The winter in Kells was already turning out to be a colder one than normal. A thin layer of snow covered the normally green fields on the border between Kells and Temra. And it was still falling, large fluffy flakes drifting on the wind as they gently, silently fluttered to the ground.
It would have been a pleasant scene if not for the pitched battle taking place.
Perched atop Pyre, the Fire Dragon of Dare, Rohan wheeled over the battlefield. He had a momentary respite and was able to take stock of the fighting below him. The indigo-clad warriors of Temra were struggling to maintain a meager shield wall against the onslaught of his three compatriots and the Kells warriors supporting them. Despite the angry shouting of the Temra commander, Torc, the Temra line was retreating step by hesitating step. Angus, Deirdre, and Ivar had them well under control.
The real threat was up here, in the air, with Rohan and Pyre. The Mystic Knight of Fire pulled his attention back to the snow-filled sky. Tyrune, the three-headed dragon that was under the control of Queen Maeve of Temra, was heading back in their direction with murder in his six eyes.
"It's up to us, now, Pyre!" Rohan called to his impossibly legendary mount, readying his sword. In response, Pyre gave a short roar and wheeled around, heading directly toward his counterpart. The distance between them closed impossibly fast. As soon as they were within range, Rohan fired off a few blasts of fire from his sword. Pyre joined in with his flaming breath. The bursts landed straight in one of Tyrune's three heads, causing the creature to buck wildly to the side, veering away. He whipped his tail out at Pyre as he turned, barely missing Rohan and causing him to duck.
And then, it seemed, the beast had had enough. Rather than wheel around again and make his way in for another strafing run, Tyrune flew off into the distance, back towards Temra castle.
From the ground, Rohan could hear Torc giving a frustrated cry of anger. Something about a worthless, cattle-stealing lizard.
Seeing their great beast driven off, the Temra soldiers' morale fell to a new low and Rohan could tell even from this height that it wouldn't take much more to send them scattering. Rohan patted the back of Pyre's neck, affectionately. "Let's give 'em one more reason to run and leave Kells' boarders in peace," he said to the dragon.
Obligingly, Pyre tipped downward and fell into a dive, directly at the line of Temra soldiers. He flew over them, just barely clearing the points of their spears. And with a mighty flap of his wings, he sent a gust of wind bowling them over. It was the final push they needed and as Pyre climbed back into the sky, the Temra soldiers broke ranks and ran, streaming past their cursing commander. Angrily, Torc turned his horse and followed after them.
The Kells soldiers sent up a loud cheer as Pyre wheeled back around. "That did it!" Rohan agreed. "Good job, my friend. Now, let's land and see what the damage is, eh?"
In response to this, Pyre gave a petulant snort and bucked back upward, making to turn back toward his own cave.
"Hey now, c'mon," Rohan said to him, "you've always landed to let me off before. What's wrong with you?" He twisted and leaned on his perch on the dragon's back, trying to coax him to the ground, but the beast refused to land. "What, is it the snow? Pyre, it's not that bad. You're a fire dragon. It'll melt under your feet."
Pyre gave another rebellious snort, but finally relented and came lower to the ground. He stopped before he could land, though and hovered in the air for a moment. He let loose a blast from his breath, carving out a blackened circle on the ground in the midst of all the white. It was just big enough for the dragon to land in and Rohan could feel warmth radiating up from the ground.
"Or, I suppose you could do that," Rohan muttered as he climbed off of Pyre's back. The dragon then curled up atop his warm circle, but still gave Rohan a look that said he was on the ground in these circumstances only under protest.
"Looks like Ivar and Pyre have something in common," Deirdre said as the three other Mystic Knight approached their leader and the dragon, "they both aren't fond of Kells' winter cold."
"Can't say I'm terribly fond of it, myself," Angus groused from the back of the group, "you'd think that with the cold setting in, Maeve would get frozen out of attacking."
"This is not cold," Ivar said, trying and failing not to shiver, "this is an ungodly frozen hellscape that man was not meant to inhabit. Why do people live where the air makes your face hurt?"
"C'mon, Ivar," said Rohan, "it's not that bad. We've seen much colder winters than this in Kells before, even if it is a little colder than normal."
Behind him, Pyre gave a growl and a plume of smoke shot out of his nostrils, encompassing Rohan in a cloud that he had to wave away, coughing.
"I agree with the dragon," Ivar said, wryly.
Pyre nudged Rohan with his snout. "Oh all right, you big hatchling," Rohan said to him, "the day is won. Go on home to your cozy cave."
The dragon didn't need to be told twice. He was already back on his feet before Rohan had finished his sentence and with a strong flap of his wings, he took to the air and was on his way back toward his cave without a second thought.
"I think Pyre's got the right idea," said Angus, shouldering his mace, "someplace warm sounds great about now."
"And we should get the men somewhere warm, too," Deirdre commented.
"Back to town it is," said Rohan.
Though they were tired, the soldiers were all too happy to gather together and be on the march once again. It would be several hours before they returned to the town outside of Kells castle. The whole time, Rohan would move through the battalion, holding up his flaming sword to allow the soldiers to warm their hands, even if just for a moment.
The town of Emain Macha was named for the goddess of battle and horses. Legend had it that it was situated over the very place that Macha had been drafted into a race against horses by her drunken, wagering, loudmouth of a husband.
Macha had won, of course, even in spite of being pregnant at the time. It was a point of pride for the women of the town. And it was fantastic leverage for them to get husbands who had overindulged the night before to get up out of their beds to get to work.
If Macha could best horses while pregnant, you can till the soil with a headache, was a favorite saying.
So, upon the battalion's return, the town was ready and waiting for them. Fires had already been stoked against the night and the cold in the square and food prepared for the soldiers. The ones who were wounded were tended to promptly and the ones who were not going to be returning to the castle that night were found proper lodgings.
When news of the battalion's victory had been shared with the town, the meal for the soldiers turned into a celebratory feast for all. Even more food appeared and barrels of mead were tapped.
Ivar wasn't really sure what to make of the honey wine. It was very sweet and felt like it coated his throat. But it was also very, very strong. The few times he had partaken of it since coming to Kells, he had forced himself to nurse just one tankard all night, hoping that no one would notice. There was something about the drink that seemed to act faster than any wine he was used to.
