Sons of Ireland: Derry, 1969

11 August, 1969

"Hey! Lay off and let me drive!" Beatrice was laughing as she said it, though the little car had swerved dangerously across the narrow road. "Ciaran ó Murchadha, you'll make me run us off the road!"

Ciaran - dark-haired, bright-eyed, and apparently determined to edge down the path to being Beatrice's lover - settled back in his seat with a smug smile. "Ceara, it was just a little tickle."

Beatrice - or Ceara, fiery red, as her friends had taken to calling her - blushed. It had been much less a tickle and much more intimate, and it had startled her out of a funk brought on by her Father's departure the day before. She started to protest when another party intervened.

Liam O'Shea, brunette and brown-eyed, reached back from the passenger seat to thwack Ciaran on the leg. "You heard her, you. I want to come safe to the Bogside, not injured to the countryside." Beatrice shot him a grateful smile; Liam was a friend, a good friend. He was younger than she, barely out of his teen years, but then, so were the others. All her friends were younger; she'd been nearly sixteen before she escaped her caretakers and snuck down into Sligo proper to make friends, real friends, and it was the younger ones that had accepted her as she was.

"Ahhh, just turn up the music," demanded the last person packed into the small car, another redheaded girl by the name of Brianna ó Dochartaigh. They'd found a local radio station, a rebellious station broadcasting from somewhere along the border and playing all the songs of the Troubles, old and new. It was "The Rising of the Moon" on just at that moment.

Beatrice laughed again and lit herself a cigarette from the pack on the dash. Only when she'd lit up did she turn up the volume, just in time for a couple of favorites of the group in the car: "White Orange and Green," and then "Come Out Ye Black and Tans."

The little car sped on, up through County Leitrim and County Donegal, until they swung eastwards on towards Derry. Beatrice breathed a touch of sorcery over the car as her friends sang along with the little radio station in County Tyrone, and they slipped across the border with scarcely a glance from the guards.

11 August, 1969

The little car turned down Colombs Street, to come face-to-face with the slogan they'd heard about: "You are now entering Free Derry." Ciaran and Brianna applauded in the back seat, and Beatrice shared a smile with Liam in the front. "We're here," she said, pleased.

"That we are," Liam agreed. "Me brother, he says we're to go to number nineteen Westland Street. The Derry Citizens Defence Association is set up there this week, though they'll be after moving if the RUC moves in too far."

There were vehicles lining the street on both sides of number 19; some of them looked like they were there solely to be pressed into service as part of a barricade. They certainly weren't going to be driving much farther. Bicycles leaned against the walls of nearby buildings, and someone had brought an actual buggy and horse in for the day. Beatrice's petite blue car navigated the mass of vehicles and passing pedestrians and eventually found a spot just off Westland, near to the center of the Bogside area. The quartet extracted themselves from the car and backtracked to the DCDA headquarters.

After a little negotiation with a man named James, who was managing accomodations for the people coming in from out-of-town, Ciaran was able to wrangle a pair of rooms in the middle of Bogtown, not too far from where they had parked. The house belonged to a family who had moved back in with the husband's parents for a few days to let the out-of-towners stay somewhere; the Sligo quartet shared it with two couples about their own age. It took more negotiation on Beatrice's part to get the girls in one room and the boys in the other; Ciaran was nothing if not persistant, and Brianna had admitted privately that she thought Liam more than a little cute.

In the end, it didn't matter; the eight people in the house ate a meal together and then spent the evening chatting by fireside; Brianna and Ciaran managed to conspire, and Beatrice finally found herself alone with the dark-haired man with blue eyes and a laughing mouth. She held her reserve for an hour or so more, but there had been too much alcohol flowing around the hearth for her to hold out forever. Especially not with the sounds coming from three of the four rooming areas...

She dreamed of green eyes instead of blue that night, and poetry instead of rebellion - until she woke with a start and remembered where she was and who she was with, and dismissed that dark stranger from her mind. There were other matters afoot than hikers on a lonely bit of coast.

12 August 1969

Beatrice woke with a start in the morning, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and Ciaran. It was early still, just after dawn, but someone was cooking bacon in the little house's kitchen, with a certain amount of banging that suggested it was sound that had woken her. Her lover slept on, oblivious and occasionally muttering in an almost unintelligible blend of Irish and English. Bea squirmed a bit, unwrapped some blankets and pulled some others free of the tuck at the foot of the bed, and eventually worked her way free. It did help a bit when Ciaran grunted and rolled away from her, pulling a wad of blanket free and wrapping it around himself.

