Chapter Text
One morning, strangers in longships stepped onto the shore.
Their arrival was no surprise. Along the sea's coast they drifted, slow, languid, in their monstrously large and narrow vessels with their monstrously large, woven sails dyed in bright, garish colors, a beacon to all that saw them, telling them—as their longships loomed like a pack of wolves stalking their prey—that they were coming.
It had given the monks time to descend from pure panic into gloomy resignation as they argued over their options. Would they flee? To where? Would they take their relics and books in addition to supplies? Would they stay and face whatever it was these strangers wanted? What would they be willing to give up? Food and water? Shelter? The treasures of their monastery?
Prayer, Diarmuid noticed, was not a great part of these deliberations. He sought to rectify that himself, sitting near the altar and bowing his head.
God, see us through this day safely. As these strangers cross the sands, let us meet them in peace and understanding. May these shores remain unblemished by bloodshed, may this monastery continue to be a place of quiet study and contemplation.
"Amen," he said, softly.
But not softly enough, for Brother Geraldus whirled around. "Something to add, boy?" he asked.
Diarmuid shook his head. "No, Brother Geraldus. I agree with the abbot."
At this, Brother Geraldus scoff. He himself had suggested that every able-bodied monk should take the relics and flee toward the village and save their monastery's most precious treasures, but the abbot had none-too-gently reminded him that, if they chose that route, then they would leave the elderly and infirm among them to fend for themselves.
The abbot inclined his head toward Diarmuid in a small gesture of thanks. "This does not mean that we will not be prepared if we must flee. But if we do so, we will be together," he added.
It was a small party of three that ventured near the monastery but every figure trudging through the sand was armored and armed. Helmets, chainmail, shields on their backs, swords at their waists. Tall and broad, obviously stronger than anyone at the monastery. Diarmuid watched them
warily, crouched in the tall grass, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
One of the warriors nudged another and said something, motioning towards the monastery. Their language was completely unfamiliar to Diarmuid. He listened intently, attempting to glean some familiar word in the hopes that he would suddenly understand the purpose of their presence, but for all the languages that they'd had Diarmuid study in the rectory, it wasn't one that he knew. The two conversing seemed far more interested in the beach than the monastery, pointing at the birds bobbing in the tide and picking up shells. Their companion said nothing, only shook his head and shrugged, a gesture of irritation that was universal and somewhat comical as the other two let out amazed and disgusted cries as they held up what Diarmuid knew to be a mermaid's purse between their fingers. Weren't they seafarers? Such an impressive longship, and they scrounged through the sand like children let loose on the beach for the first time.
Diarmuid chuckled—quietly, he thought. But the warrior uninterested in the delights of the tides and sands turned sharply in his direction.
He'd heard him!
Cursing himself, Diarmuid pulled his hood over his head and pressed his face into his arms. He held his breath, staying as still as possible, praying that the warrior took no notice of him hiding in the tall grass. But the sound of heavy boots in the sand grow nearer and nearer, and then Diarmuid panicked and pushed himself to his feet. His heart nearly stopped. The warrior stood only a few paces from him, taller and broader than any person Diarmuid had ever seen in his life. Were all the strangers that size?
A cold gust of wind whipped around them. Diarmuid's robes billowed. His hood fell around his shoulders, his untameable curls flying around his face. The warrior, who had been unbothered by the strong seabreeze, suddenly startled. His sharp intake of breath was audible even above the wind and the waves. Diarmuid could see none of the man's face but his eyes, dark as ink, and they focused on him with such intensity that he took a step backward, nearly stumbled, and then ran for the safety of the monastery.
Weaving from sand dune to sand dune, Diarmuid was certain that, if he hadn't lost the warrior, then he'd at least put a great deal of distance between them. After all, he was used to running on sand, and wearing far lighter clothing. He was very nearly off the beach when he narrowly avoided crashing into Brother Geraldus, who was on his knees, digging at the sand with his nails.
No—he was hiding something. Diarmuid thought he saw a glint of gold before it was covered with sand. Always concerned with the most paltry of things. Diarmuid bit down a flash of irritation. This was no time to get into an argument.
"Brother Geraldus—they're here," he said.
The monk whirled around, anger and suspicion plain on his face. "What are you doing?"
