Work Text:
“Sister Diarmuid.”
Snow had been falling on the monastery—its roofs, its hills, its coast—for over a week, and none of it had stuck. Fat, seaside flurries that couldn’t cling to anything but clothes and eyelashes. Diarmuid watched it from the far window of the scriptorium, through sunset and candlelight, the tip of her quill tapping against an open page.
Ciarán’s voice, gentle as the snowfall but no less chiding, startled her. She turned to him, eyes wide; he stood over her desk, and when his eyes flickered to the book hers followed. A psalm in black ink had dissolved into a flurry of dots, like a dark rendition of the scene outside. Diarmuid glanced back up at him sheepishly.
“Perhaps we’ve practiced enough for today,” Ciarán suggested. He sounded tired, but the cool glow of the winter sun glinted in his eye in a way that appeared almost—fond. It was a way that made Diarmuid immediately feel like the wasted paper, the wasted time, wasn’t her fault. She set down the quill and massaged her right wrist.
“I don’t think this is working.”
Ciarán leaned over the other side of the desk, observing her work with an air of impassivity—but his eyes still sparkled. “You’re improving.”
“It still looks terrible.” Diarmuid stretched her arms out, grasping in the direction of the window.
“We have had several sisters and brothers over the years with the same inclination as you.” Ciarán took the quill between worn, careful fingers and aligned it in its perfect place beside the inkwell on the desk; then lifted the book, scanning the disaster she had wrought on the pages again and again with a pride Diarmuid had seen so many times and still had yet to understand. “All it takes is diligence from you—and patience from us both.”
Diarmuid’s gaze slid back to the window. “I’m sure it didn’t take them twelve years just to learn how to write the alphabet properly.”
“None of them had to spend the first ten with an instructor like Sister Deirdre, either.” Ciarán closed the book. “But now you are with me. And it shows.”
He was always so kind. It was one of her first memories of this place. With her eyes still on the window, the light rapidly descending into the sea, she asked, “Do you think Brother Rua and Sister Cathal will return soon?”
She listened to Ciarán’s footsteps, him returning the book to his personal shelf. A slow, thoughtful response. “I know you’re anxious. I’m certain they’re working as fast as they are able. Now”—his tone eased, brought her attention back to him—“I believe you are keeping someone waiting.”
He nodded toward the main door of the scriptorium—a knowing smile. There was something resigned in it that Diarmuid chose not to catch. She leapt from her seat, worry immediately abandoned, and rushed to gather her shawl draped over the back of an empty chair—thick knitted wool, delicate tassels, silver buttons and a shocking shade of blue against the solemn black and white of her habit—and swung it around her shoulders while opening the door.
It was a gift, one she had fought the Abbess tooth and nail to keep. Overcoats to keep out the winter chill were not uncommon, nor forbidden by the vow of poverty—but the vibrancy, the expensive materials, that it had been traded for in the village when a homespun cloak would’ve sufficed—all went far beyond the monastery’s rule on unnecessary possessions. But Diarmuid, clutching the shawl in the Abbess’ chambers and near tears, was adamant. The eventual agreement they came to—the Abbess begrudgingly, Diarmuid delighted—was that the shawl wasn’t hers. She was merely borrowing it from her very dear friend for a very long time.
Immediately out the door, she nearly ran head-first into the Mute, yelping when they bumped shoulders. The Mute herself carried an oil lantern, and wore a plain brown cloak and seafoam gray nalbound scarf and mittens, which were among Diarmuid’s proudest achievements, always leaving her with a dancing flame in her chest whenever she saw her friend wear them. Trousers were tucked into heavy work boots—a choice that had caused quite a stir, back when the Mute first arrived and the monastery, when it had become evident she would be staying a while and the monastery had gone about clothing her.
“Even for a laysister,” Brother Tuathal had begun carefully. He and Sister Diarmuid had been at the gate between their two sides of the monastery, trading a delivery of honey for harvested kelp. It had been summer, then, two year ago. “Isn’t it a bit strange for her not to wear a proper working dress?”
His eyes had tracked the Mute over Diarmuid’s shoulder. When Diarmuid glanced back she saw her—sleeves rolled up to her elbows, dark hair in loose, unkempt curls around her shoulders, heaving a large stump from the ground with nothing but a gardening ho and her bare hands. It flipped from the earth, scattering dirt with roots askew, while the nuns who had formed a semi-circle around the Mute cooed and clapped. Diarmuid turned back to Tuathal.
“I don’t see you wearing proper working trousers, Brother,” she said plainly. Then she adjusted the basket of kelp in her arms and, with a polite nod, left him at the gate.
