Chapter 1: A Beginning
The start of Tir's journey.
Tir
“Can’t you just throw me in a crate and call it good?”
Tir peered into one of the boxes that littered the end of the dock.
“They nail those shut, you know,” Prentice replied, taking a puff from his pipe. “Sure you can handle that for three, four days?”
Prentice was the only one who ever fed into his delusions.
The stars were in full bloom this evening — it was as if someone had sprinkled diamonds across a dark canvas.
“You know what I don’t get?” Tir said, resting his head on his hand.
“What’s that?”
“The stars are so bright, yet, when it’s dark out, they don’t even do half the job the sun does.”
“That’s because they’re too far away to brighten our world,” Prentice replied, blowing a plume of smoke at the boy.
“That’s a dumb answer,” Tir scoffed, waving the smoke away. “Where’d you come up with that?”
“Read a book sometime and maybe you’ll learn a thing or two.”
Tir pulled himself from the barrel, stretching out his legs on the dock. The tips of his felt boots trickled against the ocean water, leaving ripples in their wake.
“I’ve looked at all the books in Braithwin, and probably half the ones on Laithlach, for that matter,” Tir said. “None of them said a thing about stars.”
“What did they tell you?”
Prentice’s chair creaked with every movement he made. The sailor was much older than Tir; his salt-and-pepper beard perpetually stank of tobacco and he held himself in the same way that the drunkards at the tavern did after one pint too many. Even still, the tired old man was practically filled to the brim with stories. Every few months, he’d come to town with a new tale, and, like a child, Tir would sit for hours completely engrossed in the machinations of his wordplay.
“Lots about livestock,” he replied. “Some basic knowledge about the other Isles. I don’t know. I usually give up after a few pages if it doesn’t pull me in.”
Tir rested his hands behind his head, sprawling out on the cold wood of the docks.
“Tomorrow, I will say my final farewell to Laithlach,” he declared. “Then, I’ll finally figure out what it is I want to do with my life.”
“Here we go again,” the sailor grumbled, puffing on his pipe again.
“It’s got to be out there somewhere,” Tir dangled his legs over the edge of the docks. The cold water of the Great Ocean lapped at his heels.
“Are you truly sure that this is what you want, boy?” Prentice remarked, inhaling in another cloud of smoke, conjuring a cough in its wake.
“Of course it’s what I want,” Tir replied almost immediately. “What do you mean?”
“Well…” Prentice paused, thinking over what he would say next. “The thing is, I’m not sure what you expect to find out there. Besides the ocean — and trust me, there’s a lot of that — the world isn’t like Laithlach. At all.”
“And it’s because of that that I need to leave.”
Prentice stifled a chuckle, hammering a fist on his chest. His belly swelled with each inhale.
“Sounds like I’ve been filling your head with too many tales.”
“I’m going to be up all night thinking about the journey.”
Tir’s heart swelled at the thought of what lie beyond, of great battles and magical weapons and ancient civilizations. Prentice pursed his lips together in a feigned smile. He knew what lay in wait beyond the island. He only hoped the boy had enough common sense to help himself stay alive.
“Well, far be it from me to interfere with the dreams of a young lad,” Prentice said. “But be warned: once we reach land, you’re on your own. The sea’s my domain. On land, you’ve got to figure it out for yourself.”
Tir nodded.
“I’ve already thought it through.”
“Oh, have you, now?”
“I’m going to become an explorer.”
“An explorer!” Prentice had to hold back his wheezing between laughs. “The boy’s going to become an explorer. Simply astounding.”
“I am!” Tir said proudly. “I’ll sail across all the Seven Isles and beyond. From saving cats from trees to climbing great mountains, my name will be known throughout the lands.”
Here’s to hoping that confidence lasts beyond your first setback, Prentice thought to himself. As the old man mused over the thought of an Islander leaving Laithlach, half a dozen white streaks shot across the sky. Tir bolted upright, nearly tumbling into the ocean below.
“A meteor shower!” He gasped.
The stars careened over the horizon and down toward the distant ocean. Lights flashed at the end of the horizon. Prentice put his astrolabe away nearly as fast as he’d withdrawn it. Too far. He cursed under his breath, praying that one day they’d land close enough to salvage.
“Maybe I’ll chase the falling stars,” Tir said confidently. “Make a living off that.”
