Éodain in the time since her arrival in the quiet monastic area became at once a source of fascination to many of the farmers and monks. With her blonde locks, fearless manner of confronting those she took umbrage with, she was quick to gather a host of followers, her own age. She was also someone, Bradán despised from the moment, he laid eyes on her.

The feeling was mutual, as Bradán soon discovered shortly after she was introduced to Eibhlin and Ríonal. The young lad was ordered to sweep the hallway right outside the door to Brien’s quarters. When he heard the Prior’s footsteps start to approach the door, he had naturally leaned his ear against it. The lad leaped away, the nearly forgotten broomstick in his hands was suddenly at the forefront of his mind.

The first to exit the room, were her guards, the two brutes who had accompanied her father, who exited right after they had. After a few hushed words, he began to walk away, with his daughter rushing out the door after him.

“Wait, daddy! Do not go! I can help in the coming battles, also!” Éodain shrieked as she raced after him, only for the two bodyguards to stop her.

“Poor child,” Ríonal murmured drifting out of the room, her dark dress of mourning whispering along the ground.

“Aye,” Eibhlin agreed coming up behind the younger woman to gaze at the child, with equal sympathy though she seemed to harbour some small amount of hesitancy. “Are you certain that this is wise, Brien?”

“We have no other choice,” Brien replied in a defeated tone that, did little to inspire confidence in Bradán and Eibhlin’s eyes.

That was when he made his great mistake. The first in a long series of errors, where Éodain was concerned having stopped, in his efforts to dust, he was caught staring at her, full of pity.

The look in her eyes when she set eyes on him, startled and moved him, they reminded him of how he felt every time he looked at his reflection, in the water. Ríonal stepped forward alongside Eibhlin, who pressed her hand gently to the lass’s shoulder as she stared back, past them at the young novice-monk.

“You, lad what do you think you are staring at?” She hiccupped furiously, tears wiped away at once, glowering at him. The lad stared back with a blank expression, which soon transformed to one of bewilderment when he realized, she was talking to him.

“Get back to work, Bradán,” Brien ordered him coldly, which caused the irritated lad to start dusting again in an exasperated manner.

That was how it began. At first, he did not notice, but after the second day of the second week, of being shoved aside or having his porridge knocked from his hands ‘accidentally’. He realized that lads, who might otherwise have avoided angering him, had begun to cast more and more malevolent looks in his direction. Whilst also refusing to step out of his way. They also stopped avoiding him when he wanted them to, where before they would have known to leave him be, when he wished.

“Out of the way Bradách,” Bradán said wearily, in the evening of that very day, which he had been too preoccupied with his usual set of kitchen chores, to mess about with the other lads.

“W-we are no longer afraid of you,” the more squeamish lad told him obstinately.

“What?” Bradán asked on his way to the dining-hall, with a pot of stew that Lyr had cooked for the evening’s dinner, though a bully he had of late left those around him alone. Not out of any sense of pity, but more due to how distracted he had been, and how disinterested he was in others.

His surprise cost him; ordinarily he might have been able to fight off the other lad, who simply knocked the pot full of stew from his hands. Bradán let out a cry of surprise and pain, as it burnt its way down his robed legs. Bradán doubled over in pain, once he had recovered enough, he began to slap away the burning stew from his robes without much success.

This was not the only incident which saw the tables turned around, as one might say. It was not the sole incident which saw Bradán put in such an unusual situation. Unusual in that he was ordinarily the one responsible for it, and never the victim of such mischief so that he was entirely unprepared for what was to come. Later, right before everyone was to go to sleep, he discovered Bradách surrounded by some of the other lads. All of whom, looked as though they were waiting for him.

“There you are,” Another lad said, it was Ninian who spoke to him then. Ninian was another bully one who hated Bradách, therefore to see them together against him stunned Bradán.

Bradán was highly conscious of Colum and aware of how he was not as physically strong as any of them, being the feeblest of the youths, living within the monastery.

The sleeping area for the lads was a public space, it was supervised by some of the older monks, to make sure that the dozen or so rowdy lads did get to sleep. Few words were permitted between the various children, after dark.

Bradán was the one who was the usual troublemaker, at this time however this time was different he discovered, when he raised the fur blanket. A cheap sort bought from Caissin the woodsman more than six years before by Lyr and Máel-Martin.

The first thing that happened was that Bradán crushed something beneath his foot, only to yelp loudly when he felt several hard pinches, and what felt akin to half a dozen claws, pinch and tear at his feet.

Bradán glanced down at his legs, tearing the fur blanket away to see dozens of angry crabs. He stared in bewilderment even as he struck them from him for two minutes, only for him to hear loud rounds of laughter at his expense, as he did so. Bradán felt his face heat up, in humiliation in response to the loud snickers that erupted all about him.

“What is it? Crabs here? How did so many get in here?” Brother Máel Martin wondered, as confused as the younger monk was. “Who moved these crabs here? If you do not tell me, at once you will all get the switch.”

Immediately more than half of the lads fell silent, embarrassed and frightened as they knew this to be no idle threat.

“Well?” Máel Martin demanded impatiently.

“It was Crinen, Bradách and the rest of them,” Bradán accused harshly, aware that it must have been that bunch that did this. The number of times he had been tripped, incidents that had up until now, seemed accidental sprang suddenly to his mind.

“Is this true?” Máel Martin asked carefully.

“No,” Crinen answered while Aodh, one of those who usually took Crinen’s side spoke up.

“It was Bradách.” He accused.

“Liar!” Bradách shouted back, if a little weakly.

Soon most of the lads began to side against poor Bradách, who soon had his voice drowned out by those of the other youths.

“Enough! It is evident that you had something, to do with this Bradách, now is there anything you wish to confess?” Máel Martin queried much louder than the young lad who quieted down, in the face of the anger from the adult monk.

“I-I, yes brother,” Bradách mumbled when he saw the other lads, staring back at him intently, with silent gazes that intimidated him into silence. “I confess to slipping those crabs into Bradán’s bed alone.”

“‘Alone’ you say? Oh never mind, as punishment you will receive two dozen blows despite my doubts given how many crabs are there. While your friends empty the area of crabs so that you can sleep here, while Bradán will get your bed after I’m finished doling out his punishment. And if I so much as see one crab tomorrow you will all get the switch.” The harsh monk growled at all of them, with every lad thoroughly ill-pleased as they realized, all of them were in some way, being made to pay dearly for this little bout of cruel mischief.

“But I have not done anything!” Bradán objected at once.

“I doubt that, it would not be the first time you say that to me,” The monk bit back at the lad.

And so it was that he slept with sore legs, arms and feet that night, only to wake up the next day with his usual chores ahead of him. He soon found himself, at the mercy though of the real culprit guilty for having made him suffer, so much the prior night.

Lyr had sent him off to go fetch some water from the local well. Bradán had just to say, lowered the first bucket of the two, he had brought when he was struck hard in the back of the head. With a cry of pain, he went sunk to the ground hard, hands coming up to the back of his head.

“That was for two weeks ago,” Someone, a lad, Dubhán, Bradán realized a second later said maliciously.

He blinked in surprise when he saw not just Dubhán but five other lads and four lasses, none of them from the monastery.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Putting you in your place,” Éodain answered coolly, eyes as cold as two icicles, she glared down the lad still clutching at the back of his skull. “And a laird and king’s duty, is to bring down justice upon those, who are guilty.”

“But I have not hurt you, or any of the lasses,” this much was certainly true, as Bradán attempted to avoid them for the most part.

“But you hit my brother,” One lass accused furiously, unwilling to forgive him.

“He struck back, what of it? Or do you always fight his battles, for him since he does not know how to do it himself?” Bradán growled back, with equal fury.

“He had to protect himself from you,” She spluttered out, not that he cared what she said.

“What’s going on? What do you mean justice?” Bradán asked of the taller lass, in confusion.

“I figured that since I am here, I would solve the problems of the area and when I asked, about you nobody seemed to like you. They all agreed that you are a bully.” Éodain proclaimed quite proudly as she tossed back her long blonde hair, over her shoulder.