Luckily, he had an excuse, tonight. Presently, he was surrounded by several of the town's children, all circled around one of the fires. He was regaling the children with tales of the battle field. And then, one particularly precocious youngling had challenged Ivar to tell them a story that none of them had ever heard. So, he had turned to telling them tales from his homeland. To Ivar they were old and familiar, even childish. But to the kids, they were new and exotic. Their eyes lit up as they listened, entranced.
Eventually, though, the excitement drew the children off to other things, one by one, and soon Ivar found himself free to wander the celebration. Musicians were playing near the largest of the bonfires and dancing had begun, a quick, bouncing, energetic dance that had smiles plastered on the faces all participating and all watching. Among them, he spotted both Rohan and Deirdre, thoroughly enjoying themselves. The townsfolk, too, were enjoying their presence, frequently toasting the Princess of Kells, Draganta, and the Mystic Knights.
He suddenly realized that there was one face missing from the crowd. Angus wasn't normally one to bow out of a party, especially when he was one of the heroes being celebrated. With so many lovely and grateful ladies about, Angus usually allowed his roguish roots to show a little more than normal. But tonight was different. Tonight, Angus was sitting by himself near one of the smaller fires on the edge of the square, alone and staring at the flames with a small tankard in hand and an unhappy expression on his face. Ivar hadn't seen such a dark cloud over his friend since the time several weeks ago where Angus and Rohan and been getting on each other's nerves.
Resolving to do something about the former-thief's mood, Ivar made his way over and sat down on the log near the fire, next to Angus. The Mystic Knight of Earth didn't respond except to glance up from the fire and give a short nod. When it became clear that Angus wasn't going to say anything, Ivar decided to break the ice.
"You seem down, my friend," he said, "even amidst all this mirth. Is something the matter?"
"Nah," Angus replied with a dismissive bob of his head, "just thinking about things. Nothing important." He lapsed back into silence, his eyes never having left the fire.
"Well, it seems important to you," Ivar pressed, gently, "is there anything that I can do?"
Angus gave a snort of a laugh, one corner of his mouth twitching upward and then falling again. "That'd be a neat trick," he mumbled. Then he sighed and leaned back, his gaze moving to the trees reflecting the flickering firelight before above them. "No, there isn't anything anyone can do. Just... old stuff, that's all."
"Ivar, Angus!" Deirdre's voice floated over to them from the main part of the revel. Angus glanced up and then looked back to the fire. Ivar turned and saw both the princess and Rohan heading their way.
"Probably just tired," Angus said around another sigh. Then he got up, stretching out stiff muscles. "Think I'm going to call it a night." He left, heading for the hut he shared with Rohan just before Deirdre and Rohan reached them. Ivar stood and watched him disappear inside as Rohan and Deirdre came to a halt next to him.
"What's with him?" Deirdre asked, her voice equal parts insulted and concerned.
"He wouldn't tell me," Ivar said with a shake of his head, "but something is bothering him."
"Ah, it's the time of year," said Rohan, "he gets like this for a few days each year, right around the solstice."
"Why?" Deirdre asked.
"He's never told me," Rohan said with a shrug, "ever since I met him, the first part of winter, he's just... sad. Old memories of something, I suppose. It's best to leave him be."
"Are you sure?" Deirdre asked. "What could be so bad that he won't even tell his best friend?"
"Nah, he just gets worse if you press," Rohan said with a shake of his head, "he'll be back to his normal self in a few days. Just leave him to his thoughts." With that, Rohan ushered both of them back to the revel.
Unbeknownst to them, perched in the branches of the tree above, tiny wings tucked in close to guard against the cold, a much smaller figure had been watching their friend for far longer than they had. The fairy Aideen had noticed Angus' mood nearly from the start of the celebration and had taken it upon herself to keep an eye on the mystic knight. At first she had been worried that he was sick or injured after the battle. But it wasn't long before she had figured out that Angus' trouble was nothing physical. So she had kept her distance, knowing the wound it would be to his pride to be called out on it.
After covertly listening to the conversation between the other three knights, Aideen found herself even more concerned. She didn't want to intrude, but her worry got the better of her. She jumped from the tree branch and took to wing, flittering toward Rohan and Angus' hut. Silently, she lighted on the edge of the small window, covered against the cold with a careworn pelt. This she pushed aside and quietly crept into the hut, keeping in the shadows of the lantern that was casting a pale light.
Angus had already wrapped himself up in the furs and blankets on his cot, his face to the wall. At first, Aideen thought that he was shivering against the cold that lingered on blankets before they warm up from your body. But then she heard distinctly a suppressed sob. It was followed by another a minute or so later and then there was a carefully quieted sniffle.
Her heart broke. She had never seen Angus like this before. Aideen wanted so badly to light on his shoulder and say something - anything - to help. But she recalled Rohan's words and thought better of it. Instead, she quietly flew over to a table where there was a wool cap laying. She wasn't going to bother him, but she wasn't going to leave him alone, either. Wrapping the cap around her like a blanket, Aideen settled in and kept watch until they had both drifted off to sleep.
The next morning was brisk, but the warmth of the fire in the Kells castle throne hall went a long way to helping. Even so, Deirdre had chosen some of her warmer clothing for the day; a white linen shift under a burgundy dress of wool with creatures embroidered around the hem, neck, and cuffs. When the chill became too much even for this, she pulled a gold-colored cloak over her shoulders and held it close for a while.
King Conchobar, her father, had called all four Mystic Knights to the castle to go over the details of the previous day's battle. It was the usual routine. Rohan described the tides of battle, Ivar gave accounting of the number of Temra soldiers there had been, Deirdre herself reporting in on the number of injured soldiers afterward.
Absent, however, was the usual addition of Angus adding color to the stories. As unnecessary as the embellishments were, Deirdre had to admit that they made these meetings less monotonous. Even though the battle had been an easy victory for Kells, the absence of Angus' input made the whole thing seem dour.
From her seat to her father's right, Deirdre's eyes drifted to the empty chair that Angus usually occupied, then to the window where the former-thief was presently perched. He had one foot resting on the window casement and the other dangling down against the wall. His chin was resting on one hand and he stared off into the distance, as if not even present in the room.