It took a few minutes for her to figure out where her clothes had gone. Ciaran had quite a good throwing arm, it had turned out, and how her shirt had ended up under the bed she wasn't quite sure. They were in the boys' room - the one they'd said would be the boys' room, anyway - so she shrugged into the previous day's clothes and traipsed barefoot out into the hall.

The door to the room she and Brianna had been set to share was open; Brianna was nowhere to be seen, but could be heard faintly down the hall, her clear soprano lilting through another rebellious song. Liam was stretched out across the unused bed in the room, fully clothed. "Mornin'," he greeted her.

"Mornin', Liam," Beatrice answered, entering and closing the door behind her. "You're lookin' proud of yourself today."

"Sure. An' how often is it that I get a girl an' me best gal friend gets herself a fella the same night?" He smiled quietly and reached over the side of the bed, fishing around for a moment. "Here. You left yer fags here last night."

"Thanks," she answered, perching on the edge of the bed to take the cigarettes and lighter from him and light up. "Ye could have told me he talks in his sleep," she said after a moment, half laughing and half complaining.

"What, an' give you more ammo t'duck him when he's spent th'last year tryin' for you?" Liam elbowed her leg lightly. "For shame, Bea."

"Well, an' how am I t'blame if he likes nearly hopeless causes?" she answered, teasing. "No, no," she added hastily, smiling brightly as her friend threatened to elbow her again. "I'm just makin' a joke, Liam. There's no need t'be pokin' holes in my leg for it."

"I'll be after doin' it anyway," he retorted, suiting actions to words. "You know I don't care t'hear you playin' th' lady in th' tower, sure, so don't be after tellin' me it was just a joke. After I went t'all the work of gettin' Brianna an' the rest t'leave you two alone."

Bea took a considered puff of her cigarette, and then stuck her tongue out at him. "An' I'll not be tellin' you thanks for that, Liam O'Shea," she shot back, lowering her voice to conspiratorial levels. "Ciaran, he's nice an' all, but it's not him I'm wantin', I think."

Liam chuckled softly. "Oh, aye, yer mystery man o' the cemetary," he drawled. "What was his name again?"

"Morgan."

"Morgan what?"

"Morgan..." Beatrice frowned, and shut her mouth with a snap. "Well, and it's not like last names were that important," she answered, sounding defensive and knowing she did. "He was tourist-folk, and sure t'be movin' on again well before I was ready for him to."

"I know, I know," he answered soothingly. "Try an' take it easy, me redhaired beauty." He levered himself up and scooted over to sit beside her. "Here, lend me a light an' tell me about it, okay? I'm sure I'll be after gettin' an earful from Ciaran himself when he wakes up."

"An' how do you know he's still asleep?"

"Ahhh," he answered, smiling. "You're here. He wouldn't be after lettin' you up o'the mornin' if he were awake."

Beatrice laughed softly. "Aye, I suppose you're right. Here." She handed him a lit cigarette.

"Thanks."

"Sure." She sighed and shrugged slightly. "Ciaran, he's - like one of th' puppies ol' man Murphy's got. He's bouncy and active and just so much work t'keep up with. An' then you just feel guilty if you reject him."

Liam snorted in laughter. "Best t'not let Ciaran hear you say that one - he's a fair bit jealous of those dogs, he is."

"Oh, an' don't I know it," she answered, laughing softly herself. "'Me da, he loves those puppies better than me own self,'" she said in a credible impersonation of Ciaran in his down moments. "'Bathes 'em every day, an' the good Lord himself forbid they should be caught out in th' rain! Never mind he left his own son out in th' rain for three hours last spring...'"

"...'An' it was a fine soft mornin' an' all, too,'" Liam finished, throwing an arm across her shoulder for a quick, friendly hug. "Stay with him for a while, Beatrice," he continued gently. "It's good for you both. He needs t'settle - and you, you need t'do anything but."

"Oh, aye, I know." Bea offered him a bright smile. "Ye tell me at least once a week."

"Well, sure," he returned, returning her smile with an affection smile of his own. "Yer me best friend, Beatrice, an' you should know by know that I'm only after tellin' you something a hundred times if it's true."

She sighed, and then laughed a little. "All right, all right. I'll be after tryin', okay? Now go on - I need t'change."