“You want to solve the problems of this area, by humiliating me?” the still seated lad asked sardonically, only to receive a series of glares from, the other children. It took him a few moments to realize why Éodain would feel the need to do such a thing. “What do you think will happen? Your father will simply hurry back and be awed, by what you have done?”

For his brash words, he had the savage pleasure of seeing Éodain flush a bright red colour however; she soon regained her composure only to nod to two of the lads.

“Have at him!” With those words one of the most savage beatings of Bradán’s life began.

He did not lose any teeth, eyes or fingers kicked a lot with the lasses picking up stones to throw at him, when the lads had finished kicking or punching him. The only one who did not touch him was Éodain, who preferred to sit and watch.

Lances of fire sparked up at first in his side, from where the blow landed, and then the rest rained down against his back then legs, then his arms. Bradán at first attempted to restrain his cries, only to after a few minutes start groaning and crying out in agony.

“What is going on here?” Somebody asked, this voice was older, more concerned than angry.

“We were just-” one lad began to say only to be interrupted mid-speech by Éodain.

“Scatter!” Éodain shouted at her friends who ran for it, at once.

“Yes run, all of you head home where I shall tell thy parents!” the woman shouted after them, but the children were faster than she. “You come back here, this instant Éodain, or so help me I will tell Eibhlin not to feed you later!”

It was Ríonal, who had just to say arrived likely by mere chance to his rescue. He wondered how, in the name of all the gods and goddesses, it was that it was Ríonal he discovered him to be in danger.

“Bradán, is that you? Oh, by Brigid what did they do to you?” Ríonal asked stunned by how injured he was as she bent down to help him to his feet.

Bradán groaned, stricken by pain he reached out a hand to grasp Ríonal’s shakily as he looked up at her with a hint of gratitude. He knew that for all his bluster and defiance that she may have just saved his life. Given how wild and out of control the other children were, at the height of the beating, he could have wept so grateful was he for her help.

“Thank you,” He muttered wincing, he sat up with her help with the young widow who continued to study him with a worried look.

“Why were they beating you?” Ríonal demanded, a worried frown on her pretty face.

“Nothing,” Bradán answered unsure if this was a lie or not, as he had no idea whether it was even his own fault given Éodain’s motivation.

“Really?” She queried suspiciously only to lose interest it seemed in interrogating him further, “Come along.”

“But I have to get water for the monastery,” Bradán protested weakly only for her to insist.

“Nonsense let me get that for you, you follow me to Eibhlin’s home where I shall make certain that you are alright.” Ríonal replied she picked herself up off the ground to fetch his bucket and to fill it with water.

“Thank you, so you came all this way to get water?” the young lad asked confused and wanting to focus on something other than his aching back or limbs.

“Actually I came here looking for Éodain, who was supposed to have brought back water, some time ago.” Ríonal explained, grunting a little when she pulled the second bucket away from the well.

“Give me that,” He attempted to grab his bucket from her, but she was faster than he.

“Let me help thee, now hurry along.” Ríonal replied, pulling the buckets out of his reach, only to start to hurry away back home.

Bradán nodded his head reluctantly, unable to do much more than as he was told. Praying as he did so that, Lyr and Brien would not be half as harsh as Máel-Martin had been towards him, the prior night.

When they arrived back at the farm, Bradán was startled to find the bodyguards busy at work, in the fields. Eibhlin was busy at work, helping them with the farming, occasionally glancing over at them, with a critical look in her eyes.

“Ah there you- Bradán? What is the matter with you, Ríonal? I sent you to find Éodain, and you come back with Bradán? I should suppose that he will likely prove, far more helpful than she.” Eibhlin complained loudly, with a dark look to the duo behind her, when the lad drew nearer though she jumped almost twenty feet into the air, when she caught sight of Bradán’s bruised face. “What in the name of Ziu’s sword happened to you?”

“It was Éodain,” Ríonal answered for him, while she put the buckets down in front of the small hovel, she lived in with her good-mother. “She gathered together a small group of children, she put up to beating poor Bradán.”

“Ugh, come this way, we will have to look at those injuries,” Eibhlin sighed with a shake of her grey-haired head.

Once inside, she had them seat themselves near where the fire was usually lit, on cold nights, with Eibhlin pressing a warm soaked cloth against the youth’s wounds. The cloth had been heated, by putting it near the fire, only to dip it into one of the buckets.

The hot cloth felt almost painful, but between that or what the monks might do to him he would choose the cloth a thousand times over.

“You have more talent for sniffing out trouble, than any other person I have ever met hitherto now.” Eibhlin grumbled good-naturedly.

“It was not my fault!” Bradán protested.

“I know dear,” Eibhlin replied as she applied the cloth once more to his face, drawing a wince from him, only to give him an apologetic look. “You ever consider retreating from, those other lads?”

“I am no coward! A real man never flees!” Bradán shouted only to quiet down a little when he saw how annoyed, his shouting made Eibhlin.

“No they do not; real men shirk their duties, and rush to their deaths.” She snapped irritably at him, displeased by his obstinate belief in his male pride. “You are just as my son was at your age.”

“Fionnán was never involved in any fights at that age!” Ríonal objected at once, wherefore Eibhlin began to chortle loudly.

“Oh, he was much worse than you imagine possible Ríonal. He just always, hid it from you because he wished to impress you, by showing himself to be more ‘mature’ than others. He also, sought my advice consistently, to discover what you liked and how you might respond, to his behaving like a rapscallion.” Eibhlin explained, eyes glimmering with joy at the chance to discuss her son, something that suddenly filled Bradán with pity for the old lady.

How must it feel, to bring someone into this world only to lose him, without any sign or hint of what had happened to him? Only to be forced to avoid discussing him, for fear of upsetting those around her such, as Ríonal?

“Did he fight a lot?” Bradán asked doubtfully before, he could stop himself.

“Not all the time, but every so often he would come home covered in bruises, or with another lad’s parent trailing after him.” Eibhlin confessed with a fond smile to herself, “And of course Ríonal did not notice a thing so smitten was she.”

“I was not blind to his flaws.” Ríonal protested to the amusement of her good-mother who snickered in response.

“But you were, in time though he ceased fighting altogether, a bit before his fifteenth year.” Eibhlin explained almost more to herself as she hurriedly glanced out the door, suddenly remembering the time. “That should do it, grab your bucket and hurry along back to the monastery. I am certain Lyr, is about to die from concern for you.”

“Fine,” Bradán said, secretly he would have preferred to stay with Eibhlin or Ríonal to either help with the farm or listen to more stories, about Fionnán. Someone whom he had only met in passing, over the years, and had never treated him badly at all.

“Will you be aright?” Ríonal asked worriedly.

“I suppose,” Bradán answered.

“Here you are, I will see to it that Éodain apologizes to you,” Ríonal told him, handing him one of the buckets full of water.

He bid farewell to the two women, he had inadvertently become friends with, and left straight for the monastery, where he found Lyr waiting for him.

“Where have you been?” Lyr demanded furiously rushing over to Bradán who had not expected to run into the old man so soon.

It was then that Lyr noticed that the lad was injured when he gripped him, by the shoulders where he had been kicked repeatedly by the other lads. “-You are injured! What did you do? Get into more fights? Bradán what have I told you about fighting? I hate it!”

“Nay, I was-” Bradán began to protest only to be interrupted by the furious Lyr.

“Enough, I’ve heard enough, no more fights, no more lies. I will not beat you but-” Lyr had begun to say only to be interrupted mid-speech in turn by Bradán who scoffed at his words.

“‘Lies’ you say? You know all about lies and fighting do you not?” Bradán snapped having hoped that Lyr would take his side even if out of nothing more than because, of his guilt towards Bradán.

“Bradán I just meant that-” Once more Lyr did not finish speaking.

Bradán fled then, fleeing from the monastery, his first thought being to run straight to Eibhlin’s home only to remember that by now Éodain, would have returned to Eibhlin’s hovel by that hour. This in mind, Bradán reminded himself that there was only one place that he might be left alone.

