for sure.

Thomas Cahill stopped for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the quaint pillar of smoke slipping through trees behind him. It wasn't particularly interesting, but her could use it as a marker to know where he was on the island. At the moment, he was thirty of his own paces from a patch of unnamable, but very edible berries only he knew about, fifty paces to the shore on his left, and some two hundred paces more till he reached the Chair.

The Chair was a ledge about five feet out that stretched along the side of the cliff separating the two halves of Cahill Island. Fifty feet up and another fifty feet down, it was overgrown with lichen and tiny yellow flowers - at least it had been the last time he'd checked - because nobody ever went there. Nobody even knew about the ledge except Katherine, who thought he was stupid for naming it for something stupid like a stupid Chair (her precise words) and ought to not be an explorer if he was going to name all the things he discovered something dumb like a chair (a downsized opinion.) She'd then proceeded to tell his father (not about The Chair, but in words of 'Thomas is so liiitttle and so weeeak and paatheticc that he's just going to diiie if you let him go past that thing on his oowwn'.) so that Gideon forbade Thomas to ever do anything rash concerning The Chair.

But like that was going to happen. When had he ever been rash?

Thomas brushed the thought aside. But it did look like a chair; if for a very, very skinny giant with incredibly long legs when you turned it on its side and thought very, very hard about someone enormous sitting there.

Thomas squinted his brown eyes and his hands clenched tightly into the tree beside him. The smoke needed to fit right between the fork in a tree, but he wasn't quite, quite tall enough to get there- Thomas huffed. It sucked being short ninety percent of the time. The other one percent was when he could crawl into some space the Large People hadn't even known existed. Once, he'd managed to work his way into Luke's laundry basket and cover himself with clothes. (Who knew that a guy that never did anything could stink like kid-vomit?) Four hours and a very peaceful nap later, his mother had found him. Apparently they'd been looking all over the house and only found him because she never abandoned martial duties in the happenstance of a crisis. But really. You didn't look in a laundry basket? Best hiding place ever. At any rate, his height was awful on these expeditions. This smoke-adjusting was ridiculous because it only if he got it just right, his left arm would twist back as far as if could go and would be pointing north. If he twisted his right arm comfortable back- oh, what the hell. It wasn't like he didn't know where he was going anyway. Snorting, because he was just too good an explorer for such mundane matters as checking location, he started towards The Chair again.

After a few minutes of brisk walking, Thomas stopped again to look over the short cliff of Cahill Island at the churning water below. A particularly rambunctious wave kicked up its heels on the rocks, tossing spray seven feet in the air and wafting a delicious smell of excitement tinted with salt towards him. He breathed it in for a second, letting the taste seep into his lungs before it got to be too much and he sneezed. The never-ending sea was beautiful, however. Thomas could never understand just why there had to be a larger island in the way of the ocean. Okay, it wasn't just an island, but it was still something blocking his ocean view. Out here on the west side, there was nothing but water. Thomas loved watching the ocean change moods too. For example, it was wary today. In the salt air, there was a lingering taste of malice to come; none of the usual seabirds were out squawking their business and when the waves crashed, they crashed softly, as if saving their strength. It was not unconquerable, yet the sea was never to be underestimated. With a quick last glance at the steel grey sky, he turned and worked his way along the cliff edge towards the northern edge of the island.

As he drew closer to Hang-Man Cliff (No, the name was not stupid because no man had ever hung there, nor ever would) a thread of winter wind picked up, curling itself about him in the shadows of the leering stone. A hedge of trees blocked land-passage at this point, so Thomas brushed aside a few ferns and held onto an oak limb for safety as he swung around them perilously close to the edge of the sea. He peeked down at the lashing water and the periodically exposed rocks once he was steady, but they looked venomous and he hurried past.

