Without love, we are pointless. With it, we are infinite. - Eden Butler

March 10, 1920

Johnson Mooney and O'Brien Bakery

Bernadette Ryan stopped rolling the bread dough and eyed her sister.

"What?"

"When are you going to bring your young man around to meet Mam?" she asked. "You've been walking out for three months now…don't you think it's about time?"

Kathleen blushed. Bernadette had become her ally of late; covering for her when she was late for dinner, making excuses when they didn't arrive home together. She had never expected such kindness from her older sister, or such deviousness either, but families were funny like that. At the bottom of everything was the love they had for each other, and the hopes for happiness too. When Bernadette had finally sat Kathleen down and insisted on a full report, she had tried to evade the questions, but it was no use.

"Look, Katie, I know you like this young man, and he seems smitten with you. I'm not exactly ancient, you know, and I want the best for you. In fact," she said, her eyes going misty, "if you can find somebody as wonderful as my Dan, you'll be very lucky! That's all I want for you." And so Kathleen had brought Deaglan into the bakery kitchen and introduced them, and Bernadette had pronounced him fit to date her sister—after giving him a thorough grilling on his family, his ancestors several generations past, and his plans for the future. Her eyes had rounded when he had told her about his uncle Michael, and she had laughed out loud.

"Oh, Deaglan, please bring your uncle and your sister to dinner when you come!", she choked. "And Katie, make sure Michael's there…I want to see his face when he realizes that Michael Collins is in his own house!" And so it was arranged.

March 12, 1920

The Branson Home

Deaglan and his uncle and sister arrived at the Branson home on Friday, and were comfortably ensconced in the sitting room when Michael got home from the docks. He skidded in, calling, "I'll just go wash up!", and then did a double take at seeing the three strangers. "Uh, sorry," he said, catching his mother's frown. "Hello." He came into the sitting room, extended a hand. "Michael Branson."

"This is my friend Deaglan," announced Kathleen, pride shining on her face. "And this is his sister Aislin, and his uncle, Mr. Collins." Michael noted that the boy was sitting rather too close to his baby sister, and that the girl was very pretty. He held his hand out to the older man…and then stopped. "Mr. Collins? M-Michael Collins?" His voice held awe as he looked at the face that had graced newspapers—and wanted posters—all over the city for more than a year.

Bernadette and Daniel grinned. This was going to be rich. Michael Collins was the IRA, and had been their Michael's hero since long before he'd joined the army. Kathleen's new lad couldn't have chosen a better way to ensure his acceptance with her brother if he had tried! In fact, Bernadette thought, chuckling to herself, she wasn't sure that Michael even remembered that the other two Collinses were there. He was well and truly gone, lost in his hero worship.

Claire was not quite so sanguine about having the great man in her home. She had resigned herself to her son's being in the IRA, for the most part because there wasn't anything she could do about it, but also because she trusted Michael's character and knew that under all that prickliness and passion was still the sweet child she had raised. He had a brain, and he usually managed to use it. But there were times, like when he'd let his sister Maire be his spy and allowed her to put herself in grievous danger, that she wanted to ring his neck.

And she could feel the magnetism of this man, could undertand how he had been able to inspire so many young Irishmen to follow him through hell. It frightened her, brought out the mother bear instinct like nothing she had felt before. She had not felt so apprehensive, not even with Evan Langdon, and he was supposed to be the enemy! It left her feeling vulnerable and unsure, as if she were floundering in deep water, and Claire Branson was not used to floundering. She did not like it one bit.

Oh, God! Claire thought suddenly. Evan! Maire was bringing Evan Langdon to dinner tonight! What would happen when the two met? Well, nothing would actually happen, was the grim thought, because this was her house and she could invite anyone she liked, and they'd better behave with dignity or else! But she couldn't control the tension, and she knew it. Claire remembered the last time tension had ruined a dinner…when Sybil's parents had visited and Maire had let loose on Lord Grantham. What a kerfuffle that had been! She had nearly tanned her daughter's hide after that one.

Well, what was done was done. It was too late to univite Evan, and she hadn't known who this Deaglan boy's family was; how could she? She looked at Bernadette, who looked back in all innocence, and thought she might be having a word or two with her oldest daughter before this night was through!