Conchobar kept glancing over at Angus, then back to the other Knights. It was clear that he was missing the usual wisecracks, himself. At one point, the king even looked over at Rohan, a silent question in his eyes with a glance at Angus. Rohan shook his head and waved him off with a bit of an awkward shrug.
Not one to be deterred, the king turned his gaze back to the Mystic Knight of Earth.
"Angus have you anything to add?" he asked. No response was forthcoming.
"Angus?" Ivar prompted, still getting no response.
Rohan cleared his throat loudly, grunting out Angus' name once more as he did. This finally got his attention.
"Huh?" he said, his head snapping around to look at the group. "S-sorry, what?"
"My father asked if you had anything to add," Deirdre informed him, sounding a little shorter than she had intended to.
"Uh, no," Angus replied, lighting back on the floor again and wandering over to lean against the back of his chair. "No, nothing to add. I... I think they've covered it well enough." He looked away, shifting slightly under the combined scrutiny of all assembled.
Rohan turned back to Conchobar and gave an apologetic look. The king pursed his lips and gave a sigh.
"Well, then, I suppose that is that," he said, coming to his feet. The other Knights did likewise.
"I've, uh... I've got to see to... something," Angus said, "please, excuse me, my king." He gave a bow and then turned and left the hall.
There was a long silence as the other four stared after him.
"I never thought I'd see the day that Angus practiced courtly graces," Conchobar said, "is he ill?"
"Apparently, it's the time of year," Deirdre replied, adjusting her cloak and pinning it in place with an annular brooch at her neck.
"There's something about it that's hard for him," Rohan explained, "I'm sorry for the way he's acting, my king. Please, I ask patience for his sake."
"It's awful to see him like this," Ivar said, "are you certain there is nothing to be done?"
"Well, this year he does seem a little worse than normal," Rohan allowed, "but the solstice festival tomorrow should start to bring him around."
"Well, I sincerely hope so," said Conchobar, making his way to the throne and sitting, "as a Mystic Knight, the fate of Kells depends on him."
"Worry not, your majesty," Rohan said, "I'll look after him."
"So, nothing unusual then," Deirdre commented.
"Princess, he does look after me as much as I look after him," Rohan defended his best friend, "he's like my brother. A troublesome little brother, maybe, but... still."
Deirdre gave a knowing smile and lighted in the smaller seat at the right hand of the throne. It was one of the things she liked most about Rohan. He was unerringly loyal, almost to a fault; to his friends, his king, his brothers in arms, even a distrustful thief that everyone else in Emain Macha and Kells Castle had dismissed as a common criminal.
A guard entered the throne hall and gave a bow. "My king," he said, "a visitor has asked an audience with you. Lord Cet mac Magach of Cluain Bolg."
"Cluain Bolg?" Deirdre said, surprised. "That's one of Kells' farthest villages."
"Yes," Conchobar said thoughtfully, "far to the west, on the border with Temra, but not in the general path of the war, too far removed to be of any strategic value. Show him in."
The guard bowed and then left momentarily to return ushering in a man around the king's age. His hair was dark and well-kept and he wore a tunic of a deep green and a furred cloak of grey clasped at the shoulder with an iron annular broach. He came forward and bowed to Conchobar.
"Welcome, Lord Cet," the king said, "we must say, We are surprised you have made the journey all the way here. What brings you?"
"I come to pay my respects, my king," said Cet, "I am late made lord of Cluain Bolg and I deemed it appropriate to come and pledge my services. Also, to bring word of the farthest flung regions of your boarder with Temra."
"We are pleased that you have come," Conchobar said, coming to his feet and extending his right arm toward Cet. The lord took it and they clasped arms warmly. "My daughter, Deirdre," he then said, motioning to her, the moved on to the others. "Prince Ivar of the far south, and Rohan, the-"
"The warrior Draganta!" Cet said in excitement, extending a hand to Rohan. "Tales of your heroism have traveled swiftly even to my far-flung village."
Rohan took the proffered hand and gripped it strongly, giving an uncomfortable smile. "Well, I hardly do it alone. I'd be lost without the other Mystic Knight, the princess, Ivar, and Angus, of course."
"Oh, yes, the one they call Angus Dubh!" Cet said. "I had hoped to meet all of the Mystic Knights, yet I don't see him in your court, my king."
As Cet's attention turned back to the king, Rohan, Deirdre, and Ivar shared a puzzled look. Angus Dubh? Angus the Black? Who called him that? They each realized quickly that the others didn't have any idea whatsoever.
"Angus is on personal business," said the king, "likely going back to his home in the village of Emain Macha."
"Ah, seeing to his manor, then."
Confused looks all round again.
"No," Deirdre hazarded, "he lives in the village itself."
"Governing the village, then?" Cet asked.
"N-no," Ivar put in, "he's... just Angus."
It was Cet's turn to look confused as silence descended on the hall. He looked from one face to another, trying to find some explanation that made sense to him. It was frightfully apparent the moment he realized the truth of it. His mouth curled up in a twitch of distaste.
"You mean... he's a commoner?" Cet asked, looking back to Conchobar with a look that said he was scandalized. "My king, I'm surprised you would allow a base-born such responsibility. I've never heard of such a thing. How came this?"
"Well, it was either quest with me or stay in the dungeon," Rohan blurted out before he realized what his mouth was doing. Ivar gave him a swift elbow to the ribs.
"The dungeon?" Cet sounded incredulous. "The stories mention nothing of this! Your majesty, I fear I must protest! A commoner is bad enough, but a criminal as well? It is an insult to every nobleman in Kells!"
"I am a commoner, lest you forget!" Rohan shot back, his voice raising. "Would you have me stripped of my armor and the Sword of Kells, too?"
"It's different," Cet said in kind, "you are the warrior Draganta! Destined! This criminal is-"
"Is my best friend!" Rohan exclaimed, stepping toward Cet. "And my brother in arms! I won't stand here and listen to-"
"Enough!" Conchobar exclaimed, rising from the throne and commanding the attention of all in the room. "I will keep my own counsel on who is named a knight of this realm. Angus has fought well for Kells, enough I deem to act as recompense for past transgressions, and then some. And he continues to serve with loyalty and honor." He sat down again and gave a wry bob of his head. "Even if his methods are unique." He took a calming breath and set his gaze on Cet. "Lord Cet, you must be quite tired from your long journey," he said, "we will speak of business later. For now, take rest. You are welcome in the castle."