After a good quarter-mile of more forest, the island leveled out into a gentle plain. Then Hang-Man Cliff jutted itself up into the landscape without a shrub or slope, as if the Creator wanted a barrier to the other side of the island and had no second-thoughts. It spanned the whole island and held a stance beside the sea in all its magnificent, deadly glory. If he decided not to go to the other side of the island, he could turn right and go east, parallel to the cliff. It would be a half-mile to the nearest habitation; Lord Vesper's manor, which wasn't hospitable. If he looked back, there would be the faintest trail of smoke above the tree line from home. But he didn't look, since there was the task at hand to be conquered: beyond the Chair was something… new. Thomas glanced at the ledge he was going to try to cross: wild grass from the small meadow had crept up along the path, filling the few available spaces with clumps that could be helpful or fatal. Thomas perked his head, stopping in the middle of the meadow just to let the wind sweep over him and let the idea marinate in his mind. A new land. Everyone knew it was there, but nobody had ever been there. The cliff effectively blocked all land passage - except for The Chair, which only he knew of—and the cliffs on the other side, along with dangerous rocks, prevented any sane captain from docking a ship there. He would be the first person there; maybe the first since the beginning of the world, because he hadn't even heard stories of Ancestor Madeleine being farther than Hang-Man Cliff.*

A rush of giddiness ran through him and Thomas stepped fearlessly forward, brushing back a hair strand Old Man Winter seemed determined to blow in front of his face. Pausing for a second to give the water on one side and the towering cliff on the other a courteous glance, Thomas pressed on. However, after a short ways, he realized the grass reached up to his waist and pushing through it was a bit harder than it looked. And the other side looked so—Thomas looked back after half a second. Home was way over there and the cliff was starting to curve to the other side of the island so that little smoke-trail of home wasn't even visible and oh crap he was going to fall into the sea and diiiee.

Thomas belted for the other side – not back, because it would be terrifying to face the sea as he made a U-turn – until the clumps of grass started determining where he ran and a stone slipped off the edge and fell into the sea and he couldn't hear the splash. He choked and fell flat on his face, letting the wind wash over him and his terror. Was- was it really that far down that he couldn't hear a splash? It couldn't possibly be. Thomas bit his lip and inched forward on his stomach to peer over the edge. A wave - perhaps the trillionth in a perpetual series of them with another million-trillion coming after – crashed up and a bit of relief crept into his heart. Of course he wouldn't hear a simple splash through all that. A rather sickly smile spread over his face. Here he was, lying around with a new land to explore. What was he thinking?

Pressing on one knee, Thomas climbed to his feet and huddled against the cliff wall. To his relief, it didn't seem to be moving towards the sea. Once, Gideon had told him of a story of a fellow in this same predicament who'd thought he was safe until a mechanized overhang pushed him over a ridge and he'd been forced to use handholds of grass, growing on the edge of the cliff, to save himself from certain death. Thomas wasn't positive about the authenticity of the story, but it was a pretty good bet if the cliff started pushing him towards the water, he wasn't going to be able to hold himself up with grass. All the grass growing on the cliff was by his feet. Nothing grew on the cliff face.

Thomas sniffed slightly and rubbed his tunic sleeve over his face. It felt a bit better when guarded from the wind, so he let his watery eyes warm up again, holding a sleeve over his nose and half his vision. There wasn't a lull in the wind, but he crept forward, keeping his face towards the ground and measuring the varying distance between cliff and sea. The grass clumps were pretty easy to avoid once you got the hang of them. He skirted a tussock on the upper cliff side, picking his way around them until there were too many to dodge. And now he thought of it, the sound of the waves had faded, hadn't they?

Thomas pursed his lips and looked up, pulling his sleeve away from his face. The cliff face to his right was definitely shorter; he could almost see the sea over the lip. There were tuffs of waving weed on top of it, and it sloped gently downwards to meet in a grassy meadow. The sea was some fifteen feet away on his left and on the ledge there was a tree line, a bit like the side of the island he'd just left. The forest slopped upward around the meadow to the edge of Hang-Man Cliff and protected the island from the brunt of the northern winds. This southern end was a valley; no, a bowl. Thomas pursed his lips in happy thought. A valowl. He was the first to see the valowl of Northern Cahill Island; a thing others hadn't known existed before he took command and showed them. And yet they fussed over Jane, who could do nothing but slobber and wet her diapers.

He tossed his head, flicking strands of hair to the wind. After another moment, Thomas picked up a good-sized pebble and tossed it once in his hand. It fell at a decent speed, heavy enough for his purpose. Pulling back his arm, he let the stone fly. It disappeared overhead and left the afternoon peaceful until two birds started up from their rest in the middle of the meadow and flew for the trees. They were just like the fowl on the other side of the island. Thomas shrugged inwardly and wondered why he'd thought they'd be any different.