The sailor held up his hands. “Alright, boy, let’s not get carried away here. You can save all the excitement for tomorrow. Be here by dusk — and no earlier than that. I won’t have you chattering on like this all throughout my day.”
With a wicked grin, Tir leapt from the docks, landing on his feet beside Prentice.
“Dusk. Understood.”
He didn’t sleep that night.
Megna
Megna was worried.
Truthfully, Megna was always worried. Whether she was thinking about her children or her husband, her list of chores, or her favorite thimble she’d misplaced, her mind always fixated on a new anxiety.
Today — like most days — Megna worried about Tir.
The boy was out late. Again. He could deny it to the grave, but Megna knew when he snuck out. Mothers have a supernatural ability like that. The hairs on their neck stand on their ends when their children are up to no good. Tir left her in a near-constant state of alertness. Not a week went by where the boy didn’t find himself in a new form of trouble. From fixing fights in the schoolyard to cow-tipping in Ol Andremond’s yard, the boy had a remarkable knack for mischief.
The boy’s fatigue was practically contagious. Dark bags sunk below his eyelids, causing his face to puff up like a blowfish. He was a perfectly fine-looking boy — Megna often had to remind him of this — but he never gave himself the benefit of the doubt. Were he to simply straighten out his posture and find some direction in his life, she imagined he’d become quite the eligible bachelor. A haircut wouldn’t hurt, either. Tir, however, had no interest in such things, instead focusing his days on the sky and the endless ocean.
“There you go again,” she muttered, smacking him on the back of the neck. “Where does your mind take you when you stare off like that?”
The lad shook his head, breaking from his trance. “What?”
Megna groaned, fastening the top button of his tunic tight.
“You can’t be doing that when you see Alicent Elin tonight,” Megna patted him lightly on the chest. The tunic was a little too tight for him, but it was the best they could find on such short notice.
Tir feigned discomfort, pretending to choke. Megna rolled her eyes.
“Oh, stop,” she reassured him. “You look fine.”
The dark green tunic complemented the ashen grey hues of his eyes. Brown leggings and burnt crimson boots completed the traditional courting attire, topped with the ancestral belt of the Galland Clan. Three deer congregated at its center, dancing around a carving of a massive tree. Tir pulled at the fringes of the sleeves and collar. Megna half expected him to spring out of the clothing like a snake shedding its skin.
“That’s precisely the problem,” Tir tugged on the collar of his shirt. “I don’t want to look fine.”
With comb in hand, Megna attempted to soothe the auburn beast that was Tir’s hair. It resisted her attacks, retreating to the same unfurled position it held before.
“You’re getting too old for this,” she muttered. “You’ve been too old for this. It’s my fault. I’ve been babying you for too long. Your da would be furious if he saw you like this.”
“He’s probably just glad I’ll be out of the house for good,” Tir remarked. Something about his voice carried an odd certainty. Strange, Megna though. The only thing she’d ever been sure about with her son was that he was unsure of everything. With some reluctance, she put the comb away, surrendering to the tangled knots atop his head.
“Have you spoken to your sisters?”
Tir tugged at his belt, as if doing so would free him from his new obligation. “Saw Kaellyn in the market yesterday. Arven was less than thrilled about that.”
Megna pursed her lips. “Well, she’s probably still upset over the painting incident…”
“It wasn’t my fault!” Tir protested. “I was trying to chase the dog down, and-“
Megna waved her hands, then took Tir by his shoulders.
“It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that you focus on tonight. Best behavior, okay?”
The boy stifled a groan. Then, his gaze drifted off again, his jaw slacking, brows raising reflexively. Megna thought to intervene before accepting her fate, shaking her head, and moving away from the styling mirror. He must have gotten that from his father, she thought. Fine. If he wants to throw away his life, let him. It’s not up to her anymore.
Out of all five of Megna’s children, Tir was the only one to give her this much grief. She loved the boy, of course, but she worried she’d put too much pressure on him as a child. All she wanted was to give him the best life he could have. Why didn’t he understand that?
“Ma,” Tir said softly, his face plastered against the window.
“What is it?”
Megna knew what he was going to say before he said it.
“I don’t want to do this.”
She sighed, folding her hands on her lap.
“I know.”
He broke from his trance, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyelids.
“You do?”
“Mothers always know,” she crooned, placing a hand upon his shoulder.
