deep breath, deep breath
prompts from reka1207 on tumblr. Also I know I missed some of the brothers but Jesus Christ it's midnight while I'm writing this ok
Secret of Kells © Cartoon Saloon
cold
Aidan's skin is singed through pulsing heat of the flames, but he has dealt with it before.
He doesn't quite realize that it's worse the second time, fueled by fear and desperation to keep Brendan safe after nearly failing thrice—the Scriptorium, the Vikings, the wolves—until they stop to rest after hours of running.
Prickling waves up is face and arms—and from how Brendan winces and shakes, he knows he isn't the only one.
They curl up in a hollow at the bottom of a tree. It's small and it doesn't shield them from the cold, so Aidan lies on his side and twists his cloak around to partially cover them both.
The cold is worse than what the heat had done, so he wraps around Brendan and feels Brendan press into him and Pangur pushes herself between them. They ignore the icy burn of the ground until it fades and simply curl together tighter when the wind manages to cut into the hollow.
Brendan falls asleep after a few hours, but Aidan never does. The cold makes his bones ache, and he feels he has parchment stretched over a frame instead of skin. He watches his breath fade into mist and shifts to keep the dampness in his eyes from falling to Brendan chilling him further.
He can only pray that they survive the winter.
refer
Aisling hears Brendan refer to the brothers of Kells so many times, she recognizes them the first time she sees them.
The large one with a laugh that carries and skin as dark as hers is pale, Brother Assoua. The orange-robed one with the great mustache who waves his arms around like a madman, Brother Leonardo. The gloomy-faced one that wore warm blue robes no matter the weather, Brother Sergei. Another in orange, but so dwarfed by the rest that she wouldn't have spotted him if he had been wearing anything more drab, Brother Tang. The Abbot, clad in bloody red and nearly always on the Wall where she could easily catch a glimpse. And of course old Brother Aidan, who was why he visited her forest in the first place, with that cat of his and why Brendan drew her pretty pictures too.
It's strange, how familiar they all feel. She doesn't know if she likes it.
inter
Few of the villagers had much left to bury—there were those struck down by the Northmen in the center of Kells and in the church, but many more perished fleeing and dying inside or in the spaced between the huts.
Nothing more than a few charred bones were left within the field of ash.
But Cellach had hoped, prayed that there was something left for him to find in the Scriptorium. Something of Brendan and Aidan, something to bury and pray over and weep over and believe that they might somehow hear.
He dug through the remains of the building with a mad fervor, not stopping until a coat of ash covered every part of his body. You're there. You're there. I know you're there. I'm sorry, please, please let me find you.
He rarely took breaks. Sometimes he left to help dig graves for the rest. Brother Tang tried to stop him, insisted that his wounds were too fresh, that he didn't need to do this. He refuses each time. The pain from the sword and the arrow is nothing compared to death by the flames.
It takes him until summer to comb through every inch of the Scriptorium. He finds pots and shattered glass from the ink bottles, the remnants of books, even a few quills that kept nearly intact beneath the ashes.
It takes him until winter to bear making the markers for the last pair of empty graves.