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Growing up, Diarmuid asked many questions. He knew it annoyed the monks, but he could not help his curiosity. Rua said he was worse than the chattering birds at springtime, and yet he asked and asked: about farming and nature and God’s plans. About, most of all, soulmarks.
He asked with the eagerness of a child intrigued by things foreign to his own experience. Do they hurt? (“Not more than any other skin.”) Do they ever change? (“Of course not.”) But how can God know what people’s first words to each other will be before they happen? (“God knows all,” which was an answer he should have seen coming.)
Does everyone without one become a monk, like Diarmuid and so many of the brothers?
He asked the last at only seven years old. Ciarán gathered him into his arms to deliver his reply.
“No, Diarmuid,” he said, somberly. “Some without a mark become soldiers, or sailors. Or they live alone, or find a partner without a mark, or marry one whose soulmate died young. There are many possibilities. When it is time, you will choose to stay and dedicate your life to God or not, just as every brother has, mark or no. Nothing and nobody will force you.”
Diarmuid chewed on his lip, considering. It was a lot to process. Marriage and the sea and living alone were all such abstract concepts.
“I think I’ll stay,” he declared brightly, after turning this new information over in his mind. “I like it here.”
Ciarán pulled him close and kissed the crown of his head. “I hope you do, my boy. But it will be many years yet before you make that choice.”
“No, I’ll stay,” Diarmuid decided. “I’ll definitely stay.”
***
It was not until the Mute that Diarmuid questioned that decision.
***
The Mute was a shock from the moment Diarmuid lay eyes on him: half delirious and starving, breaths shallow, and yet so much larger and more imposing than any man Diarmuid could remember, even the traders who came to the monastery from time to time. Frightening and beautiful all at once. Almost otherworldly.
“What are you?” Diarmuid asked in awe as he gazed down at the prone figure. Snapping out of his daze and realizing that was horribly impolite, he tried again. “Sorry. Who are you?”
The man stared back with unfocused eyes. Uncomprehending, barely there. Diarmuid ran for help, trembling and stumbling all the way.
***
Later, once the monks had nursed the Mute back to health, Diarmuid apologized if they got off on the wrong foot. That was when he discovered the man did not speak at all, and did not seem to understand their native tongue either.
Diarmuid took it upon himself to be the Mute’s tutor. To show him the ins and outs of the monastery, and to teach him their language, word by word. Despite what some of the brothers thought, the Mute was a fast learner, good with his hands and quick with his mind. And best of all, he was not bothered by Diarmuid’s constant company. He chose it, sought Diarmuid out, stuck to his side as often as their tasks allowed even after he learned everything he needed to know about the rhythm of monastery life.
***
It was in the Mute’s second year at the monastery that Diarmuid began noticing changes in his reaction to his friend’s presence. It started with a quickening of the heart and a flush of goosebumps whenever their hands brushed as they performed chores side-by-side. Then a stirring somewhere below his gut, a heat between his thighs.
He was not so naïve that he did not understand what that was about. He had been warned by his brothers of temptations of the flesh. In case there was any confusion, the dreams that began to haunt his nights cleared it up quickly.
It was natural, he had been assured since a young age, to feel such urges. But was it natural to feel them so consistently for one person and only that person? To feel someone else’s presence, always, like a fishhook buried in his chest, line drawn taught between then?
It was around that time he began to wonder: What would your soulmark be if your soulmate cannot speak?
He did not have the courage to ask that question; it would be far too obvious. But he did confess his urges in a more general way to Ciarán. After Diarmuid was given his penance, he asked if he could ask a question about the same topic.
Ciarán, bless him, nodded his assent, even if his expression suggested he was not looking forward to the conversation.
“Is it different, with a soulmate?” Diarmuid said, after several stuttering failed attempts to get the words out. “The feelings, are they…more intense?”
Ciarán observed him with sharp eyes. “Some say the pull is stronger, the need more urgent,” he answered slowly, measuring every word. “But others say there is no difference, or even that the greatest want they ever felt was for someone other than their mate. God marks people for each other for reasons beyond lust. But why do you ask?”