“I don’t want to be married,” he said. “I don’t even want to be here.”
The words, like arrows, pierced Megna’s heart. When she first had Tir, she dreamt of a day when she and Donagh could hand the keys to the farm over to him, passing on the centuries-old tradition of the Gallands. This admonishment almost felt like a personal affront. She scowled at him, moving her hand away as quickly as she’d placed it.
“It’s not that I don’t love you or da or my sisters,” Tir continued, his brow turning up in worry. “It’s that I don’t belong here.”
“What are you talking about? Of course you do.”
“Mother,” Tir said in a stern, matter-of-fact tone. “ You know as well as I do that I’d make a terrible shepherd.”
Megna opened her mouth, then closed it. He was right. Too often Donagh caught Tir dozing off beneath trees, staring out at the ocean, or skipping chores to see friends. But maybe this was just a phase. After all, wasn’t Donagh like that when he was twenty-one?
No, she concluded. He was already the head shepherd by then. Had she failed as a mother? What was to become of her boy?
“You can do anything you set your mind to,” she replied in her best reassuring voice. “You’ll be a fine shepherd, Tir.”
“I don’t want to be a shepherd,” Tir protested. “There’s a whole world out there just begging to be explored. I hear it calling to me at night, ma.”
Megna’s eye twitched. She did her best to conceal her irritation.
“Well, it doesn’t matter what you want,” Megna wandered toward the window. How many times did she have to have this conversation with him? “You’re a shepherd. Your father’s a shepherd, and his father before him. You come from a long line of shepherds, and a shepherd is what you’ll be.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing!”
“Good,” Megna smiled widely. “Now, go finish up your chores and make me proud. You’re going to do wonderful, son.”
Tir slumped his shoulders, wandering towards the doorway like a beaten-down dog with his tail between his legs.
“Don’t forget to bathe before you go, too,” she wagged her finger. “You can’t do what you did the last time.”
“Fine.”
Megna paused. His tone was like his father’s. Perhaps…
“Tir,” she beckoned.
“Haven’t I suffered enough today?”
“Come here.”
He turned to face her, drooping his head between his shoulders. Patting him down, she tightened the button around his neck again, tucking in loose bits of his tunic at his waist.
“Stand up straight,” she said. “You’ll look much more affirmative if you do.”
“Why must you treat me like a child?”
“Because you’re acting like one.”
He sighed, puffing his chest out to exaggerate his posture.
“Is this good enough for you?”
“Perfect,” she chuckled.
“Well, mother,” he said in a strange, almost anticipatory voice, “I suppose this is goodbye.”
“I suppose so,” she replied, standing back to size him up. “The last time I see my boy before he becomes a man.”
A smile spread across Tir’s face. When he tried to disguise it, the grin only further spread until it covered his face.
“I suppose so,” he forced a little chuckle.
“I am proud of you, son,” Megna said, as if she’d rehearsed the line countless times. “No matter what, know that.”
He avoided her prying eyes. “Stop it.”
“No, I mean it,” she continued. “I know this isn’t entirely what you want, but you’re making the most of it and that has to count for something.”
Tir scratched at the back of his head. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes.
“I’m going to miss these moments,” he admitted.
If his harsh words were arrows, this was a lance piercing through Megna’s heart. She pulled her son into an embrace that he resisted at first, then, eventually, wrapped his arms around her. She felt tears well in her eyes. Despite his best efforts, a tiny sob leapt from his throat. When she moved to end the hug, he pulled her in one last time.
“Need to get all the ma hugs I can get,” Tir’s voice cracked. “Yours are the best ones out there.”
Megna was crying. More than she’d expected, in fact. Why was this so hard for her? She wanted this.
“Don’t ever forget that!”
“Alright, ma, I’ll see you…when I see you. Gonna finish up with da, now.”
“Take care, son.”
Months later, Megna would come to recognize the signs. His distant attitude. The way he’d never quite finished a sentence. It wasn’t that he wanted to avoid marriage. He wanted to avoid it all.
He was gone before she realized he’d walked out the door.
——
Tir
Tir’s father Donagh was not a very social man.
He spoke in short, gruff bursts from the side of his mouth. Were he not as tall as a giant, his bald, sun-scorched scalp and thick mustache would give him quite the comical appearance. Tir dreaded conversations with his father. Often, they’d drag on for too long, hammering the point over and over until it was practically etched into his mind. Donagh didn’t like to do things or go places. He had his routine, and he stuck by it. That’s how he’d been for all of Tir’s twenty-one years of existence, and it was likely how he’d be for the rest of his life.
