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It was far too early for Faolán to be awake. There was no justice in the world, he decided, since sleep simply would not come––even though he had no duties to attend to and was free to relax and slouch for the entire duration of the festival. He had tried everything to still his idle hands and force the restlessness away: reading a tome borrowed from the Guard-Captain's wife; sewing up the tear in his favourite tunic that had been damaged in a fist-fight; even just listening in to next door's familial dispute until the early hours of the morning, but the fact of the matter was that he just could not sleep.

He was still wide-awake when he heard the creaking of floorboards outside his bedroom door and the timidest of knocks. Faolán reckoned that was a good time to stop pretending he had any hopes left for even a cat-nap and instead returned to what would be his day and night for the forseeable future. Caring for his siblings; his younger sisters, who were young enough to need it, and his adult twin brothers, who were old enough to better but still required parenting.

“Mhm?” He leaned against the door frame, and though there was little light to see her by, Sorcha stood on the other side.

The first thing out of his sister's mouth was, “Faolán, you're injured!” It was only after the fact that she looked over her shoulder at their sleeping siblings, who didn't so much as grumble in their sleep. “When did that happen? How didn't I notice?” 

Faolán had forgotten, too. His ribs were bandaged up and held stiffly in place, but he had refused actual healing. Wounds that were not surface-level required Cair's gentle touch, and he didn't want to tempt fate by accepting it. Though he hadn't tried to hide the injury from his siblings, it just hadn't come up beyond a wince during Culainn's bone-crushing hug and a shortness of breath that was much unlike him.

[color=b2b8cc]“The man I was chasing the night before you lot came, the...”[/color] [i]Wife-beater[/i], though an apt explanation for the crook, might not have been acceptable to use for a nine year old girl who still believed in tall fairytales and true love. [color=b2b8cc]“Er, criminal. He got in a good hit, right about here. I didn't expect him to fight back after I'd made him drop the knife.”[/color] If only he'd been on duty, wearing something more than just a tunic to protect his chest. Faolán poked at his ribs, still tender. Beneath the binding, the skin was mottled and purplish with a dozen bruises merging into one. He healed quick and always had, but for the moment every movement from breathing to taking a step jostled the bone-deep injury. His estimate was that he'd be fighting fit again in no more than three days, even though the healer said twenty after patching him up.

His sister chewed on her lower lip, distraught. Maybe losing her father to violence in the city before she learned her letters affected her just as much as it had him, or maybe it was seeing the aftermath of a fight without ever having seen anything like it. [color=b2b8cc]“It doesn't hurt or anything,”[/color] he lied breezily, an expert in providing comfort to others even at the expense of his own honesty. [color=b2b8cc]“It looks worse than it is. Now, why are you awake? It's still early.”[/color] 
 
“Um. It's not that important. I'm sorry for waking you up...”

[color=b2b8cc]“Sorcha,”[/color] Faolán interrupted with some fondness. [color=b2b8cc]“I was already awake. What do you need?”[/color]

Sorcha looked over her shoulder at the room behind her. His siblings had commandeered the largest room in the house with makeshift beds taking up most of the free space and the rest of their belongings strewn about as if they owned the place. The hearth had burnt out at some point during the night without any of them noticing, extinguishing the last source of light other than the barest hints of dull blue filtering in from outside. It was near-impossible to see anything, but Faolán could hear the twins snoring away. “I can't get back to sleep,” she informed him, wringing her hands in her night-dress. “If I'm up earlier than everyone else, I usually light a candle to Cair and do my daily prayers, but...”

[color=b2b8cc]“But you can't find any candles.”[/color] It was true that there were a few burnt-out stumps of wax he had not bothered to clean up, but other than that, Sorcha could have searched high and low even in daylight and not been able to scrounge any up. Prayer was a tradition that Faolán was not interested in continuing. Before his birth, his mother and father only had a shrine to the Mother and Father in the back room of their house, but when one of their own children was blessed, a token service to Cair became a part of their daily reverence. Faolán didn't have a shrine, didn't go to temple, and though he did believe (as he would be a fool not to) he did not have time in the day to even pay lip-service to the gods.

