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It should never have been Diarmuid.
Of all the things that had ever been asked of him, whether by curt order or gentle request or frantic plea, one would always stand firm in the Mute's mind.
Keep him safe .
It had come to him unbidden. From the moment he awoke on the beach below the monastery, cold and sodden and fully convinced that the face peering down at him, bright and haloed by the sun, was an angel come to bear his weary soul away, he knew that Diarmuid must be protected.
And so he had protected him. Through all his five years among the brothers of St. Matthias; accompanying like a shadow, silent and ever-watchful. Through the harrowing days of the doomed pilgrimage; snatching poisoned water from Diarmuid's hands, killing those who would threaten him, holding off pursuers so he could escape. The Mute would have given his life freely, without question or resentment. But it seemed he was not meant to. Not yet.
Months had passed now since that violent day on the beach. In time, under Diarmuid's careful attention and that of others, through the mercy of Holy Grace, the Mute had recovered. There was no doubt in his mind now that he had been kept alive to protect not a mere human being, but a saint. For Diarmuid must be a saint, even if he himself did not know it yet. Even if no one save the Mute would ever see him as such. Who else could show such compassion; such understanding; such love? And to one so unworthy of it.
Keep him safe.
He had tried. He had tried so very hard. He had followed Diarmuid, comforted him in his latent mourning for Brother Ciarán and the others, held him close when he had asked. He had even kissed him of late, as care and protectiveness blossomed mutually into something more. All he'd wanted was to see him at peace after so much suffering; to see him happy. And now, Diarmuid was huddled on the floor of their little hovel, shaking and sobbing as blood flowed from his clenched fists.
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The man was unknown to them. A pitiable thief if he thought he would find anything here. Whether he had come upon the hovel by chance or followed them from the town, it did not matter. The Mute dragged him outside with a snarl and slit his throat. When he returned, furious and on edge but content to deal with the body in the morning, he found Diamuid weeping in the dark and his anger turned immediately to panic.
Let him be alright. Oh, God in Heaven, please let him be alright. Please…not like this.
The hovel had no true door. They'd hung a piece of heavy sailcloth across the low opening. Usually, the Mute made sure he lay nearest to it, keeping Diarmuid behind him and sheltered between his body and the wall. Tonight, they had fallen asleep opposite. It was Diarmuid who noticed the thief first and scrambled from their bed. He'd cried out and stumbled as the man struck him, but it was too dark then to see what had happened.
A thin reed taper cast just enough light now in the tiny space before the hearth. The Mute knelt there with Diarmuid, cradling bleeding hands in his own. Diarmuid's voice trembled between choked sobs.
“Y-you aren't hurt?”
The Mute shook his head with a low grunt.
It might have struck him as exasperating, if he wasn't so preoccupied by concern, that even now, frightened and injured and in pain, Diarmuid still worried for his well-being.
“Is…is he dead?”
Another grunt and a nod. Yes. And he can rot .
Later, when everything was quiet and his mind had cleared, the Mute would find himself unsettled by how quickly he'd killed the man. Without hesitation, barely more than a reflex. An arm beneath the chin and a quick jerk of the knife. Would there ever be a day when killing did not come as second nature to him?
He'd had no true reason to kill anyone since the day on the beach. There had been some who leered, who spoke coarsely and condescended, but he would not have harmed them without leave, and he knew Diarmuid would never have given it. It must only be shock and pain now that kept him from questioning the thief's death further.
Slowly, gingerly, the Mute began to pry at Diarmuid's clenched fingers. Diarmuid resisted him. He winced and tried to pull away, shaking his head.
“I can't…please…”
The Mute's heart ached.
I'm sorry. I know it hurts.
Every moment he had to cause Diarmuid pain was too much. He must see, though, if he was to help. He continued, gentle but persistent, until the extent of the thief's work was laid out before him.
The cuts crossed Diarmuid's palms in a grisly horizon. It was impossible with the blood to tell how deep they might be. Diarmuid could still move his fingers freely, at least. He glanced down once before looking away with a hoarse “Oh, God… ”
The Mute could only make a sound of empathy and pull him close. How he hated to see Diarmuid suffer. He wished he could take the pain upon himself, carry it in his place. The slash of a knife would be nothing to him now after sword blows and arrows and instruments of cruelty.
There was no question that they'd been watched over. The intruder must have slashed blindly out of panic, not caring what he hit. If Diarmuid had been any closer, if he hadn't put up his hands…
No. None of that.
Diarmuid was alive. He was alive and now he must be taken care of. The bleeding must be stopped, the wound washed, a poultice made and bandaged over. All these things the Mute could do. The fire was not yet out. There were herbs here, tucked carefully away in Diarmuid's satchel. They had everything he needed.
First though, a blanket.
Since the moment he'd collapsed before the hearth, Diarmuid hadn't been able to stop shaking. Shock had overtaken him like a drenching rain. His head hung low. He continued to shiver even as the blanket was draped over his shoulders. The Mute tucked it about him, careful not to jostle his hands. If he'd had words to say, they would have been the softest reassurance, but as it was he squeezed Diarmuid's arms comfortingly and pressed a kiss to his temple before turning away to stoke the fire.
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It should have been me.
The Mute couldn't stop the thought no matter how hard he tried. Over and over it returned, like a lingering pain.
Why?
He knew tragedy did not discriminate; he had seen too much of the world to ever believe otherwise. No mortal, no matter how pious, could ever hope to fathom the mind of God. But why?
What had Diarmuid ever done to deserve having his hands mutilated? He who had been allowed to touch the sacred, to hold it and carry it with him without harm. He was not violent. He had never beaten or maimed in the throes of bloodthirst. He had never murdered the innocent. And yet he should still be burdened with such wounds.