Once there he glanced first in one direction then another, not in the mood for anymore beatings, and keenly aware that he had nowhere else to go.

The knowledge of how alone he was without any family, or anyone to turn to at such a time stung worse than any beating could. Lyr was against him, as were all the other monks. The farmers hated, it was only a matter of time before Colum, Eibhlin and Ríonal would do the same.

He spent a portion of that evening crying though he wished with all his heart, to stop the flow of tears he could not do so. Once his sobs began, he could not stop, he did not know then whether he wept for his mother whom was murdered shortly after giving birth to him or if he wept for his deceased father. He also did not know if he wept, for the lost chance to have a better life, with them or if he wept for himself. For what he had become, or what he fancied himself; the loneliest lad in the whole of Midgard.

He did not later, when he fell asleep, only that he did and that it was a deep one that was mostly untroubled. Yet when he did awaken, it was to find that he had fallen asleep on the shore: His right-hand just a few inches from the water, with his head tucked over his left arm, as he rested on the sandy beach.

He did not know why he had suddenly awoken, when it was still dark, or why he had had to fall asleep in such an unprotected space. The fiery orange on the dark black of the sea, almost more than what any simple country-pumpkin such as Bradán could ever have imagined.

At first he could not believe, his eyes at what he saw in the distance; what appeared to be a burning ship. Not a large one, it was only big enough to carry three, maybe four grown men.

Stunned at the sight of the wreckage in the distance, it was far but not too much so, he realized. Convinced that by the time, he ran for help and then hurried back, the few men on the barge would have drowned, he asked himself quickly: What to do? What would Althus the Great or the Bóruma do?

The answer was one he already knew; they would hurry out there and save those people (so long as they were not a threat to them). Reaching down to untie his sash, and to tug off his robe to make the swim that, much easier. He was soon up to his knees in the water, before he could blink, his robe and his skin shivering almost immediately from the ice cold water that, surged up to meet him.

The cries of the men who he suspected were traveling from Cymru, given where the ship had been drifting from or so it seemed to him. He soon discovered that the current was against him though, which made his efforts to come to their rescue, that much more difficult.

Not that it was any easier to swim against the current, with his under-robe and the waves slapping themselves against his face, with no sign of abating. Bradán fought against them, with all that he had in him, heaving, puffing and growling at the ferocious sea.

Annoyed, Bradán felt his heart quiver with fear as he swayed forward, with all that he had. Thankfully, Bradán was a good swimmer. Not the best in the village as that honour belonged, to the small Colum. What Bradán did know was from his younger years when the monks, still liked him and from when Colum and he, many years ago used to run away from their lessons together, back when they were six years old.

The fact that he could no longer touch the bottom sent a spark of panic straight past Bradán’s stomach as his heart leaped and missed a beat. This fear pushed him further even as every fibre of his being shrieked, at him to turn back and head home where he knew it was safe.

He noticed then just how close, he was to the ship and that there was another ship approaching, this one from the north and instead of being built in the tiny Cymran, style but an Arnish styled drakkar.

Instinctively he remembered the old stories, of the Norse folk who in previous centuries and even decades had massacred hundreds monks and even men-folk of Ériu.

He could see now that there were four people who had fallen from the small boat; Bradán could see one of the two of the figures swimming towards the shore. Bradán was split over which one of the two figures in the sea to save. Forced to choose between either robed figure, or the one who had a cloak flung about the figure’s shoulders he was to hesitate if briefly so. Greedy by nature, Bradán decided to try to save both of them, though he did not realize it immediately.

A wave of desperation penetrated him, when he glanced up to discover the long-ship was looming nearer and nearer to where he was at present. Close enough to the fire, to feel the heat from it, he redoubled his efforts to escape. As he glanced back at the arms, of the two men he had grabbed he realized that he may have to let go of one of them. But which one?

The robed man was heavier, due to how much water his voluminous robes, had gathered but who knew whether the other man was any more important or lighter. Considering how it felt, as though he also weighed three times more than Bradán did, or so it felt to him.

In the battle between Bradán and sea, he was losing. For what was man, in the face of nature or more precisely the sea’s wrath? A mere lad, one who though from hardy stock still came from an ascetic life that had never prepared him for such an event. It had also taught him not to value one life over another, though his own experiences had ingrained in him, a certain amount of selfishness.

He weighed the choices set before him. Later the reasoning behind his choice would fill him with considerable shame. As he chose based, on which one he was less likely to dislike between a monk, and just an average person.

He chose the traveller, not an easy choice yet still made in a matter of heartbeats. Once this was done, he felt himself become much lighter yet not by a great deal, as he continued to be dragged down by the second man he had chosen to save. Every instinct, in his body screamed to get away and save himself, while he still could.

Every muscle burning with every movement of his legs and now freed right-arm, Bradán fought valiantly to bring himself up to the surface. He strained, whipped and warred against his burnt muscles, his strained lungs yet it was still not good enough.

Bradán considered letting the one man go, but he was fairly certain that that was too little, too late for any such acts as he continued to lose to and panic, against gravity itself. Darkness, inky and absolute began to engulf him, just as the certainty that the Geraintian Sea would be his grave.

He began to formulate a quiet almost passive thought in response, to his predicament but between him and the darkness surrounding him.

Darkness fell, and light seemed to perish forever then, but just as it seemed over for him and for our tale, a burst of light rushed in towards him from out of nowhere.

The next thing that young Bradán knew was that he was coughing, hacking and otherwise purging himself, of all the sea-water he had inadvertently drunk, during his ill-planned scheme to save those on the burning boat.

The next thing he knew was he heard a song. It was unlike any he had ever heard not that he had ever heard much music in his short life. What with how the monks though, they belonged to the faith of the song-goddess, had ceased singing hymns in order to conform better with Quirina’s beliefs and the Scriptures of the Dunstanian Order of monks.

Once the king Bradán

And I were lovers; he was my brightest gemstone,

I am left to suffer alone,

Knowing we shall not embrace again,

East of the hill there stands a town,

Where the king ruled,

I sit there now; of a mind to be thrown,

In twilight, his kin would have Muirgen ridiculed,

Yet whoever ever loved as fiercely as she?

No woman now shall be his mate,

No son nor daughter share his fate,

No man now shall I ever take,

None hath ever suffered such heartache.

Bradán moved despite his own recent situation, while his eyes began to clear and he felt someone patting, and rubbing his scalp. It was a gesture that was as comforting as it was reminiscent of a time, when he had trusted Lyr.

“Who-” He began to say when he was interrupted by a splashing sound. He caught a flash of gold, fish fins and the dark waves, as he sat up looking about himself, in confusion. “What just happened? Were we not further out to sea?”

The questions were torn from his lips before he could properly sort out his own thoughts, over what had just happened. Had someone saved them? And if so, who?

And there was a flash of fins. He concluded unable to come up with any alternative solution to this little mystery. Was it one of those merfolks that, Lyr used to tell him stories about?

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, as he exhaustedly looked over at the man, he had striven so desperately to rescue. The man was tall, much more so than Bradán, who was still coughing up water, only to blink back at him wearily himself.

The shocked youngster noticed with a start that the man was not a man. He was in fact a Tigrun, a race of people that Bradán had never of course met one before in all his life.

Most of what he had heard was bad, as most people hated them. Believing that they were child-eaters, plague-bringers or otherwise demonic in nature. As there were similar stories told about Ratvians, and given how most Ratvians that Bradán had met thus far, were either timid or simply quiet by nature, he did not put too much stock in these tales.

“Never mind that, I must think on where to hide him,” Bradán said to himself, he could put him in Eibhlin’s house, he told himself silently only to correct himself, in his head.

Who could he turn to? Even if he did ask for help, who could be relied upon to help him, if Ríonal and Eibhlin could not be asked for help given how Éodain would notice it immediately?

