A/N: I never thought I'd be the one apologizing for taking so long to post. I believe I have before but it certainly has never taken me *this* long. And for that I really am sorry. To be honest, typically if a writer takes this long to post I stop reading the story. Of course there are a few exceptions, but basically I understand the struggle and subsequent stress of reading a story that is updated so infrequently. But! Hopefully this will not sit dormant for as long as it has. I'm almost done working through some things in my life and I'll be happy to soon say that I've tackled a huge hill of utter crap. So! With that being said, I am sorry but I hope you enjoy! This is a chapter that will be one of my absolute favorites and I hope it brings a lot of things to light for most of you.

Happy reading!

"Seo muid réidh — taibhsí nó laoich — Scriosfadh aoibh fíor anam an té…"
(So here we go – heroes or ghosts – one man's mood can break another man's soul)
Heroes or Ghosts - The Coronas

Many nameless faces appeared behind the fogged glass separating Sybil from all of the life packed into Cleary's and somehow she felt, even with the separation, as if all of their eyes were on her. Of course this was simply paranoia, but even so, Sybil was brought to life by it — thrilled by the prospect of finally being seen after two full years spent practicing invisibility, a choice she so freely made.

Already all of her felt hot, her cheeks red and her fringe practically matting against her forehead as straightened tresses worked themselves back into a frustrated curl. Never before would she have felt this way because never before would Sybil Crawley, an English aristocrat by most standards, have presented herself to a less than welcoming Irish crowd. But like her assumption that they were staring at her for being English, or really, that they were staring at her at all, Sybil too was assuming that all of them, every last occupant inside Cleary's, would turn down their nose should she walk through the front door.

This was the same assumption she had made when first arriving here. Sybil thought that her cultural upbringing and social standing were like clothing to most: worn proudly for personal comfort but used by others to judge and then ultimately dismiss should they see fit. This was human nature and accepted by all — a single thing to bind people who otherwise have little in common — something everyone, both English and Irish, could finally agree upon.

Surely it was true for Sybil who, upon seeing Tom's rucksack and weathered jacket, forced herself to appear self-assured out of fear that any other response to such a boy would end in utter heartbreak. Her sister Mary would tell her that boys like Tom were not even to be smiled at. And if exceptions had to be made, it was for the sake of games and subsequent laughs. Sybil was far softer than that though, and in a world that seemed to constantly be so cold and brash, her only option was to ignore things like men and love altogether. So far she had been successful. That is until Tom Branson walked into the bookshop she worked at — not earlier this morning but for the first time nearly twelve full months ago.

Despite everything Sybil had once told herself, the same things that built the walls surrounding their first encounter in the bookshop, Tom had already seemed to change her. All of this was made easier by the fact that he had now held her face in his hands and kissed her lips so tenderly she felt as if the rest of her might fall away giving her no other option but to remain in his arms forever.

He was a choice she would continuously make.

Sybil noticed Tom that first day and now he was noticing her. Actually, since she propositioned him, she felt that was all he had done and she'd be lying if she said there wasn't something truly exquisite about someone pointing out facts about yourself even you seemed to enjoy. It meant even more if that person was someone you too had begun to create lists for, noting all of their lovely quirks and traits.

This was emphasized as Tom now pointed to Sybil through the same glass that separated them. His finger aimed straight across the bar causing not only his eyes, but the eyes of all of his friends, to form into slits as they squinted to get a better view of her. As Tom had told her to do, Sybil looked down, now kicking at the asphalt in hopes of emitting nothing other than insecurity. After all, what girl would agree to such a thing? Clearly one who didn't know any better, and who was just as scared and lonely and lacking in self esteem as the headstrong revolutionary boy wishing to bed her.

But maybe they didn't believe that or they were too drunk, because their gazes remained even as Tom continued to speak. If they were working to place her, it wasn't coming easily. Her hair was just as it had been that morning, but her clothes were changed. Without her accent, Sybil assumed she looked no different than most of the girls inside: bright-eyed, hopeful, and far too trusting.

Eventually, a drink was ordered for Tom, but instead of reaching out for it, he let the glass remain on the old bar, collecting condensation as his mouth continued to move. All of his friends used the distraction as an opportunity to look back to Tom, ultimately causing their eyes to fall from Sybil — all of them but one, and though she couldn't tell who it was that continued to stare, she felt the way in which he wished for her to look back. Perhaps this boy was smart, even more intelligent than Tom, and cunning and altogether kind enough to tell her to run. As Sybil began to play through different scenarios had she looked up, the door to Cleary's opened and Tom, now smelling of cigarette smoke and wearing a crooked smile, stepped into the light beside her.

In seeing him, Sybil couldn't help but to smile as well; all imagined scenes, the good and the bad, dissipated just as she dreamed she would had he too continued to smirk.

"It's off," Tom said simply. Rather suddenly, his face carried no emotion at all.

"What?" Sybil asked, her voice somehow sounding more raspy and hurried than usual. "But—"

"Or delayed. We can go with delayed. Postponed, even..." Tom revealed with a turn of his head.

