He rather envied the warriors of the Fianna who sparred with the vigor of men with no such burden as missing Grá Croís. Darragh’s laughter rangout, a rippling baritone as he sidestepped a clumsy blow from Caílte, whose weapon moved like a fluid extension of his body. Cian watched as Oisín sidled in to offer a would-be lesson, though all three of them knew well enough how to handle themselves.
The sight was both comforting and maddening. While half of him had missed their camaraderie, the other half seethed, never satisfied without Reaper at his side. The pull of their bond pulsed within him, demanding that he do something, anything, to silence the restlessness.
With a decisive tilt of his head, Cian moved forward, scooping up a wooden practice sword and pointing its tip at Darragh. “Let’s see if your tongue’s sharper than your blade today,” he called out, slipping easily into Gaeilge.
Darragh’s grin was infectious. “Careful, or you might end up eating dirt.”
Cian returned the grin, but his eyes held a different promise. “I’d like to see you try.”
They both leaped into motion, the wooden swords clattering as they struck and repelled each other’s blows, finding their rhythm as naturally as breathing. Each swing and every parry resonated like music through his bones, grounding him as nothing else could…except Reaper.
Filled with a single-minded focus, he fell into the familiar dance, and the claps of wood echoed through the training field. Darragh pressed forward, forcing him back with a fierce barrage, his eyes alight with challenge. But he matched him blow for blow, refusing to give ground,every muscle alive with tension and the love of a damn good brawl.
The lines of frustration melted away from his face, and when Darragh hesitated for a breath too long, Cian struck, feinting left and swinging right, his practice blade tapping against Darragh’s ribs in a jarring reminder of his deadly precision.
“Lucky strike,” Darragh grunted, stepping away with a rueful nod, though his grin hadn’t faltered.
“If luck it were, then you’re doomed, my friend,” he teased, tossing his practice sword aside in favor of a hurl. “Someone grab a sliotar and let’s play.” He double checked the metal band around the hurl, as the warriors shifted into position across the field. Both he and Failinis loved this game, especially when the atmosphere crackled with anticipation as every man prepared for a battle of wits and skill. Hurling was more than just a game; it was strategy and chaos, a teaching tool to hone their instincts for real battles.
The teams formed, and the sliotar was poised in the referee’s hand. With the shrill blast of a reed whistle, the game exploded into motion. Bodies crashed and collided, fitting together like pieces of a living puzzle as they converged toward the fast-moving ball.
Caílte lunged forth and managed to snatch the sliotar from midair. His movements were lithe despite his size. He bounced it onto his hurl and took off in a blur, weaving through the warriors with speed that belied his bulk. Cian sprinted to intercept, his path a calculated arc intended to cut Caílte off from his intended trajectory.
As they neared the goal, Cian held steady, his eyes darting from the sliotar to Caílte, back and forth between the variables before moving in. Two warriors hooted loudly as they chased Caílte, creating an echoing chorus, while Darragh took advantage of the distraction to swoop in. He cut across Cailte’s path with his hurl soaring through the air to strike the sliotar and send it flying into the hands of another teammate.
Cian channeled his frustration through his muscles, pushing forward to assist. The team’s flow was like the tide, working in tandem to cover ground and overpower the opposition. His heart pounded with adrenaline from the thrill of the chase and the frenzied rush of tactical decisions made in seconds.
Oisín darted into their sector, his hurl poised for an aggressive hook. Breath stuttered in Cian’s lungs as they clashed, exchanging feints and deceptive strikes, both fixated on gaining control of the ball. Their shouts mingled with the crowd’s roars, the pitch resonating with fierce energy.
Oisín made a sharp pivot to the right, a move meant to catch him off guard. He saw through the trick, tracking Oisín’s movements with hawk-like focus, and slammed his hurl against Oisín’s with enough force to redirect the sliotar toward one of his own. Darragh seized the opportunity, scooping the ball up with swift assurance. He cradled it on his hurl, building momentum with long strides.
Cian and Darragh exchanged quick glances, an unspoken exchange of plans and possibilities, an approach they’d perfected over the years. He mirrored Darragh’s movements, synchronizing in a tandem that brought them to the very edge of the goal’s barrier like two synchronized bolts of lightning.
“He’s gonna do it!” The voice rang from the sidelines as Darragh made a daring solo run, the ball balanced delicately upon his hurl’s curved ash. Cian hovered nearby, ready to snag the sliotar if needed.
Darragh swung with striking precision, and the sliotar soared high above the defenders, sailed over the goal’s upright bar, and the field erupted in cheers. One point claimed. On a fast-paced game like this, it would never be enough for a win, but it was more than enough to bolster their team’s spirit.
Cian grinned fiercely, the thrill of competition pumping through his veins. “Not a bad catch for a delicate flower,” he shouted to Darragh over the din.
With renewed vigor, they plunged back into the game, the warriors of Fianna propelled by primal drive and timeless camaraderie, colliding in clashes that sang of loyalty and defiance. Beneath Tír na nÓg’s ageless sky, Cian embraced the teaching woven into play, sharpening his prowess alongside his warrior brothers with every breakneck stroke.
The clash of the ash faded into the background as Cian froze, consumed by an unexpected wave of emotions flaring through the mating bond. It surged over him, pouring across his senses, warm and golden and utterly alive.
For a beat, he stood transfixed, muscles arrested in mid-swing as he absorbed Reaper’s emotions. The vibrant, buoyant notes carried like echoed laughter and longing through their connection.
The warmth was foreign, startling in its intensity. Their bond had been scarred by conflict and distrust, grappling between worlds old and new. Yet there it was, filled with genuine emotions that at their core were unclouded by doubt. It wrapped around him, binding them tighter together despite their physical distance.
A laugh spilled from his lips, and Failinis growled with approval, urging him with eager delight to return the connection, a heartfelt reciprocation in answer to his mate’s gift.
His comrades paused, uncertain but caught by his smile as it stretched across his face. His focus flooded the bond with everything he didn’t know how to say or explain until all of him lay bare for Reaper to feel.
The returning wave hit him greater than the binding spell, growing surer and more confident by the second, strengthened by certainty, anchored by connection, and honored by the love they had yet to speak of.
Failinis whined softly, comforted and finally contented. For Cian, the weight of the argument lifted, leaving only the promise of their shared future in its wake.
“Is Amadán mé.”
I am an idiot.
