224. Though this be madness ...
Mad
Silence.
Ruairí MacEibhir stood on a shelf of the stone that made up Knockduff Mountain, looking down at the house he'd built for his wife-to-be. He could call Máire that in truth now, for only yesterday she had at long last agreed to marry him. There would be love in that great stone structure, laughter and family. He should have been nothing but happy.
But though his feet were bare against the glistening granite and the wind tossed his silver hair, within he heard only silence.
When the silence gave way at last, it was broken by an external voice, not an internal. A voice unexpected but long familiar, that spoke in neither Gaelic nor English.
"So it's true."
His eyes jerked up from their contemplation of his toes to find standing next to him a most unlikely apparition for Connemara in 1882. The ginger-haired man looked the absolute picture of a wealthy London aristocrat, straight down to the silver-headed cane he carried. An affectation, of course, as were so many things about him. He looked particularly resplendent contrasted with the púca's own plain báinín shirt and canvas trousers.
"Hello, Robin." Ruairí's smile didn't hold quite its usual brilliance. "I wondered if you'd come."
Robin Goodfellow arched one flame-colored eyebrow. "Give me at least a shade of credit, Ruairí. I came as soon as I heard. I'm hardly at Court any more, to pick up on every bit of tittle-tattle as soon as it arises. And it wasn't until you called on our kin to help in your little barn-raising project--" He nodded down at the house that butted up against the mountain stone. "--that word even filtered back to Faerie at all."
"And what word is that?" His voice was tranquil, but his eyes were not. "What exactly have you heard?"
"The truth, apparently." He could feel those summer-sky eyes on him, hard and penetrating. "That Gaoth and Eibhear's young son has gone stark, raving insane."
Ruairí didn't flinch at the assessment. "We both have, by their measure." Still, calm, his voice, so very calm. "We've both chosen to stay here." The broad sweep of his arm indicated not just Ireland, not just Britain, but all of the mortal sphere.
Robin's breath huffed out his flared nostrils. "No doubt, but some of us have chosen to carry assimilation that one step further." The older fey turned to face his kinsman directly. "Baptized, Ruairí? Becoming a Christian, of all things?"
He also turned to meet the other man's eyes. "I love her, Robin. She's the choice of my heart, and she'll not have a husband who isn't a Christian."
The Puck looked incredulous. "And you couldn't handle things the old way and just carry her off? Ah no, I forgot--" A sardonic chuckle. "--I heard you tried that and got clouted for your trouble." He shook his head slowly as he looked the púca up and down. "Do you even know what's been done to you?"
"No." He caught that blue gaze with his own velvet brown and held it. "Do you?"
Robin focused on his face for a long moment, then turned to look out over the valley once more. "No."
A very direct, definite syllable. Possibly even true.
After a minute or so of silence Robin glanced down at Ruairí's feet, naked against the chill stone, then lifted his head to the stiff wind blowing straight into both their faces. "Have I gone and interrupted a heart-to-heart with your sire and dam? Dear me, my manners." His tone went syrupy-sweet, but his eyes glinted as he added, "Are they invited to the wedding, then?"
Heat flared in his fathomless, dark eyes, the same ire that pulled back his shoulders and arched his neck ... before he took a deep, slow breath and declined to rise to Robin's skillfully-dangled bait. "They would be. If they were speaking to me at all, that is."
"Hmmph." The older fey's snort carried more eloquence than most people's paragraphs. "Can you blame them?"
Ruairí took his turn to stare out over the land below Knockduff. "No. Not after ... everything."
Another long look was followed by a sigh. "Well. They're rather sentimental sorts, your parents, for a man named after a rock and a woman named after a force of nature. They'll surely get over it. Eventually."
He stirred uneasily against the rock at his back. "Robin ... you do know that I'd invite you, don't you? If not for ..." He trailed off.
