Galway, Ireland 1753
"Liam," the voice was muffled. "Liam, yeh bleedin' eejit, get up."
He lifted his head. For just a moment, he was profoundly startled to find himself propped up on a bar in a remarkably dank tavern, surrounded by drained mugs and empty bottles, instead of in a warm, comfortable bed surrounded by luxurious furs and beautiful women. "Dreams are lovely," he managed to croak, wondering why his throat could be so dry when it was obvious he'd drank enough to kill a horse.
He looked to his left, and wondered who the strange, blurry fellow putting his arm around him was. He was about to ask when the boisterous, drunken laugh gave it away. Peter McConnell. It made sense, really. They'd come to the tavern together, after all. They always came to taverns together. "Come now, missy. Don't tell me yeh've given up already. There's drinkin' yet to be done." Peter paused, as though he'd forgotten something terribly important. After a moment, his eyes lit up, remembering just what it was he'd intended to do. He slapped the bar so hard it shook. "Barkeep," he bellowed in his unique voice, which always sounded to Liam as if it were a combination of thunder and Guinness, "Two more here, good sir. Be quick about it and yeh'll earn yourself a few extra schillings, I give you my word."
Peter was the sort who never seemed to have any money of his own, but acted as though he did as he actively spent the money of those kind enough to befriend him. He didn't mind, though. Peter was good company. He was a big, jovial bastard by nature and became even more so when he'd had a bit to drink. And it always paid to have such a large friend around should a fight break out, which it almost invariably did. So, he kept Peter around. Hell, there was more money. There always would be, thanks to his father's habit of keeping a purse full of silver hidden under the floorboards in every bedroom of his house. He played the shrewd businessman, but his father never trusted bankers. As such, he kept quite a bit of money stashed around, should, God forbid, something terrible ever happen. He was very much a man concerned with the future, while his son, barely able to picture himself at the end of any given night let alone be concerned with his future, helped himself to whatever amounts he deemed necessary, sometimes going back two or three times a night for more.
As the night progressed, the number of empty bottles and drained mugs on the bar multiplied, spilling over to include intricately constructed pyramids on tables and here and there on the floor. And as their numbers grew, Peter, the big, jovial bastard, became less jovial and more bastard. Liam, too, found himself becoming more aggressive...though, he mused, he did seem to laugh more the drunker he got. He looked over to Peter, arguing with a man old enough to be his father over a hand of cards. Peter's face grew as red as the sunrise and that beastly voice of his grew even louder. It wouldn't be long now, he was sure of that. May as well have a little fun with it, he thought.
He grabbed the nearest woman, a pretty little thing of no more than nineteen or twenty, scooped her up, and began dancing around the room with her in broad, drunken circles. "You're very light on your feet, milady," he remarked, though he knew she was so light that he held her inches off the floor with no effort at all. Then he felt the rough tap on his shoulder, and he smiled. It won't be long now at all. He let go of the girl, turned, and found a rather large fellow with a rather large frown on his face staring down at him.
"Do you mind if I ask you what your doin' wi' me wife?" he said, rather calmly.
"No worries. We were only having ourselves a little dance..." the better part of him knew to walk away, but, fortunately, the better part of him was drunk as hell and was in no position to make a moral decision of any kind. "Of course," he continued, "if you're jealous, I'd be happy to dance with you as well." He grabbed the man by both hands and proceeded to dance around with him in much the same fashion he had with his wife, with the exception of it was now he who was lifted off the floor...and thrown several feet, crashing down on the table Peter had been playing cards at. He looked up at Peter, a glance passed between them, and the absolute bear of a man leapt, smiling, at his new prey.
It wasn't long before every able-bodied man, drunk or otherwise had tossed himself into the maelstrom. Liam found himself fending off boys no older than sixteen, boys who had probably drunk their first pint no more than an hour before, and men who'd been drinking all their lives, swinging at him with canes from their seats. Throughout it all, he felt the same pair of eyes on him: those of a strikingly beautiful woman, dressed nobly...too nobly for such a place. But those eyes...he continued tossing and dodging punches, but only half-heartedly. Those eyes. It was getting harder and harder to look away. She was talking with the barmaid now. The way she kept looking toward him, he knew they were talking about him. He smiled at her. She smiled back as two words floated across his mind: Darling boy. Before he had time to wonder about them, a bottle shattered over his head...and the world went dark.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the ground, bouncing along some six feet below him. To some, this would be an odd and perhaps frightening sight. To him, it was an old friend. "Peter," he laughed, yelling over the heavy, horse-like clop of his friend's shoes. "Peter, you stupid bastard, put me the hell down." Peter stopped and put him down, a look of rejection coming across his otherwise blank features. The same thing happened nearly every night. Just as always, he threw his arm around Peter's shoulder and the look disappeared. "Come on, yeh feckin' wee girl," he said, thickening up his accent to sound just like the old men always found in taverns; those that could drink even them under the table. "I'll buy yeh a pint. MacSorley's shouldn't have closed its doors quite yet, I imagine." And so they went, as always, off to drink themselves into oblivion, silent, dark, and sweet.
