It may have been because of his homesickness, or perhaps because of that rock he had fallen asleep near, and used as a make-shift pillow. That Bradán felt crabby the following day, with his ill-mood exacerbated by how the first thing he thought of the next day, was his friend Muirgel. He had hurt her he knew, and for that reason he was filled with bitter remorse. Afterwards he thought of Ríonal who was lonely like him, Eibhlin who always treated him so nicely, was next to pop into his mind, at last he thought of Colum.
It was a sickening feeling, not one he liked, as it filled him with a certain malaise, a nauseous mixture of regret, and plain nausea.
It was some time before Lyr would awaken, with Bradán still studying the stars that decorated the heavens overhead. Wondering as he did so about the stories and legends, of the various heroes who were celebrated with a set of constellations devoted to them. He asked himself if they had ever sat down or laid down and wondered about their place in the grand expanse of history and the universe.
When Lyr finally awoke, it was with a loud groan, a glance here then there, then a quiet curse at the suns in the skies up above them. Lyr hated mornings just as he hated swamps, not that this was anything new to Bradán, who had known all this for quite some time.
“Morning,” Lyr scowled at him.
That day they at last made it out of the woods, to find a marshy hill with nearby mountains, storm-clouds overhead, with the two of them soaked to the bone, two minutes after they had stepped away from the woods. Neither of them said a word about the mountains, the wetness of the grass beneath their feet. Both of their spirits felt dragged down, to the realm of Orcus, where the dead ‘lived’ long after their physical lives had been brought to an end.
It would be hours the next day before they would find a monastery at the base of one of the two primary mountains in the area. It was there that they, at last found shelter for the night, for the first time in days.
Founded four-hundred years or so before, by the same monk who had founded the cloister-by-the-sea, this one though was of a different nature, as it was larger, with a greater number of monks. Unlike, the one by the sea, it was in the middle of a crossroads. But as Lyr explained, it had already been burnt down four times in the past forty years, only to be rebuilt each time, if without its original small market community next to it.
Lyr though not aware of how these monks would receive them, pounded his fist against the wooden door, with all of his might, crying out in frustration as he did so. “Open this door, please.” Several seconds passed before, he would knock again only to scream this time at the top of his lungs. “Open this door at once!”
This went on for some time, until there was at last a response, though not the one that either of them had expected to hear, from a monastery full of monks. “Go away!”
“What?” Was the answer both Lyr and Bradán uttered at the same time, both of them stunned by such rudeness, with the latter of the two shivering from the cold, as he spoke.
“We said to go away.”
“What do you mean?” Lyr asked again, as stunned as before.
“We said go away, we do not wish for brigands, northerners, heretics or strangers of any kind.”
“Why would we knock on your door, if we were any of the three first ones, you just mentioned?” Bradán demanded impatiently with a roll of his eyes, at the antics of these old monks who in his eyes, had lost all sense.
There was a silence that followed during which, the two travellers felt certain those on the other side of the door, had left. Lyr turned to Bradán during this time, muttering to him, “Let me speak with them.” Then he turned back to the door, to address those inside once more. “We are monks in the service of Brigantia, now please open this door.”
“Go away!”
“If you do not open this door, this instant I will curse you in the name of the goddess herself, now open up this minute!” Lyr screamed with all that he had in him, “I said to open this door!”
It took another minute or two before the door opened, and a head poked out to study the two of them, at some length. The young man, who glowered down at them, was as unfriendly, as he was unhappy. He opened the door a bit more, to allow them in, with visible reluctance.
“Come in,” He said from between his teeth, “Now.”
“Fine.” Lyr spat back, with equal displeasure, clearly taken aback by the man’s rudeness, the elder pushed past him waving back at Bradán, who did not need any encouragement to follow him inside, wet and frozen as he was.
He glanced about himself, but it was dark, and there honestly was not much to see inside as it was a simple dark, dank hallway, with doors to either side of it. With neither Lyr, nor Bradán, sure of what they had expected, with both of their legs and heads sore, from the elements and the sudden change in weather. All that either of them wanted was to find some food, as they had barely eaten in two days, only to follow that up, with some sleep. As it was exhausting work, having to all but starve to death.