Robin's eyes widened in genuine surprise before he threw back his head and laughed, loud and long. "Gods of the earth and air, wouldn't that be a scene! Springing an ex-lover-- a male ex-lover --on the bride at an Irish-Catholic wedding! And one with a penchant for both dressing as an English fop and saying hideously inappropriate things at hideously inappropriate moments ... that might very well outshine some of the more memorable events from my weddings." His laughter continued, but his smile was tight, focused and entirely too full of teeth. "No, you're quite right, darling. Best I be far away when the blessed day arrives."
Ruairí's eyes closed briefly against that razor-edged curve of lip; his broad shoulders sank. "Are you angry with me as well, Robin?" He forced himself to look into that ethereally angular face for his answer.
Robin, for his part, didn't look away either as his mirth faded into consideration. He finally shrugged. "Not much point to that, is there? It's done." All unexpectedly, he smiled a small, crooked smile that was nevertheless more genuine then his vulpine grin had been. "And really, all that fiery indignation and wrath takes entirely too much effort. Lucky for you."
Ahhh, Robin. He didn't even try to stifle his own answering smile. "I'm glad." He extended a hand.
After a moment's hesitation, his former lover clasped that hand, then abruptly lifted it to his lips. Ruairí drew in a soft hiss of breath as Robin pressed a heated kiss into his palm.
"All luck to you in your marriage, Ruairí." Coming from the Puck, those words carried more weight than mere empty sentiment. "No doubt I'll ... look in on you later." And then he was gone.
He stood motionless but for his hair still ruffled by the wind, fingers folded against the spot Robin had kissed. Thinking back over the encounter, he found his center warmed by an odd kind of comfort. Robin, it seemed, had no intention of turning his back on him no matter how demented he thought the younger fey's choices were. Perhaps he was right about Eibhear and Gaoth as well. Furious they might be right now, but Ruairí was still their only child.
Besides, he thought as he stepped off the rock, lightly dropping the fifteen feet to the ground below, if anything was likely to cool their ire, it would be a grandchild ...
Robin Goodfellow (ifwebefriends) is used here with permission from his mun, and more thanks to her for the beta! *loves on both writer and character*
Muse: Ruairí MacEibhir
Fandom: The Grey Horse
Word count: 1164
Please comment to sonofgranite
Silence.
Ruairí MacEibhir stood on a shelf of the stone that made up Knockduff Mountain, looking down at the house he'd built for his wife-to-be. He could call Máire that in truth now, for only yesterday she had at long last agreed to marry him. There would be love in that great stone structure, laughter and family. He should have been nothing but happy.
But though his feet were bare against the glistening granite and the wind tossed his silver hair, within he heard only silence.
When the silence gave way at last, it was broken by an external voice, not an internal. A voice unexpected but long familiar, that spoke in neither Gaelic nor English.
"So it's true."
His eyes jerked up from their contemplation of his toes to find standing next to him a most unlikely apparition for Connemara in 1882. The ginger-haired man looked the absolute picture of a wealthy London aristocrat, straight down to the silver-headed cane he carried. An affectation, of course, as were so many things about him. He looked particularly resplendent contrasted with the púca's own plain báinín shirt and canvas trousers.
"Hello, Robin." Ruairí's smile didn't hold quite its usual brilliance. "I wondered if you'd come."
Robin Goodfellow arched one flame-colored eyebrow. "Give me at least a shade of credit, Ruairí. I came as soon as I heard. I'm hardly at Court any more, to pick up on every bit of tittle-tattle as soon as it arises. And it wasn't until you called on our kin to help in your little barn-raising project--" He nodded down at the house that butted up against the mountain stone. "--that word even filtered back to Faerie at all."
"And what word is that?" His voice was tranquil, but his eyes were not. "What exactly have you heard?"
"The truth, apparently." He could feel those summer-sky eyes on him, hard and penetrating. "That Gaoth and Eibhear's young son has gone stark, raving insane."
Ruairí didn't flinch at the assessment. "We both have, by their measure." Still, calm, his voice, so very calm. "We've both chosen to stay here." The broad sweep of his arm indicated not just Ireland, not just Britain, but all of the mortal sphere.
Robin's breath huffed out his flared nostrils. "No doubt, but some of us have chosen to carry assimilation that one step further." The older fey turned to face his kinsman directly. "Baptized, Ruairí? Becoming a Christian, of all things?"