Liam grinned. "That's me girl. I'll see you at breakfast." He rose and sauntered out of the room, leaving Beatrice behind with her cigarette, her clothes, and her thoughts. She finished the one, changed the other two, and then the morning really began.

12 August 1969

She could never quite say afterwards who had started it.

A group of boys a dozen feet away had been hefting rocks thoughtfully for half the morning, as the dawn's silence gave way to the passing march and eventually to shouted insults. The Apprentice Boys were just as hot-tempered as the Bogsiders and their visitors, and the insults were flying fast and thick.

And then there was a crescendo in the shouting, and a swell of movement, and then there were rocks flying, as the mood of both crowds turned ugly.

Beatrice couldn't help herself. The mood swept her up, and swept into her, and all the careful restraint she'd learned and been taught collapsed before it. Her temper had been rising anyway, but slowly, like some great beast from the depths; the sudden influx of temper around her drove it higher. She'd be taking part in the insults, of course - wars of words were nothing new to her. She rather thought she'd gotten good at it, actually. The darker temper she was in now, though, that was something new...

She was still thinking, analyzing; that was good. She moved with the crowd as they dodged rocks and threw their own, still hurling insults and nothing more. She saw Brianna take a fist-sized stone to the shoulder, tumble to the ground, and surge back to her feet, swearing. Liam was there in an instant, one hand on her back as he threw a rock of his own. He turned his head to say something to her - and then Beatrice's arm exploded in pain.

It didn't fell her - it would have taken a harder-thrown rock to do that. It didn't break her arm. The only thing that fell and broke was her final rational stranglehold on her temper. She swore sharply, using curses she hadn't entirely realized she knew, and started snatching up stones from the pavement. She caught a few as they fell in descending arcs from the sky. And then she surged forward through the mob until she had a clear shot.

On the first throw, Beatrice discovered she had a knack for it; she aimed for a nose and was rather startled to watch it break and spray blood when the rock hit. In a distant way, she'd understood that when her Father said she was better than anyone else in Ireland at everything, he meant it. He hadn't ever taught her about warfare, or tactics, or any of the other things she'd learned from novels and histories, but she'd guessed he was including that on the list of things she'd be better at. She broke a second nose, and began to feel that she was right about that guess... and then there was a third, and her mind echoed a few distant snippets of literature...

...What I tell you three times is true...

...Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is a pattern...

Four stones... five stones... broken noses and broken bones... She shouted insults in between throws, as she looked to see who she'd aim for next. It was strangely exhilarating, she realized around stone seven - exhilarating to be fighting for something and not just fighting. It felt good to have hope that something would change. She smiled internally and hurled more rocks and insults.

The police arrived after a while. They pushed and threatened and ordered and slowly the crowd retreated into the Bogside. It was chaotic; stones still flew, past the police and into the Apprentice Boys. And then they flew into the police, and Beatrice's scattered snapshots of memory showed Liam and Brianna moving quickly down the street towards their borrowed house, and Beatrice helping haul wood into the road, and learning to hotwire cars to move them into barricading position, and learning to make petrol bombs in the boot of someone's car... Then it was back up to the front, throwing fire instead of rock until her throat was sore and she couldn't stand the smell anymore.

She retreated finally, returning to the house to sit on the steps and just breathe. She was out of the press of the crowd there, away from the pounding emotion. The pounding was a dull thump there, in fact, and it let her pull up her knees, lay her forehead on them, and examine the wreck of her mental defenses. At least there's somethin' left, she thought dubiously, poking at splintered mental walls and trying to put the pieces back together. Father would be after throwin' a fit if he were t'see this...

Father would probably be after throwin' a fit if he knew I was here.

The door opened behind her, and Ciaran sat down beside her; she knew it was him because it felt like him. "Here, Ceara," he said gently. "You've gone an' missed lunch entirely. I've made you a sandwich." He waved a plate in her line of vision.

Beatrice lifted her head to regard him, smiling slightly. "Me hands, they're covered in petrol," she objected. "How am I supposed t'be eatin' a sandwich?"

"An' how was I supposed to know?" he answered, scooting closer to her. He put an arm around her waist and smiled brightly at her from the closer distance; the warmth of his feelings for her leaked into her mind and made her blush. "I guess I'll just have t' feed it to you."

She laughed softly. "You'll make a mess."

"Tell me this, Ceara dear," he said quietly, lifting her chin with a gentle finger so he could hover a heartbeat away from a kiss, "is makin' a mess such a bad thing?"