Even Sybil noticed the way in which he looked around. He was always like this: moving quickly, with eyes darting just as swiftly as his boots hit the pavement. Only at home, when the two shared laughter and leftovers, did she see a different side of him and the more she cherished that thought the more she was forced to remind herself that there was a strong possibility Tom was lying when he first revealed she was the only girl he had ever brought there. Now Sybil wished Katie Grace were here, for many reasons but the strongest and most selfish of them being to confirm that very statement.

"Until when?"

Tom chuckled. "Anxious, are we?"

Sybil swallowed, an action that then turned to a rather enthusiastic nod of the head. "Yes, I am, Tom. Very anxious."

Unexpectedly, Tom's mouth closed and his lips turned to a grin. Again, Sybil swallowed as mind began to wonder if being in the presence of his friends had somehow caused him to forget who he was, or rather, who he had been when it was just the two of them.

"Why?" She went to speak, but the way in which Tom cockily shook his head loudly dismissed all she was thinking. Apparently the fact that she even had words to give him was enough for Tom to know that he certainly did not need them.

"We're getting out of here, Sybil. I told you I wanted to. Hell, it was my idea! I asked!" He pressed a firm finger into his chest as if to accept the blame or emphasize the point he was already successfully making. "And if this money thing doesn't work out then I'll figure something else out, alright?"

Sybil's eyes were on the ground again. Her feet didn't move but she was nervously wringing her hands in hopes of ridding her nerves of their newfound guilt. She did trust Tom, more than she ever imagined she would, but she could do this trip alone. Before he came along, she had planned the same journey nearly a thousand times: what day she'd leave, how she'd purchase the ticket, what she'd write to her parents, the things she'd pack, and so forth.

"I'm afraid I'm going to lose you to this place!" she let out with a gesture of her hand.

Tom looked up. He blinked, hoping to make the picture in front of him, that of Sybil with concerned eyes and a mouth all too loose. He'd kiss it if he didn't wish to coax from it more beautifully exciting things.

"What?" he breathed out.

She nodded and again, a swallow. "I can do this by myself. I can get out of here and leave and never come back. And yes, it would be nice to have someone by my side, but I don't need that." The more she spoke, the more relaxed she became. The intense way in which she held Tom's gaze was enough for both to completely block out all of the lights and chatter surrounding them in this part of town. "But I'm beginning to think I need you...want you," she added. "I have planned so many things in my life and they have not worked out and for once I just really believe this will. And I want you by my side when it does." Somehow, Sybil's gaze had fallen, but the way Tom stared at her did not diminish in adoration. When she looked up again, it seemed that all of her was at peace and the confession, a seemingly scary one, was the cause.

"Please don't need me," Tom started. "I don't want you to need me...you don't, by the way," he chuckled, "need me, that is."

"I think I might...I do," she resolved with steady conviction.

The emotions must have been too much because quickly Tom's hands were in his back pockets and his tongue was pressed tightly to the inside of his cheek. He couldn't take her in anymore and Sybil wondered if this was somehow a compliment. It scared her too, but she didn't want to tell him that — she didn't want to have to tell him that.

When Tom looked back to her, she was just as he had left her. Her chest heaved and he noticed, from the slight curl of her hair to the small gold ring on one of her fingers, that she didn't fit in here. Maybe neither of them did.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

"Dublin?"

"Well, yes, but I already know the answer to that," Tom sassed. It was this that caused Sybil to smile, practically giving Tom permission to continue to tease her. "I meant this...this street. Cleary's—"

"We're not in Cleary's," Sybil gave back with raised eyebrows. "I've never been."

"Thank Jesus for that," Tom said with a small laugh. "I'm serious, Sybil, let's go."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. What do you want to see before you leave? What haven't you seen?"

Sybil pushed a blown away curl back behind her ear. "I...I haven't seen much. Really, I don't know Dublin at all. I certainly don't know the Dublin you know. What am I missing?"

Tom's smirk grew into a full smile, one that brightened all of his features. "Do you want to see Dublin? I mean all of Dublin?" Before Sybil was given a chance to respond, he continued. "Have you ever been to the Hell Fire Club?"

"No," Sybil breathed out with a laugh. "What's that?"

"We have to go," Tom said in a haste. With his words he grabbed for Sybil's hand and began dragging her off down the street. Still, she laughed as her feet did their best to keep pace with his.

"Tom!" Sybil tried. "Where are we going?"

He looked back to her briefly. "Montpelier Hill."

~!~

The running ceased halfway back to Tom's house. In its absence, the two snuggled into one another, their bodies unable to keep a distance even as they strolled, discussing music and politics and the way Dublin eerily lacked any and all winds tonight. At the door, Sybil's eyes watched in wonderment as Tom jingled the keys into the lock before finally granting them access. The house, and all of the occupants downstairs, were seemingly motionless, leaving so much space and time for he and Sybil to finally breathe.

"Is Montpelier Hill code for your bedroom?"

Tom pressed a hand to his belly and let out a full cackle. "I wish I was that clever. But you're funny, Sybil Crawley. Really and truly quite funny."