"Liam," the voice was muffled. "Liam, yeh bleedin' eejit, get up."
He lifted his head. For just a moment, he was profoundly startled to find himself propped up on a bar in a remarkably dank tavern, surrounded by drained mugs and empty bottles, instead of in a warm, comfortable bed surrounded by luxurious furs and beautiful women. "Dreams are lovely," he managed to croak, wondering why his throat could be so dry when it was obvious he'd drank enough to kill a horse.
He looked to his left, and wondered who the strange, blurry fellow putting his arm around him was. He was about to ask when the boisterous, drunken laugh gave it away. Peter McConnell. It made sense, really. They'd come to the tavern together, after all. They always came to taverns together. "Come now, missy. Don't tell me yeh've given up already. There's drinkin' yet to be done." Peter paused, as though he'd forgotten something terribly important. After a moment, his eyes lit up, remembering just what it was he'd intended to do. He slapped the bar so hard it shook. "Barkeep," he bellowed in his unique voice, which always sounded to Liam as if it were a combination of thunder and Guinness, "Two more here, good sir. Be quick about it and yeh'll earn yourself a few extra schillings, I give you my word."
Peter was the sort who never seemed to have any money of his own, but acted as though he did as he actively spent the money of those kind enough to befriend him. He didn't mind, though. Peter was good company. He was a big, jovial bastard by nature and became even more so when he'd had a bit to drink. And it always paid to have such a large friend around should a fight break out, which it almost invariably did. So, he kept Peter around. Hell, there was more money. There always would be, thanks to his father's habit of keeping a purse full of silver hidden under the floorboards in every bedroom of his house. He played the shrewd businessman, but his father never trusted bankers. As such, he kept quite a bit of money stashed around, should, God forbid, something terrible ever happen. He was very much a man concerned with the future, while his son, barely able to picture himself at the end of any given night let alone be concerned with his future, helped himself to whatever amounts he deemed necessary, sometimes going back two or three times a night for more.
As the night progressed, the number of empty bottles and drained mugs on the bar multiplied, spilling over to include intricately constructed pyramids on tables and here and there on the floor. And as their numbers grew, Peter, the big, jovial bastard, became less jovial and more bastard. Liam, too, found himself becoming more aggressive...though, he mused, he did seem to laugh more the drunker he got. He looked over to Peter, arguing with a man old enough to be his father over a hand of cards. Peter's face grew as red as the sunrise and that beastly voice of his grew even louder. It wouldn't be long now, he was sure of that. May as well have a little fun with it, he thought.
He grabbed the nearest woman, a pretty little thing of no more than nineteen or twenty, scooped her up, and began dancing around the room with her in broad, drunken circles. "You're very light on your feet, milady," he remarked, though he knew she was so light that he held her inches off the floor with no effort at all. Then he felt the rough tap on his shoulder, and he smiled. It won't be long now at all. He let go of the girl, turned, and found a rather large fellow with a rather large frown on his face staring down at him.
"Do you mind if I ask you what your doin' wi' me wife?" he said, rather calmly.
"No worries. We were only having ourselves a little dance..." the better part of him knew to walk away, but, fortunately, the better part of him was drunk as hell and was in no position to make a moral decision of any kind. "Of course," he continued, "if you're jealous, I'd be happy to dance with you as well." He grabbed the man by both hands and proceeded to dance around with him in much the same fashion he had with his wife, with the exception of it was now he who was lifted off the floor...and thrown several feet, crashing down on the table Peter had been playing cards at. He looked up at Peter, a glance passed between them, and the absolute bear of a man leapt, smiling, at his new prey.
It wasn't long before every able-bodied man, drunk or otherwise had tossed himself into the maelstrom. Liam found himself fending off boys no older than sixteen, boys who had probably drunk their first pint no more than an hour before, and men who'd been drinking all their lives, swinging at him with canes from their seats. Throughout it all, he felt the same pair of eyes on him: those of a strikingly beautiful woman, dressed nobly...too nobly for such a place. But those eyes...he continued tossing and dodging punches, but only half-heartedly. Those eyes. It was getting harder and harder to look away. She was talking with the barmaid now. The way she kept looking toward him, he knew they were talking about him. He smiled at her. She smiled back as two words floated across his mind: Darling boy. Before he had time to wonder about them, a bottle shattered over his head...and the world went dark.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the ground, bouncing along some six feet below him. To some, this would be an odd and perhaps frightening sight. To him, it was an old friend. "Peter," he laughed, yelling over the heavy, horse-like clop of his friend's shoes. "Peter, you stupid bastard, put me the hell down." Peter stopped and put him down, a look of rejection coming across his otherwise blank features. The same thing happened nearly every night. Just as always, he threw his arm around Peter's shoulder and the look disappeared. "Come on, yeh feckin' wee girl," he said, thickening up his accent to sound just like the old men always found in taverns; those that could drink even them under the table. "I'll buy yeh a pint. MacSorley's shouldn't have closed its doors quite yet, I imagine." And so they went, as always, off to drink themselves into oblivion, silent, dark, and sweet.