Her blush went scarlet at his closeness and the innuendo she could hear and feel. "Sometimes," she answered, teasing. "When you're hungry an' the food is gettin' away." She gave way after a heartbeat's pause and kissed him; she pulled back slightly after a moment and leaned her forehead against his affectionately. "But you're right, Ciaran ó Murchadha - sometimes it's a grand fine mess instead."

He laughed softly. "Now see - "

The door opened and closed behind them, and Liam clattered down the steps to the street. "You'd best be lettin' the girl wash her hands, Ciaran," he said conversationally, not turning to look at them. "I'm after thinkin' you'll get a rash from the petrol if you don't."

"Liam!" Beatrice objected. Her blush just wouldn't go any brighter, but it tried.

"Well, an' I have better sense than t' do it on the street!" Ciaran called after the other man. It earned him a slap on the leg from the redhead at his side. He regarded her with a wounded pout. "What was that for?"

"If th' street, it's not the place for that," she scolded kindly, "then it's not th' place for that kind of talk either. Let's be goin' inside so I can wash me hands."

"Sure, sure," he grumbled, but it was affectionate all the same. He helped her to her feet and held the door.

Some time later, with two appetites sated, Beatrice settled down on the steps again. Ciaran had headed back into the fray, bound for Rossville Street for a different perspective on things. Liam was somewhere out there as well; Brianna was inside resting.

She lit up a cigarette and leaned back against the brick of the house. She could still feel the hum of the crowd, and it had begun to wear on her in a way she didn't care for. The shields needed repair; she was determined to do it. Section by section, brick by brick, she tore down unsteady pieces and rebuilt them into something stronger. She dropped the broken sections instead of mending them, letting in more anger and then forcing it away. It was careful, slow, patient work, and it was maddening. She didn't feel patient or careful; she felt reckless and - for once - powerful.

A small corner of her mind, the careful one, suggested that feeling reckless and powerful might not be the best thing. It could lead to all kinds of dangerous decisions...

She wrinkled her nose at the thought. She'd never been dangerous in her life - well, maybe earlier, with the rocks - and what would she do, anyway? She'd had "don't use spells in front of anyone except Family" drilled into her head for the last twenty years; it wasn't like she'd forget that. And she didn't have even a quarter of her Father's power, skill, or ability. She had no doubt he could destroy her world if he wanted to - and she'd be lucky to destroy a building, and that with more than a bit of trying.

"Thinking too much again," she said softly. A moment later, it registered that her fingers hurt - because the cigarette had burned down to them - and she swore and dropped it. "Ow."

The butt burned slowly on the pavement as she examined her fingers. Once she was satisfied that she was unhurt, Beatrice stared down at the remains of her cigarette for a moment. She really shouldn't just leave it there... Leaning down, she poked at it with one finger a few times, rolling it over and examining it. I wonder... And wondering was as good as doing, because she sent a little jolt of magic into the embers, feeding them.

The resulting fireball made her start back. She stared at the little pile of ash the flame left behind for a moment, and then murmured, "Huh."

She rose after a few more moments, as the sounds of the nearest crowd grew louder. There were rocks to be thrown and insults to share, and she couldn't very well cower behind her countrymen...

August 13, 1969

Despite her best efforts, Beatrice's shields again bent and sagged and cracked under the weight of the crowd, and this time she didn't bother to repair them. The pounding emotions soaked into her, fueling passions she hadn't realized were there: nationalism, patriotism, a reckless sense of what was right and wrong in the world...

It was heady and intoxicating and amazing, and years later, she'd wonder where it had gone.

For the moment, however, the emotion was enough. It buoyed her through the long, dark night on little sleep, and all the way until her emotions gave way to exhaustion underneath the crowd's steady beat. She dozed off, curled up in a doorway; when she awoke hours later, someone had draped a good wool blanket across her. The first thing she saw was the soft blues and greens and pinks of the tartan-like pattern; it made her smile slightly, sleepily, as a vague memory of a similar blanket and a much younger self drifted past her waking mind.

She shook herself fully awake after a few moments. The restless sounds of the crowd and the police still came to her; the doorstep she was on was reasonably far from the action. The breeze blowing down the streets of the Bogside sometimes brought an acrid smell that made her wrinkle her nose and made her eyes sting just slightly. More urgently, she could feel the press of emotion around her; it was insistent and brimming over with anger. Under the anger, though, there were softer things - sleep and dreams, love, passion...