Glancing around the valowl one more time, he started for the middle of the meadow. As he walked into it, the wind's strength lessened, allowing him to get a better glance around. There were a few scattered, bent and warped trees in the meadow, although more were behind him, towards the sloping top of Hang-Man Cliff, and in front. There were some rocks and a few rabbits holes as well; nothing much. A fresh surge of wind flatted the grass around him and Thomas shuddered slightly to shake off the chill. Maybe the ancestors had been right to build the house south, in the shadow of the cliff. It was far too windy here.

He stomped forward again, breaking into a run up the valowl's opposite slope. Wind whipped the branches of the trees in front, absolutely determined to ensnare him but Thomas stumbled inside the forest, far enough inside that the only thing the wind could do was howl its loss over the upper branches. 'Cause he was just that awesome. Ha.

Giving a self-satisfied snort, he continued heading uphill. It would be a bit nice to get as far north as he ever might get on this blasted island; he'd probably be billions of years old before he could leave on his own to go to the mainland and go north there - not that he knew anyone who lived to be a billion, but it was the thought of the thing. On second thought, he just wanted to get to the rim, and since this was an island - duh - any direction he followed would technically lead him to the edge. It was more fun trying to go north though. Thomas glanced at a tree's pasty-green bark and turned slightly to the left. Having moss definitely helped.

Despite all his musing, It was funny how quiet it was on the island. There were a few rustles, probably from rabbits – there had been a notable population on the south side, but not too many now with a slingshot and him protecting Olivia's garden – or birds, but no bird calls. Thomas stopped and cocked his head. There really ought to be birds. Usually they'd be swirling overhead, even in bad weather. But nope, nothing but the wind. He waited a few more seconds to whistle a quick assuring call. It brought most of the birds at home flocking; here, there was silence. What on earth could've made- Thomas blinked at the ground.

Footprints. Big ones.

Holding a hand out to steady himself on the nearest stump, he slid his boot against the larger, damp footprint. It was twice as big as his at least, maybe bigger than Gideon's, though that didn't exactly count because Gideon had small feet. Thomas pulled his foot away and examined the print. The boots definitely hadn't been made on the island or the close regions of the mainland. They had little squiggly ridges that dug into the dirt and kicked a bit up at the toe, plus, there was a break at the arch of the foot and another statement of squiggly ridges at the heel. Farmers didn't wear boots like that. Their boots were flat all the way down the sole. So were his. Thomas glanced behind him – twisting his neck instead of just turning around. Sure enough, his footprints were in the mud, soles flat with the shape hugging the size of his foot. So if these boots couldn't possibly belong to anyone on the island and nobody came onto the inhabited side unchecked, who on earth could possibly slip by?

Thomas scrunched up his face with heavy concentration. The only possible way someone might've gotten onto the south side without being seen would be to approach it from open water from the west. ... but that was dangerous; too many rocks. And besides, Father had always said the cliffs around the island were unobtainable, even from the inhabited south side. Someone tried to climb down them once; the man had slipped on the wet stones and plummeted fifty feet into the rocks below. Nobody had ever tried that again. Obviously they must've had another way-

"Sod off, lubber." There was an enormous crash somewhere to his right, leaving Thomas frozen in shock. The shrubs behind him weren't thick enough to hide anything and it was wide enough to be a forest causeway to the sides- There was a gruff snarl and a different, deeper voice broke out in rough Gaelic; something that sounded like 'the two-faced son of a slapper cow.'

"If ye jus' carried yer bloody side of t'e t'ing, I woul'n't 'ave to – fuck-" That voice was English. There was no denying the glottled 't's and the rough, mixed vowels.* Thomas flinched as another crash sounded and the deeper voice cursed. "-'old it up! The bloody thing slips!"

A low grunt. And this voice was Irish; low, comfortable, and while different, still reasonably familiar.* Thomas couldn't identify the region though; he leaned closer. "And ye said i'd be so easy."

The first voice scoffed, a low, grating sound that sounded like he was shoveling gravel in a pleasant mood - possibly dragging a shovel over stone in a bad one. "I's not my fault 'e lathered it wi' pig grease- walk straig't dammit."

"I 'm walkin' straig't. Don' look at me- Get yer bloody 'ingers off my side of the fecking chest afore I break 'em fer you."