Cet visibly reined himself in and took a calming breath. "Of course, my king," he said, dropping into another bow, "you are, of course, most generous."
The king motioned to the guard who had introduced the lord. "Show Lord Cet the guest chambers."
"Well, he certainly is a presumptuous one," Ivar said after Cet had left.
"Thank you for your words in Angus' defense, my king," Rohan said.
"It pains me to say it, Rohan," said Conchobar, "but this is likely only the first of such complaints Angus will have to face. Lord Cet is clearly of an older mindset and he is not alone."
Deirdre shook her head. "I'll never understand why some nobles think that only nobles are capable of great deeds," she said, "a good leader respects all their people. A king or queen is first among equals."
Conchobar's expression softened a little as he turned to look at his daughter. "Well said, Deirdre," he said, resting a hand on hers.
Meanwhile, the subject of their conversation was traveling back to Emain Macha at a hurried pace. However, when he got there, he continued right through, never stopping, never greeting anyone. He just walked, the chain of his mace ratting on his shoulder. He continued on into the woods on the far-side of the village and disappeared into the bare, winter underbrush.
He had business to attend to; very long overdue business. It was business that shouldn't have taken him more than a decade to get around to, but it had.
The woods had changed only slightly in the intervening years. Things seemed smaller, somehow, and closer together. Of course, then again, he had been a little kid the last time. Maybe he was just bigger. But most of his landmarks were still there, so it wasn't too difficult to get where he needed to go.
Along the backside of a hill, on the edge of a little clearing, he found what he was looking for. It was a pile of stones, most no bigger than his fist, but a few were as big as the stone of his mace. Snow had drifted up on the windward side and covered the pile in a little dusting. Beneath that, he saw roots and vines and rotting old leaves hiding in the spaces between the stones. The pile was getting overgrown.
Angus gave a resigned sigh and set his mace on the ground near the pile, then began to clear away the dead and frozen plants.
"What a mess," he muttered to himself as he worked, "should never have left it this long. Guess I turned out to be an idiot, in spite of everything. I don't know what to say, except that I'm sorry."
He worked in silence for several more minutes until the stones looked cleaner. They didn't look well-kept, but at least they looked kept. With a sad grimace, he surveyed his work.
"You deserved better than this, Brighde," he said, sitting down in the snow next to the stones, "better than me." He shook his head, looking away from the stones and into the distance, feeling heat at the corners of his eyes. "I tried to come before this. I really tried. Year after year, I tried, but I just couldn't do it. I knew you would have cuffed me 'round the ears for what I turned into. I'd'ah deserved it, too. I just... couldn't ask for help after you left. I was too stubborn. Even then... too damned stubborn."
He picked up his mace and turned it over in his hands a few times, contemplating it.
"I'm trying to make it right, though," he said, "I'm trying to be something that you'd ha' been proud of. But not just you. I mean, I kinda fell into this Mystic Knight thing and... well, I've got a lot to live up to, that's all. I'm not a prince. I'm not a destined warrior. I'm just a man."
"Sure you are!" a tiny voice sounded from the tree branches above him. It was accompanied by the flutter of tiny wings as Aideen suddenly descended into view. "Just a man! One that's ridden on the back of the Fire Dragon of Dare!"
Angus gave a sour face at her. "Aideen!" he exclaimed, none too pleased. "Just how long have you been skulking around up there?" He gave a half-hearted swat through the air in her general direction as if to shoo her away. It was no trouble for her to nimbly dodge it.
"Actually, I've been following you since the castle," she admitted bashfully, "I was worried about you."
"This is private!" Angus exclaimed. "How much did you hear?"
"Uhmm... all of it?" Aideen replied, apologetically.
Angus gave a huff and shook his head, dropping it into one hand. "Great," he muttered, "just great."
"But I won't tell anyone, I promise!" Aideen hurried to add. "I just wanted to help."
"I don't need any help, Aideen," Angus snapped back, "I'm just fine."
"You're sitting in a snow pile and soaked through to the bone," Aideen pointed out, "you'll catch your death if you're not careful." He turned away from her, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Aideen flittered over and lighted on one knee. "Angus, who's buried in the cairn?" she asked gently.
Seeing that the fairy wasn't going to relent, Angus gave a resigned sigh. "Brighde," he said, "her name was Brighde. She was the old lady who took me in as a wee babe. She's the first person I remember, all right?"
"But I thought you had lived on your own since you were a child," Aideen said.
"Yeah, I was six years old when she died," Angus said, "when the winter began, she got this horrible cough. As the days got colder, it got worse and worse. About a week before the solstice, she could hardly get out of bed and was gasping. And then one day, her fingers and lips started turning blue and then..." He took a shaking breath, as if steeling himself for the memory. "It was like she just suffocated from nothing at all," he said, "and I couldn't do anything but watch." He looked off into the distance again, as if Aideen wasn't even there. "She was the only one who knew about where I came from. She always said she'd tell me when I was old enough to understand, but..."
The next thing he knew, there was a tiny warmth grasping on to his chest. He looked down and found Aideen clinging there, her arms wide as if she had been attempting to hug. It would have looked comical had she not buried her face in his leathers.
Angus didn't know he had been shivering until the warmth spread and he stopped. Aideen was glowing, ever so slightly.
"Oi," he said, "what are you...?"
"If you're gonna sit here in the cold snow, the least I can do is keep you warm," she said.
Angus leaned back against the tree that was at his back with a faint smile. "Fairy hugs," he said, "not so bad, I guess. Thanks Aideen. Guess I needed a friend after all."
"Well, someone's got to look after you," she replied.
"But seriously, don't tell anyone I was weeping like a babe, all right?"
"Don't worry," she said with a small giggle, "fairy promises are good, too."
Rohan had been all over Emain Macha looking for Angus. The sun was beginning to get low in the sky and they would both be expected back at the castle within the hour. He had returned to the hut several times to see if Angus had come back, but found it empty each time. Such was the case this time and he very nearly began to pace the small space in worry, muttering to himself under his breath.