Diarmuid fumbled with the last button of the shawl as she made eye contact; the Mute, as always, stood tall and broad, in spite of her best efforts—chin down but still more than a head above Diarmuid, a tucked posture that still wasn’t enough to hide strong shoulders.
When the Mute’s mouth quirked fondly, eyes soft, Diarmuid averted her attention to the snow catching in her curls. Her hair was quite a bit longer than it had been two summers ago, this time in a frizzing braid Diarmuid had begged permission to do. It was so fun, but with her own hair she got so little practice. It was nice to have a friend, for those sorts of things.
“You don’t always need to pick me up,” she chided, returning the smile. Tilting her head, she reached for the braid, draped over one shoulder, and ran her hand under it, down to the cloth tie at the end. “You still haven’t taken it out?”
Finally, she felt the Mute’s eyes leave her—stepping back, ducking her head, a broken sound in the back of her throat. Diarmuid’s stomach fluttered pleasantly.
She let the braid drop. “I’ll redo it tomorrow, if you like.”
The Mute nodded, once, and quickly turned toward the gate. Diarmuid fell into step beside her.
At Kilmannán, the stone wall between the nunnery and the monk’s quarters was little more than formality. Mingling was not exactly encouraged—there was always work to be done on one’s own quarters, after all—but it was not uncommon, either. The monks had the livestock and were closest to the shore—the nuns had the beehives and the ale. Everything was shared, and pleasant conversation passing through the gate was common. Even Diarmuid’s arrangement with Ciarán was free of scrutiny—no one who ranked higher than the Abbess ever bothered with the arduous journey across Ireland’s disputed lands-turned-battlefields, so Kilmannán did as they pleased.
It also meant The Mute’s insistence in escorting Diarmuid to and from her lessons was completely unnecessary, but aside from the occasional playful remark, Diarmuid never complained. From the first day they had been inseparable—a quiet, instantaneous understanding—and Diarmuid had no desire to change that.
The Mute led her to the gate and through it, and the evening darkness fell so fast it was as though they had shut out the last of the sunset on the other side. The snow continued to fall, lingering only in fleeting lace-like trim on the tips of grass and clothes. Diarmuid brushed the shoulders of her shawl, the top of her veil—then in one quick, fluid motion, the sky disappeared overhead behind the still-warm interior of a cloak.
“Oh—” Diarmuid pushed at the Mute’s arm, holding the cloak above her like a sturdy wooden beam. It held fast. “You don’t have to. I’m not cold.”
But, as always, the Mute was so steadfast, dark eyes so earnest, she couldn’t find it in herself to put up much of a fight.
As they neared the dining hall, the soft glow from the building’s windows lit up the path, and the air began to fill with traces of a familiar smoke, one from food and fireplace. The Mute nodded in the direction of the storehouses across from it.
“We need to pick something up first?” Diarmuid hummed, opening the door as the Mute closed the gap between the overhang and her with the cloak. When the door swung open, she shoved the Mute’s arm again. “Now put this back on, would you?”
The storehouse was chilled and shadowy, faint silhouettes of boxes and barrels, hanging goods and racks of tools—outside, the wind picked up, blowing glittering snow just past the open doorway. The Mute followed her inside, slinging the cloak over one shoulder, and, pointedly, cast open the door to the cellar in one easy act.
“I don’t care how strong you are,” Diarmuid said, following her down the steps into near-pitch black, watching how the lantern light danced over the narrow stairway walls and across the Mute’s hair, shoulders, angled jaw. “I won’t allow you to catch your death for my sake.”
The cellar was small and narrow, with little more in it than the casks of ale lining the stone wall from one corner to the other. The Mute hung the lantern on a hook at the foot of the stairs, and Diarmuid took an empty pitcher from the shelves, crouched in front of the first cask, tucking the skirt of her habit under her knees as she did, and began to fill it.
Lingonberry and apple swept through the air, crisp and fresh—a memory of milder weather.
In autumn, she had taken the Mute along for apple-picking—beyond the wall, down the steep slope of the hill behind the monastery. Diarmuid wore her same blue shawl over her usual habit—still marveling at how downy it was, like the feathers of a hatchling goose.
The apples had hung heavy on their branches, rubies against bursts of gold and emerald leaves. When Diarmuid couldn’t reach the highest branches and threatened to climb the tree itself, the Mute hoisted her up, one arm curled around Diarmuid’s waist, the other hooked just below her knees. Diarmuid’s skirts bunched under the crook of the Mute’s elbow and her heel dug now and again into the Mute’s stomach—but she reached easily, and the baskets were filled.