To her amazement, the evening was not a complete disaster, after all. Maire and Evan had arrived, he in his crisp British uniform—wasn't he allowed to wear anything else, for heavens sake?—and Michael Collins had not batted an eye. Introductions were made, hands shaken, no bombs went off and no firearms were pulled out and demonstrated. In fact, Mr. Collins seemed to be trying to stay in the background, attempting to let Deaglan shine. Claire realized that he did not want to overshadow his nephew in front of Kathleen, and her heart warmed a bit toward him for the effort.

For his part, Evan seemed unaware of who Michael Collins was. He never said much anyway, and when he did his voice was low and shy. She wondered if he was trying to hide his accent; now that she thought about it, he was much more animated when Sybil and Tom were around. Sybil had behaved much the same way when she first arrived in Dublin, as if she were afraid that her very speech might give offense. And who was she kidding? Claire thought. Sybil's Englishness had offended them at first. It had been a very rough go for her darling daughter-in-law, but Sybil was tough and strong, and she'd had Tom. Claire hoped that Evan was strong enough to weather the storm, because she was finding that she liked him, very much.

March 29, 1920

A Street in Dublin

Tom Branson stood in the doorway of the drygoods store, watching. He had been following the five men for some blocks now, wondering at their business in this part of Dublin. They wore curiously mismatched uniforms of dark green and khaki, which would have made them objects of ridicule except for the fact that they represented a new breed of British soldier, one born of hatred and evil, feared by the people of Ireland like no other before them. They tended to travel in packs like jackals, and preyed on innocent citizens simply because they could. They were the Black and Tans.

Tom's new paper formulated lists of atrocities against Irish citizens and sent them abroad to foreign journalists, with the hope of enlisting aid for the cause. It was a noble venture, and it was working. More and more reports were making it out of Ireland, more and more countries beginning to cry out against the oppression. But it was dangerous. The fledgeling Irish Bulletin did not have the manpower to send teams of reporters out on assignment, and thus Tom found himself once again alone and outnumbered. He knew how to avoid detection, but things did not always turn out as one would wish. And he had a very bad feeling about this group of soldiers.

Tom had another hour before he could call it a day and go home to Sybil; the knowledge kept him going when things got difficult. He knew it was the same for her; they often discussed how they would stop during their busy work day just to send a mental note one to the other, and had found that usually this happened at the exact same time in the day, their messages crossing each other on the way. It should have been eerie, but it wasn't. It was love. And now Tom sent a simple note to his wife through the Dublin air…I love you, more than life. See you soon. And received one a moment later…Take care of yourself, darling. You are my life. It was enough; it had to be.

Tom brought himself back to the task at hand; the Black and Tans had stopped in the doorway of a shoemaker's, but they did not seem interested in that establishment. Instead, their interest was focused on a group of four youths across the street. The young men—barely more than children, really—were engaged in a lively contest of arm wrestling at a table outside O'Leary's Flower Shop. They were taking wagers and laughing, oblivious to the three British soldiers across the street.

As Tom watched, another lad emerged from the shop with a bouquet of flowers, to be set upon by his friends who showered him with good-natured teasing. The boy with the flowers put them on the table in a mock show of anger, and put his fists up as if to challenge his friends to a fight. A taller boy picked up the flowers and paraded around pretending to be the young man's sweetheart, sighing and making kissing noises in his direction. Tom grinned. Had he ever been that young? Certainly never that carefree! He envied them their ability to find enjoyment even in the midst of the war, but worried that someone should remind them that alertness in these times was always necessary.

And then his fear became reality. The five soldiers ambled across the street and formed a ring around the youths, who froze, dismay and confusion replacing the merriment that had been there a moment before. Tom took out his notebook and began to write. He prayed that the men would move on to more important business, looking around in hopes of seeing a constable or two actually working. The RIC were a part of the problem, but they would sometimes step in to police a situation like this if the Black and Tans overstepped on their watch. But there was no one.