A blast of cold hit his back and he turned to find Angus just entering the hut, letting the wool cover flop back into place over the entry. For a moment, Angus seemed surprised to see Rohan there before the familiar mask of false indifference descended on his face again.
"Hey," Angus muttered, turning to other things.
"Angus! Where've you been?" Rohan asked. "I've been looking all over for you."
"Just out," Angus replied, clearly resentful of the scrutiny, "taking a walk. What's the big deal?"
"Well, you'd know if I'd ha' been able to find you," Rohan replied, "we're expected back at the castle, soon."
"What for?" Angus asked in a tone that suggested he would rather go anywhere else.
"Dinner," said Rohan, "there's a lord visiting from one of Kells' farthest villages. The King is hosting him at his table, tonight."
Angus rolled his eyes and flopped down into his cot, throwing an arm over his face. "What's that gotta do with me?"
"The king wants us there, too, you idiot," Rohan said, scooping up a piece of Angus' clothing from where it had been discarded. He gave it a cursory sniff to make certain it was relatively clean, then tossed it at his friend. "So get cleaned up and put that on. We haven't got long."
"Can't I have a pass, this time?" Angus asked, sounding miserable as he held up and inspected the tunic. "I'm not really up for it."
Rohan turned back to him, a renewed look of concern. "Are you ill? Should I get Cathbad?"
"No, I'm not ill," Angus snapped back, "I don't need any of that old wizard's concoctions. I'm just not in the mood, that's all."
"Mood doesn't matter and you know it," Rohan replied, showing perhaps a little more irritation that he had intended, "believe me, I've no more desire to go than you do. I've already met this Lord Cet. He's not exactly a pleasant man. But the King insists on having all four of the Mystic Knights on hand." He prodded Angus with his knee. "So, up with you!"
Angus gave a long-suffering sigh and sat up. "All right, all right, I'm up." Sluggishly, he ran a hand through his hair, straightening it somewhat before running some water over his face from a nearby basin. Rohan did the same and they both began to get changed.
"You know, I really wish you'd tell me what it is that's bothering you," Rohan said, at last, trying to add as much sympathy as he could to it. He pulled a cloak on over his shoulders.
"Nothin's bothering me," Angus replied, the mask slipping for just a moment before being stubbornly put back in place, "don't worry about it."
"I can't help it," Rohan said, "for a few days every year, my best friend isn't himself. Of course I'm going to worry. Whatever it is, Angus, you know you can talk to me."
"Look, Rohan, it's ancient history," Angus said, shouldering his mace and giving a shrug, "it doesn't matter anymore. All right? So just leave it be." With that, he turned and exited the hut once more.
Rohan gave a sigh, looking after his friend for a moment before scooping Angus' cloak off of his cot, still worried. "Well, it seems to matter to you, quite a bit," he muttered, low enough to keep the sentiment to himself.
Following Angus out of the hut, he caught up with his friend and tossed the cloak over his shoulders. Angus murmured a half-hearted thanks and they both walked on in silence.
To say that Angus was bored would have been the understatement of the season. Lord Cet never stopped speaking. Apparently, he liked the sound of his own voice and assumed that everyone else liked it, too. Angus wasn't sure what there was to like about it; gravelly, almost like he was burping out his words rather than speaking them. It was really starting to grate on Angus' nerves.
At least dinner was decent. Roast boar, cooked cabbage, bread - actual wheat bread - with honeyed butter, the last of the fresh autumn apples, and three or four kinds of cheeses Angus was pretty sure he had never seen before. He could also smell a pudding being held ready for the final remove.
He was just going in for another round of pork when Cet finally stopped talking about himself for just a moment.
"So, what is it like to wear the Mystic Armor?" He asked out of the blue. "Is it... energizing? Or more like wearing normal armor that's simply neigh-invulnerable?"
"You know, I've never really thought about it," Deirdre said, hesitantly as the four knights all looked askance at one another.
"Well, they're based on the elements," Rohan stated thoughtfully, "so there's no telling if all the armors act the same way, I suppose."
"Well, there is a certain energy to it," Ivar put in, "it's more nimble than normal armor. Like... well, like water flowing, I suppose."
"Mine always feels a little bit destructive," said Rohan, "like something I can and can't control at the same time, almost... wild."
Only half paying attention to the conversation, Angus tucked into his slice of pork for a moment only to notice that Cet's eyes were curiously fixed on him, as if gauging his reaction. He'd seen that look before, of course. It was subtle, but it was there; the look that implied that the viewer was looking at something that wasn't fit to be stuck to his boot. Angus was far too used to seeing it not to notice it, though he was fairly certain the others didn't have the vaguest idea.
"Mine's more like I'm just... lighter," Deirdre said, "like I could fly away any moment or ride a breeze."
"That is fascinating," Cathbad commented, "it would seem that the Mystic Armor grants their wearers a certain quality of the elements themselves. For fire, it's a raw power that cannot be doused. Water is an ability to adapt to change in an instant. And air is a certain freedom that allows you to move about almost completely unhindered."
"I wish I could try the others," said Ivar, "I must admit that I'm curious, now."
"And what of the Knight of Earth?" Cet asked, sounding just a little pointed. "What does yours feel like, Knight Angus?" He had used the title with obvious distaste.
Angus had just taken a rather large bite of pork and was trying to navigate his teeth around it when Cet put him on the spot. He froze for a moment, like a stag in lantern light, looking from face to face seated at the table. As if remembering that he had to make a reply, he shook himself out of the momentary stupor. "Well," he said around his full mouth, too late to remember not to talk with his mouth full. Clearing his throat a little, he chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "I dunno... uh... heavy, I guess." Hastily, he turned his attention back to his plate, pushing around some of his cabbage in an effort to look busy.
There was an awkward silence as the others all stared at him for a moment, then exchanged puzzled looks.
"Heavy?" Of course it was the king who had to press the issue. No slipping back out of the conversation quietly.
"Sure," Angus said, "heavy and... really strong... like... well, like a dirty great rock, I suppose."
Silence again. Angus swore he heard the sputtering of the candles. He saw Cet's expression again. The look of disgust had deepened and he had momentarily sent a disapproving look Conchobar's direction.