He also turned to meet the other man's eyes. "I love her, Robin. She's the choice of my heart, and she'll not have a husband who isn't a Christian."
The Puck looked incredulous. "And you couldn't handle things the old way and just carry her off? Ah no, I forgot--" A sardonic chuckle. "--I heard you tried that and got clouted for your trouble." He shook his head slowly as he looked the púca up and down. "Do you even know what's been done to you?"
"No." He caught that blue gaze with his own velvet brown and held it. "Do you?"
Robin focused on his face for a long moment, then turned to look out over the valley once more. "No."
A very direct, definite syllable. Possibly even true.
After a minute or so of silence Robin glanced down at Ruairí's feet, naked against the chill stone, then lifted his head to the stiff wind blowing straight into both their faces. "Have I gone and interrupted a heart-to-heart with your sire and dam? Dear me, my manners." His tone went syrupy-sweet, but his eyes glinted as he added, "Are they invited to the wedding, then?"
Heat flared in his fathomless, dark eyes, the same ire that pulled back his shoulders and arched his neck ... before he took a deep, slow breath and declined to rise to Robin's skillfully-dangled bait. "They would be. If they were speaking to me at all, that is."
"Hmmph." The older fey's snort carried more eloquence than most people's paragraphs. "Can you blame them?"
Ruairí took his turn to stare out over the land below Knockduff. "No. Not after ... everything."
Another long look was followed by a sigh. "Well. They're rather sentimental sorts, your parents, for a man named after a rock and a woman named after a force of nature. They'll surely get over it. Eventually."
He stirred uneasily against the rock at his back. "Robin ... you do know that I'd invite you, don't you? If not for ..." He trailed off.
Robin's eyes widened in genuine surprise before he threw back his head and laughed, loud and long. "Gods of the earth and air, wouldn't that be a scene! Springing an ex-lover-- a male ex-lover --on the bride at an Irish-Catholic wedding! And one with a penchant for both dressing as an English fop and saying hideously inappropriate things at hideously inappropriate moments ... that might very well outshine some of the more memorable events from my weddings." His laughter continued, but his smile was tight, focused and entirely too full of teeth. "No, you're quite right, darling. Best I be far away when the blessed day arrives."
Ruairí's eyes closed briefly against that razor-edged curve of lip; his broad shoulders sank. "Are you angry with me as well, Robin?" He forced himself to look into that ethereally angular face for his answer.
Robin, for his part, didn't look away either as his mirth faded into consideration. He finally shrugged. "Not much point to that, is there? It's done." All unexpectedly, he smiled a small, crooked smile that was nevertheless more genuine then his vulpine grin had been. "And really, all that fiery indignation and wrath takes entirely too much effort. Lucky for you."
Ahhh, Robin. He didn't even try to stifle his own answering smile. "I'm glad." He extended a hand.
After a moment's hesitation, his former lover clasped that hand, then abruptly lifted it to his lips. Ruairí drew in a soft hiss of breath as Robin pressed a heated kiss into his palm.
"All luck to you in your marriage, Ruairí." Coming from the Puck, those words carried more weight than mere empty sentiment. "No doubt I'll ... look in on you later." And then he was gone.
He stood motionless but for his hair still ruffled by the wind, fingers folded against the spot Robin had kissed. Thinking back over the encounter, he found his center warmed by an odd kind of comfort. Robin, it seemed, had no intention of turning his back on him no matter how demented he thought the younger fey's choices were. Perhaps he was right about Eibhear and Gaoth as well. Furious they might be right now, but Ruairí was still their only child.
Besides, he thought as he stepped off the rock, lightly dropping the fifteen feet to the ground below, if anything was likely to cool their ire, it would be a grandchild ...
Robin Goodfellow (ifwebefriends) is used here with permission from his mun, and more thanks to her for the beta! *loves on both writer and character*
Muse: Ruairí MacEibhir
Fandom: The Grey Horse
Word count: 1164
Please comment to sonofgranite