There was another crash – apparently every five steps they took, one tripped over the other's foot – and two men burst out of a large collection of ferns lugging a chest between them that did indeed glisten with pig's fat. The smaller man stared at Thomas a very, very long moment and dropped his side of the chest. The taller man raised an eyebrow and moved his foot out of the way before the chest landed with a heavy thud that specified it would've broken his foot had it stayed there. Both men had the same kind of overcoat suit on, although the shorter wore a deep, blood red that reached his thighs and the other had an even longer rich green; both were trimmed with gold, although neither man was very neat about the lavish clothes from the wrinkles in them and unfastened buttons. Their black boots were formed differently, just as Thomas had suspected: knee-length with an oddly shaped heel. And then for a second, Thomas looked back and forth at the two just because they looked so similar. Their hair was the same mussed mess and they had remarkably thick eyebrows although the shorter's hair was a golden blond and his elder – he had to be older; he just looked like Luke did when he was pissed off – was red. Thomas took a second look. Those thick eyebrows, similar, but too different in texture to compare were drawing down with an expression very similar to anger… and Thomas was just- standing there-

A (manly) scream lodged in Thomas' throat, thankfully coming out in mangled yelps. He spun around the way he'd come and dove for cover in the nearest shrub while something exploded behind him.

"YA TOLD ME TH'IS ISLAND WAS UNIN'ABITED YA FUCKN' WANKER! T'IS IS T'E LAST TIME-" Something grabbed Thomas' collar, making him choke as he was yanked off his feet. "-I TRUST YE TA SPORT SCOT'LAND!"

Thomas lashed out behind him, but his feet didn't reach and the kicks fell short. "Let go of me! I can't- breathe- Let go of me, or- or I'll scream!"

The man with the blond hair snorted, lifting him higher so they were at the same eye level. "W'ere 're yer bloody parents? Don't they 'ave a blasted thing to do o'er than sit around and watch you mangle any form of manners you might 'ave?"

Thomas shot him his best glare, clenching his hands into fists. "I said, let me go!"

"Put him down." Thank God for small mercies, Thomas glared harder at the first man, curling his lip up so some teeth showed. Out of the corner of his eye, the second man snarled and his green eyes blazed. "Put him down."

"'m not fuckin' putting 'im down. Who the 'ell is he? I want to know; an' why the bloody 'ell is he on yer feckin' 'uninhabit'd'island?"

"I'm C-Cahill, and this is-"

The second man suddenly stepped up and leaned in close to the first, fist locked and powerful in front of the blond man's nose. "Put him down or London is screwed."

London? What was London? It must be important since Thomas found himself flat on his back in a pile of decaying leaves a few seconds later. He scrambled back on his hands, gasped to get air back in him, then flipped over and plowed into the forest. The meadow wasn't too far away and with his short legs, he could probably make better time downhill than the taller fellows-

A hand snagged his shoulder and Thomas yelped as he flew backwards. It was the man in the green coat now. He seemed a bit calmer than his friend, but Thomas stepped back, clenching his fists just in case. His feet were on the ground now and they totally wouldn't be able to climb trees; just because... because... because adults couldn't. Logic totally made sense. The man turned him around and held up a hand. "Hold on, will ya?" The man glanced over his shoulder at his glowering counterpart. "M' brother is a bit of 'n arse most of t'e time, so don't pay 'im any mind. Look… Tom, ye took us a bit by surprise-"

He'd never announced his name. Thomas blinked in surprise, realizing after a second the man's brother – it made sense the two men were brothers – was staring at the man the same way, granted, a bit fiercer. "I never told you-"

"'s a bit of… a 'abit," the man with the green coat interrupted quickly. "We thoug't nobody came to this part of the island."

Like that was an excuse. Maybe... Thomas gritted his teeth. Maybe they were invaders from Norway! That would explain the other man's weird accent! And yes, this Green Man spoke Gaelic, but his accent was still a little foreign and therefore worthy of suspicioun. Only... Gideon said that Norwegians spoke Norwegian, and Thomas didn't know Norwegian, so they must not be Norwegian. That was so stupid anyway. You were Norwegian and spoke Norwegian. Lazy people; they couldn't come up with anything better to name a language than Norwegian? Anyway, they didn't come from anywhere near the island, so they couldn't be trusted. Thomas curled up his lip. "He- he tried to- to bloody choke me?! I came here for an adventure! Some adventure this is turning out to be!"

