Angus Draibias considered his opponent. Padraig was tall, muscular, and very confident. He waved to the other young men about the Men’s square, who tried to look disinterested.

Angus himself had his mother’s slim frame, his father’s black eyes, and his own peculiarly wry smile.

“Are you ready,” Angus asked, “Or will you preen all day?”

“Preen?” Padraig laughed, “I just know my worth, and it’s far above yours.”

Angus didn’t bother responding. Smack talk was just part of the art.

“Well?” prompted Angus.

Padraig held out his blunted blade. “May the best man win.”

“Ai,” Angus replied, holding up his own, “Or the most skilled.”

Padraig laughed as he lunged forward. “Do you already admit defeat?”

Angus stepped to one side and scored a riposte on Padraig’s shoulder. “Oh no,” he replied, “I can just never admit to being the best man. Too many men, living and dead, for me to be the best.”

Padraig feinted, and Angus scored a stop hit against a second lunge.

“Still can’t live up to your old man, can you?” Padraig sneered.

Angus scowled.

“You’re too obvious, it’s a shame you won’t be an actor. Might be a lowly job but—” Padraig panted as he parried a savage attack, “—at least you’d be honest.”

Angus took a step back, panting as well, keeping his point-in-line with Padraig, who seemed more than willing to rest. Angus suspected that, under all that armor and natural muscularity, there was a great deal of flab.

Angus thought about pointing this out, as he advanced and began to slowly wear down Padraig’s defenses, but his jaw was clenched too tight to open.

Padraig’s jaw stayed loose as ever.

“Mama’s boy,” he retreated helplessly.

“Midget,” as he parried desperately.

“Faker.” He nearly scored a hit that time.

“Widow’s child.” He panted, “What’s that they’re said to do? I’ve heard it’s not fit for—”

Angus hit his opponent on the helm very, very hard. Padraig collapsed to the ground, making a sound like an injured mouse.

After a moment, Angus stooped to check his pulse. “Relax, he’s alive.”

The disinterested crowd let out a sigh of relief. Padraig’s father would have been livid.

Angus went home.

It was lunchtime, so Redmond, Cerias, Angus, and Bronah had crammed themselves into a cubby table in the kitchen. Redmond had taken Angus and his mother, Bronah, in when his aunt and uncle had moved east. Oisin, Redmond’s heir and Cerias’ elder brother, sometimes joined them but he’d chosen to eat with his fiance instead.

Redmond looked at Angus. “I hear you made an enemy today.”

Angus shifted uncomfortably. “He made me his enemy first.”

Redmond observed him for a moment, making Angus squirm even more. “See that it doesn’t go too far. Padraig’s family is one of the most prominent.”

“War profiteers,” Angus muttered.

“You didn’t mention that?”

“No—my smack talk was decent.”

“And he crossed the line?”

Angus’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Redmond turned to Cerias, who had been watching all this with interest.

“How was your day, dearie?”

“Dull as always,” she said without venom, “but we did learn how to knit shirts.”

Angus stared. “You can knit shirts?”

Cerias nodded. “You wear them over all your clothes—it’s a technique from the Chazos.”

“The polite term is Legatas.” Bronah told her, not looking up from her own knitting. It seemed to Angus that his mother was always doing something—reading, doing accounts, knitting, mending, anything you can carry around really—but she never seemed to pay any less attention to the world about her. It was a constant source of confusion for Angus.

“Bronah is right,” Redmond chided, “and it’s Ippeis, not Populas—and for heaven’s sake, don’t call the Rusticos anything but, erm…”

“See! You can’t even remember their supposed name. For all we know it’s just one giant joke on us. And anyways, they’re our enemies—”

“Not right now.” said Bronah, “And if we’re wise, they won’t be again.”

There was a brief silence.

“Thank goodness for Bronah,” Redmond muttered, “or you’d never blunt your tongue.”

“Me—what about you?”

Angus sighed, and soaked in the familiar bickering. It was at times like these that he forgot that Cerias and Oisin were Redmond’s children while that he was not. Times like these that he felt they were all one in status and family, and that they would stand or fall together. Perhaps, he thought suddenly, they really would—and he made up his mind to forgive Padraig.

But Padraig wouldn’t talk to Angus. He wouldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t sit next to him, wouldn’t even mention him. The other boys would shift uneasily if the two were in the same room together. Angus tried his best, but it was never enough to smooth things over between them. Some of the boys refused to sit with Angus as well—still more disturbing, some refused to sit with Padraig.

“Filthy war profiteer,” one of Angus’ friends muttered.

“Fuilageds,” someone else said, close to Angus, but far enough that he couldn’t tell who said it, “Can’t keep their temper, can they?”

“Wouldn’t be so rich if they’d fought like men.”

“Unpatriotic.”

“Cowards.”

Angus spent most of his time trying to quell the tide of vindictive words, but they kept springing up— like water from a stream’s head, or like the creeping summer rains. He eventually just let them flow, resenting himself for it, and greeted Padraig only with a morose smile. Even that only heated the situation.

Walking home from the Men’s Square one afternoon, he was met by Cerias.

“Hey,” she said. “Go well?”