Finally she rose from her doorstep, stiff from the hours curled against brick and on stone. The blanket she folded neatly and, after a moment's hesitation, tucked under her arm; she wasn't sure she would be able to find out who it belonged to, and she hated to leave it behind for just anyone to pick up. With a little luck, she'd run into the owner and they'd recognise her.

She made her way back to the house, her thoughts scattered and varied; a few settled on the idea of food and a shower, while others darted off towards Ciaran and Sligo and building petrol bombs and throwing stones. Bruises and broken bones... she contemplated her own aim for a few steps, and then drifted back to thoughts of Brianna's shoulder. None of them thought it was broken, but none of them had human medical training, either. Liam knew a fair bit about horse first aid, thanks to his uncle, and Ciaran knew more than a little about dogs, but none of them knew much more than how to stop bleeding and apply bandages on a person. Brianna was clearly in a lot of pain, though; she'd barely left the house since the incident, and she'd staked a claim on the most comfortable chair in the building and spent most of her time in it.

Beatrice had a bruise on her own arm, where she'd been struck by that rock. There were other bruises, too, from the chaos of the retreat and the dark of the night. She'd picked up a few scratches along one arm from somewhere - she was a little fuzzy on when, although how was crystal-clear - and a couple of burns from flaming things she didn't throw soon enough.

The thoughts carried her through the doorway and into the living room of the borrowed house. Her friends and temporary roommates were clustered around the TV there; Ciaran greeted her with a soft, "Ceara," and an arm around her waist, drawing her into the group. "Th' taoiseach, he's about to give a speech," he added in her ear.

And so he was; the four friends watched and listened quietly - or mostly quietly, as Ciaran couldn't restrain himself at the promise that Irish troops would be coming to help care for the wounded. Beatrice found herself exchanging a meaningful look with Liam before he turned to speak softly to Brianna. As the speech ended, Ciaran leaned down to speak in her ear again. "I was just after headin' back out," he suggested.

She offered him a smile. "I was after a shower an' a bit o' food, meself," she answered gently. "But maybe I'll come an' find you when I'm done?"

He smiled and kissed her. "Aye, I'd like that. I'm thinkin' I'll be off towards Rossville again." His arm slipped away and he was gone again as Beatrice nodded.

She settled down on the arm of the sofa next to Liam and waited for the conversation to finish. In the end, Brianna nodded tiredly as Liam squeezed her hand. "You're after bein' the responsible one again, aren't you?" he said after a moment, looking back at Beatrice.

"Aye," she agreed quietly. "I'd hate for you an' Ciaran t' miss the fun, after all."

He chuckled. "Y'don't fool me, you know."

Beatrice smiled brightly. "Aye, I know. Bri?" She leaned forward slightly to address the woman. "I'm thinkin' we may have to walk it... it's that or brave th' riots in me car an' hope we don't run anyone down..."

"That's all right," Brianna answered with a wan smile. "I can walk - it just hurts. I'll go get me stuff together." She carefully levered herself up out of the chair and headed off towards the bedroom.

Liam watched her until she was out of sight, then gave Beatrice another smile. "You'll be missin' the fun too, you know. I saw you out there yesterday, an' don't think I didn't notice that you were enjoyin' yourself."

Beatrice laughed softly and shook her head. "Aye, I won't argue you that one. But, Liam... I'm after thinkin' I need a breather. It's all a little intense for me."

"You keep t'yourself too much, that's why," he answered, gently scolding. "You're never after comin' to the parties you're invited to. Sometimes I'm thinkin' you only leave home t'get groceries - an' I'm not half sure why y'do that much when we both know you're less of a cook than meself."

She stuck her tongue out at him and aimed a gentle, good-natured kick his direction. It didn't hit, but then again - she wasn't really trying to hit. "I can cook just fine, I'll have you know. I just prefer not t'do it."

He snorted. "Bea, I've seen yer kitchen. You could put down crops in th' dust on the countertops."

"Sure, now you're just fibbin'," she answered, returning the gentle scold with laughter in her eyes. "It's dust an' not dirt; nothin' would grow. An' besides - I do just fine for meself without havin' to spend half the day cookin'."

"You can't live on just take-away, you know."

"An' I don't, do I?" She grinned at him. "Your mom an' dad keep invitin' me over for supper, don't they? An' I come to those."

"Not all the time, though," Liam returned promptly. "Not when you're after disappearin' to wherever it is you go."