“Afternoon, da,” Tir said, scaling down the side of the hill. “How does the day treat you?”
Donagh glanced over at the boy. Scanning him up and down with his eyes, he mustered a single grunt, returning his attention to the sheep below.
“Bellach got out again,” his da grumbled.
“She’s a clever one.”
The man crossed his arms, shaking his head. He was built like a pillar; thick, wide, and made of expressionless stone.
“You didn’t latch the gate last night.”
“Sorry,” Tir said quickly. “I’ll get better about it.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he barked, “just don’t do it again.”
When Tir was younger, he’d written down a long list of Donagh-isms — little phrases his dad would repeat like riddles. Shears are only as sharp as the shearholder. Eyes on the fields. Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it again. Tir was convinced none of the phrases ever really meant anything. He hypothesized that they were passed on from Donagh’s da, and that’s how they had primarily communicated. Maybe Donagh was just trying to impart life lessons. Or, maybe, he just didn’t know what to say.
He sniffed the air, his wide nostrils pulling in air like a sinkhole.
“Storm’s coming.”
“How do you know?”
Donagh nodded with his head toward a growing contingent of grey clouds on the horizon.
“Oh.”
“Go get Bellach. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Ugh,” Tir groaned. “Why do I have to-“
“You left the gate open, you pay the price.”
Tir made a mental note to jot that one down on the next list of Donagh-isms.
“One more thing.”
His father nodded again toward the other side of the hills. A row of pine crept over the horizon, turning the hills into a jagged row of teeth.
“Don’t venture too far into the woods. I know.” Tir recited the words like his father had countless times before.
He trudged down the hill, making his way along the edge of Ol Andremond’s tall rows of wheat. The codger would’ve had his head if he’d seen Tir so close to his farm. To be fair, most of the northern tip of Laithlach felt the same. The welts he’d endured from the last time he was caught smuggling carrots stung to this day. He couldn’t help it, though — there was really not much else to do around these parts. Clouds of dandelion pollen blown askew by the wind flanked either side of his path. The afternoon gusts were in full swing, whipping their way along the contours of the wide, low valley valley.
This type of wind was bad for sailors, but superb for sheepherders. Sheep have a distinct smell, you see. Beneath the wool, their skin is oily and waxy. It sticks to the skin and fills the wool with the same odor — a grassy, earthy, dirty smell that reminded Tir of manure. Lanolin, it was called. All of his clothing stunk of it. The stables were rank with the smell. When the wind blew through the valley, it carried the scent of lanolin so efficiently that even the most scent-blinded bloodhound could trace it to its source.
Tir followed the scent up and down the valley, crossing bumpy hills, avoiding a trickling stream, and stepping over a tiny mountain of broken sticks before arriving at the edge of the forest.
“Of course,” Tir muttered to himself. “Of course you had to enter the forest.”
There was always something a little strange about the woods outside Tir’s house. Firstly, a thick column of fog seemed to blanket every inch of the woods, as if something were billowing out plumes of it all day and all night. Secondly, the foolish few that entered would lose their way for hours on end, never reaching the center of the woods. When Tir was younger, a group of treasure hunters from the next town over attempted a journey to its core. A week later, they left, heads hung and gazes fearful. None spoke of what they saw.
Any rational person would’ve likely turned tail the moment they saw their prized sheep had made its way into the woods. Fortunately for Bellach, Tir wasn’t a rational person. He’d been waiting for an excuse to head in, to traverse the fog of his own volition. Then again, perhaps there was a reason he hadn’t explored in the first place. Tir began to rationalize to himself. Maybe she’d just be a short way in, he thought. We’ll all laugh about this later. His shoes felt full of lead as he approached the outskirts, allowing the fog to embrace him. The scent of lanolin lingered in the air. Just keep following that, he told himself. Keep at it and you’ll find her in no time.
What startled Tir the most was how eerily quiet the forest was. He’d expected, at the very least, to hear the chirp of birds or the distant howling of a coyote. A thorny bush snagged his sleeve, puncturing tiny holes in his garment. Oh, his mother wouldn’t be pleased with that, he thought. The worst part wasn’t the muddy earth or the thorny bushes or even the frigid fog, though.