“You may sleep in the main temple hall,” They were coldly told.
“May we eat something quickly, before we do so?” Lyr requested his steely tone, at last giving way to exhausted fatigue.
“What? You wish for food, as well as a place to sleep?” the young man grunted annoyed, as though they had just requested a silken carpet from a Sultan.
“Yes,” Lyr retorted emphatically, having at last lost the last of his patience with the young man, he glared back at him, “And do hurry it up.”
“Why are you being rude to us? We have done nothing to you,” the boy demanded of him.
“You are strangers,” was the simple answer before the peculiar man announced their arrival in the main hall, “We have arrived now, sit down and I shall fetch you, your meals.”
Bradán shook his head at their host’s casual abruptness, he left with the two of them alone in the small hall, where they stretched out. They seated themselves away from the wet spots and corners, as some of the rain-water had seeped into the building, with the barricaded doors behind them, and the altar to the goddess Brigantia before them. The altar was decorated with a multitude of burning candles, on top of a clover decorated emerald cloth, with a statue of the goddess looming over it, in a rich display of silver.
Bradán gasped, for he had never seen such a dazzling display of wealth in all his life, he was not sure what to think, it was certainly beautiful but monks were supposed to live frugally.
“They have grown no less pompous in fourteen years,” Lyr complained quietly to himself, with a scowl at the statue.
This caught his attention, he jerked around to stare at the former hunter in shock, “You visited this place before? When?”
“Once, long ago, but I would rather not discuss it,” the elder grumbled unhappily.
He was saved from the younger monk’s persistent questions, by the sudden, timely arrival of their host alongside two other, equally haughty monks of a similar age to the first monk. The other two monks arrived with grim countenances, with these two also glaring down at them, with such ferocity that Bradán wondered why every adult monk he met, was so difficult to get on with.
It happened that some time later, long after the two had drifted off to sleep that they were awoken suddenly. At first Bradán thought it to be already morning, but a quick glance out the large windows of the temple revealed it to be likely about midnight. Standing above them, with visible animosity and holding up a candle each were a dozen monks.
“We will allow you to pray with us, but after that you must leave,” One of them said to the two travelers, who blinked back in sleepy surprise.
“What of food?” Bradán queried full of surprise, by the sudden appearance of the two men, and by how quickly they were being thrown out.
“Why must we feed you? You are from a different cell, than ourselves: We are sworn to the monastery of Aidanthorpe, o’er to the west in Ruaidhrachta.”
“Can we eat then leave instead of praying with you?” Lyr suggested in a voice as resolute as any he had ever used before in his life, his eyes still wearied with large dark rings under them. He had evidently enjoyed his time asleep on the temple floor about as much, as Bradán.
“If it means you leave sooner-” the monk began to say only for the rest of the brothers to start to arrive for the midnight Session and prayers.
One of the new arrivals gasped in shock after he caught sight of them, he stared at Lyr intently only to cry out, and interrupt his brethren mid-chant. “You! Are you not Lyr of Dalcessia? You must be, I never forget a face.”
Bradán looked from one old man to the other intrigued by the possibility of meeting someone from Lyr’s past. This was a source of curiosity to him, because the lad had never met anyone to have any knowledge, of his life before he had brought a newborn Bradán to the Cloister-by-the-Sea.
“‘Dalcessia’?’ Lyr questioned with a raised brow to the gouty monk, who limped into the hall, “I think you have me mistaken for another, for I have never been there before.”
“Liar,” the bald elder growled with a fierce look in his eyes, one that seemed to dare the slightly taller man to disagree with him. “Your eyes are the same; and while you may not have that scar on your rich cheek anymore your voice also betrays you. Yet for you to have become a monk, is rather unexpected.”
“What do you mean?” Bradán queried the fiery man fascinated.