He could've sworn Green Coat cracked a smile but his face returned to an amused mask soon after. "Af'er we leave, I give ye permiss'n to attack 'im all you like. However, at t'e moment, we're a bit busy."

"With the chest?"

The man glanced behind him. His brother had crossed his arms and was scowling harder than ever at the duo. Those fuzzy eyebrows were drawn in tight to one flat angry line across his face. "With t'e chest. 's a bit of 'n import'nt thing, ye see. Allistor was a bit of a bas-" The man stopped the word before it was all the way out. "-was trying our patience 'n we t'ought it'd be a bonny turn to give him the slip once."

"Stop tellin' 'im your life's story," the blond man snapped, stepping closer and glaring down at Thomas while address him. Thomas stuck out his tongue. "-ya rat's arsed-" The blond man leaned in closer. "Go back to your fuckin' 'ome and forget ye saw us, 'n if a pissed giant comes blasting down 'n yer fucking front door, tell 'im ta go eat 'is shit an' get lost!"

"Shut it, Arthur." Green-Coat Man snapped.

And 'Arthur,' apparently, snorted. "Aye, keep talkin', because we've got all t'e time in the world."

Green Coat scowled. "And ye're chivvying away wit' that stupid chest and tripping us up with those boots you 'ad to 'ave-"

"They're comfortable, ass!"

"Tell that ta Allistor when 'e finds out that thing's been stol'n-"

Thomas paused for a moment to watch the two men argue. They seemed quite comfortable with each other and Arthur's brother seemed to have forgotten to keep a hand on his shoulder - for the moment at any rate. Biting his lip, Thomas turned around quietly on his heel and lifted his foot towards freedom.

"An' where are ye goin', bloody git?" Arthur snapped and before Thomas could make a break for it, a hand closed on his tunic's collar. One of his new vocabulary words ran through his head: fuuuu- "Genius Irelan' here might let ya off, but ye 're goin' 'ome ta spit everyt'ing out to Scotland when 'e gets 'ere-"

"Arthur, le' him go." Seamus put a tad too much weight on 'Arthur', but his eyes narrowed again. "Let 'im go."

"Fine…" Thomas flinched as Arthur's hand tightened on his collar, shortening his breath. It hurt a tad too much to focus on what they were saying at the moment, even though the man in green seemed concerned for his present safety. Arthur huffed. "... Seamus." The hand dropped and Thomas scurried away to watch the duo from a safer distance.

They were going to argue again, he realized when he got his breath back. Thomas pursed his lips at the development. Arthur looked like he wasn't going to let him run away any time soon for whatever reason – 'cause the man didn't want him there at all – and Seamus wasn't taking anything about Thomas seriously. The boy felt a peeved frown cross his face. They could at least try and speed it up to suit him. He grabbed a fistful of Seamus' coat and tugged at it. "What do you want?"

The man look surprised; surprised, but kind. Kinder than Arthur at any rate; that man looked positively murderous. "A Ca'ill's honor ye won't let off about this to anyone."

Thomas brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. "You only had to ask that."

"I know." Seamus pursed his lips for a moment before raising a casual eyebrow. "Where would you 'ide something 'ere-"

"USE YER OWN BLOODY HIDING PLACE, FUCKER!" Arthur snarled. He marched back to the chest, eyes burning. "Get o'er 'ere 'n carry yer 'alf of this fucking weight 'n don't tell me ta stuff it for the blooming git over there because if 'e 'asn't heard it before, 'e will sometime in 'is bloody life. Now get over 'ere or I'll carry it myself!"

Seamus' lip curled up in a wry sneer as he turned back to Thomas. "You do that."

The forest fell into the kind of silence that implied deep and undying loathing. Arthur stood next to the chest, shaking like the wind was blowing him to pieces with his face turning a livid shade. Even his eyes swelled up and looked as if they were going to pop out of his head. He was going to explode at some point. Thomas reached up and found Seamus' hand, gripping it tightly. He wasn't frightened at all. It just… would be nice to have someone between him and the volcano. Seamus glanced down at him, curious, or perhaps just a bit confused. "How old are you now?"

"Five 'n two months 'n thirteen days."

"Where are yer parents? I don't see t'em sending ya-"

Thomas pulled his hand away, sniffing at the injustice. "I came alone."