"What are you doing? They're here, I said—three warriors on the beach. We have to tell the abbot."
"You led them right toward us? You little fool—" Whatever furious tirade he was planning on unleashing died in his throat. His face paled. Diarmuid turned to follow his frightened gaze and saw the warrior walking toward them with careful, measured steps. The man held up his hands, palms facing outward—a peaceful gesture, though it did nothing to stop Diarmuid's heart from hammering in his chest.
Voice shaking, Diarmuid offered, "H-hello."
The stranger responded with a short wave. It was surprisingly awkward from a man so large. He said nothing. Diarmuid thought he was deliberating from the way he was squeezing his hands into fists at his side. After a few moments he seemed to come to a decision and, slowly, he removed his helmet, revealing dark, curly hair and beard and darker eyes, a strong jaw, a nose that appeared to have been broken time and time again. But for all that, his face had a gentleness to it. A sadness. He exuded a vulnerability that Diarmuid had not expected, and it left him speechless, unsure how to respond.
Brother Geraldus, however, saw vulnerability and pounced on it. Just like he was scolding Diarmuid or another monk for a transgression, he snapped at the stranger, "Well? What business do you have here? This is a holy place—a place of God! State your business!"
The man simply stared at them. He hadn't comprehended a word of what Brother Geraldus had said. Diarmuid muttered, "Brother, they speak a language I've never heard before. I don't think he understands us."
Just as he finished speaking, however, the man raised his arm and pointed at Diarmuid.
"Yes? Is there something I can do for you?" Perhaps, with enough gesturing, they could figure out what it was that he wanted.
"Diarmuid is merely a novice," Brother Geraldus said, because there was no situation that did not benefit from putting Diarmuid in his place in his eyes, "He is not yet a full-fledged member of our order."
Another, more insistent gesture—a finger jabbing at the air, pointing at Diarmuid's chest. Suddenly Diarmuid felt silly. Of course, that had to be it. They hadn't been introduced. Smiling hesitantly, he said, "Oh—Diarmuid. My name is Diarmuid." He pressed his hand to his heart. "Diarmuid."
The warrior's eyes widened. He lowered his arm—was it Diarmuid's imagination that it shook, ever so slightly—nodding, and Diarmuid thought that they were making progress. But then, with a quick, fluid movement, the man unsheathed his sword and both Diarmuid and Brother Geraldus tensed. It was a well-worn blade. Polish could not hide the dents and the chips in the steel, but it was still a wicked looking thing, steel glinting in the cold sunlight. The stranger made no other movement; he simply stood, sword at the ready, face now impassive.
What had just transpired? Had they angered him? Was this a threat?
Brother Geraldus had an idea of his own. He cleared his throat. "Diarmuid?" he asked.
At the sound of Diarmuid's name the stranger nodded again. His grip tightened around the sword's handle. Sweat dripped down the back of Diarmuid's neck. He was lost. Whatever conversation the man and Brother Geraldus were having made no sense at all to him.
Slowly, slowly, Brother Geraldus nodded. He walked to Diarmuid's side. At first Diarmuid thought he was going to construct some solution with him—to lean down and whisper to him a plan of attack, or, more likely, to flee when he gave the signal.
Instead, the monk placed his hand on Diarmuid's back and shoved him.
Diarmuid stumbled foward with a cry of surprise, flailing, falling to his knees at the stranger's feet. He loomed over Diarmuid, his expression obscured by the sun shining in Diarmuid's eyes. With one quick movement, the stranger moved toward Brother Geraldus, gripped his sword with both hands, and drove it, point down, into the white sand. Then, he grabbed Diarmuid by the arm and hauled him to his feet.
"What are you doing?" Diarmuid asked, shrugging him off. He was trembling and hated himself for it.
The man grimaced. He cast a questioning glance back at Brother Geraldus, who hissed, "Go with him, boy! It's a trade!"
A trade? Diarmuid swallowed. The sword—for himself? For what reason? "What does he want with me?"
The warrior still didn't seem to understand their words, so perhaps it was the fearful tone in his voice that made his expression darken, or perhaps it was that Diarmuid was digging his heels into the sand. His brow furrowed, and he looked at Brother Geraldus again, this time with frustration and something like—
Nervousness?