"So... like the immovable object, in a way?" Conchobar ventured, finally breaking the silence.
"Yes!" Angus said, with a snap of his fingers. "Like I can't be moved from the piece of ground I choose."
"And... that's it?" Cet pressed. "But... how does that compare to normal armor?"
Tearing his eyes away from the scrutiny, Angus absently soaked up the juice from the pork on his plate with a piece of bread as if to look busy with the remains of his meal. "Well, I wouldn't know. All my years, a suit of the guard's armor was the one thing I never managed to-"
He abruptly broke off before the word could tumble out of his mouth, looking back up again to check Cet's reaction, he could see the muscles in his jaw tighten for a moment. He had obviously filled in the blank.
"Try... on," Angus finished his thought, somewhat lamely.
"No I imagine not," Cet spat, sweetly venomous, "it would be rather difficult for a street urchin to... acquire a guard's armor, I suppose."
"Not that he didn't try," Cathbad muttered, earning him an elbow nudge in the side from Deirdre.
"So tell me... Knight Angus," Cet went on through clenched teeth, "just how many silver candlesticks are there in the castle."
Angus fixed his eyes on Cet's own, trying his best to toss daggers at the lord with the look. His own jaw clenched for a moment. "Dunno," he replied, somewhat darkly, "I haven't had reason to count."
Sparks seemed to jump in the air between them for a painfully drawn-out moment. Everyone at the table seemed to move just a little bit toward the edge of their seats.
It was the King who finally broke it with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. "So, Lord Cet, you were telling us about the fighting force in your village. There was a man you had mentioned before, your local hero?"
"Yes," Cet agreed, tearing his eyes away from Angus and immediately adopting a lighter tone. "Anluan. My brother-in-law, in fact, my sister's husband. There was a small incursion of Temra soldiers near some of our farm fields once and he beat back ten men alone before our other soldiers got there. Sent them running for Temra. But, I suppose, that's to be expected of someone who regularly trains with the Royal Guard here in Kells Castle."
It was a boast, Angus could tell. It was directed at him. Angus popped his last piece of pork into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully while reaching for one of the apples waiting in a bowl. He took a small knife out of its place on his belt and proceeded to slice the apple, the sharp, well-made blade sliding through the fruit easily.
"That is... a rather well-made blade," Cet commented, his eyes narrowing just a bit.
Angus swallowed his mouthful of pork. "Oh yeah," he agreed, holding it up to look at it. The handle sparkled pewter, wrought in the shape of a beast's head. "Best knife I ever had."
"And how did you... come by it, exactly?" Cet pressed, sounding suspicious.
"Won it," Angus said, taking a bite of apple, "a wager with a soldier here at the castle about a year ago. Beat him in a sword match." He looked away for a moment, as if in thought. "Uhm, what was his name, again? I think it was... yeah, it was a guy named Anluan." Blithely he went back to slicing his apple, keeping an eye on Cet's smoldering scowl out of the corner of his eye.
Apparently, Deirdre couldn't completely suppress the snicker that escaped her. She tried to cover it up with taking a deep drink from her tankard of mead. Cet noticed it and his face began to deepen into a faint shade of red.
And match, Angus thought to himself, somewhat smugly. He tried valiantly to keep the corner of his mouth from quirking up, but just wasn't quite able to do it.
Cet didn't engage in any further verbal sparring with Angus after that, choosing instead to pointedly ignore him. Angus was okay with that. It meant that he could fade into the background and be left to his own thoughts for the rest of the meal.
That turned out not to be very much longer. The bread pudding was served and a few minutes after the King had mercifully called an end to the gathering.
Angus left the throne hall as quickly as possible without being insulting. Not that he would have cared overmuch in Cet's case. But it seemed sensible to take the high road. It would stick in the lord's craw that much more. He decided he would wait for Rohan near Cathbad's chamber before heading home for the night. He perched himself on the casement of a window in the corridor across from Cathbad's chamber, staring out at the dark night and the stars twinkling in the sky.
Rohan, it seemed, was taking his sweet time. Angus figured he was probably making doe-eyes at Deirdre again, completely oblivious of the fact that she was making them back at him. Those two were completely hopeless. Angus couldn't help but wonder how much longer they would dance around each other, but there seemed to be little doubt that the Warrior Draganta would one day also have a crown on his head.
A crushing thought came to the former-thief just then. When that day came, as it was likely to do, where would that leave him? He and Rohan had been together since they were boys. Before the whole Mystic Knights thing had happened, it had been just the two of them. Truth be told, Rohan was the closest thing Angus had to a brother. And for the first time Angus got the dreadful feeling that those days were numbered. They had been numbered since the moment the two of them had set out on the quest to find Draganta. One day Rohan would move on and Angus wouldn't be able to follow. How could he? He was nothing; just a street urchin with a criminal past. Lord Cet only brought that point home to roost. It was increasingly obvious that many nobles didn't like that Angus was a Mystic Knight. They would never suffer him to be anything more.
"Well, here we are."
Angus was pulled out of his thoughts by Lord Cet's voice coming at him sharply from one end of the corridor. Angus couldn't help but grind his teeth. He chose not to respond.
"You certainly left the King's hall quickly and now here I find you skulking about the castle," Cet ground out, "just like... well, just like a common thief, I suppose."
"I think you'll find that I'm simply waiting," Angus growled, "not skulking."
"Waiting for a clear path to steal off into the night, I'd wager," Cet jabbed.
There was a time that Cet would have been right. That only made the jab get under Angus' skin all the more. Hopping down from the window casement, he approached Cet with a scowl.
"I don't think I like what you're implying," he said darkly.
"I will imply what I please, thief," Cet snapped back, his own voice low.
Angus' hands clenched into fists at his sides, his fingernails digging into his palms. "Angus of Kells is no thief," he replied, his anger barely contained, "I am the Mystic Knight of Earth."
"The Mystic Knight of Earth," Cet scoffed, turning away from Angus imperiously, "the Mystic Knight of the Hedge-row, more like. A pauper, with nothing of his own, least of all that armor and weapon. Tell me, who would that armor belong to if Draganta had not taken pity on you?"
Angus had to admit, he didn't really have an answer to that. It was academic at any rate, since Cet simply continued on before he could say anything.