Bradán struggled to remember if there was anyone that he knew who might accept a Tigrun. There was the Ui’Ross family of Ratvians nearby, and they alone, because the Ui’Mantors family of Minotaurs, had been chased away six years prior.

With a low groan that reminded Bradán of a cat, he had once hidden in a discrete corner of the kitchen, of the monastery.

“Are you aright?” Bradán asked him worriedly, praying anxiously as he did so that all of Lyr’s old stories, were all untrue.

The Tigrun rubbed his forehead, primarily the back of his thickly furred and dark-ponytailed covered skull, with a grimace of pain.

The man’s eyes resembled very strongly, those of a cat, the lad noticed at once. He was also dark-haired with sandy coloured fur, a muscled physique in spite of the circumstances they had met under, and dark clothes, which were composed of a simple tunic and pants. With a large auburn coloured cloak, of Norençian wool thrown over his shoulders that was the only hint, of wealth if it was not for how worn the travel-cloak was.

“I am-huff-fi-fine,” the Tigrun panted as he blinked his eyes at him, “Where is my brother?”

“Brother?” Bradán wondered in confusion.

Now that he knew that the Tigrun, with the strange accent was alright. He focused on shrugging his robe which soon pressed itself against his skin, almost as wetly and tightly as his under-robe clung to his thin figure. He shivered again, cursing the cold air and his wet-skin under his breath.

“This is Ériu, is it not?” The Tigrun asked in somewhat clumsy Ériu-tongue, as though he were not otherwise as skilled as most from the Emerald Isle, were with its native tongue.

“Aye,” Bradán confirmed absent-mindedly as he prepared himself to assist the older man to his feet, only for him to climb-up to his feet without Bradán’s assistance.

“Where in Ériu?” The older man asked, he sat back down to empty his boots of the water that had filled them up.

“Between laird Maelsnechtan and Colum’s lands,” Bradán replied at once not expecting the older man, to understand from just the mention of the two kings’ names alone.

“I see, in the area just to say south of Maelsnechtan, and far north from the Ui’Bórumas.” the Tigrun remarked distractedly, as he finished replacing his boots back on his large furred and clawed feet.

Bradán was stunned that he knew so much about the Emerald Isle and her inhabitants in particular her clans. Few even among the inhabitants of the isle could disentangle the tangled web of clans, kings and lairds who ruled over the lands south of the Warlock-King. Familiar, with the geography Bradán knew little about the history of his own people, despite being literate thanks to his time in the monastery. He had never been taught, anything other than how to survive, and the basics of theology.

“You are the one who saved me?” the stranger asked him.

“I tried, though I did not succeed in saving your brother,” Bradán answered without thought, making the assumption that the robed figure was this man’s brother. There was nobody else he had seen after-all.

“What do you mean, ‘tried’?” the older man queried sharply, evidently suspicious of him.

“I do not-I think someone else who helped us, right before that drakkar appeared, was the one who saved us.” Bradán explained weakly, with a small helpless shrug as the Tigrun stroked his furred chin, thoughtfully at those words.

“Could it have been Ronald?” He murmured more to himself, than to his increasingly impatient saviour.

“Who is Ronald?” He questioned in frustration, hating having knowledge kept from him.

“My brother,” the Tigrun retorted even more impatiently than him, “What is thy name lad?”

“Bradán,” Was the retort. “And who are you?”

“I am Fergus the Pardiff,” Fergus introduced himself with more than a little pride, as he drew himself up a bit, despite remaining seated on the beach.

“What is a ‘Pardiff’?” Bradán asked confused by the term, the Tigrun had bandied about as though it were self-explanatory.

“Think of us as a kind of minstrel or bard,” Fergus explained annoyed by his naiveté. “You truly are an ignorant lad.”

Bradán flushed red. Insulted by the condescension in the Tigrun’s voice, he had to repress the urge to snap back, he did however grumble. “I did not have to save you.”

“Very well, my apologies and my thanks to you for saving me. Now you said, you could not save my brother?” Fergus said to him gruffly.

“Was he the one in the robe?” Bradán asked thoughtfully.

“Aye! Did he drown, or did he make it onto a piece of driftwood?” Fergus questioned intently, eager to hear about his sibling who was possibly lost at sea.

Fergus stared at him, until he began to squirm a little, before he finally answered hesitantly, “I do not know as a ship came from the north as though it knew to expect you, and I think it took two people aboard. I attempted to help someone in robes, but when I let him go to save you, he drifted away and I am not sure of what became of him.”

Fergus lunged at him with a growl faster than what Bradán had ever believed possible for anyone to move at, as he clumsily attempted to pull himself away from the Tigrun, at the last moment only to fail to do so.

“You left my brother, to die?” Fergus roared in a fit of rage, as he grabbed the lad by the front of his robes.

“N-nay, I had to save one of you, and he was too heavy!” Bradán grunted back, startled and frightened of the half-man, convinced that he had in fact lost his mind in his grief.

“But Ronald-wait, you said you lost consciousness correct?” Fergus demanded of the monk, who gave a quiet anxious nod, his frozen mind. “If true, he must have been the one who saved us, which means he might still be alive.”

Bradán was sceptical, not because of how he had seen the robed man’s arm drifting off but because the chances that this Ronald had survived long enough to be rescued extremely unlikely.

“I do not mean to doubt you, but he drifted off likely to the bottom of the sea.” The lad replied with as much delicacy in his voice as.

“Do not pity before you have heard, the whole tale; we were traveling with a man by the name of Edrich, and he attempted to free the woman we were traveling with, when he knocked me down, only for Ronald to strike him dead.” The feline explained patiently.

Still sceptical, the young lad felt a great deal of doubt for this story, but he had one last question as he had lost interest, in this Ronald.

Why transport her across the Geraintian Sea, when they could have had her punished in the lands and by the laws of Cymru, rather than in the nearby lawless Ériu?

“What about this woman?” Bradán asked curiously.

“Most women I have met, are as true as the goddess Brigantia, and as wise as the Norsemen’s believe good Oðin to be. Yet this one is quite simply, the most evil creature I have met in all my life.” Fergus said quietly.

“Who is she?” He queried but the time for questions, was at an end.

“Never you mind that, I am tired and need rest so that I can begin the quest to find my twin.” Fergus retorted dismissively, he let go of Bradán, as he glanced around in search of a place to hide. “Now I must hide until I am better rested, tell me Bradán are there any Tigruns near here?”

“None that I know of, but there is a Ratvian family near here.” Bradán explained, “They do not live far from here and they are very friendly, I can vouch for that.”

“But of course they are,” Fergus muttered more to himself before he added, “Why is it always rats that I must take refuge with?”

“They are not so terrible as all that,” Bradán snapped now regretting having saved this highly irritable Tigrun.

“No, it is not that there is aught wrong with them, it is just that I was once locked in a cell for two weeks, with naught but such folks for company. Those Ratvians, were too cheerful and smelly for my taste.” Fergus replied good-naturedly, amused by his defence of the non-humans. “Though, it is good to see you care so much for them.”

Bradán flushed scarlet from embarrassment at the praise, he had just received, unused to any praise at all.

“I only hope these Ratvians bathe more than those; I spent so much time with.” Fergus stated without too much heat to his voice.

He rushed along guiding the taller man to the home of the Ui’Ross clan of Ratvians. The large family lived on the edge of the lands owned, by the monastery. They had arrived some fifteen years before Bradán was born. Given permission, if reluctantly so, to farm the smallest slice of lands which was the least arable or so went the story. And yet, the family had not just survive but had prospered.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Not of their blood and though born on the monastery doorstep, Colum had always been welcomed among the family as if one of their own, and as his closest friend so was Bradán. The house was in shoddy condition, as the Ui’Rosses were poor even by peasant standards, and had come to recently rely on a good deal of charity, the year before, and had perhaps half the land the rest of the locals were each given. The only good thing they could boast of, regarding their home was its proximity to the sea, and the privacy they had from everyone else.

It did not take long for them to come to see who it was knocking, at their door barely two minutes after Bradán struck a heavy fist against the wooden door.

