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[color=8dc73f]"What is the matter now, [color=ed1c24]Aoife[/color]? It is cold out here," [color=ed1c24]Nathair[/color] said as they stepped outside. 

Aoife studied him at length. She was a woman grown, eighteen years of age, with thick-braided ginger hair that ran down her shoulders in a warrior's knot. Her shoulders were well-rounded and soft; arms toned beneath a crimson brat. Her cloak was fastened with a bronze pin in the shape of a fox’s paw, and she wore a beige tunic with leather boots bound to her knees. She had eyes like rain, soft and blue, sharp as they fell and bound to chill the bones when they had a reason to linger. Her breasts had grown fuller over the winter as well, a fact Nathair was vaguely aware of as they stood beneath the door of his father's hall, even now.

[color=a187be][i]Damn her,[/i][/color] he thought. [color=a187be][i]Why did she have to be so arresting? If it was not her moods, it was her eyes. If it was not her eyes, now she had the figure to charm men as well. Why could she not have remained the unassuming girl of their youth?[/i][/color]

"The cold is honest, Nathair," Aoife said. She came towards him and studied him eye-to-eye. He almost flinched. "It tells you where you stand. Unlike the men in that hall..." Her fingers snared his arm, as if to prevent him from slithering away.

"Aoife—" he argued, keeping his tone to a low register. But her eyes drenched his, scouring his soul for an answer. In that silence, the dream rushed uncomfortably back to him, as if summoned by her intuition.

"Do not hide behind feigned smiles and vague tilts of your head, Nathair!" She said. "I know you too well not to know when you are upset. The smoke coming from the village was unnatural; there was more than peat in the air. I sense the heaviness, the same as you." She gestured him up and down, indicating his shortness of breath and the fallen look in his eyes. "You stalk around like a man in mourning. Tell me the truth. What was this dream? Did the mountains whisper to you as well?"

He glared at her for half a moment, then frowned. "You are far too observant and far too wise for a woman your age; I say it to your good father all the time," he chided her cautiously. He batted her hand away, as he often did when they were younglings, though it did not deter her. If anything, it made her more persistent. She stepped closer and invaded his personal space. The playful girl he had grown up with was gone, he was starting to realise. Now Aoife was a woman whose intuition bordered on the unsettling. He reluctantly thought back to her question as he fidgeted with the cold bronze torc around his neck. 

He did not know how much to tell her. Sharing dreams led to omens, and omens were bad news. Some dreams were better off left as such: faded memories that could not harm nor influence a man's life. "You know as well as I the mountains can be treacherous. Listening to their ward-tales can be as grave as ignoring them. I don't know what to believe. All I know is I had a dream of my brother, and in it he wielded a javelin and buried it between my shoulders when I was not looking. But I have been worried, Aoife!" He told her when she widened her eyes and tried to interrupt. "I had already been fretting over the aonach! May as well the stress led to such dreams and they are not prophecies as our ancestors would have us believe but a conjuring of my own ill-imagination!"

She did not believe him and he knew it. The color had drained from her freckled cheeks. She pointed at him with an accusatory finger as they stood in the lingering dawn. In the distance, the foothills were a ghostly pearl blue; the greenery was colorless. It was as if the sun were waiting for them to finish their conversation before it would rise. Aoife’s mouth, however, remained a stubborn, bright red. "A javelin between the shoulders," she argued. "To be struck from behind by the very person you call blood. That is an ill omen, Nathair!"

He turned from her again, but this time she grabbed him. "You call it your imagination," she said as she kept yanking on his tunic, forcing him to stay put, though he was eager to return to his father's hall and take ale with Tahdg and Rían and leave these thoughts behind. "But the spirits do not care for a fool's ignorance. They speak from the gut and the marrow!" She then retreated an inch, though her eyes remained locked onto his. She seemed to know he wasn't being foolish, merely human. But in their world, being merely human often meant the difference between forging a legacy and winding up dead.

Tired of him not listening, Aoife reached out and tried to punch him in the gut, but he quickly wrestled with her and pinned her to the wall. She scoffed when he got a handle on her, though she gave it everything she had. Her feet kicked in those pinched leather boots, and her well-fed body thumped against his as she looked up into his eyes. The honourable look did not leave her face, even as he pinned her down.

"If it is only stress, then let the aonach pass," she whispered. Her voice remained conspiratorial. She was too proud to be deterred. "But if the mountains are telling the truth... and your brother's heart has turned to stone... then you cannot remain a fool, Nathair. You must address this issue. Your pride will make you the martyr of our clan."

"You speak of things that have not yet come to pass," he warned her. This time he stepped into her and chided her for her presumptions. "I'll be wary, but I won't betray my own brother or ready arms against him over a vision, especially one born of my own restless nature! So I am worried? What of it. I am only worried for myself. A dream isn't enough to condemn him, Aoife!"

She let out a soft, frustrated huff. Her breath came on the wind. She sulked. Then she glanced at him and grew stubborn once again. There was still an innocence to the shape of her jaw, but her eyes spoke only truth. If they were not kin, he would've cursed her for how quickly she could turn a mood. But her stubbornness was her defining trait and he was cursed to love her for it. "That is your greatest strength," she commended him. "But it is also your biggest flaw. You would wait until the blade is already buried in your back to believe the wound is real."

"Damn you for being so bloody wise," he spoke to her face. His breath coalesced on her skin, and when she looked at him warily--with a hint of tenderness--he leaned in and nudged his nose against hers. She repeated the gesture immediately. Soft and guiding, a thing that spoke of trust. They could both do it with their eyes closed and had shared it since they were children. He slowed as he went to shove himself away from her, confessing: "I won't believe Cullan intends to betray me. He has no reason to. I am his younger brother and would act as his general if asked, all in the name of the clan. I'd marry whom he wanted me to marry and I'd advise him if he put me on his council. He has no reason to fear me, Aoife. I have no mind to challenge him to the title of Chieftain."

When he let her go, she hurried after him as he walked through the short grass and sand that pitched the hill outside the long hall. She was like a fox, snapping at his heels.

"You speak of loyalty as if it were a shield, Nathair. But a shield is useless if the man you face intends to strike from behind!"

She could see the indecision and the conflict warring within him. It was all over his face as he placed his hands against the door of the long hall. He believed in the sanctity of blood. That had always been their father's lesson. Family, blood, lineage. But he was also a warrior. A part of him screamed to recognise Aoife's claims. But without proof and only shadows in the smoke, what reason did he have to rise against his brother, especially on the day of the aonach?

"Your brother has no reason to fear you," she said to him from over his shoulder. She placed her palm tentatively on his back. "But he may one day fear your shadow, Nathair. Is it not often the case that great generals who have won the love of the people are hailed to the crown?"

He could feel his spirit keening. His mind was split, as it had been since the early morning, only now it was drenched in smoke and fog. "Enough Aoife," murmured, his guard finally slipping. "You've made your point."

She blinked, softening as well. "Let us go then," she spoke, her hand turning sweeter upon his hip. She knew he was at his limit. It was in his eyes; a snake badgered by a fox was likely to strike at any moment. "To warmth and ale?"

"To warmth and ale," he agreed. Then without hesitation he reached for her arm, pulling her closer. He would not be without her. Not now. Not when he was so grateful for her care.

She huddled herself against him, letting out a sound of pure, unburdened joy when he pressed her close. "Always so impatient," she chided. The sound of her voice cut through the morning mist and banished it from the door well. The wall of indecision was still there, but he no longer had to face it alone. Aoife had anchored herself to him, tying herself to his strength, and as they entered the hall, their friends called out to them warmly, asking them to share the fire and the promise of ale.[/color]

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