There was a long moment. "'ow?"

"Over The Chair."

"The Chair-" Seamus ran a hand through his messy red hair, shooting disappointed glances at him. "You mean you managed to cross that ledge by yourself."

"I'm not a child-"

Seamus opened his mouth at the same time as Arthur's livid face and tightly locked lips burst open, covering them with a wave of sound that was probably heard on the south side of the island as well. "FUCK YA IR'LAND! FUCK YOUR FR'ENDS, 'N FUCK YOUR LEPRECHAUNS, FUCK YOUR-" Arthur lunged forward, trying a swing at Seamus who stepped back just far enough the punch missed him. "-FU'ING SHIT AND ALL YOUR BLOODY PIXIES AND T'EIR FUC'ING COURT AND THEIR FUCKING ACQUAIN'ANCES AN' YER FUCKING SHAMROCKS THAT DON'T FUCKING HOLD NOWT 'N YER PEAR SHAPED LIFE THAT BLOODY FUCKING SHITS UP 'VERY FUCKING IDEA-"

Thomas pulled away from Seamus' hands that were attempting to clamp down on his ears. Murderous Arthur caught the movement and Thomas took a step back as those furious emerald eyes whirled on him.

"AND YOU!" There was a two second pause that lasted for hours with Arthur's wild eyebrows just about the only thing Thomas could make out on the face. "DAFT, BLOODY FUCKING SON OF A PLASTERED- CAT, WHY DON'T YOU CALL SOME LEPRECHAUNS AND NAFF OFF TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM BECAUSE ALL I NEEDED TO DO WAS BURY A STUPID CHEST ON A FUCKING ISLAND THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DESERTED AN' YE RUIN. FUCKING. EVERYTHING."

And then Arthur flew into a tree.

Which was rather funny, Thomas supposed, considering he'd basically been threatening to pummel him and Seamus to (bloody, fucking?) pieces. Seamus stepped forward, fists clenched and eyes just as dangerous-looking as his brother's. "Why don't you repeat that?"

Arthur ran a tongue over his lips for a long moment and then spit into a nearby bush. A leaf dipped down, smeared with red. "Repeat what?"

"About the Cahills."

Thomas felt the emerald eyes lower on him for a long, long moment. "… tell 'im to go 'ome."

"I came by myself. Can go home myself if I want to."

Arthur straightened himself and brushed a bit of bark off his red suit. It wasn't fancy, Thomas suddenly realized. The red had been dulled to dark burgundy and the plaited gold was tarnished in the overlapping creases; he wondered why he hadn't noticed that before. Arthur glanced around the clearing until his eyes settled back on Thomas. The words hung, unsaid. "… then go."

"Don't want to."

"Now 'ow bloody likely, is that?" Arthur shot a disgusted glance at Seamus.

His brother rolled his eyes and puffed out a breath. "That 'sn't the point, Arthur."

"If you're so concerned about 'is safety, you don't see too concerned 'bout Allistor!"

"Of course I'm bloody concerned. You're wasting the whole day."

"Not wasting as much time as you with your frilly obsessions over nincompoops and straight fairy trails drawn on the ground!*"

"Wha' about magic?"* Seamus snapped, "Fucked over yer shit fer five hundred years, didn't I?"

"Well, ex-bloody-cuse me fer ownin' yer arse, vier for independ'nce. An' ye certainly seemed 'appy enough with Sir Patrick from yer damn raids.*"

Seamus' lip curled up. "'n ya certainly lapped up m' druids."

"Tha' doesn' count!"

Up flew the fists although Arthur expected it and it took a minute or so of roughhousing on the ground to get him pinned back against the tree. They glared at each other for a while, trying to remember the reason why they'd started fighting. Seamus took a quiet breath. "I want Robirt from your crew."

"Kiss my arse, lubber."

"Or you're carrying that bloody chest around all by yourself and dealing with Thomas; because 'e isn't going home any time soon."

The man's eyes narrowed, then he shoved his brother's arm away for a few seconds to glance behind him. "Where's the bloody git?"

Seamus whirled around, causing Arthur to lose his balance on the tree and stumble forward. The chest was sitting where it'd been dropped five minutes before, but Thomas had vanished. Not a branch waved or a startled bird flew to point where he'd gone. Seamus blinked, a look of surprise that didn't seem at all to fit there settling on his face. "But- but where'd 'e go?"

