Withstanding Trials: Day 3

Word Count: 18,009

Summary of Events:

Aodhán went down to the waterfront, which was lined with taverns, choosing the least-crowded one as the place to have his breakfast in order to not garner attention, although he suspected people on the isle didn't realise who he was yet, seeing as he wasn't really attracting attention at all. Saraid and the other women worked on preserving the harvested carrots, in order that they would all be able to have carrots until they harvested fresh ones again next autumn. As he'd promised the staff, Aodhán returned to the castle in time for lunch and was informed that everyone was in the dining room waiting for him…

Excerpt of the Day:

A servant dressed primly drew back Aodhán’s chair for him and pushed it in once he’d seated himself on it.

“It’s him!” Ciarán exclaimed. “Father! That’s the servant who attacked me!”

Uncle Séaghdha looked perplexedly between Ciarán and Aodhán.

“He’s not a servant,” Ceallach said. “That’s Aodhán.”

“Yes,” Uncle Séaghdha said. “He arrived a few days earlier than we expected him.”

Ciarán’s face was red with indignation. Aodhán wasn’t surprised. Prideful people were rarely pleased to be corrected.

“But… why did you come early?” Uncle Séaghdha asked.

“The seas were unseasonably fine,” Aodhán replied. “And considering the season, one must take their fine seas when they get them.”

“Of course,” Uncle Séaghdha said. “Very good.”

“He’s an impostor!” Ciarán cried. “The real Aodhán will arrive on the exact day we were told he would!”
“You really thing there’s anyone else in the whole realm who has hair like that?” Ceallach asked his brother derisively.

“What does his hair colour matter?” Ciarán demanded.

“Don’t you remember Macdara’s installation as Chief of Gealach?” Ceallach asked.

“Aodhán,” Uncle Séaghdha said, turning Aodhán’s attention away from the bickering brothers. “Did you really get in a fight with Ciarán?”

“I did,” Aodhán replied.

“A fistfight?” Uncle Séaghdha asked, not looking inclined to believe his ears.

“Yes,” Aodhán replied. “I didn’t want to, but Ciarán rushed me, so I took the defensive position and enjoyed a light exercise until Ciarán wore himself out. I left him to find somewhere to sleep and continued settling myself in my quarters as I’d been doing before I’d heard the commotion of him fighting with some other boy outside my door.”

“You attacked me!” Ciarán protested. “I was only defending myself from your violence!”

“Surely our hands tell a different story,” Aodhán said.

“Your hands?” Uncle Séaghdha asked.

“Do these hands look like they’ve beaten anyone recently?” Aodhán asked, presenting his hands to Uncle Séaghdha.

Surveying them carefully, Uncle Séaghdha shook his head. “They’re not even bruised, how could you have been in a fistfight?”

“I took up the defensive position,” Aodhán replied. “I did not once punch Ciarán.”

“Ciarán, let me see your hands,” Uncle Séaghdha ordered.

Ciarán held them up so that the backs of them were facing his father. They weren’t by any means covered in small cuts or bruises, but there were small cuts and bruises.

“You did not punch Ciarán?” Uncle Séaghdha asked Aodhán.

“No,” Aodhán replied.

“Yes he did!” Ciarán cried. “He’s a liar and a fake!”

“Ciarán, that is quite enough,” Uncle Séaghdha said sternly. “I don’t fully believe that a fistfight could happen in which one combatant does not throw even one punch, so the two of you will spar later, that I might see if this is possible.”