Rough Manners

The days began to pass effortlessly once more. The sun rose and the sun set and Iain laboured beneath it, beside his father and his grandfather.

No one mentioned his day in bed. It faded into memory, as it always had before, on the ship. If he stayed with his family long enough, they'd see him retreat again, he knew that. He wondered if they would come to accept it as he did, as the crew of La Stella Cadente had. It had become his quirk. No one disturbed George when he baked a particular cake on a particular day of the year. No one knocked on the first mate's door when they heard him singing a certain song. No one mentioned the loss of the captain's wife. And no one talked about Iain's occasional retreat to the hold. So long as they all reemerged and the ship continued to float, they all let one another be.

He knew his mother judged him recovered when she began pestering him with questions again.

"Have you written to Sera?"

"Yes, mum." It wasn't really a lie. He had written a letter, he'd not mailed it. He did not tell her that the letter had joined the others in the small packet he carried. It had taken him the better part of an afternoon to write the short note, then he'd been unable to send it. He did not know why. He had told his father that Rafi didn't need him anymore and his father had insisted that she would. On some level, Iain realised he feared both these outcomes. If his twin no longer needed him, what use was he? If she still required his strength of character, she might find him lacking. To hear her story, to know what she'd seen, he honestly didn't know if he could listen and remain steady for her, some days it took all of his energy just to be himself.

Silence had befallen the kitchen and Iain looked up from rubbing the knuckles of his left hand to see his mother giving him the look.

"What?"

"Why didn't you tell me you'd written? I could have sent a note too."

Iain sighed. He stood up and wrapped his arms around his mother. "I'll write again after the festival and you can put in a note, alright?"

"You're a good lad."

Sometimes I am. Iain gave his mother a cheeky grin and strode out of the door and into the yard.

The late afternoon sun had a little warmth to it and he turned his face towards the sky and closed his eyes. He let the orange light flicker behind his eyelids for a while and smiled as he felt a weight against his leg. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a tangle of wool and looked down so he could brush the end of it over Socks' nose. The cat bit at the wool and Iain yanked it away. Before long he started running back and forth across the yard, dragging the length of wool behind him. Socks gave chase and Iain laughed and twitched the wool back and forth.

"Callum and I thought we might visit the tavern tonight. You up for joining us?"

Iain looked up to see his grandfather leaning against the house, his arms crossed. He'd managed to avoid being alone with Gavin for any extended period of time, fearing any questions the old man might put to him. They wouldn't get much of a chance to chat over the noise of the tavern.

Gavin and Callum visited the tavern twice a month; on the second week, Theresa entertained the local knitting circle and on the fourth week the ladies played cards. Then men had tried to join on occasion, but men played cards differently to women. Men bet more, they swore more and they drank more. So they might as well do it at the tavern.

Iain nodded his assent and went to fetch his jacket.

Clinton and Jim Darrow were already there. Some men drank every night out of habit, he supposed, and sometimes that habit extended through the dinner hour. Claire Darrow had so many men living under her roof she probably didn't notice the absence of one or two every now and then.

After sharing an ale with his father and grandfather, the polite round, Iain went to sit with the younger men. They were talking about women and the upcoming Cladan festival. Both were entertaining subjects. Iain sat down with his second ale.

"Sybil's sister said Finola has her eye on you, Iain. She's making a new dress for the festival," Jim said.

Hastily swallowing his ale, so that he might not choke, Iain prepared dash Finola's hopes.

"I heard you'd already taken her out," Clinton put in.

Iain put his mug down with an exasperated sigh. This was how people ended up married in small towns. The village supposed they were together and, to avoid rumour and suspicion, they hooked up.

"I've not taken her out."

"You should, she's a looker," Jim countered.

Finola Aiken did have a pretty face. Long, blonde hair complimented her warm brown eyes and the freckles dusted across her nose. Iain had always thought her attractive; he might have even professed a crush on her in his younger days. He'd not known the danger of village gossip back then, or that his mother would remember his words. And now that Finola become a woman, she looked like one. She had quite the figure. If he had a ship waiting at harbour, he'd not hesitate to take her out.

To Jim, he said, "I don't want to build a house in the spring; I'm not touching Finola Aiken."

Clinton laughed and lifted his mug. "Eh, it's not so bad. Just think, my bed will be warm every night, come the spring." He winked and drained his ale.

Iain turned to signal a barmaid for another round and he caught sight of a young woman standing alone towards the rear of the tavern. She had dark hair, the colour of chestnut, and it fell in long, loose curls to her waist. Her hair caught his attention first as women usually braided such long hair rather than wear it loose. She had an exotic face; large, dark eyes and a very red mouth.

"Who...?"

"That is Martin's new girl, you don't want to be caught looking at her."

A grin stretched across Iain's face and he nodded slowly, willing the woman to look in his direction. She did not, but a barmaid did and he ordered more ale. By shuffling his chair slightly sideways, Iain managed to keep an eye on Martin's girl. She had caught the eye of several other men, despite the company of Martin, a rough looking man he did not know. Idly, he wondered if Martin would let others dance with his new girl at the festival. Probably not.