Instead of answering, Brother Geraldus snapped, "Do as I say and go with him. It is a sacrifice—be brave, so that the monastery will be safe!"
"But, I—" Was that what this was? Was there really such a danger? Diarmuid eyed the sword in the sand. He thought of the other two warriors on the beach, and the longship with some sort of creature carved at the front of the ship. A serpent of some sort, or a dragon. A monster staring hungrily at land, facing the monastery. He thought of the small fleet of longships built just like that one, carrying countless warriors, all armed with swords like this one. Diarmuid swallowed. He looked at the stranger. "Okay," he said, softly.
The man's expression was soft, but his grip was strong as he led Diarmuid back to the shore.
They found the warrior's two companions hauling a basket clams to a small boat floating in the tide. The basket looked awfully familiar. Diarmuid was fairly certain he'd woven it. They greeted their friend with good cheer, showing him their spoils, and then they noticed Diarmuid by his side and they both began to whoop and laugh. One clapped Diarmuid's captor on his back, yanking at the empty sheath on his belt. The other grabbed Diarmuid's chin between her thumb and forefinger and lifted and moved his head this way and that, and Diarmuid wondered if she would check his teeth, too, like someone buying a horse at the market. Diarmuid had the urge to bite at her fingers.
She said something and of course he had no idea what she was saying. He stared at her sullenly. This only made her laugh again. She jabbed his finger into his chest and repeated the same words, and Diarmuid realized now that she was asking for his name.
Did his name truly matter to them? And why hadn't she asked her friend who had captured him? But this was a trade—if he went with them they would leave the rest of the monastery's inhabitants alone. It wouldn't do to anger them. He said, "Diarmuid."
"Diar-muid," she repeated. She grinnned and jabbed the warrior's broad back. "David."
David could not seem to meet Diarmuid's eyes. He helped place the baskets into the boat, then, staring at Diarmuid's knees, held out his hand to assist him into the boat as well. The others clambered in after him. It was a tight fit: three warriors, three stolen baskets with stolen goods, and a stolen novice.
Up close, the longship was even larger and more terrifying. It was almost as though the creature carved onto the mast would rear up and spit and snarl and rage. And there were many more people onboard than Diarmuid had realized. They peered over the edge of the ship, waving to their fellows and pointing at him and whispering to one another and grinning at the passengers in the small boat bobbing in the waves.
At Diarmuid.
Someone threw down a rope ladder. First the basket of clams were passed to the waiting sailors, then the warrior who had asked for Diarmuid's name and told him David's climbed up the ladder. Now the significantly lighter, the boat swayed alarmingly on the waves. Diarmuid yelped as David easily lifted him up so that he could scrabble up and onto the ship. He all but tumbled inside, shivering from the cold sea air, the damp hems of his robes sticking to his ankles, the uncertain and curious looks of the men on the ship, the fear of what the future held for him.
The ship rocked in the tide. Diarmuid stood on shaking legs, wondering what he was supposed to do, where he was supposed to go, when
David climbed over the side of the ship with ease. He made his way to Diarmuid's side, placed his hand on his shoulder, and led him to the center of the ship, where, it seemed, they were keeping the animals and the loot.
Which category did he fall into?
Diarmuid took his place among the stolen items with as much dignity as he could muster. A hen pecked at his robes and then hopped into
his lap and he clutched her to him like a pillow.
One of the other men said something that prompted laughter among the rest. David—his master, now? His lord?—growled, actually growled in response. Their mirth immediately evaporated. Diarmuid wondered what exactly had been said to displease him so.
Of the rest of supplies that were loaded onto the ship, Diarmuid was the only person. The only captive. He saw crates of vegetables and dried meat, clothing and fabric, more chickens, a few sheep, a small chest of jewelry, but no one else from the monastery or the nearby village, and, while it seemed that the land and markets had been pilfered, neither was there anything—save for the basket—that Diarmuid recognized from the monastery. No relic, no books, no jars of spices. Perhaps the warrior's trade with Geraldus was also a symbolic gesture of protection. He'd traded his sword for Diarmuid, and that was that. No one else was to take from them. For though the monks had done their best to hide their treasures, he had no doubt that these warriors could have sniffed them out if they'd truly wanted them. So long as Diarmuid stayed where he was, he was keeping everyone safe.