Sybil smirked. "It was worth a shot."

"I'm grabbing my mam's keys," Tom explained as they now walked toward the kitchen. Just as she had done that morning, Sybil shut the front door behind her and with no other option, followed Tom down the long hallway leading into his home.

"Keys to what?"

"Our car."

"You can drive?"

"No, I just want to put them in my bag for safekeeping while my family is away and I've brought you all the way here just so I can do that," Tom stated sarcastically. When Sybil did not seem amused, he sighed and continued. "Yes, I can drive. Can't you?"

"No. None of the women in my family do."

"And when do you do what other people do?"

Sybil thought about the question and Tom must have seen this clearly because he patiently waited for an answer as she did so. "I suppose I don't. I haven't ever...you're right. But I really didn't need it back in London. And here...I don't know. I get around well enough."

"Well that's because you frequent exactly four places, apparently."

Sybil's nose scrunched in question. "And what four places are those, Tom Branson?"

"Trinity. O'Connors. Your dorm. And the petrol station that sells those god awful breakfast sandwiches."

Sybil smirked. "You have me all figured out, don't you?"

Immediately the moment was still. "No," Tom said softly. "No, I don't. But I want to."

It was everything he wanted to say before when she first admitted that she needed him, but somehow she wanted to respond similarly now, brushing it off to the point of dismissal. Instead, Sybil stepped in beside him and pressed a prolonged kiss to the stubble beginning to form on his cheek. Out of embarrassment, Tom turned to her and smiled, and when he did, was surprised to find that Sybil was already leaning in, ready to claim different parts of him. All too willingly, he reciprocated, but the hunger the both clearly shared caused the moment to slow. Each kiss led to another but only after their lips reluctantly pulled away. When it was time for the two to settle apart, they did, all with small smiles and a strong lack of awkwardness in the air.

"Please don't make me do this alone." And then: "I need you," she revealed again, each time making it easier to do so.

Tom nodded. Their lips were so close that as they breathed they threatened to reconnect. "Then let me in."

In response, Sybil nodded. "You too." Slowly another kiss was shared, all of it so natural and when it was over and Tom moved to leave the room, Sybil let him all without question.

When he returned, he flashed a bottle of wine her way. "What's that for?" Sybil asked.

"To drink. For you," Tom added. "Because I do not."

"Do not…" Sybil's voice trailed off, hoping Tom would step in and fill in the silence.

"Drink. Alcohol."

Sybil almost laughed. "You don't?"

"Not really."

"You bought me a drink at Stag's Head."

"I did. I bought you a drink," he repeated, causing all of it to suddenly make sense.

"What was it then? Your drink?"

Tom shrugged. "Cidona."

"On tap? Impressive." Sybil laughed. "You know, maybe I don't know you either."

"Do you want to?"

"I do," she stated all before biting her lip. "But don't be flattered," Sybil requested with a flick of her wrist.

"Oh, no," Tom drawled, playing along. "Never."

Sybil moved from where she was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. "Are you ready? I don't know where we're going so it's up to you to make sure we're prepared. And I'm just going to have to trust you."

Tom left the bottle of wine on the counter and instead grabbed for a single water bottle from the fridge. It was added to his rucksack, and as he once again grabbed for Sybil's hand, she wondered just how much he was capable of putting in there. Maybe that was also where he hid his secrets, facts surrounding the passing of his father and the real reason he'd go with her to New York but not with his mother and Katie Grace to County Clare.

In the car, Sybil immediately reached forward to play with the radio. Seeing this out of the corner of his eye, Tom grabbed ahold of her wrist and stopped her actions. The hindrance had her mouth agape, a fact that remained as she noticed how much control Tom had of both her and the vehicle. He repositioned her hand beneath his so both could rest upon her thigh.

"Do you drive often?"

Tom looked to her and smiled. "Sometimes. Sometimes it's just nice to get in the car and go. It gives me time to think, or if I don't want to, I find a really long stretch of country road and go as fast as I can. There's peace in driving a car."

Sybil smirked as she looked out the window to her left. "I'm assuming you do this often then?"

"Think?" Tom questioned. "Well don't act so surprised…" Sybil smirked and Tom continued. "My mam's not really comfortable in the car and she won't let Katie Grace get her license either so if we need anything we have to travel to get, I take care of it."

The statement had Sybil thinking of Tom's father. Perhaps that was the reason he was gone — a car accident. Or maybe he was the one that used to drive and now the thought of doing it without him forced Tom's mother to realize how alone she'd be for the rest of her life. The sadness of such a truth had Sybil sinking further into her seat, wondering if she gave into what her heart wanted if she'd be like Mrs. Branson someday: heartbroken and alone and made bitter because of it.

"I mean, I don't mind," Tom continued. "Like I said, I like the car...the freedom of it. If you don't like where you are, you can go somewhere else."

Sybil's smile widened as she turned back to Tom. "I'm not sure if you're aware but we will be taking an airplane to New York. I really hope this doesn't foil your plans. Or cause you to want to get your pilot's license."

