Fic: in these bodies we will live (in these bodies...) (Comfortember)

[csi_sanders1129]

Title: in these bodies we will live (in these bodies…)
Chapters: 1/1
Author:csi_sanders1129
Genre: Angst.
Ratings: T
Word Count: 1214
Pairings/Characters: Diarmuid, The Mute
Synopsis: In which Diarmuid realizes he’s more alone than he’s ever been.
Comments: Written for Comfortember 2020, Prompt: Hugs. Title from Awake My Soul by Mumford & Sons. Comments and kudos would be awesome. Enjoy!

"Where to now?"

Diarmuid doesn't know. He doesn't have an answer.

When it becomes apparent that Diarmuid is not going to respond, the old man starts rowing again. Diarmuid should probably help, but all he can manage to do is sit there, lost in a state of shock. When they reach the shallows, Diarmuid gets out of the boat without being asked – he's caused the man more than enough trouble already. The man rows the boat away, back toward whatever life he'd had before this wayward pilgrimage disrupted it.

And it's only then, standing alone on the beach, that the harsh reality of his present situation comes crashing down around Diarmuid. His heart races in his chest and amidst the rising panic he feels the loss and the fear and the exhaustion hit him all at once. He drops to his knees, retching into the surf as the tears finally make their escape.

And he stays there for some time, until he's run out of tears to shed for the moment, until the pain in his chest fades from the sharp stab of an arrow to more of a dull ache that he can breathe through, until his heart slows from its frantic pace.

But what is he supposed to do now? He doesn't have anything at all. He doesn't have the relic, he doesn't have any supplies, he doesn't have an escort, he doesn't have any idea where he's going, doesn't even have any idea how he'd ever get back to the monastery. He doesn't even know if he'd still have a place there if he did somehow manage to return to it, if they'd even want him back at all, or if he'd even want to go back knowing that Ciarán and Cathal and Rua wouldn't be there, knowing that his mute friend wouldn't be there with him. Diarmuid realizes he's more alone than he's ever been, and after what he's done today, he's not even sure God is with him anymore.

"Where to now, indeed?" he wonders to himself, but the question is abruptly answered for him.

He can hear voices down at the far end of the beach, where the fight happened, where the shapes of bodies are still scattered on the sand and in the surf. No doubt more of de Merville's men, surely, come to search for their missing leader. He does not want to be around when they find him. So Diarmuid does the only thing he can do.

He leaves.

He darts off into the tree line, wandering more or less aimlessly away from the shore and into the denser parts of the forest as the sun rises high in the sky and then begins to set. Soon, it will grow dark, it will grow cold, he knows, and he must find some kind of shelter if he wishes to survive the night. He gathers up some plants and roots and berries that he knows are edible and continues on until darkness truly falls. He finds a little rock lean-to, just enough shelter to keep the wind off of him through the night, enough shelter to keep out of the line of sight of any passersby. He tries to start a fire, but doesn't manage more than a few pathetic sparks – the wood is too damp here, won't catch.

"Where to now?" he wonders again, shivering in the damp wool of his monks robes.

Eventually, sleep comes for him. He'd been trying to stay awake, too afraid of being found by de Merville's men, too afraid of the fox lurking somewhere nearby, it's shrill banshee wail cutting through the trees, too afraid of what dreams might find him should he close his eyes. But, exhaustion wins out in the end. It always does.

And he does sleep. Soundly, even. So soundly that he does not hear the sounds of someone approaching his pathetic camp in the darkest part of the night. It's only when a hand lands on his shoulder that he jolts awake in alarm, sure that he's about to face someone who wants him dead. But, the steady grip is warm and familiar and much to his surprise he finds his mute friend leaning over him, illuminated only by the dim moonlight breaking through the thick trees overhead. From what Diarmuid can see, he looks remarkably unscathed.

"You're alive," Diarmuid weeps, reveling in the crushing embrace the mute wraps him in. "I thought-" he starts, interrupted by his own great hiccoughing sob of relief, "I thought I'd lost you."

His friend's hands gently frame his face, wiping away his tears before he's pulled back in, held as if the other man never intends to let him go. The mute presses his face into Diarmuid's neck and he'd swear he feels hot, wet tears on his cold skin, but surely he's mistaken, surely the mute is not crying over him, for him?

"You will never lose me. Not ever again," his friend vows, the first words Diarmuid's ever heard him speak. His voice is rough and raspy from years of disuse, but Diarmuid finds it fitting, somehow. For first words, they're powerful ones and Diarmuid wonders at what sort of miracle brought the man back to him – especially when Diarmuid certainly didn't deserve such a gift after losing the relic to the sea, losing his faith and his hope along with it. "You didn't have to be alone for this."

"For what?" Diarmuid wonders, but the other man bows his head in answer, clearly can't bring himself to meet Diarmuid's eyes while he lets Diarmuid pieces it together for himself. He isn't cold anymore, he realizes now, and the haunting sounds of the forest are gone – the fox is silent, the wind is still. There's no more exhaustion, no more pain, or fear, or sadness. Just warmth, where his friend's arms are still firmly wrapped around him. "Oh," he says, with dawning understanding of their current situation. He finds the realization comforting rather than troubling. "I did lose you, didn't I? For a little while, at least."

He looks to his not-so-mute companion, who nods in response. He can see it now – not only is there a general lack of injuries from what had to be a brutal fight with Raymond de Merville on the beach, but all the scars from before are gone, too, all the battle wounds the mute soldier had arrived to Kimannán bearing five summers back, the ones Diarmuid had helped the other monks tend to. Maybe it took the mental scars with it, too, gave the man his voice back.

Then, his gaze drops to the forest floor, where an unmoving body still rests beneath the lean-to, its arms wrapped tight around itself in a vain attempt to stave off the cold, lips and fingers blue. He's sure that another body still rests on the blood-stained beach.

"Where to now?" he asks.

"Now, we go," the man tells him, offering Diarmuid a hand that he takes without even a second of hesitation. His friend pulls him to his feet, away from his own corpse. "Together."

The two of them walk off into the misty fog of morning as it dawns, both sure that nothing will ever tear them apart again.