David crouched beside him and offered him a waterskin, a bit of dried fish, and a blanket. He briefly considered refusing it all, but intentionally depriving himself of food and warmth would do nothing to better his situation. Diarmuid accepted them with a mumbled, "Thank you," and
huddled in his blanket, chewing and chewing on the dried fish. It tasted overwhelmingly of salt. Diarmuid ripped off a sliver with his teeth and presented it to the hen, who gave it a cursory peck and then turned her beak up at it. He quite agreed with her.
By the time Diarmuid found the courage to stand and study his surroundings the monastery had disappeared. All around him was only sea. The hen tumbled to the deck with an angry squawk as he dropped her and shakily walked to the edge of the ship.
He had not cried when Brother Geraldus cast him aside so callously, nor when the stranger led him to the boat and sat him down among animals. But he cried in, hand pressed to his mouth, tears streaming down his face, face red in embarrassment at this show of weakness even as his heart ached. The place that he had called home for his entire life was gone, and its its place was only uncertainty and fear. One of the sailors spoke to him in a soothing tone while another jeered something that caused a ripple of laughter to break out along the deck. Whether his tears unsettled or irritated the crew it was clearly a bother either way. Someone called for David, most likely insisting he deal with his emotional charge.
David guided him back toward the animals, gesturing for him to sit. Diarmuid merely stared at him with red-rimmed, watery eyes.
The man's expression was almost pleading. Was it considered unseemly, to have a servant be so obviously unhappy with him? Diarmuid's eyes narrowed. Well, if it was, what did he care? He'd had his entire life taken away from him—the least he could have was to be able to express his opinion on the matter. And the monastery was now safe, he was certain. It would only be a waste of time and resources to return and upbraid the monks and relieve them of their food and livestock if Diarmuid decided to indulge in his unhappiness now. If he displeased David, then the only one who would be punished was himself.
"What are you looking at me like that for?" he asked, wiping his face with his sleeve. "I'm here, aren't I? I'm not going anywhere." There was no where else to go except for the bottom of the sea.
Amidst the muttering of the crew, David picked up the blanket and wrapped it around Diarmuid's shoulders. He gestured again for Diarmuid to sit, and this time Diarmuid did simply because he would rather be with the animals than among these strange people. Frustrated and powerless and stuck on a ship—he had more in common with the hens and sheep than he did with this crew of armored warriors and sailors.
David grimaced. He shifted from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his head, and then apparently made up his mind. He pulled the chainmail over his head and let it pool to the deck without another glance at it. He sat next to Diarmuid, reached for his hand, and, pulling aside the high neckline of his tunic, pressed Diarmuid's fingers to his throat.
Diarmuid gasped. There was a long line of scar tissue across the man's neck, raised and rough.
His throat had been slit.
And he'd survived it—obviously he'd survived it, otherwise how could they be sitting there together—his pulse was hot and strong underneath Diarmuid's fingers, his grip firm, his gaze unwavering as he watched Diarmuid realize the reason for his apparent reticence.
How strong is he? Diarmuid wondered. Who was the person who had managed to slide their blade across his throat and still failed to take his life?
"I see," Diarmuid told him. "I understand."
The silence, at least. The gestures. How the other warrior had been the one to introduce him. Diarmuid still didn't understand why, out of all the shores, it had been his monastery that David had decided to venture to, and why, out of anything that might be worth a sword, he had decided that Diarmuid was an acceptable trade for it.
David stared at him for a long moment, his expression as gentle and sad as it had been when he first removed his helmet. Then, when Diarmuid said nothing else, he dropped his hand, took a hard-boiled egg from his pocket, and shelled it. He crushed the shell in his fist and threw it to the hen, who pecked at the remnants with much more interest than she had with the dried fish. The egg white he peeled away and ate, and the egg yolk he dropped into Diarmuid's hand.
Diarmuid considered it. There weren't that many hens on the ship. Each egg had to be precious. Something fresh to cook and eat, rather than dried and salted fish. Here on the sea it was practically a luxury. And David was attempting to comfort him with it.
The yolk was a rich, dark orange. Diarmuid held it up to the sky. A little sun.
He popped it into his mouth. It left a bitter aftertaste.