Tom chuckled and took her in too. She had freckles on the bridge of her nose and when she smiled, they all clustered together, pushing her eyes to slits as her mouth turned to nothing but teeth. "You're funny, Syb."

"You've said that already..."

Tom smiled and turned back to the road. "You are though. Funny and smart and beautiful and far too good to be spending your night with someone like me." The words brushed past his lips so effortlessly.

"Welllll, I think I'll be the judge of that, no?"

Tom nodded. "Sure. If you want."

"I do...want to," she added awkwardly. "If I wanted to run I could have done so outside of Cleary's."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

Frustrated, Tom tapped at the steering wheel as if to emphasize a point he hadn't yet made. "I'm sorry Sybil but I don't understand how you've been here for two years and I haven't seen you before. How you've run away to find this new life, one much better than your old one and you hide yourself away in your dorm room, reading and eating shite petrol station food, and writing to a family who doesn't respond."

Sybil simply shrugged. "I'm working on it. I'm going with you, aren't I? That's exciting. That's new."

Somehow, once again, a truce was reached, one marked by two very heavy exhales and a turned knob on the radio. There were times when the two could forget their differences and times where even if the conflict wasn't the thing being discussed, both became so defensive that neither felt as if they had anything in common with the other.

"So where are we going?"

Tom's sigh had him looking back to the road. "I told you. Montpelier Hill. How the feck have you lived in Dublin for two years but haven't heard of Montpelier Hill?"

"Well you are too, apparently, and we've only just met."

"Okay nowwwww," Tom tried, his hand stretching to tickle Sybil, her body becoming ever smaller than it already was as she squirmed to get out of his reach. The action became easier when he parked the car and immediately cut the headlights. In the dark, his hands found her, strong then altogether quite soft as they realized how much better it was to have her in his arms instead of pushing her away.

Even from her seat, where the roof of Tom's car hooded her view of the night sky, Sybil saw nothing but grass. It wasn't until Tom opened her car door and helped her step out that she turned around and saw just what it was he wished to show her: Dublin Bay and the rest of the city, all of it so beautiful from so far away, appearing much in the way the Irish described it. It was true, amongst the urbanized shops and factories, Sybil struggled to see Dublin the way everyone else did. Maybe this was the way Tom felt as his friends undoubtedly talked down upon Sybil. Sometimes the things we don't understand just need to be seen differently — like cities from afar or ignorant English girls standing patiently outside loud and crowded Irish pubs.

"What is this place?"

"It used to house this secret society. They used to have meetings up here. Then it burned down...with some of them in it. Everyone's parents tell them not to come up here because some people have had some pretty weird things happen, but parents forget that they were kids once too...and that it's a really good place to get drunk...or laid."

Sybil's mouth dropped open as she side eyed Tom. "But we're not doing either of those things…"

"No, we're not," Tom agreed with a small laugh. In his hands he clutched a plaid blanket, one that he handed to Sybil before tapping her rear, an action meant to direct her further up the hill.

She turned back to him. "Are we going to get in trouble for being up here?"

"No," Tom chuckled. "It's open to the public. Besides, we're not going to go in unless you want to. My plan was just to sit here and look at the city. You wanted to see Dublin and here it is."

Sybil threw the blanket to the ground and stood back. As she did, Tom spread the wool material out, all the while ensuring his eyes did not leave her. In one sense, he wished she could offer him the same attention, but at the same time he enjoyed taking her in like this, her hands pressed to her hips causing her back to arch as she breathed in and out, adoring the same city he was born loving.

"It's beautiful," she stated, the emotion propelling her downward to sit next to Tom on the blanket. He wrapped an arm around her and she turned to him and beamed. "Thank you."

"For?"

"For bringing me here. It's...the bay is just...and the lights." Her head practically fell into her hands as the weight of all this began to overwhelm her. In an effort to deflect the way Tom was smiling at her, she laughed. "Isn't this the part where you tell me all of your favorite places? You know, where your house is from here and where you had your first kiss?"

"Alright," Tom chuckled. "Well that," he pointed, "is my house. That row of townhouses has housed every Branson boy since the Civil War." His finger moved just a few blocks over. "We go to church there and my grandmother lives just two plots down."

"Mum's mum or Dad's mum?"

"Dad's mum."

"And the rest of them?"

"Mam's family is mostly back in County Clare. My Gram passed awhile back so my Granda moved back to be closer to all of my mam's siblings. And my grandfather on my dad's side passed before he did. Dad has a brother up North but we don't see him anymore."

Sybil wrapped her arms around Tom's bicep and dropped her chin to his shoulder. "What else?" she asked, hoping the kiss she pressed to his neck would coax more memories from his lips.

"What else is there?"

"I don't know," Sybil casually shrugged with a small giggle. "What else is important to you? I want to see it…"

"My world is pretty small, Sybil. It's been this for as long as I can remember." He thought for a moment. "What would you show me if we were back in your hometown?"

"I would show you where I went to school and my favorite places to eat."