"You are nothing; a street urchin and a common criminal who stumbled into something that is far above him on a lucky chance. Trash, from the moment you were born. Not even your own kin wanted to keep you."
By Dagda, Angus wanted to hit the bastard. He was just taking a step toward the lord, propriety be damned. "What would you even know-"
"Is something the matter?" Rohan's voice broke in on the scene, sharply interrupting, snapping both Angus and Cet into inaction.
The two glared at each other, chest-to-chest, eye-to-eye.
"I said, is something the matter?" Rohan repeated moving over to them and pushing them apart. Angus was so steeped in rage that he didn't even take notice that Rohan had stepped a little more closely to Angus' side to stare down Cet.
There was a long pause as they continued to glare at each other for just a little while longer.
"No," Angus finally growled, "nothing's wrong. Nothing important." He shot one last glare at Cet before stalking past him, down the corridor and to the stairs leading to the lower level. He felt more than saw or heard Rohan almost immediately on his tail, leaving a fuming Cet behind them both.
Angus continued on without breaking stride, out of the castle and into the courtyard, where the soldiers trained by day. Taking his mace off his shoulder, he made for the nearest practice dummy and swung with every ounce of strength he had. The dummy exploded into pieces, straw flying and wood splintering. The mass of tension that had settled in Angus' stomach finally loosened. He let the stone of the mace drop to the ground near his feet, the chain loosely grasped in his hand.
"Don't take it to heart, my friend. He doesn't know the first thing about you," Rohan's voice was at his shoulder a moment later. Angus didn't have the energy to respond and he felt Rohan place a hand on his shoulder. "We should tell the King what just happened. He wouldn't tolerate-"
"I can fight my own battles," Angus snapped, interrupting Rohan and whirling around to face his friend. But when he saw the surprised and somewhat hurt look on Rohan's face, his mood cooled again. With a deep sigh, he turned away, rubbing his face with his free hand. "I'm tired," he said, hefting the mace on to his shoulder again, "let's just go home."
"Sure Angus," Rohan said, understanding in his tone, "let's." With a weary smile, Rohan threw one of his arms across Angus' shoulder as they started walking. Angus couldn't help but return it in kind.
A hammer was striking an anvil, somewhere in the distance, pounding out a steady sound that rang out and vibrated the air. A warm softness surrounded him on all sides, vague figures above him.
Slowly, quiet and soft, a voice began to sing, a woman. He could hear a smile in the tone, though he couldn't understand the words. Something dangled in the space above him and he reached out, his fingertips just brushing the smooth, cool surface. Another voice, a man's seemed to laugh and said something, but once again he couldn't understand the words.
The woman finished her song and he heard a new sound, then, joining the steady rhythm of the hammer strikes. It was a clashing of metal on metal, like the ringing of swords. The clash of wooden shields joined it a moment later and it grew into a great cacophony. All the while, the hammer continued its steady beat.
"Glaine ár gcroí," a voice whispered as the figures above him vanished, fading into a growing darkness. He was alone, now, but the noises continued.
"Neart ár ngéag," came another voice. But the world was dark and cold, now. Somehow, he could sense a presence nearby, but he couldn't see it.
"Beart de réir ár mbriathar." This voice sounded angry and a dread grew in his chest, stealing his breath. He tried to regain it, but something was on his throat, pressing inward, keeping him from crying out. Frantically, he struggled to find purchase with his hands, but they wouldn't obey him. The pressure built on his throat all the more. Eyes appeared just before him, glowing red in the darkness, looking upon him with spite. He tried again to cry out, but there was nothing he could do, no air to be had.
The sound of swords and the hammering on the anvil reached a painful crescendo. One word rang out in his mind, as if it was shouted in his ear, clearer than all the others.
"Die!"
With a jerk, Angus awoke gasping for breath and shooting up into a sitting position in his cot. His hands were clawing at an unseen force that felt like it had settled around his throat and his heart pounded wildly in his chest. Every nerve on high alert, he frantically looked around the inside of the hut. A dim moonlight was peeking through the window covering, a thin shaft of light that was illuminating his breath as it froze in the cold air. Across the way, he could see Rohan in his cot, calmly sleeping without a care in the world. The rest of the hut was completely still and quiet, nothing out of place.
Breathing deeply to regain control of himself, Angus dropped his face into one hand. It had been ages since he had had that dream, not since he was a little boy. He hadn't had it since he had joined up with Rohan, as if the other boy's presence had somehow chased it away all these years.
"Why's it back now?" Angus asked the air.
Across the way, he heard Rohan stir and his eyes snapped up just in time to see his friend pull the blankets up closer to his face in his sleep, warding against the cold. Angus felt a pang of envy as he watched his friend settle back into a deep sleep.
Well, there was no reason for the both of them to lose sleep over his bad dream. Angus reached for a cloak that was covering the foot of his cot and wrapped himself up in it. Slipping on his boots, he got up and crept out of the hut as silently as he could so as not to disturb Rohan.
The night air was bracing and he shivered a bit as he pulled his cloak in tighter. The only way to shake off the restlessness would be to tire himself out, so Angus started walking. He didn't have any particular destination in mind. He just picked a direction and walked.
The movement warmed him up as he went. He wasn't sure how long he wandered, eventually skirting the boundary between the edge of the forest and the town. It was long enough that his shadow on the white-dappled ground in the moonlight had lengthened significantly.
All at once he realized where he had ended up. He was on the very outside edge of Emain Macha, well away from almost every other hut and building. There was a small, worn down old structure just on the forest's edge; an old, disused hut whose thatched roof had long since fallen in or disintegrated in years of wind, leaving a skeleton of rafters and earthen walls.
It had been years since he had come back. He had had no reason to return to it. It was Brighde's hut, the first place he had ever called home. Just an unused ruin, now.
His feet carried him up to the door before he realized it. It creaked as he pushed it open, almost as if it had been about to fall inward of its own accord. Inside, things were more or less as he had remembered them. Against the back wall, a pot still hung over the fireplace, though it was rusted and looked like something had taken to nesting in it over the last summer. Dirty, moth-eaten furs and cloths lined the floor, muffling his steps as he entered. And in a shaft of moonlight, the cot where Brighde had lain gasping for breath for several days before whatever it had been had cruelly taken her.