“You may not realize it lad, but the man you travel with, was a killer, a thief and a liar, one that was infamous in these parts as he was further to the north!” The monk proclaimed in an enraged voice that to Bradán’s amazement made Lyr squirm.
He was about to ask another question when the prayers of some of the monks began, this reminded the lad that they did not have time for prayers, hushed accusations, or much more than travel itself. Still, Bradán could not bring himself to leave, as he needed to hear more, this was what he had prayed for, for many a years.
“When Lyr was last here, what did he do?” Bradán asked desperately.
“Bradán!”
“I can tell you this; he came with a babe, and after staying here a month, he left this monastery, which was burnt to the ground, with it doubtlessly connected in some way to his presence here.”
“Why was it his fault?” By this time the boy, had glanced over at Lyr to find him staring at the other monk in confusion, “Lyr?”
“I did not realize this place was burnt down at that time, I thought it was burnt two years after my departure.” Lyr admitted honestly, his gaze meeting his gaze, with the lad doubtful of much that he could, however he could not help but believe him this time. There was for one thing, no hint of panic in his eyes, when Lyr lied, in Bradán’s experience, his eyes always betrayed him by darting all over the place as well as filling up with fear.
“Liar, you were an agent for Sihtric Shortbeard,” the gouty monk accused.
“I think he is telling the truth, with that said why do you-”
“Get out. If you trust him so much, then you will leave without food or prayers, now leave our sanctuary which is only for the righteous.” Was the bellowed order, with the baffled Bradán stunned at the speed with which event had taken place.
The door was closed with an abrupt slam, that was as final as it was alarming, for the lad, once they had been dragged out, and tossed outside. He had assumed they would be more reasonable than this, yet they were not.
“Let me in, I must know what you meant! I must hear more of what you know about Lyr!” Bradán screamed at the top of his lungs, as he leapt up to his feet to pound his fists against the door with all of his might. “You have to, you sorry excuses for monks!”
“Leave it be Bradán, we must leave,” Lyr said wearily, still grumpy from having woken up so suddenly, he was as reluctant as ever to discuss his past.
“But what about Dalcessia? Are you from there? Was I born there?” Bradán demanded furiously, unable to believe his own ill-luck; he finally had a lead to his past that could provide him with some of the answers he had always needed. And what, had he learnt? Full of rage, frustration and exasperation, at the man who had raised him, he roared at him once he realized that the door would not open again. “Why? Why did they refuse to answer my questions? Why do they know you? What about the baby in the story, was that me?”
Lyr avoided his gaze only to shake his robes, to remove the dust from them, then he turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “Leave it be, they will never let you back inside.”
“Nay, I am not leaving until I have answers, to my questions.” Bradán yelled back stubbornly, only to pound his right fist against the door, only to deliver a swift kick to it, for good measure.
“Bradán hurry,” Lyr growled impatiently at the boy, furious now too and as desperate to leave as Bradán was to stay, with the boy aware of his companion’s desperation. But the sound of his pleas only increased his determination.
Less of an Odysseus, and more of a Thor, Bradán was stubborn by nature, and being so close to the truth, he just knew was mere meters away, was more than he could endure, more than he believed anyone could. He swore then, to get the truth no matter what, especially after coming so close to it, especially since he had made more progress in a few minutes, than in years.
“Nay, I need to know more, I need to know if that monk was indeed someone you once knew, Lyr,” Bradán snapped arms tossed up into the air in frustration, when the door remained resolutely closed.
“Bradán,” Lyr hissed out from between his teeth, equally frustrated but aware of how stubborn he could be. A breeze blew by as the skies began to darken again, yet the two of them remained fixed into place as firmly as the mountains that loomed over them, neither of them flinched at the coldness of the wind. At last, Lyr bent, as he always did, yet he strove to not give any ground on an issue, he did not wish to discuss. “Bradán, I-”
“I am tired! Tired you hear? Dia, all I want is to know my mother, my father, is that so wrong?” Bradán hollered in his passion, he imitated some of Eibhlin’ speech patterns to better express himself, or rather her ruder speech from when she felt angered or cheated.