Unspoken was that Diarmuid would never know the difference.
“Just curious,” he replied. It was not a lie; he had been curious. And the answer told him what he needed to know: he was making something out of nothing, trying to find extraordinary permission for ordinary weakness.
***
A year later, when the urges had not ended, another thought occurred to him: perhaps the Mute himself was unmarked. Two unmarked people are allowed to marry, to build lives together without being an affront to God. Rare between men, granted, and frowned upon, but not actually forbidden, not in these lands. And he had never seen a mark on the Mute—though he had also not seen great swaths of his body, and the marks were often hidden in private places, reserved for lovers.
It took him a long time to work up the courage to ask about it. He finally managed on a gorgeous spring day, as he and the Mute sat on the beach, enjoying an indulgent lunch of bread and cheese after hours collecting shellfish. To Diarmuid’s relief, the Mute did not seem affronted by what was, truly, one of the most intimate questions a person could ask.
Unfortunately, his answer was a nod: he had a mark.
“Oh.” Diarmuid tried not to sound disappointed. “Have you met her? Or him?”
The Mute shot him a curious look and then slowly shook his head, though he ended the gesture in something like a shrug. Diarmuid was not sure what to make of that. Perhaps the Mute did not much care. It certainly did not seem as if he was planning to ever leave their little home to go in search of his missing half.
“I’m sorry,” Diarmuid said, swallowing back a sudden urge to cry. Those whose mates have died were permitted to move on with other widowers or the unmarked, but only if they knew for sure their soulmate was gone. But it was selfish of Diarmuid to be concerned about that. “It must be difficult, knowing they are out there but not knowing where.”
The Mute continued to consider him, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he shook his head again. This time there was no shrug. He raised his gaze, looking around at the sky and sand and sea before settling back on Diarmuid. His lips curved up slightly; his smiles were uncommon, and this one felt like it meant something.
Diarmuid took a deep breath, heart racing so hard he could feel his own pulse without needing to bring a hand to his neck.
“You are content here?” he asked, wanting to confirm that he understood the unspoken message.
The Mute nodded, firm.
The conversation had not gone exactly as Diarmuid dreamed, but as long as he was allowed to keep his friend he could handle the rest. Ciarán had explained lustful feelings were a problem of youth that would fade over time. Diarmuid was strong enough for that.
“That’s good, then,” he said, returning the Mute’s smile. “I am content here, too.”
***
Diarmuid got used to it, after that. He stopped questioning about soulmarks, and accepted that his desire was focused solely on the Mute because he knew so few people, and the Mute was so kind to him. It did not get easier, exactly, but his want faded into the background noise of his life, a nagging frustration, his secret burden to bare.
Besides, a person had no way to prove their devotion to God without temptation to sin. His feelings provided a path to prove himself. Something to be grateful for. Yes, that was the proper way to see it.
So he told himself, again and again: it was all a way to prove his loyalty to the divine.
***
And then the Mute almost died. To protect the relic, their party. Diarmuid.
***
He went back, of course. The relic was gone, their pilgrimage rendered pointless; the only thing left was to try to save his friend, hopeless as that was.
A miracle: it worked.
The soldiers were gone by the time they returned to shore. The Mute still breathed despite the angry instrument in his stomach. The boatman helped Diarmuid lift his limp body to the boat, agreeing to bring them to a healer he knew.
Miracles, all.
Diarmuid pressed the bag of gems back into the boatman’s hands when they reached the healer’s hut. The Mute was still alive, if barely.
“I didn’t help you for the money. Enough people have been lost for one day.” The boatman took the smallest stone out and returned it. “You may need this.”
He did, however, pocket the rest. Fair enough.
“Thank you,” Diarmuid said. His voice was wet with tears shed and unshed, with the strain of rowing, with the exhaustion of all he had lost. “You don’t know what this means to me.”