Arthur marched away and grabbed his end of the chest, waiting for his brother. "Good riddance. Now get yer arse over 'ere before I tell Robirt to whack you on the 'ead."

-=-(*)-=-

Thomas pursed his lips.

If he ran home – the extremely appealing option – Mum would be serving tea; maybe with crumpets. There might even be cookies or soda bread or something wonderful as a treat since he came back in time for it. But.… He lowered his gaze, a single eye peeking out from behind a shrub. Arthur and Seamus crashed their way through the woods, destroying a decent number of plant life and scaring birds up every few yards. He'd learned half a dozen new words, at least – quite the accomplishment. And after few minutes, Arthur didn't seem that bad. He had temper issues – not even Luke's was that bad – but it seemed to be mostly lighthearted banter; he wouldn't murder his brother at any rate. Besides, it couldn't hurt to follow them; they would go bury a treasure chest that was Allistor's and then go back whatever way they'd came. It couldn't be too difficult to track them either because they were creating a gleeful racket and leaving an obvious trail if you knew how to follow it.

… Which made Thomas wonder if Allistor knew how to track things. He waited for a second as the trees closed in on Arthur and Seamus for a second before darting across the clearing and crouching down in a new patch of shrubbery.

It took a while. Apparently the box was heavy and pig's grease made it difficult to transport. They made their way through the forested areas of the valowl without too much trouble until Thomas found himself on the edge of the eastern cliff, huddled between two ancient elm trees while the wind screamed around the island, tossing the men's coat ends like chaff in the wind. There was no talking now as they struggled up to the very edge of the cliff and looked down over.

Were they going to climb down?

Seamus dropped his side of the chest with a sharp bang, making Arthur jump and bark something out. The man shrugged it off and then headed into the outskirts of the woods; a round-about way on the lip of the volowl. Maybe he was going back for something. Thomas slunk down against the tree and watched Arthur carefully. The man sighed, a bit resignedly, it seemed, and crossed his arms. He stared out at the sea, watching it writhe and thrash like a wild thing. The sky was growing darker and more menacing every few minutes; the thought that the sea had been restraining its power didn't fit now. Thomas stared at the incoming waves as they rolled in; fierce, powerful, and vicious. He wasn't close enough to the edge to see the crash, but he could feel it. They beat against the island without compunction and with the howling wind, beads of spray showered onto the grass. Arthur was going to get soaked if he stood there for much longer.

Thomas waited for the man to move, but he didn't. It didn't look like he wanted to move. There was something sturdy about his posture, like he knew exactly where he was in the world and what was happening at that incident, and the storm – any weather, foul or worse – wasn't going to deter his plans. It was almost curious the way the wind tossed his golden hair and he didn't care. It didn't make his temper any worse, but it certainly didn't make it any better. Prepared; maybe that was the word. Thomas cocked his head slightly, allowing it to stick out more between the two trees.

"I thought you went home."

Thomas screamed (masculinely) and spun around. And of course Seamus was there. He should've known. "I- I don't need to go home. Not until supper!"

Seamus scrubbed his face, green eyes glittering in a tired manner. "You won't tell a soul."

"Why not?"

He pursed his lips. "It's personal. And if you tell Allistor, nothing's going pleasant for you, or yer family."

"Why?"

"Because he's a pain in the ar-" Seamus cut off the word and looked a little cross, trying to decide what to say.

"Because he's an arse?"

Seamus scrubbed his face again. "You were following us the whole time, weren't you?"

"Yes."

The man sighed. "Yes, because he's an arse, and if you so repeat that word around anyone but Arthur and I, I'll toss you off the halyard an' dig you out of the ocean to stuff you in the brig until yer bones rot." The green eyes became sharp and they narrowed down on him. "Got it?"

"Hm mh." Thomas glanced at the coat. It wasn't quite as worn as Arthur's, but the gold outline only glistened dimly and the green cloth had faded. He had a good view of the black boots and there appeared to be little white specks on them… like… dried salt. "Are you a sailor?"

The bushy eyebrows rose. "No, I 'ave a magic carpet. 'course we're bloody sailors." Seamus snorted, turning around and marching towards his brother so the wind caught the words a little. "How do you think we got 'ere?"

