Returning to Roots

Trapped

 His thoughts were interrupted by Andreas' voice, "Wow Corey, considering all that teasing you threw around about Braonan, I'd expected you to be better on a boat.". This brought a small smile from Braonan. Only Andreas could get away with calling Corraidhin "Corey". Partially because they were friends, and partially because Corraidhin knew full well that he couldn't make him stop.

Most of his friends, he'd tell off. Andreas was too stubborn for that. If that didn't work, he'd get into a fight over it. Andreas knocked him flat on his air a chùlaibh. After that, he had the right to call him Corey, though Corraidhin still glared at him every time.

"Shut up.", Corraidhin told Andreas as he made his way, somewhat unsteadily, to the other side of the ship. He must have seen him. Corraidhin had been avoiding Braonan recently. He was trying to be more independent, but Braonan had no clue how to accommodate that. He still saw him as small and vulnerable and couldn't help but want to watch over him.

He really did try, but that's hard to do when one's main motivation for most of their daily choices is the image of his bràthair beag with no clue about the knife at the base of his skull.

Andreas made his way to Braonan, his gait was perfectly steady. The cul tona.

Andreas plopped down next to him. "That bad?", he asked.

"Why aren't you stumbling?", he returned, annoyed. Suffering was always worse when you had someone who was doing well to compare yourself too. Andreas just laughed at him. This was his best friend, the guy that he considered his bràthair. Clearly, he needed to re-evaluate his life. Not that he'd probably get along with anyone who didn't laugh at their friends before helping them, but it was still annoying.

"I grew up on the coast mate, I got on boats all the time.", Andreas informed him.

"You're a little rat. And yes, that bad.", he replied, finally answering his earlier question.

The boat took off and Braonan gripped the side to keep himself steady. He groaned. "Even the Roman deamhain know boats are evil. What is wrong with you?", Braonan demanded as he saw Andreas' mouth widen into a broad grin.

"I'm not a pansy," he answered.

"Te futueo et caballum tuum.", he muttered, causing Andreas to laugh again.

"Who needs a horse to take them places when you've got a ship?", he joked. Braonan groaned again and shoved him.

"Why are we friends again?", he joked back.

"Because I'm amazing, of course.", Andreas answered with as much feigned seriousness as he could muster. He couldn't really argue with that, so he just shook his head and enjoyed the lightness of the moment.

In all seriousness, Andreas' ability to take serious things seriously and make light of everything else was probably the real reason they were such good friends.

He could pick him up from a mental breakdown in the woods and understand his desire to lie about it without needing an explanation. He was also the only person who seemed to be able to make him laugh.

Most people needed a group of friends to play different roles in supporting each other, Braonan just needed his bràithrean.

Too bad Corraidhin didn't feel the same, but he was sure he'd still rather see his own màthair, whom he hadn't heard from in four winters, than his friends.

He would miss Andreas though. They'd been through a lot together. Not even his màthair or bràthair knew him as well as he did.

A moon later, they finally left the accursed boats. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but he'd have to implement his plan tonight, while everyone else was landsick and travel weary. He'd been sneaking supplies for the entire moon, and he spent the entire day setting up camp worried that someone would find them. He almost jumped when he was moving the stash and when one of his comrades, he thought his name was Henry something, came up to him and asked if he needed help moving his gear.

Henry was an unusually nice person. Braonan was pretty sure he was Greek. He really went above and beyond with that whole xenia thing. Thankfully, the lad didn't notice anything amiss with his "gear".

It was night now, and the sneaking and deceiving were almost over. His patrol started in a quarter hour. He could almost taste his freedom and as he crept through the cold, oak scented air to his bràthair's tent. Was it colder than it used to be, or had he gotten used to the Italian heat? He didn't like the idea of being more used to the home of Romans than Scots, but he didn't have time to focus on that.

He lifted the tent flap, "Corraidhin, could I talk to you?"

Corraidhin rolled his eyes and got up lazily, gesturing to his friends that he'd be back soon. "What?", he was outside the tent now, and a little annoyed.

A wisp of doubt entered his mind, but he pushed it back and mustered his calm. "We're leaving tonight. If we move quickly we can easily outpace the legion and warn the rest of the Macphersons. I have pro-"

Corraidhin's voice was dangerously low, "Stop, right now." His fists were clenched and his face brooding. Braonan was stunned and went silent. "Don't you even talk about something like that. I don't want to hear it. Rome has been kind to me,"

Kind? Rome held a knife to your head.

"And if the Macphersons are who we're here for, then they've brought it on themselves. If they can't see that-"

"Even our own màthair?" Braonan's blue eyes bored into Corraihin's green ones.

His gaze was steely and his voice firm as he replied, "Yes." "And if you leave," he added, "I will report you."

His fists clenched and his shoulders tensed. "Just put a sword to my throat, why don't cha?"

"If I have to," was his only reply as he returned to his tent.

Braonan stalked toward his post in a daze. It seemed like no time had passed when he got there and took over. When he was alone, he felt himself crumple and hit the moist earth beneath him.

He was trapped. There was no way out. For a brief moment, he reconsidered his stance on dying in battle. Why avoid it? What horrors could the afterlife hold compared to his life? His head snapped up as he realised what he was thinking. It might be better for him, but what about his bràthair?

He needed Andreas, before he started acting on these thoughts. He turned, and then remembered that he couldn't leave his post. He was still trapped. It was like there were walls closing around him. He sat back down. His eyes were wide, his breathing heavy, and his hands were gripping at tree roots.

How did someone stop themselves from thinking like this? From feeling like this?

It took him a full hour to be able to breath again, and another half-hour to release the tree roots and stand. But even by the time the post was taken over, he hadn't stopped shaking.