The worst part was that he couldn’t shake a feeling of being watched.
Tir froze, holding his breath. Silence. He’d expected to hear a breath, a start, something. The silence was nigh unbearable.
“Bellach?” He called out. “Bellach, are you there?”
The fog was relentless, stealing his hands from his vision the moment he held them apart. Trees seemed to sprout from nothing, impeding his progress at random. Maybe it was time to turn around. Bellach was a fine sheep, but his parents would almost certainly never forgive themselves if he were lost, too. Sheep could be replaced. Sons couldn’t — well, not easily, at least.
After much delineation, Tir made the decision to turn around. He could regroup, bring a lantern perhaps. Pierce the fog with light rather than fumble around aimlessly. Steeling himself, he turned, the presence of being watched seeming to move with him.
To Tir’s surprise, the way back was gone. What lay before him, of all things, was clarity. The fog had fled. In its place stood a grove. Amethyst grass and strange plants the likes of which Tir had never seen rimmed a large black stone slab that jutted from the earth like a loose tooth. Squirrels, groundhogs, and finches alike gathered along the base of the strange monument, chittering quietly to themselves. He couldn’t make out the inscription on the slab, nor the symbols that adorned it. Upon his approach, the animals darted into the trees, watching him from the cover of the brush in an almost eager anticipation.
The slab was strange. He’d never seen language like this. Where Oceanspeak was written in long, flowing symbols, these letters were sharp, jutting in every which direction like they’d been carved by a razor. Atop the slab sat stone effigies of nearly a dozen different masks. Happy faces, sad ones, faces of Islanders and Mainlanders and Vorthali and Southerlings alike adorned the slab. Below, a basin of water carried a handful of rusted coins. This was no slab, he thought. It was a shrine.
One would need to be quite the fool to ignore the obvious portents laid out before them. Here, nestled among a wood of eternal fog, in a place few, if any, had ever seen, lay a shrine to what must have been a long-dead God or some other ancient spirit. To interact with it could invite just about anything into one’s life. Any rational person would have simply left the shrine alone and attempted to find a way back.
Tir, however, was not a rational person.
“A wishing well!” He declared, despite there being no evidence of wishing nor a well.
Reaching into his pocket, he procured a single gold coin, rubbing his thumb along the symbol of the Kraken on its head. He thought long and hard, staring at the shrine as if expecting the words to translate themselves. Would anyone believe him if he told them of this discovery? Would it matter? Maybe this was just a silly dream. Or, maybe, this was his chance. An opportunity to finally do what he’d always dreamt of doing.
“I wish for adventure.”
For some reason, he had expected more fanfare dropping the coin into the pool. What he was met with instead was an unceremonious silence.
“Ah well,” Tir sighed. “Doesn’t hurt to try, does it?”
“Bah.”
Tir yelped, his hands traveling to his mouth instantly. Bellach emerged from behind the shrine, inhaling mounds of grass as if she’d never been fed in her life. Her slow, methodical chewing reminded him of his eldest sister’s husband, a man named Braggan who seemed to take hours to finish a simple bowl of stew.
“There you are!”
Bellach glanced up at Tir, returning to her meal. Holding his hands out to either side, Tir crouched, taking one step at a time towards his quarry. He couldn’t afford to lose her again. To be honest, he wasn’t sure how to get back, either. But, now that he had her here, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight.
“What in the world were you thinking, coming out here? You could’ve-”
“Will you shut up and let me eat?”
Tir was aghast. A scream forced itself free. He fell back, scurrying on his fours away from the lamb.
“Did you…just…”
“Talk…? Of course I did,” Bellach replied in a low growl.
“But…“ Tir stammered. “But how?”
The sheep looked at him like he’d just said something remarkably stupid.
“…Using my mouth?”
Tir slapped himself in the face. This was a dream, he thought. It had to be. Animals don’t just wake up and decide to talk to people. He was losing his mind, that’s all. Just a little bit of anxiety from getting lost. That’s all. It happens to people all the time during performances. Stage fright. Yes. Maybe that’s what this was.
“Are you going to gawk at me all day?”
It was real, Tir thought. As real as rain.
“I’ve never been able to understand you before,” he remarked. “What’s changed?”
“Maybe you just weren’t paying enough attention.”
“Unbelievable” he muttered. “But how?”