Sorcha nodded. “Why don't you have any candles?”

He couldn't help but grin.
 
[color=b2b8cc]“I wonder,”[/color] Faolán said, one eyebrow raised in a perfect imitation of an old school mam. This was his house, however small, and these were his rules. Number one –– the most important rule of all –– was 'do not ask stupid questions'. He watched Sorcha's brows contort in confusion, waiting for the pin to drop, but it never did. Faolán caved before too long. It wasn't right to laugh [i]too much[/i] at her expense when part of the blame could fall on him. Faolán remembered the years when he took care of her while his mother could not, but it was doubtful that his sisters, both of them, would ever recall entertainment in the form of flashing, magical lights when they were still in their cribs. There was a difference between [i]hearing stories about[/i] and [i]seeing for oneself[/i]. [color=b2b8cc]“Don't worry about it. I think I might have some packed away, if you give me a few minutes to look for them.”[/color]

Sorcha nodded, and her brother was dismissed. Faolán shut the door to his bedroom and was once more shrouded in the darkness of the early morning. It was easy to forget, when he lived alone, that normal folk had to spend money to light their home. They bought candlesticks and candlestick-holders and matches and everything else; expenses that he hadn't been aware of when he moved to the Royal City, so he did without. The box under his bed held leftovers from "house-guests" who had similarly complained that it wasn't right to live in the dark, and if they were going to sleep over, they'd bring their own. The rent was affordable only because the tiny windows looked out directly onto the wall of the massive boarding house next door, and they didn't even face the sunrise for it.

Faolán flicked his wrist, summoning a small orb of light into existence. It was intangible, warm in colour, and he thought it might resemble the glow of a hundred captured fireflies if he could stomach to look at it for more than a few seconds. Even using his god-given gifts for pragmatic purposes left him unsettled, like a cat whose fur had been petted the wrong way. With a small gesture, the light moved down by the bed and lit up what was underneath. Crates, mostly. Spare blankets for colder nights. A toolbox for fixing up holes in the ceiling. A loose plank of flooring which could be pulled away; the place he kept what little savings he didn't send to Claredarrow. He winced as he kneeled, reaching behind all of that to where he could find a few skinny candles, covered in dust.

He pulled on a clean shirt on his way out, greyish-white from wear and loose at the collar, and dashed his face with the little water left in a bucket near the door. The candles were swiftly deposited into Sorcha's hands along with a box of matches. She was lingering on the other side in wait, and stared for just a moment in awe at the summoned light before her brother let it dissipate.

[color=b2b8cc]“I'm going to head out to the market to pick up some things for dinner. I wasn't prepared at all for you lot showing up.”[/color] Faolán told her. It was true that his siblings had arrived out of nowhere, and had they been a day later, the guardsman would have followed through on his plans of returning to Claredarrow for a fortnight. What little bread was left had been used up in only one night, though that he had some coin left in the pockets of his trousers meant he didn't need to dip into his savings. [color=b2b8cc]“I think I'll be back before Conall and Culainn wake up, but on the off chance I'm not, let them know that there's a well down the street in the square, if they need fresh water. Do [i]not[/i] go alone.”[/color]

The sun was rising as he stepped into his boots and left the house, ruffling Sorcha's hair as he passed her. The streets were slowly growing busier both with faces he recognised and those he didn't. Likely visitors here for the festival, and with any luck they wouldn't cause too much disruption to the endlessly churning routine of the Royal City. It was just a big event, and then at the end of it, everyone could return home and Faolán would return to his usual solitude.

[i]Just a trip to the market, bright and early to avoid the crowds.[/i] It was neither the time nor place to appreciate the intense air of foreboding that threatened to suffocate him, but as with everything else, he could push those feelings away to deal with later.