“Nothing you would have enjoyed,” he muttered, walking right past her. “You’re just a girl.”

Cerias paused. Angus hoped she wouldn’t follow. She had an annoying habit of being right.

She trotted after him.

“Well,” she said, “Someone’s in a mood. Padraig, I assume?”

“I don’t even mind him anymore. At least he’s just silent—everyone else feels the need to take sides and bad talk the other ‘team’ and I don’t even know what they’re saying about me, but—” He turned to her seriously. “It’s bad, Cerias. It crosses a line. If they want to do those things, they shouldn't say them on my behalf.”

He turned away, “It’s really just, not okay.”

Cerias patted him on the shoulder. “Hey,” she said. “It’s okay to not be okay.”

He snorted. “Comforting is not your strong suit.”

“Truth is my strong suit,” she replied confidently. “And the truth is, people see you as a rallying point. I see people do it in the streets, too. It’s not your fault—just your blood, probably. Your father’s blood. The fact is, nobody really likes the Fuilageds. And they see the feud as a kind of—a way to spark things. The war left things kind of a mess, I guess. Least, everything seems to be a bit messy.”

“Monologues,” Angus said drily, but he felt better. Cerias always seemed to have some kind of explanation, albeit, not always a true one. But one was always there.

“You started it.” She took his hand and pulled him along. “Come on, we’re going to be late for lunch.”

Angus rolled his eyes. It wasn’t in the bounds of propriety, but holding hands made him feel like a kid again.

He’d been eight when Redmond opened his home to them. They’d been staying with Angus’ aunt, but when she and her husband decided they would move out east, Bronah began to look for other living conditions.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Is there something wrong with the Chazos?” Angus had asked sleepily as they’d moved to Redmond’s. He hadn’t known where they were going, exactly, only that his mother had found it so it must be a nice place.

In truth, Bronah had gone amongst all of Carrick’s old war buddies, asking to be accepted into their households. Redmond’s wife had just died, and he was worried about their daughter being raised properly. Bronah was an accomplished young woman, who knew how to care for children. A bargain was struck.

“Hmmm?” His mother had said.

“The Chaz’s—” he’d yawned, “Why don’t we go just east with Aunt Eistir?”

“Oh, it’s not the Chazo—Legetas, Angus—it’s so far from everything. I want you to be educated properly, not, well, not in the east.”

“Not with the Chazos. What are they like?”

“Angus.”

“The Legetas, then. Why are—” He’d yawned again, “Aunt and Uncle going there?”

“It’s not even Legetas land—or Ippeis, gratefully—just close, far up east. There aren’t even that many, anymore, so I doubt you’d see any.”

“Oh.” Angus was rather disappointed.

“Are you sad, seeing your family go?”

“But you’re right here.”

Bronah had smiled, and reached out to hold him close.

When they’d arrived, there was a warm bed waiting, and footmen to take their stuff. And in the morning, there had been Cerias sticking her head through his window and throwing gravel at him.

At lunch that day, Angus caught Redmond giving him concerned looks. They made him uncomfortable. This whole Padraig thing, Angus thought grouchily, seemed to come out of nowhere. He hadn’t thought anyone cared that he was a Draibais, and Padraig a Fuilaged. Granted, some of the things Padraig had said were… more than offensive. It was funny that Angus found himself defending him.

“Angus, you seem distracted.” Bronah told him quietly after lunch.

“I’ve—I’ve started a revolution, mother. Without—I don’t know how I would have stopped it.”

“I doubt you could have. What do you want to do about it?”

Angus paused. He hadn’t thought about it consciously, but, now that he looked for an answer, it was already there.

“I’ll tell you-- I’ll tell you later. I’m not sure.”

“I know you’ll do what’s best.”

Angus, frazzled by his mother’s faith in him, went to find Redmond.

Redmond was talking to his steward.

“And we’ll need extra men to help with the harvest—Angus, what’s up?”

“I need to talk—with you, I mean.”

“I know.” He turned to his steward, “Sean, a minute.”

Sean stepped into the other room.

Redmond and Angus sat down. There were lines in Redmond’s face Angus had never seen before.

“Are you going to lead a revolt?”

Angus thought for a moment, studying the ground. “I’ve realized, I’m really nothing like my father.” He admitted. “But I am someone, and I think I’ll flee from this. I don’t want more war—Comhar’s had more than enough. It may not be brave, but—”

“But it’s right, m’boy. It’s right.” Redmond was staring at his hands, rubbing them together so that they made a dry, rasping sound. “I’ll arrange for some gear and food and such…”

“Redmond.”

“Yes m’boy—Angus?”

“You have been a father to me.”

Redmond clasped Angus’ hand, tears welling up unnoticed.

“And you another son.”

Each moved on.

Sending a letter to his aunt and uncle was probably one of the hardest things Angus had ever done. It was a simple letter—a request that he be able to stay with them for a time, until things blew over in Glenn. He hadn’t expected such an enthusiastic response.

Angus,

We are ecstatic to hear you wish to stay here for a time, however glum the reason. Your uncle has agreed to take you on as a goatherd, and we hope you’ll be able to teach our little Niall something as well. He has always looked up to those from the west.

