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[color=8dc73f][color=a187be][b]The silence went on[/b],[/color] mocked by those who wished to laugh, frayed by the whispering girls who fawned over his brother. [color=ed1c24]Nathair [/color]saw their gentle eyes chasing after [color=ed1c24]Cullan[/color]. They were in awe of his hair. Bleached with lime, it formed a crown of jagged white thorns that caught the sun. Nathair was forced to recognise how stoic he looked--like an idol carved out of bone. His brother walked to the very edge of the stage, the timber crackling beneath his feet, and to his surprise did not address the crowd, nor his father, or even the elders. His eyes hooked onto Nathair instead.

"Goodfolk of the Glen!" Cullan called out. His voice was iron stripped from a scabbard. It rang with warmth and purpose, and Nathair felt himself sagging beneath it. "I thank you all for coming out to the aonach to recognise me as your new Chieftain. I have some promises to make, I know that. And I'd rather make them now before we're all too pissed to remember!"

A few laughs went up from the crowd. Men clapped and the girls glanced at each other excitedly. Beside him, Aoife was studying Cullan like a fox hiding in the fabric of her cloak. Her eyes were reserved and full of quiet anticipation.

"For too long we have lived in the mountain's shadow. We've toasted to steadiness and peace, but beyond our borders the wolves grow hungry!" A few men clapped their cups against the tables, and Nathair saw Rían and Tadhg looking ill at ease. They were watching Cullan from behind their cups, and for him they did not ring. "The aonach is a time for remembering, aye. But memories do not move us forward. Today, my brothers, my kin, I ask you to remember our blood. We are of a proud clan. We have ourselves a great story. But stories do not uphold the land and keep the peace for our wives and daughters!"

The men of the clan now roared, clapping their cups upon the tables frantically. In the wings, even their father clapped. Their mother was hanging off his arm, clinging to each and every word.

"We are snakes, and wolves, and spears. We are proud Gaels. My father's reign--glad as it was--has left us weak and insubstantial. Our coffers are almost empty, and my Uncle's holdfast overlooks the glen for twenty miles. I propose a summit." Cullan drew the dagger from his belt and pointed it at the crowd, though it did not seem to be pointed at them. It seemed to be pointed at him.

The blade hung over Nathair liked a hawk's talon, ready to descend. Cullan looked hard into his eyes. His gaze did not waver, and his brother's eyes were red-rimmed and haunted by ambition. He seemed to be challenging him. As if asking if he would support his claim. "In the coming weeks, I intend to march on the flatha -- our neighbours -- and remind them of their tithes. A tax libation will be pressed on every holdfast from here to the sea. And if they don't like it, we'll show them the flat heads of our javelins!"

The men now stood up, clapping and cheering, roaring for Cullan. They banged on the tables, and the girls of the clan hopped about, laughing furiously and spinning each other around. Nathair felt like he was in a throng of madness. The dance crowd was pushing and shoving to get at his brother and shouting their support.

"No more hunger! No more darkened days! We are not sleeping dogs. We are wolves, and our neighbours need to remember to whom they owe their allegiance!"

The throng was too ambitious. Too loud. They were hurting Nathair's ears. He felt himself being shoved to the front, and he found himself stumbling on stage. A few of his brother's men clapped him roughly on the back, believing he'd come up to support Cullan. He walked onto the stage like a mad man, made stiff by fright and relentless expectation. The clan now looked to him to see his response. Somewhere, Aoife held her breath.

With a slight shuffling of his cloak, Nathair looked eye-to-eye with Cullan. His brother was gazing at him now levelly, with a slight tremble to his hands, and a thin purse of his lips. Nathair could see the weakness in his eyes--though perhaps he looked just as startled. He prayed he did not look as indecisive as he felt. But then he thought back to the dream. The javelin head buried in his shoulder, and he felt something else as well: love for his brother. Love for him since they'd been but babes. His premonition needn't come to pass. Nothing Gaels saw in the smoke of dreams and ritual was certain. He was just as fresh out of water to these politics as he was. They were both children, playing at being men, and never had he felt it more than when his feet touched that stage.

"Will you support me brother?" Cullan voiced, and his tone was weaker for asking; half brittle iron, half hard-forged steel.

Nathair looked to his father, who was holding onto his mother desperately. Cullan had shamed him for the years of steadiness and inactivity, he knew that well. But that was Cullan's right as the new Chieftain. This transition came with some small measure of shame. Nathair's mouth felt very dry as he searched for the words to say.

"In war? I will always support you brother," Nathair said, and a hushed silence fell over the crowd. They were all watching, all waiting. "You are Chieftain now, and the land is what you sow. I have only ever loved you, Cullan," Nathair said with some slight tears in his eyes. The dream hung over him like a wasp's sting, though he saw no sign of it when he looked into his brother's eyes. All he saw was a boy made large by lime and chalk. "Aye. I will support you. [i]Geallaim mé féin duit ar an sleá a cheanglaíonn sinn[/i]."

"[i]Geallaim mé féin duit ar an sleá a cheanglaíonn sinn...[/i]" Cullan repeated. He then dropped the dagger, smiled, and barked a laugh.

The change was instantaneous. Everyone burst into laughter and all the tension lifted from the air. It was as if the smoke had cleared from the square, and the mountains themselves whispered triumph. For the first time that day, Nathair felt like he could breathe easily. And as Cullan came towards him and put his arms around his shoulders, he felt human again. He pressed his jaw to his brother's shoulder, feeling the strength of his arms about him. Then he planted a kiss to his cheek and said to him roughly: "You've had me fucking worried."

"Whist, brother. No need to worry yourself. It is but politics," Cullan whispered tenderly to him. He took him by the scalp and looked him in the eye and planted a kiss upon his lips, and just like that he knew they were friends again. They turned to the crowd and received their libations. But among them there was one who stood unconvinced.

Aoife let her eyes fall from the shadow that had been cast across them by Nathair's actions, and she turned from the aonach to heed the whispers in the smoke.[/color]

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