“Aye, who is it? What an ungodly hour to be banging on a man’s door!” Someone complained loudly from the other side of the door, only to throw it open with obvious open-mouthed shock when he saw who it was. “Oh, Bradán it is you, why are you out at such a time? Did something happen?”

Explaining himself quickly, the youth shivered as he did so. To his relief, the farmer listened without interrupting even once.

A patience worker, just as he was a good listener, Gobán merely raised an eyebrow the more he went on, only to glance apprehensively once he had finished, in the direction of the Tigrun.

“This is Fergus,” Bradán introduced as he glanced between the two non-humans, who both still seemed anxious and unsure of one another. “Um, he needs a place to stay.”

“I see, um and I suppose the monastery has no desire to take in another ‘sub-human’?” Gobán asked worriedly as he glanced over at the Tigrun who scowled at the term ‘sub-human’.

“He needs to stay for but a short time if you wish to,” Bradán said once more, this time a tad more impatiently.

There was a pregnant silence that followed his words, Gobán considered the plight of the silent Tigrun who gave the Ratvian a weary look, along with a small smile. To the surprise of all three of the males a voice, spoke up that did not belong to any of them.

“Gobán, my love what is it? You have been talking with young Bradán for quite some time, what is so important that it must be discussed at so late an hour?” It was Gobán’s wife, Miriam’s voice, which was heard from further inside the small house.

“Uhh,” Gobán stuttered unsure of what to say to her only for Fergus to intervene on his behalf.

“I will if you should like sleep in the stable, if that is alright then we will discuss this matter in the morn, with your lady love.” Fergus told the rodent in a voice so soothing, it could have calmed an enraged lion on the brink of starvation. The Ratvian smiled in relieved gratitude, giving his permission at once to this new proposal.

“Thank you, I shall bring thee some furs and something to drink.” Gobán promised not unkindly as he closed the door so as to speak hurriedly with his still half-asleep family, his voice barely heard through the wooden so soft was his voice.

“My thanks lad, now I need rest just as surely as you likely need and thirst for it,” Fergus uttered with a tired smile that drew a slow nod from the young lad.

Still aware of the conflict that continued to exist between Lyr and him, in his exhaustion though it suddenly did not seem as important as it previously seemed. Bradán turned away after silently swearing to return to look in on the Pardiff.

Slipping inside with ease, without waking anyone up as there were no guards and no monks in the children’s quarters, where he slipped into his bed only to check for crabs first.

When he awoke though, it was done suddenly, not that he felt any less ready for the day when he was shaken awake by Colum, around midnight. This was the time, all monks awoke to see to their prayers.

“Wake up Bradán,” he hissed as he shook him, he garnered only an annoyed groan from the human, who was sure that he had only slept for an hour or so. “Lyr has been looking all over for you.”

That caught the taller lad’s attention, he blinked sleepily in surprise only to ask in hesitant alarm, “Have you told him where I am?”

“Not yet, I only just realized you have been here the whole time,” Colum stated impatiently with a glance towards the door. “Hurry, he is very afraid and if Brien or any of the others find you first, they will punish you severely for not appearing before him, at once.”

Sitting up quickly, Bradán climbed up to his feet as swiftly as he could, eager to avoid more trouble with the heads of the small cell by the sea.

“Where is he?” Bradán inquired of his friend.

“He is outside, where he is in the midst of questioning everyone who comes along about whither you might have gone to,” Colum answered only to puff up with visible pride. “I was the only one who thought to search inside, as you are frequently overlooked when all others tend to wake up at this hour.”

Bradán nodded his head, he trailed after the other lad. He guessed the other monks were given the early hour, likely to be in the Temple in the midst of lighting the candles and beginning to read from the Canticle.

Once outside, they slipped away from the living quarters, towards the temple doors where Lyr could be seen speaking to everyone, who approached the Temple. The lads approached him from behind, with Bradán only now remembering his previous disagreement, with the old monk.

“Umm, brother Lyr, I found him,” Colum announced once they were within hearing distance of the old man who whipped around to face them. “He was asleep.”

“My lad! I was worried sick for you!” Lyr cried out as he rushed up to the lad, to throw his arms around his shoulders, weeping as he did so.

“Are you alright, lad? You did not hurt yourself on your way, back did you?” Lyr asked of him, as his voice rose an octave, almost hysterically so after his sobs had ceased. This exclamation drew some snickers and some stares all of which heavily embarrassed the lad, tried to ignore everyone around him.

“Are you quiet finished embarrassing us both?” Bradán asked sharply, his words and irritated tone flew over the head of the old man, at that moment.

“Oh, Bradán do not ever scare us like that ever again, else the suns may as well fail to rise, the wind cease to blow and all the seas dry.” Lyr cried out, in the same voice any loving parent would have used at that moment. “I do not think your mother would ever forgive me, were anything to happen to you!”

Bradán fidgeted, unhappily as he longed to scold the old monk yet was sharply aware then of how all around him might react to such an outburst.

Once he had recovered, enough to swallow his tears, and lack of composure as he wiped his moist cheeks and eyes with the cloth of his robe’s sleeves. Lyr smiled sincerely, at his much loved charge, only to let him breath once more. Finally able to speak, somewhat more reasonably, the cellarer of the monastery put his hands on the lad’s shoulders, only to press a hand to his right-cheek.

“My lad, it is purely by the goodness of the gods that you are herein good health,” He whispered ignoring how the lad pulled back from his ‘friend’s hand. “We must pray now, to the gods to properly thank them for thy safe return.”

Hissing irritably, Bradán would have refused when he remembered how close he was to dying the night before. This along with the fact that he could see Éodain smirking at him, from over Lyr’s shoulder convinced him that it might be wise, to attend the Session of the temple.

As Lyr rose to his feet to help guide the two children, into the temple a pleased look on his face while Bradán nodded his head at Éodain, which drew a grim yet worried glance from Colum.

For Colum, it did not much matter where the scales of power tilted to, since out of all the children, most tended to bully him with there being little difference between one tyrant or another.

The monks did not much take notice of the arrival of the three of them, with Brien busy with his own prayers. Brother Máel-Martin, as sacrist supervised the Session and read from the Canticle. It took several hours before the Session was over, with Bradán listening attentively though not the most pious lad he still felt, some reverence for the Temple and its writings. Despite his boredom, when the Romalian chant was sung or shouted out, with the lad understanding some of what was said. Not that it eased his feelings, of frustration or the dullness of the Session.

When it ended, Lyr was reluctant to let Bradán out of his sight much to the annoyance of the lad.

Though he did intend to run off to see Fergus, he decided to get the water so desperately needed for Lyr’s recipes and to the wine and beer, the adults loved so much. Bucket in hand, alone and vulnerable once more for the first time since his beating the day before. He did not give this vulnerability much thought, until he heard a voice speak up behind him, just as he finished filling up the two buckets with the well-water.

“Hello Bradán, we meet again, once more,” Éodain said to him from behind him, startling him as he finished pulling up his full bucket. “Are you prepared to discuss what we discussed yesterday, once more?”

He could run away, but without a diversion, he had no doubt that he would be grabbed before he could make it very far, especially with his still aching legs. Placing the bucket next to the well carefully, as he glanced about unsurprised by the fact that he was once more surrounded just as he had been, the day before.

“I do not remember much of anything remotely resembling a discussion.” Bradán replied defiantly, as he raised his chin when he turned to face her.

“Aye, entirely thanks to us putting you in thy place,” One lad commented with a snicker.

“And you all intend to do so once more?” Bradán asked trying to buy time.

“Uh-huh,” Confirmed one lass.

“And how would I avoid such a fate?” Bradán queried with false anxiety, as he did not fear these pups, for he had battled against the sea itself.

“You are willing to surrender already?” Éodain exulted triumphantly as she thought it over only to remember, her father’s rituals wherein his enemies submitted wholly and completely to him. “Kiss my feet.”

There was a titter of laughter that rippled through the group of children, startled by the sudden demand of the young lad, who hesitated only to reply in the affirmative to the shock of those around him. “Certainly, but um, my legs still ache though therefore if you could come closer I could do so properly.”

