Diarmud ua Duibhne slogged through the snow, wishing he was anywhere but here.

Although if he was honest, he would have to admit he wasn't entirely sure where 'here' was. Some awful land far from Ireland where they spoke an exotic tongue. He'd learned it, Diarmuid was good with languages, but he disliked the way it rolled off his tongue. If he travelled three days they might be speaking something else. Why did all these tiny little kingdoms have their own languages? It made travel a damned trial.

Not that he was really going anywhere. Diarmuid reflected on it wearily. After rejoining the knights of Fianna he'd thought he would marry Grainne. It hurt him to hurt Fionne so, but his lord did have fine sons. He did not truly need the young and beautiful lady Grainne. It had seemed like the anger about the geas was passing.

But the geas itself had also passed and Diarmuid had been left with a bitter flavor on his tongue. Finally he'd approached a great old wizard, one of the few left in the land, and the old man had helped him fake his death at the hands of a boar. Diarmuid had needed to be present – blood shed had triggered the illusion – so he'd seen, with deep pain and an ache of betrayal, how his lord Fionne had fumbled with the water. Clearly he'd underestimated the pain his lord was in. It was right that Diarmuid should go.

So he tossed away his knighthood, his honor and his woman, leaving without a backward glance. Along the way he'd finally rid himself of the curse as well. A hot poker, wielded by a smith, had done the trick. Amusingly, the man had assumed the beauty mark was some kind of growth that would threaten Diarmuid's life and that was why he wanted it gone. Well, it certainly had threatened his life on many occasions.

To his vague surprise, Diarmuid saw signs of a camp in the distance. Speeding his steps he heard some ribald laughter. Frowning, he wondered why the men were camping here. According to his map there was a village only a short distance away. Oh bloody hell was the map wrong? Wouldn't be the first time.

"Ho!" There was a scramble for weapons when the strangers saw him but Diarmuid held up his hands pacifically.

"Just a wandering swordsman, wondering why you camp out here when there's a village not far away," Diarmuid said as well as he could, in the foreign tongue. The men were all shaggy and bulky, he noticed, but for one. That final man was kneeling by the fire and Diarmuid suddenly blinked. Was he unclothed?

"What, you haven't heard? It burnt down maybe six months ago." …Curse the luck. But was that man actually unclothed? Damned well looked like it. His skin was a warm shade quite unlike these pale northerners but his hair was dead white. He seemed to be staring into the fire, Diarmuid couldn't see his face. There seemed to be a heavy iron choker around his neck.

"Can I perhaps spend the night with you then? I can pay you a bit for the use of a tent although I have but little coin," Diarmuid said in a friendly manner. Didn't want them to think he was worth robbing, although this was a reasonably civilized place. He thought it unlikely they would cut his throat. There were a few quick murmurs among the men before he was given permission to stay.

"You'll have to share a tent with this filth, though," one of the men said before kicking the kneeling man. He showed no reaction to the pain. Diarmuid hesitated a moment.

"May I ask why he is lacking clothing?" It seemed like a fine way to get frostbite although he supposed that was why the man was so close to the fire.

"So he can't run away. Be a death sentence." …That made some sense. "When we travel he goes in the cart." Diarmuid glanced at it and saw it was the kind of cart you used to transport the insane, with barred windows. That also made sense. "He's a murderer. We caught him red handed and they were all children," the man growled and to Diarmuid's ears he sounded quite sincere.

"Well, I can't say it gladdens my heart to share a tent with something like that, but if he's tied I'll take it," Diarmuid said, deciding he really shouldn't care about this stranger. Although. "Why are you taking him anywhere instead of cutting his throat?" That seemed a bit odd.

"We're taking him to Stretzla. They'll give us a bit of money for him, sell him into slavery." …Ah, right, that made sense. Slavery was big business, always had been and always would be. Diarmuid gave up any interest in the prisoner and instead took interest in the dicing game that was starting. "What's your name, stranger?"

"Daud," Diarmuid replied absently as he tossed the dice. That was his throwaway name, given to those he did not truly like or trust. A common, empty sort of name. They introduced themselves as well and Diarmuid smiled and nodded but didn't bother to remember. Soon, he'd never see these men again.

When it got too dark and they all retired to bed, though, Diarmuid's attention was again caught by the kneeling man. When they went to fetch him Diarmuid noticed he was sitting in a rather strange way, his legs folded beneath him. A good, hard kick and the man rose to his feet with surprising fluidity. As he stood Diarmuid saw his hands were tied tightly in front of him. There was a dangling rope fixed to the bonds and they pulled him towards the tent. The bound man did not resist in any way and Diarmuid was struck by how perfectly composed he was.

Is this man truly a murderer of children? Diarmuid wondered as he stepped into the tent. Eyes flicked towards him and they were honey brown. Diarmuid opened his pack and pulled out his bedroll, unrolling it on the floor of the tent. He could camp outdoors with nothing but that, but vastly preferred not to. Glancing towards the man Diarmuid saw he was watching with a small frown, a wary tension in his posture.

"What is your name?" Diarmuid asked quietly, mindful of the other men. The stranger said nothing. "Do you not understand me?" Diarmuid watched his face carefully as he spoke and saw not the slightest hint of comprehension. Ah, of course. "Can you understand me?" A different language, but one spoken not too far away. Nothing.

Diarmuid tried several tongues before finally resorting to his mother one. And then, to his surprise, he got a reaction.

"Yes." The stranger's voice was smooth, reminding him of a fine pipe.

"What is your name?" Diarmuid asked and the man tilted his head slightly before responding.

"Archer. What is yours?"

"Daud." If Diarmuid wasn't giving his real name to the brutes carting the man around, he certainly wasn't going to give it to a murderer. Although. "Did you really kill those children?" he asked and the man stared at him for a moment before giving a small, dismissive snort.

"If I said no, would you believe me?" The derision in his voice was clear. Diarmuid met those honey brown eyes calmly.

"Perhaps I would," he said and something flickered through those eyes. Then it died, falling into emptiness.

"Then you're a fool," Archer said, looking away. Diarmuid hesitated a moment but… he hadn't answered the question.

"Did you kill those children?" Diarmuid asked again and Archer flicked him a glance before looking away.

"No. But I was responsible for it," the aching emptiness in that voice made Diarmuid shiver and he truly believed the other man meant it. Deciding he wasn't really interested in hearing more, even if Archer would tell him, Diarmuid settled into his blankets.

This man wasn't his to deal with. Diarmuid wanted nothing more of him.