"Would you really?"

"Well sure! Why is that funny?"

"What about your house?"

"I don't think you'd want to see my house."

"Why? Do you live in a palace?" Sybil looked away, avoiding Tom's eyes. "Holy feck, you live in a palace?"

"It's not a palace! And we don't live there all the time! But, it's...big. Far bigger than I like."

"How big?" Sybil said nothing. "How many bedrooms?"

"Fif...ty."

"Fifty? Jesus H. Christ…"

"I think!" Sybil said, as if to help her case. "There could be less...or more, but we're really not sure. They're not all bedrooms anymore. And like I said, we don't live there, really. It's—"

"A summer home? Because you live in the city the rest of the time, probably in a quaint brownstone while your father goes to work for Maggie fucking Thatcher." His accent had less of a brogue now and his words were more crisp, more posh. "And you spend weekends and holidays in the countryside."

Sybil leaned back and sighed. "That's about the size of things."

Tom's eyes widened at hearing that his somewhat ridiculous assumptions were more like accurate depictions of Sybil's former life. "You've got to be shitting me!"

Another sigh. "I wish that I was."

"I'm sorry Sybil, but I don't know why you'd leave that life. When Katie Grace and I were younger we had to share a room. I mean, by the time I was seven, we moved down the street into our current flat, but that's pretty typical around here. I can't imagine having fifty feckin' bedrooms."

"We can talk about that."

"What?" Tom asked, not realizing how serious Sybil had suddenly become.

"Why I left. What happened right before. Why I'm currently sitting next to you on this mountain."

"Alright."

"But first I want to know what's in the bag."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "The bag?"

Sybil nodded toward his rucksack, pointing at it with her nose and chin. "Your bag."

Tom grabbed for the worn out canvas bag, where each buckle and corresponding brass latch made the surrounding material faded as the weight of the contents pulled and stretched the rucksack from within. Sybil sat up straight and her eyes seemed to illuminate, but quickly, when she saw Tom place the bag further away from her, all hopeful features were lost.

"Tom?"

"You know what's in here, Sybil…"

"No, I don't. If I did, I wouldn't have asked. That would just be silly—"

"You make me ashamed to be this person. This bag is nothing but an embarrassment when you're around. And I'm sorry, but I can't tell you how fucked up that is because before you came along, I knew nothing else. Everything I was and am, is in this bag. I can't just reinvent myself now, no matter how much I want to—"

"Tom," Sybil tried, her hands reaching out to grab his own. Instantly, he flinched, deflecting her touch as he once again turned further away from her. This time when she spoke his name it was not a question but a plea. He would have no say in the matter and the intensity in which Sybil glared at him promised this.

He sighed. "I'll show you, but I don't want commentary, got it?"

Sybil nodded, shaking her head up and down in a way that reminded Tom of Katie Grace. There was innocence and concentration, a focus that almost made Tom smirk as he watched Sybil actively attempt to follow his request.

Slowly, the bag was placed between Tom's legs. The main latch which held the largest flap down was opened. On top, wrapped in a protective cloth, Tom revealed his gun: a simple pistol with a completely empty chamber.

"Why is it empty?" Sybil asked politely. Her words sounded sweet, ironically so, considering the item she was referring to was capable of stealing and destroying life.

"Because I'm not a fucking copper," Tom stated flatly. It was clear, even before the gun was retrieved that Tom was uncomfortable, and in an effort to salvage his pride, was made angry by his discomfort.

"Tom, I'm not judging you, alright?"

"You are, Sybil! I know you are! You don't know!"

"No, I don't!" she responded in kind. "I don't know! I don't know anything about this. So why don't you educate me, alright?"

The moment transitioned with the help of another heavy sigh from Tom's lips. "Here," he said, tossing a small manual-like book Sybil's way.

In her hands she held the item, inspecting the cheaply bound pages and the words on the front: THE GREEN BOOK.

"What is this?" Sybil asked, still shifting the book around in her hands.

"Read it," Tom nudged.

She did, her eyes only needing to see the first several pages, before wishing to forever see no more. "Do you believe all of this? I mean, you've broken half of these rules with me…"

Tom grabbed the book back. "I've broken far more than half. The first version of this book put a lot of emphasis on secrecy. You know, early members weren't even allowed to tell their mothers or wives what they were doing. Now, it's—"

"You're practically famous," she finished for him.

Tom looked to Sybil then back to the ground. "We don't want that, really, but we don't hate that our families and our church feels safer with us around. I won't apologize for that."

"What about the balaclava?" Sybil asked simply.

Tom smirked and handed her the cloth-like item she had earlier assumed was a towel meant to clean the gun. Like the book, she held the black face mask in her hand. "This is terrifying." Then: "More terrifying than the gun."

"On its own or because of me? Because I have one?" Sybil said nothing and once again Tom reclaimed the item. "Everyone is capable of doing bad things, Sybil. Take me off of this pedestal, alright? I'm not better than it. I'm just like them. I get angry and I lash out and I can't promise that's going to go away when we get to New York."

