For the next several days, thoughts of Archer haunted Diarmuid's mind.
He hadn't meant to go towards Stretzla. It wasn't a bad destination, though, so after a while Diarmuid changed his path. Although he wasn't entirely sure why. Even if he saw Archer again what would he do? Buy him from the slave auction? He wasn't badly off for a hire sword but what in hell would he want a slave for? To carry a tent for him? A pack mule would make more sense.
The man haunted him though. Perhaps it was his calm composure in the face of adversity. Or maybe it the final words Archer had spoken to him. No. But I was responsible for it. Diarmuid knew he was likely being a damned fool but he couldn't help but imagine what that meant. The scenario his mind kept coming back to was that Archer had tried to be a hero and failed and in so failing, been blamed for the crime. Blame he accepted because of his failure. It was the kind of thing a… a knight would do.
Of course, Archer could just be a damned murderer. Diarmuid didn't really know. Still, the man chased around his thoughts and turned his steps towards Stretzla.
To his surprise, though, he caught up with the men before they could reach the small town.
That's odd. I wonder what delayed them? Diarmuid thought as he saw the familiar wagon with the bars. Had they had a breakdown of some sort? Or a horse going lame? Memories of trips that should have taken a few days taking a bloody week went through the back of his mind.
Diarmuid felt an odd urge to caution, though, and instead of approaching openly he slipped through the forest. There was plenty of cover here and he was able in the woods. The clearing they were camped in barely deserved the term so he was able to get quite close under cover.
Despite having an odd feeling about the situation, Diarmuid didn't expect what he saw.
Archer was kneeling in the snow, one leg twisted badly beneath him and a pained grimace on his face. As Diarmuid watched, one of the men kicked his legs apart. Another was gripping the rope and harshly yanked Archer's hands forward, putting him completely off balance and nearly making him fall on his face. And the man behind him was unbuckling his pants.
Rage clouded Diarmuid's mind, but it was a cold rage. He carried a bow and he was excellent with it so it was time to use it. His first arrow took the would-be rapist in the base of his throat. The second, his accomplice. There was a shout from the fire and then Diarmuid dropped the bow, reaching for his sword.
His sword might not be magic anymore, nothing but fine steel, but Diarmuid's skill was second to none. The three remaining men fell to him easily. When he was done and their lifeblood stained the snow, Diarmuid stopped and looked at the one remaining man left alive. Archer looked back at him and there was no surprise in him. Only that calm composure. Did nothing get to the man?
"I thought I would see you again, although perhaps not so soon," Archer commented as though he was talking about the weather. "Will you untie me?" he asked and Diarmuid hesitated. While what he'd ended was vile, it did not mean that Archer was deserving of trust.
"You might still be a murderer," he said and Archer stared at him for a moment, honey-brown eyes calm and composed. Then he suddenly chuckled, a small, dry sound.
"I am a murderer a million times over. The blood that stains my hands could fill an ocean," Archer's smile was like a knife and Diarmuid almost shivered at the coldness in his eyes. "But I am not a murderer of children. This, I swear to you upon Gaia herself." That was a strange oath. Yet, Diarmuid did believe him.
"…Very well." Diarmuid pulled a knife and cut through the ropes. Archer rubbed his wrists for a moment before walking purposefully towards one of the carts. Diarmuid winced at the sight of bare feet on snow although if it pained Archer, he gave no sign.
Diarmuid understood what he was up to when he pulled out a bag and opened it, pulling out black and red clothes. Archer quickly dressed himself and Diarmuid blinked at the beautifully made coat with the silver toggles. That was a piece of clothing worthy of Fionn. Something about it didn't seem to please Archer, though, and he rolled his shoulders with a scowl. As he watched the man put on his boots Diarmuid figured it out. The iron choker he was wearing interfered with the coat and was causing Archer some irritation.
"If that choker bothers you, why don't you remove it?" Diarmuid asked and honey-brown eyes flickered up to meet his.
"How?" Archer asked simply and Diarmuid blinked. How? Just… take it off…?
Suddenly intrigued, Diarmuid stepped close to the man and lifted his chin to see the choker. An iron band and very tight, with hardly enough space to slip one finger beneath it. Heavy and wide, too. Turning it around, Diarmuid made a peculiar and unsettling discovery.
"There's no latch. There's not even a seam. How in hell did this get on you?" Diarmuid asked and Archer shrugged before pulling away.
"Magic." Diarmuid swallowed at the matter of fact answer. It was particularly distressing because he was sure it was absolutely true. Even if the choker had been forged around Archer's throat there should be a seam. And no smithy could do that without killing the man. Then Archer gestured towards the fallen men. "We should loot the bodies."
"Uh…" Not exactly a deed worthy of a knight yet Archer was right. He'd be a damned idiot not to. Diarmuid took a deep breath, steadying himself. "See to that while I take care of the horses." They would take them all, for now at least. Diarmuid didn't want to sell them in Stretzla, a man with so many horses would seem suspicious. He'd find a good place to drop them, some farmer would have a gift of free horses. Archer nodded his acceptance and went to the bodies, rifling through them with practiced ease.
Diarmuid soon had the horses ready and Archer came to him, handling over the money and items he'd taken without comment. Diarmuid pocketed the valuables, reflecting that he should wait some time before selling them. The money he could use immediately. Mounting the horses, they left behind the bloody camp. As they rode, Diarmuid glanced at Archer. He handled his horse with practiced ease. Who was this man, precisely? Diarmuid said nothing but his mind was full of questions.
He would have to voice them to Archer, soon.
They made Stretzla by nightfall.