He shook his head.
“We need to get back,” he replied. “Da is looking for you.”
Bellach shook her head.
“Not until I’m done.”
“It’s just grass,” Tir exclaimed. “We’ve plenty of it at home.”
“Not grass like this. The ground here feels nice on my hooves. Lots of forbs here, too.”
She gnawed on a diamond-shaped flower, ripping the petals off with a wide bite.
“Forbs?!” Tir couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “No, I don’t have much time. I’m leaving tonight.”
“Leaving? To where?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“Other fields?”
“No, not other fields,” Tir groaned. “I’m leaving Laithlach. Taking a ship to a new continent. I’m tired of life here.”
He wasn’t sure, but by the sound of it, Bellach had chuckled.
“What’s the matter? Don’t like scooping up my droppings all day?”
“That’s one reason,” he exclaimed.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere. Not while there are forbs to be eaten here.”
Tir knelt beside Bellach. She’d buried her face in a column of the diamond-flowers, tearing through them like a woodcutter would a forest. As he watched, an idea came to mind.
“Tell you what,” he said, resting his hand on the lamb’s back. Bellach paused her feast. She looked poised to start snacking on his fingers next.
“Speak,” she growled, her teeth littered with fronds.
“If you come with me, I’ll bring you a nice big stack of forbs as a treat. You can eat them all night, for all I care. Heck, I’ll even leave you a little stash back at the stable if you’d like.”
The lamb’s jaw dropped.
“Forbs…at home?”
Tir nodded, plucking a bouquet-full from the earth. He turned to exit, pausing at the rim of the fog. When he turned around, Bellach was facing the other way.
“That’s not the way home,” she said bluntly. “This way. Follow me.”
To his surprise, they managed to traverse the fog-laden forest with some ease. Bellach was a natural at this. It was like she’d done it thousands of times before. By the time they’d returned, the sun had only just begun to kiss the horizon. The storm his da worried about seemed to have passed without as much as a fuss, leaving only a few droplets in its wake.
Donagh, who had just finished shearing Pella, the largest of the flock, watched Tir with a latent curiosity as he guided the lamb back to her stable. Bellach returned without any fuss, resting her head on the bale of hay she called her bed. Tir knelt by her, dropping a fistful of the flowers by her head before whispering the hiding place he had in mind.
“I’ll see if da can start planting these around the farm,” Tir said, patting her on the back. “You take care of yourself.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for getting us home,” he replied, turning to leave.
“A word of advice,” she said.
“Yes?”
“In the future, it might do you good to listen more than you talk.”
Tir forgot the words almost as soon as he’d heard them.
His father awaited him outside the stable, arms crossed as if they’d been glued in place.
“You’ve the makings of a shepherd yet,” he said. It was the closest thing Tir had ever heard to a word of praise from the man’s lips.
“Turns out, all you have to do is let them talk,” Tir chuckled nervously.
Donagh raised his brow. The whiskers on his mustache twitched.
“Talk?”
“Oh!” Tir’s face turned scarlet. “It’s, uh, a figure of speech.”
His father returned his gaze to a set of sheep shears. “You’ve a big day ahead of you. I suggest bathing before you go. Don’t want another Tressa incident, do we?”
Tir winced at the memory of his greatest blunder.
“Goodbye, da. I hope I can make you proud.”
Donagh grunted in response. Years of hearing his father’s grunts had provided him with a lexicon of what each meant. This one, an upper infraction, signaled that he approved of the message he’d heard.
“Oh, one more thing,” Tir remarked, reaching into the pocket of his tunic.
“Eh?”
“The sheep like these.”
He handed Donagh a clump of the forbs. The man stared at them like Tir had just handed him a blade.
“And you know this…because…”
“They were what Bellach was eating. I think it’s why she always tries to run to the woods.”
“I see.”
Tir wasn’t sure what else he could say. Truth be told, Donagh wasn’t sure, either. It wasn’t easy for them to speak. They could exist among one another just fine, but neither of them were capable of engaging on a deeper level with the other.
Donagh gulped in a deep breath. No point in worrying about the boy. He’d figure it out. Perhaps he already had. Something he’d said had stuck with the man. “Let them talk”. Strange. It reminded him of…
No, Donagh thought. Not the boy. He was too clumsy.
It’d be a miracle if he managed to make it out of this proposal alive.