"You are though. I mean that, Tom. You're so much better than them. And you can act like you're not because I know that change is scary, but you're better than them and you're better than this place and you need and deserve to get out of here, alright?"

"I can't look at you and apologize for it. I won't. Not when we have never received any apologies. People are dying, Sybil."

"I'm not asking for an apology, Tom!"

"Then what do you want? Even if we get to New York—"

Sybil's eyes darkened. "If?"

"I'm always going to be this person, okay? I'm always going to be Irish and you're always going to be English. And just because I've kissed you doesn't mean I hate the English any less."

Sybil was crying now, or at least she wanted to. All too quickly her eyes were glossed over with thick tears and her normally plump pout was turned inward, fighting the inevitable break that would come when she was forced to finally blink. "You're being cruel."

"We could fall in love, Sybil. Maybe we already have. Maybe I really want to and maybe, just maybe, I will love you until the day that I die...but that doesn't mean I don't fucking hate the place you've come from and all of the rotten, awful people in it."

"Tom…"

"What?" he snapped.

"Stop, okay?"

"You asked, Sybil! You wanted to see the bag. Well here it is, okay? All of it! Let's throw in Insurrection and the fucking Bible too, okay?" He did, and with his words the items, along with the bottle of water from earlier, fell from the bag as he dumped the rucksack upside down. "Let's reduce me to this fucking bag. Maybe then it'll make sense to you."

"I didn't say that, Tom! I don't believe those things and I know you don't either. You're being irrational and I am trying to understand and I want to help but—"

"But what?"

"But you need to let me in! Just like you always tell me! This is all so self-destructive and just hearing you talk about it makes me. Stop letting what they say control who you are! You can hate the English but you don't have to be violent. Passive resistance is—"

"Is fucking shite, Sybil. It doesn't work, okay? We've tried it. This whole thing started out peacefully. But the progress and the change didn't happen until people started getting hurt. It's not ideal, but it's the truth, and if I have to kill a few fucking Brits to make sure my family is safe, I'm going to do that."

Sybil, who was now several inches away from Tom and feeling separated from him for more reasons than that, continued to stare out onto the cityscape. She sat on her hands, separated from the earth only by the plaid blanket, that of which had grown cold in the spots where neither she nor he leant their body heat. Behind her, her hair, all of it so piecey, blew in the subtle breeze.

"Are you? Going to kill someone, I mean? Will you? That's what this is, right? An eye for an eye? It's okay for you to kill them because they've tortured your people?"

"People are people, Sybil! But last time I fucking checked, I wasn't in a British neighborhood, got it? This is MY home!" he roared. "This place and these people and my school and my church...these are Irish things. We are Irish. I am Irish! I didn't ask for a bunch of Brits to segregate communities and tear families apart and bully women and children. None of us asked for that. What else are we supposed to do, you know? Are we not supposed to protect our own? Are we not supposed to get offended and get angry? If that's the truth, then we're fucked because I am! I am so so angry, Sybil."

His admission had Sybil moving closer to him. Her voice was reduced to a whisper and she fought the urge to pull him in. "I know you are…"

"I can't accept that it will always be this way. It should be easier here, you know? We're all Irish. We all have the same goals and values and rights. But I can't sit here, in my town, and know that people like me are suffering somewhere else. It's not fair and it's not right and I don't fucking understand why I'm the bad guy when all I'm doing is trying to protect what is already mine."

"You'd do it then? If it came down to it? You'd shoot someone? You'd take a life that easily?"

"I don't...I don't know," Tom sighed.

"Well have you ever?"

"Fuck no!"

"Have you even shot it? Or pointed an unloaded gun at someone? I mean, is it easier with the mask?"

"No!" Tom tried again, but this time his conviction was visibly weakened. "Jesus Christ you make me sound like a feckin' monster! We don't just storm the streets looking for trouble, okay? In this fucking town it's not hard to find. This has been my life long before you got here and even before my dad passed—"

"Was he a member too?"

Tom looked to Sybil, his eyes icy and foreign, warning her. "No," he scoffed before nervously running a finger under the bridge of his nose. "Never."

"We can—"

"It's not loaded but if one of those fucking Brits ever hurt my mam or Katie Grace or my friends…" His voice trailed off and Sybil's breath hitched, wondering what words would fall next, anticipating them with an odd mixture of fear and longing. "I can't explain it to you," Tom said, dismissing his thought with a small laugh. "Even if I did, you wouldn't understand."

"Make me understand, Tom!"

His head snapped in her direction. "Have you ever seen someone die, Sybil? Like really and truly die? Not in a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors and family, but all alone? I mean death in the way it's clearly not meant to happen?"

"N...no," Sybil stammered. "Of course not."

Tom held his hands out, both of them only a few inches apart. His eyes quickly began to well up, and the more they did, the redder his skin became, and he imagined his palms as they were that day, each crack in his skin, each life line covered with dirt and blood and spit and tears.