Diarmuid took care to dump the extra horses in a farmer's field before they came in. The ones they kept were the most non-descript. Not the finest, but harder to identify, which would do. Archer's costume marked him as a foreigner and potentially rich, which was a bit troublesome when the innkeeper tried to overcharge them. Diarmuid quickly put paid to that, imitating Fionn in a poor mood. Soon they had bed and food for decent rates.
The food was nothing to write home about, though, a thin and watery stew. Archer ate it without complaint, his eyes nearly vacant as he chewed. Diarmuid stood the silence as long as he could, but finally had to say something.
"How can you be so calm after?" …That wasn't the first question he'd meant to ask. Why had that popped out of his mouth? Archer just gave a one shoulder shrug.
"Sexual violence is a common part of war." Yes, but normally towards women! Something of that must have shown on his face because Archer's tone became cold. "Or does it particularly horrify you because I am a man?" Diarmuid struggled for an answer. Because the truth was… yes. That did make it particularly horrifying. "I see." Archer's voice was as chilly as a midwinter night.
"Don't take that tone with me," Diarmuid growled, leaning over the table. "I didn't have to save your worthless arse!" Archer paused to lick his spoon clean, gazing at him with calm and thoughtful eyes.
"If I had been a woman bent over, would you have rescued me as well?"
"Yes," Diarmuid replied instantly, without the slightest pause. A maiden in that position would have outraged him every bit as much. Archer smiled then. It was a very small expression, the merest lift of the corners of his lips, but it was there.
"Then I apologize for my tone towards you." What? Diarmuid blinked at him and Archer took another spoonful of the stew before continuing to speak. "Emotions are meaningless, often atavistic and beyond our control. Thoughts exist only in the privacy of our own mind. What matters are our actions, which truly determine our worth. If you hold yourself to similar standards for both sexes, your emotional reactions to seeing a man under duress do not matter. I apologize for the misunderstanding."
"I, uh…" Archer was damned odd. "Thank you and I accept your apology," Diarmuid managed as gracefully as he could. "Forgive me, but is Archer your real name?" Diarmuid asked, hoping to move to something less touchy. Archer shook his head.
"No." Diarmuid waited. Surely he would – "Is Daud yours?"
"…No." Damnit! Now things had gotten awkward again because he really didn't want to give Archer his name. "We both seem to be bloody awful at conversation," Diarmuid muttered, rubbing his forehead to ease an ache. Archer chuckled, the same small, dry sound as earlier.
"I admit, it is not my strong suit. Although I prefer this to inane pleasantries about the weather," Archer said and Diarmuid couldn't resist.
"Do you think it will snow tomorrow then? Ow!" Archer had thrown a piece of bread at him and almost nailed him in the eye. "Hmph, I'm going to eat this now," Diarmuid threatened and Archer just shrugged.
"Have at it, it's burnt." How lovely. Well, he'd had worse. Diarmuid finished the crust of bread. "How did you get that ugly scar? It looks like a burn."
"Had a growth removed. The leeches said burning it would be better than cutting it," Diarmuid said easily. He liked that explanation best, it tended to get a little sympathy. Archer looked at him with thoughtful eyes.
"I see," he said before pushing aside his bowl. A glance told Diarmuid it was empty. "What do you intend to do with me?"
"With you?" Diarmuid repeated, a bit startled. "You are your own man, you can do what you like," he said, trying to brush away the question. He didn't want to be responsible for Archer. Honey-brown eyes stared at him thoughtfully for a moment before Archer nodded.
"I see. Will you help me?" A wry twist of lips. "I cannot speak the language." …Ah, and Archer couldn't speak any of the other tongues Diarmuid had tried on him either. Only the Gaelic which certainly wouldn't get him far. Although that was… very odd…
"Are you Irish?" Diarmuid asked, absolutely certain the man wasn't. His coloring was utterly wrong but that was the least of it. His mannerisms were utterly foreign. Archer shook his head but said nothing. "Bloody hell man work with me! What are you?" Diarmuid growled and Archer looked into his mug.
"I'm out of beer. Can I have more?" he asked politely and Diarmuid glowered before reluctantly gesturing to a barmaid. A few bits and she left to get them more ale. "Thank you. I come from a land you do not know." He could be the judge of that! Archer saw the look on his face and an expression of weariness crossed his features. "I am Japanese." …What? Diarmuid was loathe to admit that the word had no meaning to him. "Japan is an island, very far from here. In some ways it is similar to your land. Perhaps that is why I came," that was muttered but then Archer shook his head. "It does not matter. I must go back."
"Back? Wait, to Japan?" Diarmuid asked, afraid of the answer. Archer shook his head. "To Ireland." But why? Did he even want to know? "I'll help you as long as you don't inconvenience me too much." Diarmuid still had to make a living. Archer nodded his head as the barmaid brought them more ale.
"Thank you. I greatly appreciate it," Archer said but there was something dark in his eyes, something that didn't quite agree with the tone of his voice. Diarmuid had no idea how to pursue that or even if he wanted to, though, so instead he drank his ale. Ah, it was good, this inn clearly did the drink better than the food.
When they finished their second mugs, they went upstairs. Diarmuid expected some hesitation from the other man but Archer stripped like a machine, removing his clothing with clockwork precision and speed. Then he settled into his bed, which was only a thin, cheap pallet. A bit bemused, Diarmuid removed his clothing like a normal person before donning a nightshift. He did not care to sleep naked although Archer did not seem to mind. After barring the door and checking the window, Diarmuid settled into his own bed.
His dreams were haunted with visions of home.