Beatrice sobered. "No, I can't make it when those come up. It's not intentional - "

"Sure, I know. 'Somethin' came up.'" His impression of her was distinctly lacking, as always, and if it hadn't been for the subject, she would have given him a smile like she always did when he tried. "How many times have I been after hearin' that one, an' that from me best friend?"

"I'm sorry, Liam," she answered, and it was genuine. "It's just somethin' I've got t'do, an' I have t'do it on me own..."

He looked up at her and sighed. "Aye, I know; that's what you've been tellin' me every time." He slung an arm around her for a gentle hug. "An' I don't mean t'be upsettin' you, Beatrice, but it's worried I get when you vanish like that."

"I know, I know," she sighed, leaning into the hug. "I wish things didn't have t'be this way... I just don't know how t'make them any different."

Liam chuckled after a moment or two. "You might try askin' Ciaran; that one, he's been findin' ways out of things since he could walk."

She laughed softly. "I'm not sure runnin' away would solve this one." An' where would I run that he couldn't find me, when I've not the world-walking power of me own?

"An' I can't see you runnin' away anyway," he answered, tapping her lightly on the nose and smiling. "You've put too much of yerself into that house."

"Aye, that I have. I'm not after thinkin' that throwin' a temper tantrum would do me much good either."

He snorted down a laugh. "Ahhh, Bea. Don't be forgettin' that I've seen you and your temper. Remember that day at th' top of Knocknarea, when Patrick O'Monahan threw your notebook over th'side? I thought for sure you were goin' to move th' mountain to get to him once you got it back..."

"It was an important notebook!" she protested. "An' Patrick O'Monahan is an obnoxious little prat, an' no mistake."

"What was that you said t'him? Go n-ithe an cat thú, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat?"

Beatrice blushed and aimed another kick at him. "Hush."

"Now, I'm just repeatin' what you yourself said," he answered, smiling affectionately at her. "Don't be tellin' me to hush on your own words."

"An' if they're me own words, that's me own choice t' hush you, isn't it?" she scolded, laughter in her eyes again. "Or do I need t'remind you what you were after tellin' the very same Patrick O'Monahan when you two were arguin' over a miss Bridget Malone? How was that again? Go mbeire an diabhal - "

"Enough, enough!" Liam protested, laughing. "Sure, you'll be dredgin' up th' first things I was after tellin' you at this rate."

She grinned brightly, unrepentant. "You mean, 'Uh... hello'?"

He nudged her with his shoulder good-naturedly. "You know what I mean."

"Aye, I know. I was just bein' nice an' not repeatin' it." She paused and then added mischeviously, "I could, if that's what you're after..."

"No," he answered firmly. "No, no, no, no, no. I'm not after needin' t' hear me make a fool of meself from th' woman I accidentally insulted."

She laughed softly. "An' how many times do I have t'tell you that you didn't insult me?"

"At least as many times as I have t'tell you t' try takin' some chances."

"You're a stubborn man, you are," she answered, shaking her head. "I took a chance on Ciaran, now didn't I?"

"Aye, but it's one chance out of how many you've passed up this year alone?"

"Liam - "

"I know, I know." He smiled at her. "You're as stubborn as I am, an' you hate havin' this conversation. You'll do things in your own good time. I'm just tryin' to help that time come a little sooner."

"It'll come," she answered, and leaned against his shoulder again.

"Aye, you say that every time."

"Only because you're after sayin' the same thing every time."

"Sure," he chuckled, "an' that's because I figure you'll listen one o'these times."

Beatrice shook her head slightly and laughed. "One o'these times, maybe I will. But I'm not thinkin' today is th' day."

"No, I wasn't thinkin' it was, but a fella's got t'hope, right?" He smiled.

"Oh, aye, I suppose he does," she replied, returning the smile brightly. "You'll be careful, of course?"

"Of course. An' you'll take good care of her, right?"

"Yes," she answered. "I'm thinkin'... if they're set up somewhere where we'll pass on th' way out, I might leave her there an' come back, assumin' she doesn't object. That way, we can still all go home t'gether."

"As much pain as she's in?" Liam shook his head. "I'm after thinkin' she'll be so drugged, she won't notice you leavin'."

Beatrice chuckled. "Aye, I can see that." She fell silent for a moment. Then, "An' you'll try an' take good care of Ciaran, right?"

"You know I will."

"Aye, I know." She sighed. "I should probably go check on Brianna..."

"I'll do it," Liam replied.

"Time for a proper good-bye?" she asked, gently teasing.

