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Within the Mute anger lies in wait.
Diarmuid has seen frustration many times before, felt it just as often as the sun rises—Ciarán once said that living with monks is a constant exercise in mediation, in balancing one's humors and idiosyncrasies against those of others—but never before the Mute has he seen naked rage.
Brother Laidcend is an exacting man. He is not vain or prideful enough to know the nature of God, but he is certain that his ways are the best and therefore the proper manner of doing things. This has led to occasional arguments when Brother Laidcend and Brother Rua are tasked with cooking suppers together, as they disagree over whether onions should be fried or simmered and whether garlic should be grated or simply crushed, and sometimes there are even near-spats with timid Brother Cathal about the best method of shearing the sheep. He clashes with everyone, even the Abbot, but everyone is also aware that this is just the way of Brother Laidcend. Some men are born peaceable, others, less so; on a blackberry bramble one might find both sweet and sour fruits.
There is more bluster than vitriol in him, but it never occurs to them that the Mute, a newcomer to their monastery, might not know that the monk truly holds no venom.
Their laybrother is the largest man that Diarmuid has ever seen. He has been starved and sun-sick; Diarmuid found him on the beach like a particularly fleshy chunk of driftwood, but even though he is recovering and there is a slight limp to his gait, Diarmuid's cannot help but marvel at how he strides, at the power in his legs, his arms, his broad shoulders. It is as though he is used to the world opening itself for him, carving him a path. Perhaps it did, once, in places with more people—perhaps they scrambled to get out of his way—but the monastery has more animals than men, and goats are beasts of a different temperament entirely and they constantly butt at his knees and chew on the hem of his tunic.
The Mute, for the most part, studies them with bemusement. He is often bemused. Ciarán speaks French to him, and in those moments Diarmuid sees comprehension on his face, but at Irish, at the goats, at the cows and chickens, at Diarmuid when they work side by side—always bemused, but also with eyes bright with something like wonder.
He is most comfortable with their mare, Ginger, who was born sweet and has only grown sweeter with age. Diarmuid learned to ride with Ciarán's instruction and Ginger's patience, though it is best for all involved that he travel on his own two feet. But the Mute tends to Ginger as though she is the mount of a king; each day he walks the perimeter of the monastery with her, makes certain that her hooves are clipped and clean, brushes her coat until it gleams, and occasionally feeds her an apple from the cellar. It is the last that Brother Laidcend takes issue with.
The monk cups his hands around his mouth and calls, "Here, now! She doesn't need that!" When their laybrother only gives him a quizzical look, he mutters, "Ah, the fool!" and stomps toward him.
No one can mistake the expression of a man who wants an altercation, and Diarmuid watches the Mute prepare for one—expect, it is not with the resigned slump of the shoulders that usually precedes a long, heated discussion with Brother Laicend.
The Mute tenses, and Diarmuid immediately, instinctively knows he is preparing for violence.
The monk points at Ginger, points at the Mute, and reprimands him for really nothing at all, and Diarmuid thinks that unfair, and the way that the Mute has gone stiff and how his eyes have a look that is both focused and unfocused has his hear beating wildly in his chest the same way that spotting strange riders in the distance does and—
Brother Laidcend jabs the Mute's broad chest with his finger.
A fire roars into being on the the Mute's normally placid face, bright with rage, dark with fury. He grabs Brother Laidcend's wrist and holds it tight, and in that moment the entire yard goes silent, watching, waiting.
Diarmuid has never moved so fast in his entire life. He hurries to the Mute's side. Gently, he takes his other hand in his own and squeezes it.
The Mute looks down at him, dark eyes blazing.
One heartbeat passes.
Then another.
His expression softens. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep, deep breath. When he opens them again his gaze is wet, and his lower lip trembles.
Diarmuid understands this as well—the shame and guilt afterwards for letting his temper get the best of him. But the Mute's face is wrought with devastation, and Diarmuid knows that it is because the anger was so close to surface, that it came to him as easily and naturally as a bird's song. It occurs to Diarmuid that part of their laybrother's bemusement is because the Mute is simply not used to the soft parts of life.
"It's all right," says Diarmuid. "Everything is fine."
The Mute releases Brother Laidcend's hand with a moaning animal noise. He clutches Diarmuid's hand.
Again, Diarmuid says, "Everything is fine."
He nods, near tears, and allows Diarmuid to lead him away, allows him to soothe him with quiet, reassuring words that he surely doesn't know but must understand, for anyone can understand the tone of comfort. "Everything is fine. No one is hurt. It's all right, it's all right." It's an odd thing to tend to a man so much larger and so much older than himself, but then Diarmuid thinks, No, that must mean he only needs it all the more. "My friend," he says. "My friend."
The Mute looks at him and Diarmuid reads his face—the pain accumulated in his eyes, the exhaustion that clings to his skin—and though there is such anger within him Diarmuid sees also sees the depths of his yearning for gentleness. To give it, to receive it.
"My friend," he says once more, and when he opens his arms the Mute falls readily into his embrace.