You might be surprised by the wild beauty of this place.

Sincerely,

Your Aunt Eistir and the Tadg family.

Eistir’s handwriting was smooth and full of movement. It reminded Angus of a stream flowing over its bed—the kind that had set its ways before Adnam, and didn’t intend to change.

When he had read it over, Angus sat on his bed and wondered how to break the news to his mother and the Redmond children. At fourteen he was a man and had no duty to tell them. But he would anyway.

He approached Oisin first. He tended to be more reasonable about these things. He still made visits to the men’s square, at times. Angus found him after a fight, still sweating and gloating.

“Angus! How are you?” Half the boys turned or went silent. “What’s with them?”

“You haven’t heard? I’m either a pariah or a martyr, now days.”

“Idiots.” They shook hands, and Oisin’s eyes narrowed. “Something’s changing, isn’t it?”

Angus nodded.

“Leaving?” A hiss went up from half the men.

Angus looked around. He really hadn’t wanted an audience. Oisin thought for a moment, also watching the crowd.

“Never took you for a coward, Angus. Just a little trouble.”

“My father died in a little trouble, and,” Angus scrambled for words, “many men. I won’t be the cause of unrest.” Everyone present sighed-- some in frustration, some in relief, some in disappointment.

“We’ll talk at home.”

Angus nodded and left.

Oisin was home a short while later.

“I was talking to some of the boys,” he told Angus as they sat under a tree in the horse pasture. Below them, the fields and irrigation canals spread out in geometric scribbles. “They think you can weather this out. There’s no need to skip town. Not yet.”

“Yet-- but if I stay too long, what’ll happen to you all?”

“We’ll be fine. The Cairbre, they’ll stand by us. So will the Guaire’s. From Orpah, nearly everyone on this side of the valley will. They know you don’t deserve this.”

“I know that, but when everyone’s fighting—” he gestured to the fields, “Who’s going to care for these?”

“We’ll survive.”

“I don’t want you to survive, I want you to prosper. The last thing Comhar needs is a civil war—especially here, right near the border.”

Oisin sat back. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“No one does.” Angus turned and punched the tree, then flicked his hand in pain.

“You know, you’ll make a good head of house, one day. Provided you get over yourself.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They sat under the tree for a long time.

“I’ll miss you,” Angus finally offered up.

“Ai.”

That was good enough for both of them.

Angus packed a durable looking bag. It had leather straps to tie it to his back, a sanded wood frame, and a pitch coating on the outside. Angus wasn’t sure how much it cost Redmond, and he didn’t want to ask.

While he was packing, Bronah came in with a pair of darned socks. Angus jumped guiltily.

“You’ll be needing these.” She said matter of factly.

“I’m—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“You’ve got your father’s blood.” She shook her head, “Never had the strength to tell me either. Funny, him being a warrior and all that…” Her mind wandered into the past for a moment. “In any case, you’d better tell Cerias.”

Angus shrank. “Couldn’t you, or someone else do it? You wouldn’t mind, would you? I just keep thinking she’ll throw her shoes at me. They’re heavy shoes.”

“Nonsense. You’re not seven anymore—be a man.”

“Yes mother.”

He took the socks, then looked confused. “But, I can darn my own socks.”

She shook her head again. “This way you’ll have something to carry with you. Of home, of me.”

Angus teared up. “Right,” he squeaked, turning away. “I’ll be back soon, anyways.”

“You’ll always have a place in my heart. Take your time—every boy should see the world-- turns him into a man.” She patted him soothingly on the back, then left.

He carefully wiped his eyes, then continued packing.

Cerias was out on a walk, so when the pack was full—very full-- and when he’d mapped out his course, and when he’d made sure his boots were good, Angus set out after her.

She was sitting in the middle of the furloughed land, shoes off. As soon as he approached her, she threw both of them at him. He dodged them neatly, and sat by her.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“Why do you have to go? Just explain it to me.”

“Well—I don’t want everyone to fight because of me.”

She laughed bitterly. “They’re not fighting because of you—they fight because they want to fight. That’s what they’re good at—what we’re all good at.”

“Well, I won’t be the spark. I—well, to be honest, I don’t want to see more fatherless children, or maybe even orphans, and—” He pulled up a clump of grass. “—and, it all just seems so ridiculous somehow. I want to get out. Find someplace peaceful.”

“Alright.” She said, “You can go—”

“Thanks for the permission. Really needed it.”

“But, you have to come back for me.”

“What,” he smiled, “Just pick you up and take you away?”

“Sure. Or ask my father first. I don’t really mind either way.”

“Rebel.”

“Loud and proud.”

They stood.

“Goodbye, then.”

“Just for now.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Come back?”

“Yeah, or if I die or something?”

“Just don’t. Or I’ll throw my shoes at you.”

“Come all the way down to Orpah’s realm, just to throw your shoes at me?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Angus suddenly understood something he hadn’t before. His face felt hot enough to melt.

“Thank you. I’ll hold you to that.” He murmured.

“Good.” She kissed him on the cheek. He stood very still, then turned and strode away.

The next morning, before anyone rose, he put his pack on his back and left Glenn.