They each had one—just one apple was alright, Diarmuid had convinced herself aloud, though the meals at the monastery were so strict.
Their kisses afterward in the deepest part of the orchard were crisp and sweet, and Diarmuid left sticky fingerprints all over when she cupped the Mute’s face, grasped the back of her neck, ran a hand under her shirt—and the aftertaste of it all lingered on Diarmuid’s tongue long after they parted ways.
She re-sealed the cask and stood. The memory lingered, strong as the aroma reaching every corner of the cellar. She stared into the trembling surface of the ale for a moment, thoughtful; then she turned to the Mute, who stood guardlike at the stairs, and put the pitcher to her lips and tipped it back.
When she lowered it, she found the Mute’s eyebrows raised—but she was regarding her curiously. Diarmuid assumed that her streaks of devilry—as the Abbess, and most of the rest of the monastery called it—were far from enough to surprise her. The Mute, she mused, was perhaps the only one at the monastery who fully understood this side of her. Even Ciarán wanted her to unlearn natural instinct, retrain her hands in the way of the Church.
But The Mute never asked anything of her. Diarmuid walked over, held out the pitcher.
“Try some?”
The Mute hesitated—more reverent than herself, Diarmuid knew, of the monastery and its rules. For the Mute, this place was savior—and though it had taken in Diarmuid just the same, for her it was home.
But then the Mute took the pitcher, and as soon as she did Diarmuid snatched the cloak from her shoulder and leaned in, wrapped it around her as she tilted her head back for a large swig. By the time Diarmuid finished tying the front of the cloak she was done, and the pitcher traded hands again. Diarmuid held it in both arms and took a step back. She searched the Mute’s expression in the lowlight, glimmering eyes, cheeks ruddied from the cold, full lips wet from the ale. Diarmuid was sure she looked the same.
A brown curl had escaped the coif of Diarmuid’s veil and clung to the swell of her cheekbone. The Mute, tenderly, pressed it back under the cloth with her thumb. Then she leaned down and kissed her.
Autumn blended with winter in the taste on her tongue; Diarmuid’s eyes fluttered shut and her mouth fell open, and she held the pitcher of ale for dear life as the Mute’s hand, rough from labor and the gentlest hand she’d ever known, rested on the small of her back, where the cloth belt of her habit cinched her waist.
Somewhere between autumn and winter, memory and touch, the orchard and the shore, Diarmuid thought she caught the scent of salt water.
//
How long had it been like this? Diarmuid couldn’t exactly remember. Maybe it had always been this way, since before they knew one another. It was the fate of the sea.
She had been at the monastery for twelve years. The land beyond it—well. She had no idea.
But there was nothing she was more familiar with than its coastline.
The push and pull of the tide, how it changed with the seasons like a forest—even just from the shore—its creatures and its wrath and its touch and its voice. She knew its every curve, every flaw, every secret.
When it gave Diarmuid her, though—that had been a surprise.
Diarmuid found her after a storm, laying under a jutted cliff, stark naked, barely conscious, but alive. Curls wrapped slick like seaweed across her face, around her neck, dark skin textured with a thick layer of sand. Over her lap laid her skin, a tattered mess of dappled gray—when Diarmuid had gone to touch it, she’d grabbed Diarmuid by her arm hard enough for her claws to tear the dark fabric of her sleeve. Her eyes had been narrowed by salt and sun, but she bared her teeth, and Diarmuid had leaned back, startled.
Then—she had stopped. Her half-hidden eyes, dark as ink, lingered for a moment on Diarmuid’s face before she lay back, grip falling away from Diarmuid’s arm. She stared up at the sky, breath labored through cracked lips—exhausted and resigned.
Diarmuid felt the panic she had first felt when finding a body on the shore, then again when grabbed so suddenly, wash away. Softly, and without thinking, she rested a hand on hers and hummed the first verse of their morning Lauds.
Everything fell still. The waves kept rhythm with the song. Slowly, dark eyes met hers.
And there was an understanding.
//
“Ciarán found me when I was very young.” Diarmuid sat at the Mute’s bedside—she was almost healed, now, properly rehydrated and fed, the battering she’d taken against the cliff rocks nothing bedrest and Ciarán’s apothecary couldn’t fix. Diarmuid had been keeping her company when she could—the other nuns, at least, seemed relieved to have her occupied.
The selkie skin was in her own lap, now. She petted it absent-mindedly as she talked. The Mute—the title already bestowed upon her by the Abbess, who was rather fascinated by the concept of a silent selkie—sat up against the headrest, watching, rapt, as Diarmuid continued.