He chuckled. "A bit of one, anyway."

"Go on, then. I'll be out here when she's ready."

Liam rose and left the room, and Beatrice slid into his vacant seat. Little thoughts were percolating now, about her house, and about ending things, and about temper tantrums; important little thoughts, though she didn't realize it at the time. As they bubbled and stewed in the corners of her mind, she quietly picked up the threads of her sorcery and re-hung the single spell she'd used in the last week, knowing it might just be handy in a little while.

Some time later, Brianna and Liam emerged again from the bedroom. After a bit of friendly argument, Beatrice claimed the rather heavy bag Brianna had packed for the trip and the pair set off for the Irish border. They took side-streets and alleys, and as the day moved into dusk, they were able to cross out of the Bogside and into the rest of the city. It was only a few miles' walk to the border, but Beatrice flagged down a taxi as soon as she could anyway; even as short a distance as they had walked so far was etching lines of pain back into Brianna's face.

There were no Irish troops in the streets of Derry; that was easy enough to see as they rode along. Brianna started muttering under her breath about the lack of support. The driver ignored it, much to Beatrice's relief, and deposited them on their requested corner, just a block from the border, with a tip of his hat and a respectful, "Ladies." She made sure he got a little extra when she paid.

They made it across the border with relative ease - despite Brianna's muttering - and there were the taoiseach's promised troops, in a field full of tents, lights, and small groups of soldiers. There were a few others already waiting to be seen, and the redhead ushered her friend into line; from there, it was a short wait - even as more wounded came trickling across the border - and then Brianna and her broken collarbone were given a bed in the hospital tent and a healthy helping of prescription drugs.

Beatrice left here there, in the care of a polite young medic by the name of Sean, and made her way back to the house. A shower was overdue... and food... and she'd like another nap before she faced the activity again...

August 14, 1969

Beatrice submerged herself again in the crowd as the sun rose over the streets of Derry. She had faded from the front lines after a while, not wanting to draw too much attention to herself; she spent time building petrol bombs in the boots of cars and on tables in dark basements, but that bored her after a while. She drifted among the crowd, stopping to shout insults with group after group, feeling the fire and passion all around her.

She was there on Great James' Street when the RUC fired on the riot - and then she took action again, sheltering the injured with a hail of missles. She threw whatever came to hand, and those around her kept plenty to hand: rocks, bits of rubbish... eventually a few petrol bombs made their way into her hands, and she threw those, too, and watched the fires burn until the tear gas was sent in again. She was forced to retreat then, along with everyone else, and she moved on to another place in the Bogside.

That was how her day went; insult, attack, retreat, move on again. She met up with Ciaran around lunchtime again, and they dallied together an hour or so. She caught up with Liam as the B-Specials arrived, and their eyes met as the crowd turned uglier and they moved with it. Isolated Beatrice might have been, but she knew her history, and she knew what those uniforms meant; they spoke back to killings forty years before, and more before that. Even she found she hated them and what they represented, though how much of that hatred came from the crowd around her, she couldn't say.

Finally, finally, late in the afternoon, when the British army arrived and cleared space between the Bogside and the police, Beatrice's energy waned. Liam knew the look, and when he caught it, he moved to her side and they walked away together. "Had enough?" he asked when they were far enough from the crowd to hear each other speak.

"Aye," she agreed. "An' more besides."

He chuckled and patted her shoulder. "Let's get back t'the house then; Ciaran, he'll be in sooner or later."

"That he will. But I'm not after leavin' until this lot have sorted themselves out," she warned. "Me little car, it's not made for riot-breakin'."

"An' th' way this has gone, I wouldn't be after askin' it of you, me too-worried redhead," Liam answered affectionately. "For all we know, th' army will be throwin' rocks by lunchtime tomorrow."

A comfortable little silence fell between them, until she broke it again with, "You'll have t'be back soon, won't you? To th' farm?"

"Aye, they're expectin' me back tomorrow." He chuckled again. "Come hell or invasion, I think; you know they know where we've got off to, right?"

She frowned a little, as she always did when Liam's parents knew rather more about where she was than she liked. "That doesn't surprise me..."

"...But you're not after likin' it. I know, I know." He shook his head. "Someone had to - you know Brianna an' her sister, they're not on th' best o'terms this week, an' Ciaran, well..."

"Aye, 'well.'" She laughed softly. "D'ye think we should have brought one of the dogs?"