"But nobody can climb the-"

Hearing them, Arthur spun around with those glittering green eyes and Thomas stopped dead. It was awful how alike the two brothers looked, and were and weren't. "Back again, are ye?"

"I'm not going home yet."

Arthur looked away and spit into the grass so Thomas glanced at Seamus who was investigating a pile of rocks. The wind tousled his fiery red hair until he finally bent down and kicked a few pebbles away. Grabbing a large stone, he pulled it upwards and the earth itself opened into a trapdoor, like magic.

Thomas scurried against the wind to Seamus' side and they peered down the space together. It wasn't magic; a trapdoor had been placed in the earth with the stone chained to it somehow with dirt placed over it. After a time, the grasses had grown over it, hiding it completely. Seamus glanced past the rock pile towards the sea, looking quite pleased. "Unsurpassable," he murmured, and smiled.

"Quit your blasted gloating," Arthur snapped from beside them. Thomas jumped. "Carry your side. The faster we do this, the faster we can get off this bleeding island." He glanced at Thomas with that ferocious scowl and dug steel and tinder out of his coat pocket. If he hadn't been such a good catch, Thomas would've fallen down the hole when he tossed them. "Be a useful bloody git, will you? T'ere's a torch farther down. Get on with it."

Thomas glanced at the hole. It was (fucking) dark down there, and there might be spiders…. Awesome.

He leaped in and barely caught himself from breaking his neck on the unevenly hewn rock stairs. There was Arthur's surly cough from above; Seamus was silent, probably just raising those bushy eyebrows. Flinching a little, Thomas stepped down the almost vertical stairs until the light – or however light it was with the base of the storm building above – began to fade. And then, of course, they had to put the chest where he could break his (bloody) toe. It was locked, but from what his fingers could tell him, there was an awful amount of rust on it. He snapped it easily with the flint stone and then listened to the chest's moans echo into eerie silence as he lifted the lid. Thomas dug into the stuff. There was a pile of smooth pebbles, some seriously tiny chains, and – oh yes, torches. He sat down on the step, held the base between his knees and struck steel and flint together.

-=-(*)-=-

* If I remember correctly, this isn't canon. Ancestor Madeleine 'stood on the ridge/rim/thing and claimed the island' somewhere when Olivia is mourning Gideon after his death in Vespers Rising. However, headcanon is that none of the Cahills actually take the time to go there - and Thomas wouldn't pay too much attention to legends that don't involve Gold. So he Doesn't Know That.

* Arthur should speak a general old form of Estuary English in this fic - or that's what I'm aiming for anyway. The dialect is taken from London and south England and is often compared to Cockney, though there are borderline differences which are debated. The most common inflections are a broad 'a' in words such as bath, grass, or laugh and a glottled 't'. However, 'h'-dropping is generally not used in Estuary English, but I have England and Ireland use it here.

* Ireland should speak in an Irish accent, but I'm pretty sure I botched that one up. Pretend for me, will you?

* Fairy paths are routes taken by fairies, often to places of significance. You aren't supposed to walk on fairy trails after dark and you shouldn't build houses or 'things' on or near fairy trails or Bad Things can Happen like illness, loss of possessions or loved ones, general bad luck, or even death. Ireland is where the primary legends reside, but many wives' tales and advice seekers reside all over the isles.

* St. Patrick was born in Roman Britain and captured by Irish pirates when he was sixteen. They held him captive in Ireland for six years, wereupon he ran away and took a ship back to Britain. He was supposedly in his early twenties when he got home, studied Christianity for a while longer, then returned to Ireland as a missionary where his conversions were moderately/greatly accepted. The funny thing is that he's stuck around for all this time; he must've made quite the impression on the Irish for them to mark his death and the world to celebrate it as St. Paddy's day.

Many welcomes to my once-upon-a-oneshot story! Any notes I have will be asterisked and posted as above. Please, don't feel obligated to read them at the same time as the story. They will usually be historical clarifying notes or comments on canon materials in general and not worth making your reading time awkward.

One thing though, I wish there were more clearly defined battles between the Irish and English: yes, there were multiple skirmishes, but nothing definitively tangible that got caught in the history books - minus the fact England pretty much owned Ireland's butt on and off a good portion of the time. They always fought back, but heh, the English did a pretty good job.