“Very well,” Éodain agreed at once.

The nearer she drew to him, the faster his heartbeat pounded in his chest, until he wondered how in the name of holy Brigantia the other children could not hear, his heart.

Unaware of this, Éodain spoke down to him, still convinced he was on the verge of submission. “Well then, Bradán is this close enough?”

Measuring the distance, with his dark eyes he shook his head at her, “No, not yet.”

“Oh, very well, after this though mayhap the accounts for the taxes of the area will have to be examined, and you should be able to sneak on into Brother Brien’s chambers, to fetch me those records.” She was saying greedily to the alarm of the young monk, who almost stumbled.

Outrage in his heart, along with piety in his mind, Bradán was to place rather slowly at first, his hands near the feet of the highborn lass. He bowed his head, only to once his head was at knee level, grasp her by the ankles.

He then rose up, threw her up and over his head, and down into the well behind him.

He was to later remember this moment with more than a little smugness not for how little she weighed, or the terror it inspired in others but for her great scream of terror and the ‘sploosh’ sound that resulted when the lass hit the water far below.

A loud cackle escaped his lips thence, as the other children gaped in shock, Bradán grabbed his bucket and ran off from the well, up the road towards the monastery. The other lads and lasses, may have charged after him if it was not for the panic that gripped them, and Éodain herself, who yelled out in abject terror, distracting them. “Somebody help me! Do something!”

Bradán did not hear much more from her, after that the remainder of the day, as he delivered the water to Lyr. He then fled, to bring some bread and vegetables to the secluded barn of the rarely visited family of Gobán. It was there he was surprised to discover, Fergus out assisting with the herd of sheep the family prized, above all else.

“What are you doing out and about?”

“It was brought to my attention that nobody comes here, and thus I remembered a phrase my old da’ once said; ‘he who does not work, should never enjoy the boons of any harvest’.” Fergus replied with a cheery chuckle, as the lad offered up the food in the basket, he had brought with him.

“Here you are, I brought you some food, so as to not o’ertax the Ui’Rosses for their kindness.” Bradán said warmly, to the cat-man’s surprise, and gratitude at the proffered gift.

“Thank you, young Bradán but I must decline as the lady Miriam, has overfed me already by this time.” Fergus informed him with a snicker at the blushing housewife, seeing the disappointment on his face though, the Tigrun made a bold yet compassionate suggestion. “Why not offer the food to the children, and their lady-mother, in my stead?”

The idea was unexpected yet not one that Bradán would question, since if the Tigrun was full, why leave the food to rot, when Gobán’s litter of five, were perpetually hungry?

“Wait, children,” Gobán called out weakly, his humility not allowing him to accept this act of charity.

“It is quite aright, eat up if Fergus will not,” Bradán insisted good-naturedly, to the shy cheers of the children, who grabbed and gobbled down the food.

Unused to admiration, Bradán flushed as always, a bright scarlet colour from his neck all the way to his ears, when they thanked him profusely. The eldest of the children, was a tall young lad of eleven, who came up to Bradán’s chin. He was named Pàdraig, after some hero from five or six centuries ago, though Bradán was not entirely sure, he was his favourite of the Ratvian children.

“How is Colum? Is he to visit us, this week?” Pàdraig asked hopefully, tugging on Bradán’s sleeve as he did so.

The lad was amused by how excited they got at the mere sound of Colum’s name. He was also entertained by how Gillian’s eyes seemed to light up, more than those of her younger siblings (she was the eldest of all five siblings, at fourteen years of age).

“He is still hale, I suppose,” Bradán answered lightly, with a glance at the fields and at Fergus who had returned to work, on the field. Realizing that he had interfered with the gathering of the harvest, Bradán was nonetheless buoyed by the gratitude of the Ui’Rosses, he made an impulsive offer that would have annoyed Brien and Lyr. “Would you care for some assistance?”

“You wish to help us?” Gobán asked intrigued by the offer, or so his face revealed.

“We could not possibly accept,” Miriam began to refuse, with Bradán insisting in response.

“Why not? Colum helps here all the time,” He retorted stubbornly with Gobán smiling a little.

“Do you know anything about farming?” He asked politely.

“Of course,” Bradán affirmed having previously worked on the farm nearest to the monastery several times, and at Eibhlin’s farm in recent days.

Gobán handed him a scythe, and so the cutting of wheat continued with the human lad spending the next few hours shirking his duties to Lyr, in favour of farming. Afterwards he would decline an offer of food from Miriam, before he accompanied Fergus into the barn, eager for his company, and to know more about the strange Pardiff.

“I pray that Ronald is safe and eating, as well as I will this night,” Fergus remarked as he seated on the ground, next to the pen of a few fat pigs.

“He is a Tigrun too, right? From Cymru?” Bradán queried of the Tigrun who wrinkled his nose at the stench of the pigs.

“No, we are from further north, from the lands of Caledonia from just east of the ritual center, Sgain.” Fergus explained as he stretched his weary legs from where he sat.

“What is Caledonia, like?” The lad questioned fascinated.

“Not all that different from here; with high mountains, stormy sea and strong folks, young Bradán.” The Pardiff replied with a raised brow, amused by his thirst for knowledge, and songs of the past.

“There must be some differences between our lands and peoples, what of your kings? Or lairds?” Bradán asked full of questions.

“Wait, one question at a time!” the Tigrun interrupted with a short laugh. “I would have supposed you would be more curious about Ériu.”

“I am, but I doubt you know much about Ériu,” Bradán answered earnestly with Fergus smiling weakly.

“True though, I may know more than some in Caledonia,” the Tigrun replied with a shrug, he added inquisitively, “How much do you know about your own history?”

“I know that the son of the goddess, Pàdraig was sold to Quirina five or six centuries ago, by slavers only to be freed by the Grand Divan. The Grand Divan freed him, and taught him the lore of the gods and Temple, with Pàdraig dubbed the ‘Green Douvain’, before he was sent back to Ériu to reform the isle’s faith. He was also to see if the gods, of the Emerald Isle would support their efforts, which they did. Or so goes the story,” Bradán told him, remembering the old tales of how the first monasteries and temples were established, in his homeland. “And so the gods made peace, and in thanks to Pàdraig, the gods put his image in the skies, amongst the stars, where he can still be seen. Clover in hand, and with his other hand raised to tame the crow which represents Badb the war-goddess of the Wild Folks.”

Fascinated the Tigrun rubbed his chin, then hands together pensively, before he remarked. “I have never seen this set of constellations.”

“I once heard Brien say that these stars, only form that shape here and that in Quirina, Brigantia’s constellation takes point or so his teacher once told him. I think he once made a pilgrimage, to the city of the Temple, which proved this theory.” Bradán explained proud of his memory that had allowed him to know something, a minstrel did not.

“I imagine, some of the gods were ill-impressed when the Warlock-King arrived on thy shores.” Fergus declared solemnly.

His remark took Bradán by surprise, and made him think though he was not entirely sure, he understood the point that Fergus was trying to make. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if Pàdraig, did manage to pacify the gods and convince them of the value of unity, as well as to care for their followers, they likely did not care for how their people are being slaughtered, by the Warlock-King.” The Pardiff explained, running his hand through his hair as he spoke.

“Oh,” Bradán responded only now catching onto, what the Tigrun meant as he supposed that it was one way of looking at the situation. “Do you know anything about the Warlock-King?”

“Not a great deal though I doubt many know much of anything about the dread king.” Fergus answered with a shiver of fear, or so it appeared.

“Still do you know anything about him and the Bóruma?” Bradán asked fascinated by the hero of the south, who had defended the monasteries and forced it is said, the Vikings to kneel before the men of Ériu.

“Such a story is a long one, I imagine, and I know only a few pieces of the tale. Which I was taught by a combination of the library in the Tower of Sorcery and from an Ériu-born monk, I met almost a year ago.” Fergus informed him uncertainly, only to add honestly.“He would know more about Ériu than I, who knows more songs about Caledonia and Cymru.”