If he noticed the mention of ‘Dia’, Lyr gave no real hint of it. Though his brow creased, his eyes closed in a tight, pain-filled demonstration as another gust whipped through, then past his brown robes. Both of them reeled from their own cataclysms at the knowledge that the past though buried, was not forgotten. Not by the gouty monk. Not by Lyr. And certainly, not by Ériu.
“I know, Bradán now come hither from there,” Lyr ordered.
“Nay, I will stay until either you tell me about them, or they will,” Bradán cried out, stomping his right foot for emphasis.
It took old Lyr, a moment before he answered, “If you truly wish to hear of your parents, or at least your mother, I will tell you. Just please, I beg of you; let us leave this place. This place is a horrid excuse of a temple.”
His supplication did not move Bradán at all, in marked contrast Lyr’s promise to at last divulge something about his mother, was an enormous leap forward in his eyes.
Bradán was no one’s fool, certainly not Lyr’s, he had long since learnt not to simply accept the old man’s words at face-value. Cautiously, he asked after considerable reflection, “Swear it. Sweat in the name of the goddess.”
Vexed, Lyr shot him an irritated look only to swallow, before he nodded reluctantly and made the vow then and there. “I promise you in the name of Brigantia that, I will answer all of your questions that involve your mother.”
It was as though Bradán’s spirit left him then and his heartbeat ceased to beat at that moment, so great was his shock. For some time he stood there, blinking and gaping at him, before his mind began to think once m ore and his heart to beat again.
“Really,” He asked still a little doubtful and unsure if Lyr was or was not going to renege on his word (something he had done before despite never vowing in Brigantia’s name before).
“Aye, I promise you, now hurry,” Lyr swore impatiently as he waved at Bradán hurry along after him.
“Fine,” Bradán conceded with one last longing, bitter look at the door to the temple behind him. A part of him, longed to continue to wait outside of the monastery. He hated how he had always been tied to the ankles of the oppressive monks near the sea.
This could have been his means of escape from the stubborn old man, as well as his means of learning the truth, about himself. In the next breath though, he knew that there was nothing these monks truly knew. And that to stay, would not just be him giving up, any chance of knowing his parents or anything about them.
Once they had left the monastery behind them, as in the case of the Cloister-by-the-Sea, he did not look back once. Lyr, gave him more than ample reason to look ahead, when he began to speak to him, of what he wanted.
“Your mother was blonde of hair, ruddy-faced and dark-eyed, much like yourself, she was also tall and of a cheery disposition.” Lyr explained as they walked, and hiked along the side of Mt-Ériderin, with Bradán but a meter or two behind him. His mind focused on trying to conjure up images, in his mind’s eye of his mother.
“What was her name?” Bradán questioned full of excitement, and with a slight snort at Lyr. Over the years, he had learnt one or two things about her, such as her love for food, potatoes, her love for wood-carving, horses and the stars, yet over the past fourteen, almost fifteen years. Lyr had kept most things about her, a secret from him, slipping out the odd interest of hers, but not elaborating about them. It was as though, he feared that by telling Bradán even her name, he might lose the last shreds of his memories of her.
“Mabel. She was the sweetest, kindest woman, I have ever met.” Lyr confessed, head bowed in pain, a small smile on his trembling lips, one that flitted away as swiftly as it had appeared. “She- she was brave, prone to quick flashes of temper, and as spirited beyond what words could describe.”
“Spirited how?” Bradán asked a hint of panic in his voice, as he wracked his mind for questions about her that for years had seemed to come so freely to him, with the ease of walking or breathing.
“Simple things; she was competitive, despised to lose so much as a single argument. She hated towns, villages and monasteries, and would correct everyone whenever she felt them to be wrong, except for Ardghal.” Lyr said, his voice initially warm, but as he went on he grew increasingly despondent, only to shake the feeling away. His warmth was soon replaced with bitterness at the mention of the name Ardghal.