"I held him. He was in my lap. I had a piece of his skull in this hand," Tom motioned, "and his cheek and the untouched part of his face where his spine hadn't been shattered in this hand. There was so much blood but I could see his brain and I watched it convulse eighteen times before I finally realized none of the blood was mine. Or maybe I knew and on that eighteenth time I became sick of counting or was finally calm enough to admit it. I watched a tear hit his cheek, or what was left of it, and I finally realized I was crying and that there was so much noise around me." He looked to her, his eyes pleading. "I was fifteen and I held my father, lifeless, from the moment a bullet entered his skull, until he bled out completely in the middle of a street in Derry. Thirteen men died that day and my dad was one of them." Through his tears, Tom smiled. "You know we went to church that morning and then to breakfast before the rally. We were just meant to march. That was the whole point, you know? March and make our voices heard." Another smile and the tears were cascading down his cheeks. "It was a good morning and I remember thinking that if I died on that street it wouldn't really matter. I think a part of me wanted to die. Maybe a part of me still does."

With all of her might, Sybil closed her eyes. In doing so, she too was crying, but she suddenly felt less alone as Tom accepted the warmth her body gave him. She kissed his brow and held him close, her fingers deftly caressing his cheek, willing him to calm down. She wanted this for him, the expulsion of sadness, but she also needed him to understand that she was doing her best to combat it, the memories and the violence and the resentment that followed, even before she was aware that these things existed deep within him.

"I've never told anyone that," Tom whispered. "Katie Grace doesn't even know. I don't want her or my mam picturing my dad like that. That's not how someone should be remembered."

"That's not how people are meant to die." A pause and with it a moment of true silence. " I'm sorry, Tom. I mean that. I wish I could say it a thousand times and then on the thousandth and one time, you'd believe me. I wish that was enough. But that's not going to bring him back and—" Her words were stuck, made difficult by the pain in her throat caused by the same sorrow he had given her. "Fuck," Sybil whispered as she now moved to palm at her cheeks to wipe her own tears.

The word, not a typical one in Sybil's extensive lexicon, had Tom raising his head. Even amongst the quiet of what was surely now a somber night, his eyes caught upon hers and asked for more. All she had to give was a small smile, one that was forced and then taken away just as easily as it was given, while Sybil hid her face from Tom. They were silent for a bit, completely attached and breathing as one. When no further words came from Sybil's lips, Tom picked his head up. It was then that he saw she was crying, and that those tears, hot and steady, were her own to dispel.

"Syb?"

"I've had those feelings, you know?"

Tom quirked an eyebrow. Still sad, he was now worried too, and the energy in that realization had him scooting closer to her once more. "What feelings?"

"Just wondering if this is it. Feeling so sad and trapped and helpless that you'd be okay just going away for awhile…"

"Sybil," Tom asked, now rubbing a hand to her cheek to push back at her hairline. "What are you—"

"I tried to kill myself."

"Syb—"

"I just wanted to try it. I wanted to see if I could take it. I wanted to know what it felt like to stop breathing. I wanted my lungs to fill with water and I wanted to finally feel something—"

"Sybil, stop it, please…"

"You wanted to know why I'm here and that's why I'm here, Tom. I'm here because the life everyone else thought was so magical was unbearable for me. I could not breathe in London. I couldn't attend a single meal or fundraiser or party without crying. I hated the dresses and the conversations and the pretense. Everything was so scheduled and nothing was ever good enough. And for what? To marry a man I didn't love? To have his children and love them when I couldn't even fathom loving myself? I was this scared little girl and I didn't want to be anymore. So one day when my parents had gone out, I took a bath and held my breath. And it didn't work, because nothing in London ever does. Before they were home I had my bags packed and a flight booked. I was meant to go to New York but I didn't get that far. I really don't know if I've ever completed anything. My four year degree, maybe. But the rest of it just seems like one big failure. I've lacked courage to tell my parents how I felt and then when I tried to do something about it, I lacked the courage to follow through. I thought that by leaving I'd prove how brave I am, but I only became more of myself. Just this scared little girl."

"Sybil…" She looked to him, her eyes taking him in in a way that showed she had maybe forgotten he was even there. In seeing this, Tom tightened the grip he had around her waist and dropped his mouth down to kiss her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Syb."

Sybil nodded, and moved to cup Tom's face in her hands. "Nooooo, I'm sorry, Tom. I'm so so sorry...please don't apologize to me, alright? I feel so stupid right now. So god damn stupid."

His brow furrowed. "Why do you feel stupid? I've just cried in front of you. I must look like—"

"You're so brave, Tom. You get that, right? Maybe I'm jealous," Sybil said with a small laugh. "You're brave and I'm not. I never wanted to be."

"You left your family and your life behind because it wasn't worth losing who you are. That is so brave, Syb."

"I can't...I can't say anything anymore. You know, I wasn't there but I can't imagine going through any of that. My father and I may not get along but—" Once again her words were caught in the back of her throat. Soon, her eyes were closed and the back of her hand was pressed to her lips as she fought more tears. "You deserve better from this world, Tom. I mean that and I want that for you. But this isn't the way to do it, you know? The gun and the mask...it's not going to bring him back."