What was he doing here, anyway? What was this going to get him? Was he trying to affirm to himself that he had once had a home; that someone had once cared for him like a mother? What was the point of it?
Bitter and somewhat disgusted by his silly sentimentality, Angus turned back toward the door to leave. But as he did, the ground beneath one of the furs gave way under his foot with a crunching sound like old, splintering wood. It nearly sent him stumbling.
He looked down at the spot, thoroughly puzzled. The ground under the furs and cloths should have been solid. Pushing aside the fur cautiously with his foot, he found what had given way. A little rectangular hole had been dug into the ground and covered over with a small piece of wood, now rotted through. When he had stepped on it, it had snapped.
Angus crouched down and pushed the pieces aside. Down in the hole was a small box made of wood, no bigger than his fist. The shape of a hammer and a line of runes was burned into its top. He didn't know what the runes said. It was writing he had never seen before.
Carefully, almost reverently, Angus opened the box to look inside. On a leather cord, a pewter pendant in the shape of a smith's hammer was resting there. Angus picked it up by the cord and held it up in the moonlight, letting it dangle. More of the runes were shaped into its surface, the angles making the moonlight glint off of the pendant softly. Angus reached out with his other hand, his fingertips lightly brushing the smooth, cool surface.
Brighde had showed him this pendant once, when he was very small. He barely remembered it, but it came back to him now in a curious rush.
"This belongs to you, little one," she had told him, "and one day, when you're old enough, I'll tell you its full tale. I can only hope that you will understand."
She hadn't had the chance to, of course. But it seemed she had made certain that it was safely hidden from prying eyes. He wondered for how many years it had been hiding there, the two of them walking over it, him unknowing.
With a sigh, Angus set the pendant back in the box and snapped it shut. He contemplated it for a long moment before a yawn escaped him, his breath puffing out in a cloud in the moonlight. Maybe he could finally sleep again.
Rising and making his way to the door, Angus cast his gaze about the hut once more, wondering if there was anything else he should take with him. But, no, there was nothing of any importance. Everything was rusted out or rotted through. There was nothing else left there. He tucked the box into a pouch on his belt and left.
Exhaustion was taking hold of him again as he walked back to the hut he shared with Rohan. He was reasonably certain that he would be asleep again before his head hit the pillow. The hut was just in sight, now. He paused and gave another yawn, working a kink out of his neck.
And then, something grabbed on to him from behind. One gloved hand landed immediately over his mouth while another snaked its way through his limbs, pinning them where they were. Angus bucked under the assailant's grasp, letting out muffled sounds from his mouth.
Angus was no stranger to street fighting. He had gotten into his share of scrapes with unsavory characters over the years. And so it was muscle memory that had him shift his stance wide and low, fouling his attacker's feet. He pitched over, flinging forward with every ounce of his strength. The attacker stumbled forward, his grip loosening enough that Angus could break free.
Able to get a good look at his attacker now, he found he had no idea who it was. They were dressed all in black, a large hood brought low over his face, casting deep shadows that he couldn't see past. Something glinted in his gloved hand now and it took only an instant for Angus to register it as a dagger.
The attacker lunged at him and Angus darted to the side, reaching to his shoulder for his mace. When his hand grasped air, he suddenly realized that he had left it inside the hut, sitting on the ground right next to his cot. He cursed his carelessness as the attacker made another jab at him. This time, Angus met the attack with one of his own, grabbing on to the attacker's wrist and giving him a pull to knock him off balance. Still holding on to the wrist, he swung the cloaked figure around, twisting his arm behind him and up. The attacker's grip on the dagger loosened and Angus was able to bat it away. It landed somewhere on the snow-dappled ground nearby.
The attacker, too, seemed to know how to fight dirty. He clamped a foot down on top of Angus' own and twisted, flinging Angus over his shoulder so that he went tumbling to the ground. Angus landed hard with a yelp, the wind knocked out of him, his head having cracked against the frozen ground. He laid there stunned for a moment until he heard hurried footsteps coming his direction. He rolled to his side as the assailant came down at him, the dagger flashing in the moonlight. Shaking off his daze, he rolled to his feet just in time to meet the attackers next strike; first a fist at his face, then the dagger came in following it from the other side. Angus grabbed the fist on one side and the attacker's dagger-bearing wrist on the other and leaned into the strike. The two of them grappled for a long moment.
"Hey! Stop!" Rohan's voice came from the entry to the hut. Reflexively, Angus cast a quick glance his friend's way. Rohan was already charging forward, the Sword of Kells held high.
Angus' inattention was just enough for the attacker to take advantage of. Picking up one foot, he spun toward his dagger side, pulling his fist free of Angus' grasp. Angus felt himself being pulled around, off balance as the attacker pushed his way past. The dagger found the flesh in Angus' left side, slicing through his wool shirt as the attacker slid past him. As Angus' legs gave way under him and he tumbled to the ground clutching his side, the attacker continued on, running off into the darkness, his cloak trailing behind him. A fireball from Rohan's sword followed him for a moment, but missed as the figure disappeared into the night.
The wound burned in Angus' side and he doubled over, clutching it, feeling blood on his hands. Rohan skidded to a halt next to him and dropped to his knees, placing his hands on Angus' shoulders to hold him up.
"Angus, what happened?" Rohan asked, urgently.
"He caught my side," Angus ground out, gritting his teeth.
"Let me see!" Rohan ordered, wrestling Angus around so that he was partially laid out on his side, shoulders in Rohan's lap. Rohan's hands found the wound, sending a fresh jolt of pain into it and causing Angus to give a strangled cry. "It isn't deep," Rohan proclaimed, "but I should get you to Cathbad. C'mon, up with you."
Angus' legs felt like rubber and the pain in his side intensified as Rohan hoisted him up. Rohan began heading toward the castle, but Angus brought him to a halt.
"My mace," he gasped out, "by my cot. Shouldn't go without it."
Rohan nodded to him and brought him back over to the entrance of the hut. He left Angus to lean there for a moment while he disappeared inside only to reemerge a moment later, swinging Angus' mace over his shoulder. Then he placed himself under Angus' shoulder again, hoisting him up as they both made their way toward Kells Castle.