The boatman’s answering smile was sad. “If that soldier of yours survives, come find me. I know of work for a man that strong.”
Diarmuid almost protested that they would be returning to the monastery, but then he remembered the relic sinking into the sea, and with it the man he pushed. The realization that he may no longer have a home fell over him like a heavy blanket, leaving him slumped.
He nodded his understanding of the offer.
“Thank you,” he repeated. It was not good enough, but they were the best words he could find. “God will remember your kindness.”
***
The healer did not allow him into her dwelling as she worked, so Diarmuid waited outside, kneeling in damp leaves under a towering tree, praying with all the strength he had left and then more after that, until his knees throbbed and his back ached and his tongue was dry. Praying until the words were whispers and then nothing but thoughts in his head, mouth too tacky to make sound.
By the time the healer was done, night had fallen and Diarmuid was shivering. The healer ushered him inside, where a fire burned, warming the small stone room. The Mute lay on the ground, covered in furs, breaths as shallow as the first time Diarmuid had met him, all those years ago. Shallow, but, the healer assured Diarmuid, steady.
“I will not make promises,” she added, shoving a bowl of hot broth into Diarmuid’s hands. “But he is stronger than almost anyone I have treated. I have hope.”
That night Diarmuid curled by the Mute’s side, under the same fur, hand grazing the Mute’s skin, allowing the steady rise and fall of his chest—the sure true sign of life—guide him into sleep.
***
Three days later, everything changed. The Mute was still sleeping, constantly, flickering in and out of consciousness, but he had recovered enough for a wash.
“He’s stinking up my home,” the healer complained as she dropped two pales of water at Diarmuid’s side. “I have another patient to tend across the village. Clean him before I return.”
She gave him no time to protest. Besides, what protest did he have other than that spending so much time touching his friend’s body was a test he was not sure he could endure? He steeled himself and did it anyway; if the Mute could survive a torture device to his stomach, Diarmuid could survive touching him.
He talked his way through it. Babbled nonsense, mostly. Stories from his childhood that the Mute had heard many times before, and fond memories from their years together. He danced from topic to topic, trying to distract himself from the taught muscles beneath his hands as he cleaned the Mute’s chest and shoulders and stomach.
He especially tried to distract himself when he went lower, awkwardly tugging down the Mute’s pants while not looking too closely at the bulge between his legs—the only thing still covered, by undergarments. But before he could move to washing the Mute’s ankles he saw it, on the inside of the Mute’s thigh, clear as day: What are you?
He froze, blinked, read it again, expecting the words to morph into something else. But no, they remained stubbornly, wonderfully the same:
What are you?
“Oh,” Diarmuid said. He reached out, allowing himself the impropriety of touching, just barely grazing over the words. The Mute’s leg twitched. Diarmuid grabbed his hand away, blushing.
The words were in Irish, just as Diarmuid’s had been. He had never bothered to teach the Mute to read the language. Many cannot read at all, of course, but most villages had at least one wise person or priest who could, and that person’s duties included letting people know their words. For those villages without, there were always wandering readers ready to trade essential knowledge for a few bites of bread. But the Mute was from a far land; it was possible no one had ever been able to translate the words for him.
And even if someone had told him the meaning of the script on his thigh, he had barely been conscious when Diarmuid first spoke to him, barely aware. He did not know. Had he guessed, though? Had he wondered, as Diarmuid did?
“I wish you said something.” Slowly, Diarmuid reached for the rag he’d dropped when he noticed the words. He dipped it back in the bucket and resumed the washing. “Not that you could say anything. That’s the point; I must have been right at the start! I don’t have a mark because you never speak to me with words. You would think God would come up with something for that, as you are not the only person that does not speak. Though I suppose that fact that you have a mark was the solution, if only you had known. You should have showed me!”
The Mute shifted again, kicking a little as Diarmuid ran the cloth under his knee.