One of the soldiers stepped forward and yanked the flowers from the lad who held them. He sneered, threw them on the ground and stomped them into dust and torn petals. The boy who had bought the bouquet protested, "Hey! What'd ya do that for?" It was the sign the soldier had been waiting for. He took it as an invitation, pushing the lad up against the wall and placing his face near that of the frightened boy. From his vantage point, Tom could not hear what was said, but the boy's face went white with fear and the other lads became silent. Stay still! Tom begged the boys. Don't give them a reason…

And then all hell broke loose. One of the smaller boys made a break for the street, ducking under the arm of a soldier and running down the street in Tom's direction, panic etched on his young face. The nearest soldier calmly pulled his Webley from his pocket, aimed it at the child, and pulled the trigger. The boy went down in the middle of the street and did not move. His friends began screaming, "Billy! No! Get up, Billy!" The soldiers stood impervious, and now all five of them had their revolvers out and pointed at the four remaining boys, who put their hands up above their heads and stood shaking and sobbing, eyes huge with fear and grief.

Tom could no longer stand by, simply recording the cruelty. The boy might still be alive, and someone had to get him to a doctor. People had gathered in doorways, but none came near the scene. He didn't blame them; this was a story that was playing out more and more often, and no one was willing to risk his life at the hands of the Black and Tans. The soldiers had lost interest in the boy in the street, turning back to their remaining victims. It was the only chance Tom would get.

He sprinted to the middle of the street, picket up the small figure, who weighed almost nothing, and slung him over his shoulder. He started back toward an old man who was beckoning him toward the doorway of his shop. As he gained the sidewalk he felt the body of the lad across his shoulder jerk, and Tom felt a sharp stitch in his side, as if he had pulled a muscle. You're out of shape, Tommy boy, he thought, but the next minute he was through the doorway and setting his burden down on the floor. Someone moved to close and lock the door.

There were six people in the shop. "Is anyone a doctor?" Tom gasped, out of breath from his run. He wished Sybil were here, or even that Evan friend of Maire's. They would know what to do.

A young man was already moving forward. "I was a medic in the war," he said, moving to the boy's side. He placed his finger against the child's neck and held it there for a minute, then turned to the others and shook his head. "He's dead," he said in a dull voice. He opened the boy's shirt and gently turned him over. He's been shot twice in the back; death was probably instantaneous."

Tom sat on the floor and put his head in his hands. It had all been for nothing. Those monsters out there had killed another Irish kid in cold blood, and they were going to get away with it. And then he sat up, wincing. Twice? He had been watching—he'd seen the soldier fire only once before the child had fallen in the street. Tom was a reporter; details were his business. He stood up, leaning against the wall as he realized he was having trouble breathing, which was odd; he hadn't run that far. The room seemed to be shrinking, and suddenly he found himself on the floor again, unable to move. Everything slowed. Someone had lowered the lights; it was getting darker.

"Hey! He's bleeding!" came a voice from far away, and Tom felt someone remove his jacket and pull back his shirt to expose his undershirt. He heard gasps, and a woman cried out, her voice on the edge of panic, "Oh God, so much blood!" The medic was doing something, yelling orders, but Tom seemed unable to focus. Something was pressed hard against his side, but he could not feel the pressure.

A coldness spread over his body like icy fingers, causing him to shake as if he had caught a chill. He couldn't see. Why was it so dark? And then, in an instant of stark clarity, he knew. I'm dying.

Tom's thoughts drifted to Sybil, to the child he would never know, and a lone tear ran down his face. I'm sorry, Sybil…I'm so sorry, mo chroi. He knew he would see her one day…a love like theirs was infinite. But never to hold her again, never to kiss her…he closed his eyes against the pain of it, and as the darkness pulled him away, he sent up a prayer…Please…take care of my darling…

A/N: When the republican campaign against the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) became more violent and successful in late 1919, the British Government realized the need for tougher policing in Ireland. They turned to veterans from the Great War, many of them psychologically damaged from their time in the trenches. Upon their arrival on March 25, 1920, a shortage of RIC uniforms led to the temporary issue of military khaki and rifle green coats that gave the new troops their name, the Black and Tans. It became a term synonymous with brutality and destruction, with particularly savage reprisals against Irish civilians.

Pronunciation Guide:

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra

Mo chroi (my love) - muh+ khree