Liam laughed with her. "One rock, an' we would have faced a wrath as great as th' Good Lord's."

Beatrice rewarded him with a brilliant smile. "Aye, isn't that th' truth. It's near t'dinner time, isn't it?"

"How about another cookin' lesson?"

She wrinkled her nose slightly. "Only if you're after payin' more attention than th' last time, Liam O'Shea. There's no tellin' how long we'll be here, an' I don't want t'waste th' food."

He snorted a laugh in response. "You didn't waste it, Beatrice. You charred it."

"It was an accident," she shot back with as much dignity as she could manage - he wasn't far off. "I thought you said twenty minutes, not twelve."

"Aye, an' three-fifty instead o' two-fifty. Ye have t'admit, though, it made a pretty fair brick."

He received an extremely dirty look for his trouble, but it was good-natured. "Come on, then, let's hurry back. I need a few more bricks for me fence, anyway."

Liam laughed, and after a moment, so did Beatrice; together, they moved away to the house and what turned out to be a surprisingly quiet evening. Ciaran came in late, limping a bit, and was happy to settle for sleep instead of a repeat of lunchtime.

August 15, 1969

The morning dawned clear; Beatrice was awake to greet it. Something had changed during the night - anger moving to a certain relief in the mob outside, perhaps - and she slept restlessly. She sat on the empty bed, the one Liam would have slept in if arrangements hadn't changed the first night, and stared out the eastward-facing window.

She'd always been fond of the dawn, when black turned to blue with all the colors of fire in between. It was a good time for thinking - and a good time for finally properly rebuilding those shields, just in case she had visitors waiting at home. So she did - taking the time to tear down and reweave the barrier between her mind and the minds around her. Without the urgency of the crowd's minds beating against her, demanding action, she could focus on the task and do a proper job of it.

Not just a proper job - a better job. She had learned firsthand something of the power of a mob, and she wove the knowledge into her barriers, into very fabric of them, making strong the places where they had cracked and making stronger the places where they had remained. It had been a few years since she'd last done this; there were other bits of knowledge to integrate, too. Refreshing her shields like this had always felt a little like cleaning and repairing a favorite old blanket; it was still the same old comfortable thing, but bright and new once again.

Minutes melted away into an hour, and finally she stretched, smiled, and turned to regard her sleeping... boyfriend? Lover? She considered both words for a while, and settled on 'boyfriend' as the better option. It covered 'lover', after all, and included their friendship as well. Here, in a moment of quiet, her magery wrapped comfortably around her, she was sorely tempted - as she had never been before - to reach out and touch his mind, to see what he was dreaming. It was rude and invasive without his permission, she knew, and it wasn't something she might have ordinarily considered, only she'd felt the touch of his mind the day before - felt the warmth of his affection for her and wondered at it.

So she sat and argued with herself. Sometimes she just watched him sleep. Much later, he rolled onto his back, and then to face her, bright blue eyes searching out her green ones with a smile. "An' here I thought you were gone already," he said softly, sleep making his deep voice deeper and lending it a slight rumble.

"No," she answered, smiling. "Not just yet. I woke up an' couldn't get back t'sleep, that's all. I didn't want t'wake you up before you were ready."

He lifted himself up on one elbow and returned her smile with a charming one of his own. "Well, an' I'm ready... So why don't you come back t'bed an' get a proper mornin' kiss?"

Beatrice laughed softly. "It's not just a kiss you're wantin', Ciaran, an' well I know it." But she climbed back into the bed with him anyway - and to no one's surprise, it was some time later when they actually got up.

Beatrice, Ciaran, and Liam shared a last lunch - cooked by Liam, who refused to let Beatrice near the kitchen despite the success of dinner the night before - with their temporary roommates. The whole group pitched in to clean up their mess in the house, and to pack, and by early afternoon they were able to turn the house back over to the proper owners.

The streets were calm enough for Beatrice to not mind driving, so with Ciaran in the front and Liam in the back this time, they drove across the border into the Republic again. Brianna, one fist on her hip and the other arm in a sling, was waiting for them at the medical tent; she slid into the car with an impatient, "Well? What did I miss?"

The miles rolled away under the little car as they filled her in, and some time later, after she'd dropped off all three of her friends, Beatrice parked her little car in her own driveway. Something had come to mind as she drove - an image, an idea, spawned from a passing song on that rebel radio station - and the surge of creative energy sent her inside and down to the easel in the cellar without a second thought for the packed bag in the trunk...