"Syb…"

"And if it were," she said in a rush, trying to urge him to let her finish. "I'd be right there beside you. I'd wear the mask and I'd tout the gun if it meant bringing your dad back. Nothing would make me happier right now but I just can't picture him being okay with this—"

"He's not."

"Wha...what?"

"He's not. I know he's not. He's always hated it, the fighting and the violence and the lies and the laws. And then he passed and I could somehow feel him hating it even more."

"He'd be proud of you, Tom. You have to believe that."

His shoulders slumped. "I wish I could."

"Then why?" Sybil prepositioned, doing so now with better posture. "Why do what your father wouldn't be proud of? Are you proud of it?"

"No...I mean, I don't know," Tom stuttered with a shake of his head. "It just made sense. It's what we all did. We were all angry and it was a good time to join. My mother couldn't understand what I was going through. She monitored when Katie Grace and I would spend time together to make sure I wasn't telling her any bad things. My family wasn't my family without my Dad. So the guys became my family. We were all so pissed and when you're fifteen and sixteen and then eighteen and now twenty-four...fuck, Syb, it consumes you."

"I know," she nodded. "I know that, Tom. But you have to let it go. I need you to let me help you to let it go."

"It's always going to be a part of me, Syb. I told you that."

"I'm always going to be English," she sing-songed.

"I wish you weren't," he revealed quickly.

The truth, though she had known it all along, sounded different when spoken by someone she loved. And she did love him. Even after hearing such devastating news, Sybil was quite sure she was in love with Tom. "What am I supposed to say, Tom? Am I supposed to apologize? You've said it yourself, we can't help who we are…"

"No," he said simply. "I don't want you to apologize. You're certainly not going to get an apology out of me. I guess…" He breathed out. "I guess it's my problem, not yours. I hate myself for your englishness."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I hate myself for loving you despite it. Because I do, Sybil. I mean, I assume that's what this is. And maybe that's why all of this is suddenly so easy for me to leave behind. I was alone before and now I'm not alone anymore. You've come into my world and changed things and you are absolutely right...I'm fucking terrified."

"Me too," she agreed.

"Does that sound crazy? That I think I might love you?"

"No," Sybil chuckled. "Because I think I might love you too. Does that make me stupid? Are we stupid?" she asked, turning back to him.

"Probably."

"Do you want me to let you go? You know, maybe this was dumb and we were naive to think that—"

"No," Tom said quickly. The word reconnected them as Tom reached out to touch her wrist. "No. I'm not going."

"Why?"

"I don't...I don't want to. I'll die there. I'll be arrested. I don't want that. I want to see Katie Grace go to university and get married and have babies. I want to get a job. A real job. I want you to go to med school where you want. I want—"

She turned to him. "Please don't want things for me."

"Well don't you want things for me? Isn't that what this is all about?"

"I want so much for you, Tom."

"Well why is that fair?"

"It's fair because you're right, okay?" This was her turn to get angry. "You shouldn't want anything for me. I had a good life. I didn't live amongst all of this. We always had plenty of food and a good place to live and we never worried about what would happen when we went to church or to the grocery store or to school even. I've put myself in this situation."

"I don't believe that."

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah, Sybil, it should okay? Listen, I'm not in a place to judge. We all are brought into this world having little to no control over anything. I don't think that money or nationality or religion makes anyone's problems worse than others. You did what you could and I did what I could. Sometimes in the moment things don't make sense. But I know that since I've met you, my decisions have been mine. I have smiled more today than I have in the past eleven years. I hugged my mother today, Sybil. I haven't hugged my mother since my Gram died. And I don't think I'm better than this. I never have. But for you, I want to be. And as insane as it sounds, I think it's possible. Maybe I could get out of here and start over. And maybe my mam and Katie Grace will be okay with me. Hell, maybe they'd even be happy to see me gone. Not to Belfast, but to somewhere I can start new."

Sybil looked to Tom, her head cocked to the side and her lips settling between sadness and hopeful surprise. "You're a good man, Tom. A really good man. It'd be a shame to lose yourself to all of this."

"Then come with me. Let's do this, Sybil."

"I don't—"

"Stop being so scared, alright? Trust me."

"I do trust you!"

"If I'm too good for this place then so are you."

"Will you forgive me then?" she asked simply. "For being English, I mean?"

Tom breathed out a laugh. "I think I already have. I think I forgave you the minute you finally gave me your name." A pause and then: "I meant what I said, Sybil. If I'm not in love with you now, I will be soon. Nothing else makes sense."

Sybil exhaled and looked out to the city again. The wind from before was gone again, leaving both with nothing other than the silence that accompanies a clear night. "I love you, Tom. Does that help? Because I mean it. I love you. And I know you don't want me to need you, but I do. And it's alright if you need me too. Even if I am English. Even if you are Irish and that goes against everything you've ever believed. I mean, people are people, right?"

Through the silence, several pronounced beats of it, Sybil could hear Tom smile.

"Yeah...people are people."

Thanks for reading!

x. Elle