“Oh, are you ticklish there? I’m sorry. I am too.” Diarmuid grinned, ridiculously delighted at such a mundane commonality. “And I apologize for scolding. Of course you never showed me, it is a very private area. I’m just…”
He trailed off, at a loss for words to express how he felt.
“I look forward to you waking up. Very much. Please wake up soon,” he concluded. Not his best use of words, but at least no one else heard them.
***
He thought it would be the first thing out of his mouth once the Mute awoke, but when the time came the healer was there, and it did not feel like something he should discuss in front of another person. And the Mute was still so weak, only able to stay awake for a few hours at a time, and it was so much excitement and—
And if Diarmuid was being perfectly honest, he was scared. Yes, the Mute had been his loyal friend for years, and proved his loyalty beyond doubt during their journey. Yes, the Mute’s eyes lit up when he blinked awake to find Diarmuid at his side. Yes, he accepted food straight from Diarmuid’s hands, letting him hold his head and bring bowls of broth to his lips, docile as a lamb and just as gentle.
Yes, all of that, and, also—miraculously—Diarmuid’s words were on his skin. And yet: what if he did not want all that those words implied? He had never sought his soulmate before. Perhaps he was not interested in the obligation. Maybe he would turn away in disgust at being bound in that way to someone young and inexperienced.
Diarmuid knew he must tell him. Longed for it, too. But he put it off as the Mute healed, letting himself bask in his friend’s presence, unencumbered by the weight of fate for just a little longer.
***
When the Mute was finally strong enough to walk mostly on his own, Diarmuid took him out to a hill with stunning views of the ocean. Diarmuid had discovered the spot in the hours he’d spent wandering around the village, when the healer shooed him out of her home so she could work in peace.
They sat in silence, legs outstretched, almost close enough to touch. Finally, Diarmuid forced out the words. “Do you remember what I said to you, when I first found you?”
The Mute’s eyebrows drew together and he cautiously shook his head. He brought a hand to his temple, waving it, and then shrugged.
“I did not think so,” Diarmuid reassured him. He drew a deep breath and then placed his own hand on the Mute’s leg, just above the knee. “Do you have a guess?”
The Mute’s mouth opened slightly. He looked at the hand, then back to Diarmuid, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry.” Diarmuid meant to ease into this slowly, but once he started he could not stand to stop. “It’s only that the healer asked me to wash you, and when I did I saw your mark. And I know that is private and maybe you never wanted me to see, or maybe you didn’t realize, I don’t even know if you understand what it says but…but those were the words I said to you, when I found you. ‘What are you?’ Which I know sounds rude but it was because you were so beautiful and intimidating and I had never seen a man like you, and—”
The Mute lurched forward and grabbed Diarmuid’s face with both hands, eyes darting across it as if searching for something.
“I do not have a mark,” Diarmuid added, though the Mute already knew that, Diarmuid had mentioned it many times when he was younger. “But you do not speak, so perhaps…I had wondered…and then when I saw…”
His cheeks burned against the rough palms squeezing them tight. He made himself meet the Mute’s eyes, and found nothing but wonder. Wonder, and maybe joy.
“I suspected,” Diarmuid added, heart pounding. “But then I told myself it was wishful thinking. But I—I did wish. I wished so much. Did you ever…suspect? Or wish? Did you also want—”
The Mute answered with a kiss. It was soft, deep, message as clear as the words on his thigh: Yes.
Diarmuid giggled when they broke apart. He felt like a cloud, lighter than air. “Oh, good, I don’t know what I would have done…”
The Mute kissed him again, quick and firm; reassurance. Diarmuid flung his arms around him, burying his face in his neck.
“I do not know what we do now,” he said. It was true, and yet he was not scared. The could not return to the monastery for so many reasons. But the boatman had promised work and they had the single jewel. That would be enough to start, as long as they had each other. “But whatever happens, as long as I am with you, I will be content. More than content.”
The Mute’s hands came around Diarmuid’s back, he scattered kisses across his hair.
Yes, Diarmuid decided: more than content. As long as he had the Mute with him, he would be complete.