“Oh, who is this monk?” Bradán queried with his friend looking unsurprised by the question.

“A man of mixed northern and Ériu birth, banished by his Cymran monastery, I suppose that he might be tempted to return soon. Though, if Colwyn has anything to say about it, he will be stuck in Cymru, for a very long time,” Fergus remarked with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Colwyn?” He asked confused by the name, mentioned by the Pardiff.

“A Cymran friend, I met a short time ago, he is quite attached to Neil though the monk may eat everything including the mortar and wood, of the Cymran’s newly won castle.” The Tigrun commented fondly.

The lad raised an eyebrow at this description of a monk who did not sound quite like, how the monks told him the best of their ranks, should behave. “Did he adventure with you?”

“A little, and we spent some time in Maelgwyn’s dungeon, he was imprisoned for his defiance towards the Onyx King, as some call this laird. It was in the king’s cells, where he taught me a series of songs from his homeland.” Fergus explained with a glance out the door where the suns could be seen beginning their descent.

“And that’s when you learnt of the Bóruma?” Bradán inquired still fascinated by this story, yet having lost none of his focus on his own isle’s tales.

“You are obsessed.” Fergus grumbled to the annoyance of Bradán, who had some sharp words of his own which were, soon left by the wayside when the Tigrun sighed in fatigue. “You bring me supplies and I will tell you the story from the beginning tomorrow.”

Bradán brightened considerably. The possibility of learning more about his people and heroes pleased him immensely, before he headed back to the monastery he stopped along the way at Eibhlin’s house. There he was to peek inside, to see to his satisfaction Éodain, was still shivering, with a fur cloak having been thrown about her tiny shoulders.

Good, he told himself, perhaps this would put an end to their silly rivalry, as it had already wearied him to no end. Once he ran off back to the monastery where he discovered Lyr to be ill-pleased by his shirking of his duties.

“Next time return from Eibhlin and Ríonal’s house immediately.” Lyr grunted sharply, believing that Bradán had spent another evening over with the women, “Now go help Colum, and I by cutting up those fresh tomatoes.”

As he did so, he was instructed just as the human soon did, when he accepted a proffered knife from his friend who smiled at him.

“What do you do over there?” the smaller lad asked him curiously, “Over with the two of them, all day?”

Bradán shrugged as he blurted out in reply, “Listen to stories and help with the farm mostly.”

“What kind of stories?” the Ratvian asked curiously, as he leant forward whiskers aquiver.

“I asked to be told about Ériu, though I was not told much,” Bradán admitted wishing that he had heard something. Even if it had only been, a vague description of the Bóruma’s personality, or how he came to his end, after having been successful for so long. That was when an idea occurred to him, as he remembered how some of the monks were supposed to be taught, something of Ériu’s history. “Lyr what do you know, of Ériu?”

“A lot more than those women would,” Lyr snorted irritably, the monk then grunted as he tasted the stew he was brewing. “All you need do to learn more, is listen to the Temple Sessions, to hear what you wish to hear.”

Bradán shot the old man an annoyed look that he missed, “I meant that I would like to hear the tales of the Bóruma, not the stories of the isle in Romalian.”

“Bóruma?” Queried the monk incredulously, before he shook his head, “I will not tell you such a story.”

“But-” He began to insist but was cut off.

“My decision is final, Bradán.” Lyr stated firmly, his voice angry to the surprise of his young charge.

Bradán gaped at him in confusion, he had never been told to be quiet before or been denied knowledge, in such an angry manner by Lyr. Why would he react so? Especially given that all the youth wanted from him, was a few harmless questions answered.

A quick glance in his direction, Lyr saw the look on his face and the nervousness on Colum’s, with a sigh the cook spoke up more calmly this time. “I will speak to you of the tales, of the Ui’Athulfs, and naught more, understood?” Both bewildered lads nodded swiftly, with a short nod Lyr began his tale. “Athulf was born from a combination, of Conn’s line, he was the fifth son of the heir of that house, the then Ard Rí. When his father was slain and his throne usurped by Thurston, a man of mixed heritage also. Athulf would be sent as a hostage with his eight brothers, to Thurston, only to escape and seek asylum in his mother’s homeland. Her homeland lay across the sea, over in Britia, which at the time was invaded, by forces from across the sea. Athuld was thus raised alongside the founder of a great Britian house, Horn. Athulf would in time embark upon many series of adventures, most of them taking place in Brigantia, or far to the east and south of here. In time Athulf would win the hand, of Thurstan’s daughter, Reynild, and become his heir in the old Rí’s latter years. Crowned the ruler of Ériu, he would prove to be one of the wealthiest rulers in the Emerald Isle’s history, nicknamed the ‘Golden King’, and ‘Athulf of the Nine-Hostages’. His was a great reign, with two great dynasties claiming descent from him.

From Athulf would spring a new line of kings, one which would later have a strangle-hold on the title of ‘Ard Rí’ though the reality never quite matched their claims. The first in this line was Lóegaire, his eldest son and heir, who initially succeeded him, and maintain his father’s influence. Lóegaire had inherited none of his father’s good-nature though, and was more in the mould of his mother’s father, in that he preferred oath-breaking and using violence to achieve his goals. The trouble for him was that a monk had arrived from the mainland, from the land of Parmenia, having been sold there, by slavers. This monk, was from Ériu, and was named Pàdraig the Holy, of part-divine birth, he had no mortal father, and was determined to bring some of the teachings he had seen abroad, to his homeland. Lóegaire, for his part was attached to the Wild Faith, and clung to it rather stubbornly. Only to make many oaths to some of the first lairds and kings who converted to the Quirinian Faith, with Lóegaire also annoying others by making peace-oaths and truces only to break them, in his war against his enemies and also this new faith. Pàdraig though, came to strongly dislike Lóegaire, and cursed him and his line, so that this king died later between two great hills, long after he had made countless attempts to be rid, of Pàdraig. His son, Lugaid would succeed him, it is said that because of this curse which held that the direct line of the Ui’Athulfs, was destined to gradually lose power and influence, until they were to lose the throne. Lugaid though, had lesser ambitions, and was motivated by a thirst for revenge, with Pàdraig having to evade many murder attempts by this ruler, before Lugaid was at last killed by lightning it is said.

His successor, was his cousin Muirchertach, whom though he clung to the old faith of Ériu, did so with considerable caution towards the new, popular faith. As they clashed over the course of the next few generations, it would be Muirchertach’s nephew Diarmait, who was to be the first to convert, to the new faith.

It is also after Diarmait’s reign, that things become complicated, with the southern Ui’Athulf and northern Ui’Athulf lines, splitting. The former being descended from Muirchertach, and the latter through Diarmait, with the two lines sinking into bloody wars and feuds against one another, that lasted for centuries. What is particularly notable, is how some of the other kingdoms of Ériu, broke off from Athulf’s attempt at unification, begun a century prior, and how each kingdom, soon disintegrated even more.The Ui’Athulfs, in contrast to their ancestor had thus forgotten, the importance of kinship and the law, as they slaughtered one another, and broke up into smaller lines, the more distant they grew from each other.

It was not until the year 394 S.D. that a new kingly line arose, as someone pulled Caladbohlg, from Athulf’s throne, a feat not seen since the days of Muirchertach. This mystical sword, you see was put in the throne of the king, with his crown trapped beneath the blade, by Pàdraig himself. As a means of guaranteeing only a worthy and good monarch could pull the sword. Naturally, most assumed that pure royal blood was also a condition, but when a pick-pocket by the name of Ryence, succeeded in claiming the blade, the Ui’Diarmaits and Ui’Muirchertachs’ were naturally stunned. Ryence, tied his fortunes with the Mide royal line, and moving to unify many of the kingdoms further south, leaving the Ui’Athulfian line bottled up in the north. By now though, they had become fat and lazy, and unworthy of kingship, and cared little for the Brehon laws.