Certain that this person was his father, Bradán felt his pulse quicken in eagerness at the thought, thus he could hardly contain his feelings, bursting out. “Ardghal? Was that my father’s name?”
Lyr remained silent. A fact that Bradán did not notice immediately, only realizing that the silence was purposeful, after he repeated his question, only for Lyr to continue to ignore him. Impatient, frustrated Bradán stomped his left foot, at Lyr’s ongoing silence.
“Answer me.” He ordered to no avail, as bullying Lyr resulted in more silence, which he took as confirmation, “That is his name! My father was called Ardghal.”
Lyr at long last conceded defeat on the point of the lad’s father’s name, something that garnered him a dirty look from the boy, just as he began to speak. “Aye it was, but I agreed to answer questions about your mother, not your father, Bradán.”
Bradán had half a mind to kick the old man, or to shout at him, yet he knew the monk well enough to know that it would just make Lyr clamp his mouth shut, and refuse to answer any further questions. “Fine, if you insist, my next question is; what was her birth-status?”
“She was the daughter of a farmer, and a merchant’s son,” Lyr explained only to add in spite of the fact that Bradán had not asked. “I knew her father first, as he once tilled land that belonged to the Rí Donnchad, before his lands were overtaken by the forces of the Warlock-King.”
“Did she only have her father for kin, or were there others there for her?” Bradán asked desperate to know more about his kinsmen.
“Her mother died in childbirth,” Lyr answered only to glance over his shoulder at him, while he sped up to walk alongside the taller man, excited at the prospect of hearing about his grandmother.
“Her mother died giving birth to her?” Bradán queried.
“Nay, it was-” Lyr stopped speaking as he caught himself, only to glance down at Bradán hesitantly, obviously he was on the verge of saying something he had no desire to tell him.
“Was…?” Bradán demanded confused by how the monk had trailed off, only to notice that they had begun to leave the mountain behind them, for another forest.
“Was her younger brother,” Lyr finished at last, eyes unfocused and stuck on some point in the distant none save he, could perhaps see.
“‘Younger brother’? I have an uncle? Is he still alive?” Bradán asked eager to hear more about his mother’s family, or more specifically his uncle. A man he had never known about or heard of until now and whom, he knew he would need to know more about, and would someday go out in search of, since he didn’t have anybody else. “Where is he?”
“I do not know,” Lyr admitted only to add slightly more sharply. “Just leave it be Bradán, I no longer wish to discuss this.”
“But-”
“Leave it.” Lyr told him once more, avoiding his gaze so as to focus on the distance again, “It will be dark soon, let us find a place to stay the night.”
The subject was dropped, with the heavens up above them not darkening for several hours, while the two of them fell silent. It was a cold pause that lasted but briefly, with Lyr unbending and Bradán frustrated by his inability to convince the elder to tell him, something of any value about his mother’s brother or anything not directly tied to her.
It would be another day and a few hours before they would arrive in Dúntaobh, with neither of them discussing most of the questions that flitted through Bradán’s mind, about his family.
In the distance they could see a series of longhouses all around a large crannóga, with a large palisade around the longhouses and crannóga with a ditch all around the barricade. Save for a narrow-strip, of land that acted as a bridge to the small mini-fort village which was full of ox-carts, people and even a few well-dressed folk. No doubt, present to offer tribute to the Nordic colonists who had recently gotten the better of the brutal native nobles, who had previously held pre-eminence thanks to the Bóruma.
“Is that Dúntaobh? It looks different from what I expected,” Bradán stated impressed by the number of buildings and people present.
“Aye it is, I do not know what you expected but this is the third of the villages, established by the Northmen, and one of the only two that survived the Warlock-King’s invasions.” Lyr answered as he studied the distant invasions with a curious gaze.
This curiosity startled Bradán who finally tore his gaze from the view of the old settlement, to study the man he had just spent four days in the company of. The underlying curiosity in his voice was not something that Bradán was accustomed to hearing from Lyr, as he had assumed that the old man had already been to Dúntaobh in the past, long before he became a monk.