As the Mute heated water, as he carefully cleaned the cuts and ground the herbs fine and applied them with gentle fingers, he prayed that the healing would be swift and without complication. He could not bear to imagine Diarmuid as he had been: agonized and delirious in the throes of fever, just as liable to die as to live.
His own skills could not be trusted for this, not indefinitely. There was an herbalist in the town who would take a day's labor in exchange for assistance. Tomorrow, they would go and consult her, hopefully find stronger remedies and better bandages than the remains of an old tunic.
By now, Diarmuid's sobs had subsided. He sat quiet and subdued, only making the odd sniffle or groan as the Mute began to bandage his hands.
One might have considered it penance to tend the wounds they had inflicted on another. The thought occurred even now and was caught up immediately. The Mute had not held the knife, indeed he would have never even dreamed of hurting Diarmuid intentionally, but it felt his responsibility all the same. They were here now too because of his negligence.
Round and round the bandage went. The Mute worked with utmost care; not too loose as to make the bandage slip later, but not so tight as to cause discomfort. He was so intent, having nearly finished one hand, and Diarmuid had been so quiet, that it startled him to hear the latter sigh and murmur softly.
“I'm sorry.”
The Mute looked up. He frowned. Sorry? What could Diarmuid possibly have to be sorry for? He had done nothing wrong. He had done nothing at all, save to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The Mute made a questioning sound. Dark eyes rose to meet his, still glistening with the remains of tears, then fell again, dejected.
“I didn't see he had a knife. I wouldn't have gotten up if I had. I was so afraid…I didn't even think.”
The Mute shook his head as he finished tying the bandage. He held Diarmuid's hand a moment, and then, as one begging favor or forgiveness, lifted it to his lips and kissed it firmly.
You don't need to apologize.
Surprise made people erratic. Even trained soldiers could find themselves overwhelmed in the face of sudden threat. Diarmuid was braver than many men the Mute had known, but he was not a soldier. His fear was no more than could be expected of anyone.
“Do you think he knew who we were? Do you think there were others?”
Again, the Mute shook his head. The man who'd invaded their peace was no soldier either; even in the half-light of the moon, that was certain. He'd worn no armor and carried no other weapons. His clothing was poor. If this had been a true attack, perpetrated by the Baron's ilk or that of another, neither of them would be alive now.
They conversed no more from that point on. Soon enough, the second bandage was wrapped and secured. The fire lay low and the reed taper had nearly gone out.
In the dying light, Diarmuid turned his hands this way and that, inspecting the Mute's work.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “They feel better already.”
The Mute ducked his head. A twinge of heat came to his face and he was suddenly very grateful for the growing shadows.
Diarmuid seemed on the verge of saying something more. His mouth sat pressed in a thin line, as it often did when he was contemplating, but whatever thought might have come eventually lapsed away into silence.
The Mute did not press him. He made Diarmuid drink some water, holding the cup steady, then busied himself with returning supplies to the satchel. It would still be some hours before dawn. He doubted his own ability to sleep any more, but Diarmuid at least should lie down and try to get some rest.
Diarmuid apparently agreed with him. Already he'd pulled the blanket from his shoulders and draped it on the bed with the rest, trying gingerly to get comfortable without putting full weight on his hands.
The Mute rummaged through the small woodpile beside the hearth. He found some stout sticks, sharpened their ends and drove them through the sailcloth into the packed ground. Not an ideal solution, but it would satisfy for tonight. At least if anyone tried to come through they might make more noise.
Diarmuid was watching him when he turned around. His eyes glimmered in the last of the taper's light. He'd drawn the blankets near to his chin, huddled beneath them like one trying to escape a winter's chill.
“You aren't going to stay up, are you?” he asked.
The Mute blinked. He was, in fact. Or he intended to try. Despite even his precaution the tension still sat heavy on his shoulders. He was not liable to sleep again until the following night.
“Would you…” Diarmuid ventured. “Would you at least come close to me? Please? I want to be close to you. I want to know you're there.”
The Mute was knelt beside him in a moment.
Yes. Of course. Always.
He must have looked a hulking shadow now, monstrous in the dark, but Diarmuid only gave him the sweetest of weary smiles and shifted back to let him lie down.
Beneath the blankets it was warm and familiar. The Mute laid his knife on the floor, ready and waiting should anything happen. When he'd made himself comfortable, Diarmuid nestled against him with a contented hum.
“Thank you.”
The Mute kissed his forehead, his unruly curls. As if he would have ever denied such a request. Safety and comfort were one here, just as important as the other. He could still tell himself that he did not deserve either, but it was difficult to argue against the insistence of one he'd come to love. If Diarmuid wished him to be here, to be close, then that was all that mattered.
The taper went out. Embers cast a faint orange glow around the daub walls. Outside, the wind whispered through heavy-laden branches, rhythmic and wave-like. Calm.
The Mute closed his eyes and breathed. He listened to the wind, to the crackle of the dying fire, to Diarmuid's gentle exhales. He felt him shift every so often, close as they were now, but he did not toss or turn, and exhaustion eventually overtook him enough to fall still and sleep.
The Mute remained awake. It was not so bad. That Diarmuid found rest was all he'd hoped for. They were together, safe for the moment, and he could do no more until the dawn. Content with this, he sighed softly and lay quiet in the dark.
Absent musings came and went. Most, the Mute would forget before morning. He thought, at one early hour, of holy wounds, of saints and martyrs revered in the wake of their suffering. Was it blasphemous to compare Diarmuid to them? Should he feel ashamed to imagine him one day amongst the ranks of those sought for intercession?
Perhaps. But he was tired now. Such thoughts were only half-formed. The Mute assigned no true meaning to them, merely observation before they slipped away.