Ryence was an incredible king, sometimes called by his detractors the ‘Thief King’, for having been a thief and for having ‘stolen’ the rightful throne of the Ui’Athulfs. But it was his by right; the trouble was that while he would work tirelessly to unify the isle, he was bound for disappointment. He conquered eleven great Rís of Ériu, only to fail to bring the north to heel. Later his beloved wife threw herself off a mountaintop and into the sea, when their children were killed, by the Ui’Athulfs, in an act of treachery. By then, old and with his realm on the verge of fragmentation, Ryence nominated his grandson as heir, but right before he died, he outlived this lad, only to appoint another. This proved a poor choice, as Ryence’s grandson’s heir was a tyrannical, mad monster, who soon earned the ire of all those who followed him. This tyrant sired almost thirty daughters, who wed into almost every kingdom. His own grandson’s heir though, fought tirelessly, to restore the family’s fortunes, but alas Donnchad, the heir in question, was bound for failure and loss.

He soon lost all he had also, and was even eventually captured, humiliated and blinded by the Ui’Athulf Rí, Athulf of the Muiredach line. This destroyed Donnchad’s hopes for the future, and he died a broken hermit on some mountain in the south. It is said though, that his sons tried to stand up for him, but were soon beaten down also. Thus, the Ui’Athulf line temporarily reclaimed their fortunes, namely through another Athulf, who was gifted with a talented son by the name of Niall. Niall was the finest warrior, of his time, and would push his father’s kingdom further and further south, at the expense of the Ui’Ryence line. Niall though, upon succeeding his father, would do much to pursue his work, only to pass away peacefully, in his old age, the first Ard Rí to do so in some time. His heir was Duibh, and he was a markedly different man, with a vastly different fate before him. But this is where I will end the tale for the moment, as it is getting late and you have other duties to attend to lads.”

Ushered from the kitchen to the sleeping quarters of the lad-monk most of whom gazed upon Bradán with renewed fear having learnt once more not to defy or try to fight, the largest of their numbers. It was with no small amount of satisfaction that the lad noted how swiftly the other lads scurried out of his way.

Colum shot him a confused and startled look at this odd and highly unexpected reception by the others. Bradán ignored him, now was not the time to tell him of how he had reclaimed his dominance, over the other youths that would have to wait until the next day. The next day though saw him, steal away more food for Fergus, whom, he discovered on his arrival to be just waking up as it was still dark out.

“Wha-? Bradán? What are you doing here?” He asked startled by the closing of the barn door.

“I got you food, now tell me of the Bóruma,” Bradán told him urgently, holding up a deer-skin bag full of food.

“When I said to gather some supplies for me, I meant to-night, but I suppose now works as well. As I will be lending my assistance to the farming, before I leave in two days,” Fergus stated pensively.

“Two days?”

“Aye, I do have a brother to look for,” The Tigrun reminded him before he threw in his direction a small grin, “Now then, where to begin? From what I understand our story begins, some time before your Bóruma was born. Now, do not you look at me like that! This is important, as our story begins a hundred and twenty years, I believe before thy Bóruma was even born. The Northmen, at that time began to appear here in Ériu for the first time, they began to attack and raid Bretwealda and Ériu, for almost half a century. Then, suddenly things changed for the worst as hundreds of long-ships began to arrive first to raid, over the course of many years, then to conquer the lands of the Emerald Isle.

When they came to settle and for conquest, they were led by the terrible Vikingr Jarl Helgi the Lusty, who had already conquered Jorvik and parts of the isles of Suðreyjar. He did this with the assistance of his eldest four sons.”

“How many sons did he have?” Bradán piped up, surprised to hear about this Helgi for the first time, in his life.

“Thirty-three, only two were of legitimate birth, with thirty-seven daughters it is said. These daughters though, were married off to a great number of Norse warriors, and even some Britians or Ériu-men. Helgi though landed on the shore of the isle where he initially struggled to secure much due to how furiously your people fought. However, he was a brilliant man and soon beat back, the Ériu-men, only to celebrate his victories by taking many Ériu-women, for himself. After this, he celebrated still further by the building of a great wooden shrine, to his war-god ancestor, Thor. On the spot of where he first landed, he founded a city, the first in Ériu, one inspired by Jorvik.

In 518 S.D., the last of the bearer of the Athulf bloodline was Fianna, daughter of Duibh Ui’Athulf. Said to be the most beautiful woman in all the land, and heiress of the Horn and Athulfian line. She was daughter of one Ard Rí, and wife to his co-king Conn Ui’Athulf, both of whom Helgi murdered in personal combat. With the death of the last of the Elk Kings, as they called themselves, Fianna swore revenge, and as the greatest of Ériu’s warriors. As she had been trained, by her father, she was to beat back Helgi several times, before she was finally betrayed and sold out to the Vikings. They were to torture her, for several days, in the hopes of breaking her indomitable spirit, only to fail.

In the end, Fianna was gutted alive and had her skull split open on a rock on the beach where her tormentors, first landed. And this is how the beach, near the landing site got the name of Fianna’s beach, with the city the Northmen founded, to bear the title of the White City or Fialinn. Though Helgi, and his heirs called it initially Geirrheimr, or Geir’s fortress after Helgi’s immediate successor.”

“Wow, I did not know all that, I have never heard this tale.” Bradán stammered, he shivered at the fate that poor Fianna had endured.

Fergus gave him a startled look, he then answered bluntly. “You are very ignorant; I can see that it is a sign of the influence of the Warlock-King for he has long wished, to slaughter the most learned of men of Ériu that they might not pass down thy history. Helgi’s descendants though, would rule over the city for almost two centuries. Helgi built a huge fort, at the spot where Fianna was handed over to him, and had her imprisoned in a tower he had constructed over the course, of his reign, as the first Norse-King of Fialinn. The city was also given a name, just as the keep, tower-”

“What were their names?” Bradán interrupted curiously, only to be given an annoyed look for his interruption.

“Give me some of the sheep’s milk you brought and some of that meat, to quench both my thirst and hunger and I shall tell you.” Fergus answered with the lad hurrying to give over the requested food and drink. “Thank you-now back to our tale; this tower and castle were built in the Koraxian style, as Helgi had captured a brilliant architect by the name of Grythorn. Grythorn, built the tower it is said to be eighty feet high, with naught but stone taken from Bretwealda and Breizh. The keep was also built of stone, which has become known as Geirr’s keep, while the port was named because of how Athulf was executed on Helgi’s ship: Athulf’s port.

Helgi it is said, after a long and cruel career died in the Isles of Suðreyjar. Because of his cruel punishments and fondness for his tower, the tower in his Ériu city came to be known as Helgi’s Tower. Now any questions, before I continue on with the next part of our tale, which will focus upon Geirr the Fat?”

“Aye, one question,” Bradán answered thoughtfully, as he considered what he had just learnt only to happen upon one thing he could not properly puzzle out. “Who was the one who betrayed Fianna?”

“The guilty man is known by the name of Senán the Betrayer, who was said to have been spurned by Fianna. He died some years later at the hands, of those whom he had ironically traded her to, or so the story goes.” Fergus was about to go on when the sound of his name being called, was heard from outside the barn. “That must be all for now, come back to-night to hear the rest of our tale. I will ask for another boon, though it might seem strange; I would like a fur-cloak to keep me warm as I will be traveling through the winter I imagine.”

“But where can I get one? Such a thing is prized much more than a few table-scraps.” Bradán said disappointed by the difficult favour, and by the fact that he would have to wait to hear more of Ériu’s tale.

“Do not one of the farmers, have an appropriate one?”

“None of them, would part with it though, not unlike the monks in that regard, I suppose.”

“Not good, would one of them be willing to sell one?”

Bradán shook his head, “Of course not, as they all are likely to have but a few, and to need them merely to survive the coming winter. Unless of course, someone died recently and his family kept his cloak-” That was when it struck the lad between the eyes.

There was one person with a spare fur-cloak possibly big enough for a man, of Fergus’ height and whom he was on friendly enough terms, with to ask for such a boon from; “Ríonal.”