“Have you ever been here before?” Bradán inquired unable to keep the surprise out of his voice, despite his best efforts.
“No, I have not lad, I have travelled throughout Ériu, but I have never been here before.” Lyr explained with a fascinated gleam in his large bright eyes, he leant over with a pleased smile on his lips. “Should be quite the experience for the both of us, you should be prepared to be even more awed when you see Fialinn.”
“Is it bigger?” Bradán asked keenly, a hint of doubt in his eyes as he glanced to Lyr.
“Much bigger, though it stinks more and has much larger city-walls,” Lyr said as he ran a hand along his neck-long beard.
“How can they be any bigger?”
“Stone lad, the Warlock-King had it built, shortly after he had the Bóruma killed.” Lyr clarified with a frown as dark as it was pensive, a shudder then ran through him.
Though, Bradán did not understand what Lyr had gone through, or how he felt, with the lad certain that he was stronger than him, and therefore would never be so weak as to allow himself, to never recover from such trauma.
Bradán was the first to begin the trek towards the village, the first to begin the trek towards Dúntaobh, heedless of the more cautious Lyr who felt slightly more wary than ever before. The elder called after him in exasperation, only to throw his arms up into the air, in frustration. Bradán reached the beginning of the line that led to the village, with an ox-cart and a small group of traveling Dwarves just in front of him, he stared at the family. He had never seen this many Dwarves in one place at a time, he’d only seen the odd one or two, pass by the Cloister, every three or four years.
“Bradán, what in Turan’s name are you doing? I have told you before, not to race off in such an impulsive manner.” Lyr growled after him, annoyed by the youngster’s recklessness. “Do you have any idea how scared I get when you do that?”
“Leave me be,” Bradán retorted impatiently, with a roll of his eyes, at the man who had raised him, and always seemed to do nothing but nag him. “You are always scared.”
“Something you may someday understand should you ever have to be responsible for children yourself. ‘Tis a wise man who knows himself, and whom is honest with himself.”
“With said ‘wise man’, dishonest with others.” Bradán complained.
The wait to enter the village was one that took several hours that left the both of them exhausted, neither of them very appreciative of those before them, or those that inhabited the village, in that time. Once they had reached the wooden palisade’s gates (which were raised to allow people to mill about), the two of them were stopped by a pair of fur-cloaked, long-haired men, a few feet taller than either of them were.
Neither of the guards who looked them up and down, seemed to care for them, their eyes as displeased, as full of disdain as any Bradán could have ever imagined anyone’s gaze to be. The two of them scowled so fiercely that, Lyr’s voice shook when he spoke to them.
“M-my good sirs, we are here to offer up the tribute that the Cloister-by-the-sea owed to Brother Lughaidh, and which he in turn owed you due to the Rí’s loss to your uh, Rí.” Lyr stuttered to the initially unresponsive guards, this lack of interest sparked some irritation in Lyr.
The trouble was that he honestly did not know what to say or do to salvage the situation; he was saved from trying to ‘help’ by the guard to the left, speaking up. “You wish to see him? You cannot, he is busy however your tribute should be given over to his brother over there, outside his longhouse.”
As he spoke, the guard to the right examined the bag in which they had carried the Cloister’s gathered wealth in, before he waved them into the village. “Go on in. Finish your business swiftly, though monks.”
Their knowledge of Ériu’s tongue startled Bradán, who stared at them even after he had stepped past them. To the embarrassment of the youth, something that did not go unnoticed by Lyr was how the lad kept glancing over his shoulder, at the duo that stood by the gates.
“Stop staring, Bradán,” He ordered sharply, to the boy who shot him an annoyed look in response to the scolding.
“I did not know they spoke our tongue, you told me they came from across the sea.” He snapped, too inquisitive to let his anger keep him from the quest for more knowledge, “And that they spoke a different language, than our own.”
“Aye, they speak our tongue, now stop staring at them,” Lyr scold him with an anxious look around at the people who milled all about them, without any interest in them.
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