sea change

Written for August Fic Challenge 2023, Prompt: Sea Glass. Note: Pretty sure heart shapes weren't a thing in 1209, but they are here. Gen or Pre-Slash. Comments and kudos would be awesome. Enjoy!


It is rare to find anything washed up on the beaches of Kilmannán.

But Diarmuid does.

It is the morning after a brutal storm rolled through the area. It's brought up all sorts of seashells and seaweed, and he gathers the both as he wanders along the shoreline, with only the rolling of the waves and the calls of the seabirds. The sun is still low in the sky, casting pretty pinks and oranges across the horizon as it rises, and for a minute, Diarmuid thinks it is only a trick of the light – but, no. There is a body on the beach.

Curious, he moves forward. He should alert the others, he knows, but something draws him toward the prone figure. Out in the rocky breakers, he sees the ruins of a currach.

The man is injured, his bare chest raked with cuts and mottled with dark bruises from the rough rocks. There is a deeper wound on his shoulder, another on his thigh. Pale trails of blood in the sand flow out with the waves.

A little afraid of what he will find, Diarmuid kneels down beside him, reaches out – the man's skin is sweaty and fever warm, but when his hand lands on the man's chest, there is a beat. The man groans, and his own hand comes up to cover Diarmuid's.

"You'll be okay," he tells the injured stranger, unsure if the man will even understand his words, his language.

"I'll be back," he promises, running off to fetch Ciarán to help.


It is rarer still to find treasure washed up on the shores of Kilmannán.

But Diarmuid does.

It is a smooth piece of sea glass that Diarmuid happens upon on yet another early morning spent hunting for razor clams. It is a faded hazel color and shaped vaguely like a heart, about half as big as his palm.

He has collected other bits and bobs from the sea over the years, though none are as fine as this one. A small collection of other pieces of sea glass rests on the edge of the window by his pallet. Sometimes they catch the sun when it breaks through the cloudy skies and little beams of light sparkle across the stone walls. This one shines the brightest of anything he's ever found.

"Look at this," he calls to his mute friend, racing over to show him his new treasure.

The man does as requested, as he has done most everything Diarmuid has asked of him in the time since his rescue. He tilts the shard this way and that, letting it catch the sun and shine bright. He smiles in answer and passes it back.

"I found it where I found you," Diarmuid tells him, the realization just now hitting him, "Exactly a year ago today."

An idea occurs to him then and he rips a thin piece of cloth from his robes, ties it around the little trinket carefully, until he's sure it won't slip free. And then he offers it to his friend.

The mute does not take it, only stares at him in confusion. Diarmuid remedies this, reaching up to put the haphazard necklace over his head, lets it settle around his neck. The charm rests just over the Mute's own heart.

He earns a beaming smile in return for this, a nod of sincere thanks, before Ciarán is calling them back to the monastery for morning prayers.


On yet another beach, far from home, they are trapped.

De Merville's men have them dead to rights. They are in the currach, those who have survived this doomed pilgrimage, but the tide is out and the boat is practically useless, the boat's cargo floats around them, hastily discarded in their failed attempts to flee. They will not get away. The soldiers are fast approaching and with one final, desperate look at Diarmuid, the mute storms up to meet them blow for blow.

The fight is fast and brutal, and Diarmuid can barely stand to watch as he struggles his way through de Merville's men. When he finally gets to the traitorous man himself, the carnage is even worse – Cathal holds him back when the mute takes a hit to the hip that doubles him over, another to the shoulder that drops him to the sandy ground, makes him lose hold of his sword. He gets up again, but Diarmuid can feel his heart racing in his chest, desperate for his friend to survive this.

When he sees the arrow…

He feels something in his chest shatter.

He knows what that arrow can do, watched de Merville use it on Ciarán just last night. There is no surviving it.

But something happens before de Merville can use it.

The man who betrayed them falls, blood gushing from a wound on his neck, flowing freely over the wet sand where he lays, dead. The mute stands over him almost as surprised as the rest of them at his sudden victory, heaving for breath. He grabs up his sword, the arrow, and something else and with no other threats to fight off, he returns to them as they scramble their way out of the currach and back to shore to meet him.

The sword, he stands in the sand.

The arrow, he snaps in two and throws to the sea.

And then he holds out his hand to Diarmuid.

In it, are two pieces of sea glass. Two halves of a heart, broken so that they bear sharp edges – one of them is clean, the other is covered in de Merville's blood. A weapon when he needed it most.

Diarmuid smiles and pulls his dear friend into a desperate hug, practically sobbing with relief that it was only the glass heart that had to break today.

It is rare to find anything washed up on the beaches of Kilmannán.

It is rarer still to find treasure.

But Diarmuid has found both.

Perhaps they are one in the same.