The Darrows caught him in conversation for another round and, when their ales were refreshed for a fourth time, Iain could feel the languor of the alcohol, the lightness of his thought and limb. He usually didn't drink so much; he'd never been a big drinker, more an occasional one. He turned to check on the young lady and her rough companion and noted their situation had changed. Martin had acquired grabby hands and his girl looked a little uncomfortable. Iain narrowed his eyes.

Iain had always felt protective, or as Rafi inferred, overly protective, towards the fairer sex. In part, due to his attachment to his twin and, somewhat, due to his training as a squire. Markham might have been the one who always acted the gentleman, but Iain usually minded his manners. He liked to charm and tease, but he'd never take advantage. The guards in Howe's dungeon had not been gentlemen. They had done atrocious things to the female captives and, more often than not, Iain had been a witness. Several of his scars were punishment for interfering. When he'd stopped protesting or trying to save them, guilt punished him instead. It had been hard for him to touch a woman after he regained his freedom.

Now he found himself quick to anger when he perceived any man trying to take advantage of a woman. Not a bad trait, until his fists found their way into the situation.

"They look right cozy, eh?"

Looking up from the amber swirl of his ale, Iain squinted at Clinton. The elder Darrow nodded towards the rear corner of the tavern and Iain followed his gaze to see Martin and his companion locked in a somewhat passionate embrace. He smirked at the pair, figuring she'd decided she liked Martin's hands on her dress after all, and turned back to his ale. He let out a long, steady breath, willing the edginess he felt to ease. The girl's look earlier, her discomfort, played over and over in his mind. Not my business, he told himself. He had to keep his head. This was Stormgard, he lived here, and Angus was not on hand to extract him from a fight.

"Oh, that's not right..."

Iain turned around again and saw the young woman actively trying to push Martin off her. Clinton looked perturbed and Iain felt a surge of kinship with his fellow. While the Darrow boys might be troublesome and mischief makers, they were good to their mother and their sister, and Clinton was building a house for his girl; he had a gentle nature beneath his sometimes rough manners.

"C'mon, Iain, you're supposed to be a gentleman of some sort, right? Let's go set him straight," Clinton said, his words slightly slurred.

An invitation Iain could not and did not want to refuse. He felt both the ale and his edginess swirl together and the warmth of them rise towards his head. He rose with Clinton and the pair moved towards the back of the tavern.

They'd not realised Martin man had friends.

Afterwards, Iain couldn't quite remember the point at which he'd snapped. It had probably been when Martin had roughly grabbed at the young woman's breast (or that part of her dress) and pronounced her 'his'. Fists flew and punches landed. He heard yelling, his voice and Clinton's, and then Jim shouted and someone screamed. Knuckles grazed his temple and Iain saw stars. Retaining his feet, he aimed for his assailant's jaw and heard a sharp crack. His gut curdled at the sound and he pushed aside the sick feeling and followed up with another punch. A blow to the kidneys left him breathless and Iain doubled over, gasping for air and trying to hold back the contents of his stomach. A haze seemed to have fallen over the room, obscuring his sight and muffling the sounds, and Iain threw himself back into the press of bodies, more than anger fueling his fists.

When someone grabbed roughly at his shoulder, he yelled and pushed them off. Two large hands slipped beneath his arms and pulled him away from the fight and Iain struggled against their hold. "Fuck off," he yelled, trying to get back into the fray.

A hand cuffed the side of his face, none to gently, and Iain turned to attack his fresh target. Callum stood there, his face a mask of hurt surprise.

"Here, give him to me, Callum." His grandfather stepped in and grabbed Iain roughly by the arm. "We're leaving, lad. All of us. Now."

Sobriety hit Iain like a stinging slap as he blinked at the two men, his family. He'd forgotten where he was, he'd forgotten he was in Stormgard.

No one talked on the walk through town. Silence hung thick and heavy between the trio, tinged with the emotion of all three; Iain's residual anger, Callum's shock and disappointment, and Gavin's displeasure. The house sat dark and quiet, his mother already in bed. Iain hesitated to step inside. He felt wrong. Like an outsider. He felt disconnected from his family in a new way, as if he'd become a person they did not know anymore. His father went inside without a word, taking the cloud of anger, shock and disappointment with him, and Iain slumped against the wall, overwhelmed with remorse. His father had never looked at him like that before, never. It hurt more than the various bruises he'd acquired from the fight.

A cool cloth pressed against his temple and he brushed it away.

"Go away," he muttered, not willing to be tended. He wanted to wallow in his misery, use this new separateness as an excuse to pack it all up and find his way back to the docks.

"You can apologise in the morning," his grandfather said.

Iain shrugged.

"He was young once too, Iain." A small note of dry humour crept into the old man's voice. "Tessa will remind him of that."

Turning to face his grandfather, Iain made a small attempt to explain. "It was the girl, I didn't like the way he touched her."

Gavin studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "We'll talk in the morning, lad. When your head is clearer."