“There are many different types of people around these lands. Clans, invaders—my mother was taken. I don’t know where the rest of my family is.”
The skin was unbelievably soft, velvety to the touch, an iridescent gray, and still torn to pieces. Diarmuid thumbed at one of the tears.
“The Abbess says our library has a lot of annals written by the monks and nuns that came before. There may be some records about selkies, she said, and that—maybe they can find a way to repair your skin. Until then, you may stay here.”
She glanced at the Mute—she remained perfectly still, unblinking, watching Diarmuid’s hand. She was rather beautiful, Diarmuid thought—strong cheekbones and an elegant jawline, full lips and hair the curled gently at the ends, now that it had been washed of salt and sand and kelp. Diarmuid looked back down at the skin.
“What happened to you?” she asked. She didn’t expect an answer, but she searched for it all the same, as though it would be written in the pattern of the fur or the violent gashes. “Well, in any case, you’ll be safe here. I promise.”
//
For the first year, the monks and the nuns tirelessly searched every set of annals, every chronicle, every research notebook for any information on selkies. Ciarán explained to Diarmuid that the seafolk and the landfolk had been allies, once, like two clans on good terms. All of that was before the monastery—but even after it had been built, and the beliefs and circumstances of the landfolk began to shift, the selkies and Kilmannán had been something like friends. It was because of the selkies, he’d told her, that the monastery survived the age of Norsemen raids at all.
Then, something changed—no one knew what. But selkies faded into the depths of the sea and the faintest of memories.
If all selkies were like the Mute, Diarmuid thought, then she understood why humans had been their friends.
At first the Mute seemed forlorn, after she had healed doing little more than staring out at the sea. At invitation, she stayed close to Diarmuid’s side, helping her with her tasks when she was able and getting used to using her legs every day. She was strong—almost monstrously—and diligent. Even without speaking, she always got straight to the point.
The research carried on into the summer, and Diarmuid took long, lingering walks along the shore with the Mute, tied up her skirts around her thighs and waded out into the water, however far they dare go.
And Diarmuid wrapped the Mute’s hand when she cut it on a sharp piece of rock beneath the waves while trying to catch fish—and when she was finished the Mute took hers and kissed the back of it, then her knuckles, then the very tips.
And when it was raining too hard to go down to the beach, they hid in the little stone shed near the garden that the Mute had helped build only days before, and Diarmuid rambled about how harvest season worked on land until the Mute leaned in, nosed at the spot where the hem of her veil met her cheek, and stopped her mid-sentence.
Anyone could see them, the shelter had no door, and Diarmuid told herself with each kiss that after the next she’d pull away—but instead she wrapped her arms around the Mute’s neck, and then sighed into the next kiss, and leaned back against the uncomfortable stone wall so the Mute could stretch across the bench to settle between her knees. And Diarmuid made a breathy little sound against her ear when the Mute moved to mouth at her neck through her coif, and then her mind was suddenly preoccupied with things besides wondering exactly how much sound could be drowned out by the rain.
They didn’t end up making much sound at all, and no other parts of Diarmuid’s habit were reached for or removed—but no one found them, either.
And by next spring, when Ciarán finally finds it—the tools needed to repair a selkie skin, enchanted shells and thread spun from a kelpie’s mane and a needle carved from moonlight—and Rua and Cathal are sent to retrieve them, Diarmuid felt guilty for not being as excited as she should have been.
//
There were rumors beginning to spread past the shores of Kilmannán. Tales of the remote monastery most had forgotten, and the songs that began to haunt the winds that carried from it.
The Mute didn’t pace the beach as often, now, unless Diarmuid was there. The wait for Rua and Cathal to return stretched on, and though Diarmuid continued to ask about it anxiously, the Mute did not seem to harbor the same concern.
Still, there were some nights—and this is how the legend went, though Diarmuid wouldn’t hear of it for a while yet—nights such as this, with the snow swirling through the air, melting into the earth as though it were the sea, where the Mute would go out to the cliffs that met the waves. On this night, she had a cup a lingonberry and apple ale and a lovingly-wrapped cloak, nalbound scarf and mittens.
On these sorts of nights, she would sit with her feet dangling over the water and stare out to the horizon, completely still. Diarmuid would find her on these nights, eventually—they had an understanding, after all.
Diarmuid would sit beside her—on this night, with a cup of lingonberry and apple ale and a bright blue shawl—and they’d watch the moon rise over the black, empty, endless ocean together.
Then, once they were pressed shoulder to shoulder, an unearthly song would rise through the frigid starlight.