The Green Hills of Memory: Springtime Dreams

Beatrice and Morgan, Ireland, 1101 a.c.

The War was a very recent memory for Morgan. For the Son of Corwin it was as easy to recall as yesterday, as close as his back pocket. What does a veteran with total recall do to forget? The answer is simple; he cannot. He can distract himself from the crushing reality of it all, the loss of life, and while he was never what he would call 'innocent', Morgan knew that he left something behind in the War. Something that he would never get back, it was nothing he could define, though there was something of innocence to it, but nameless or not, defined or not, it was gone all the same. The War and his mates had been his life for seven years, and he hated the fact that when he was brutally honest with himself, something that happened when he thought 'What would Martin say?'; he knew he missed it. He was many, many times older than the length of the War, and yet, it had left as indelible an impression as The Grand Pattern itself had. The Morgan that had flown from Avalon was not the Morgan that slept in Ireland now, he was not even the same Morgan that had met Beatrice that first time, years ago for her and for him. He turned from the window, to regard Beatrice's sleeping form in her bed, the bed they had shared now for several days, another trip to Ireland from Summerisle, this one was to shop for a few old world things for that old fort.

Beatrice had been sunlight in the shadows; he smiled slightly as he gazed upon her. As beautiful as the first day he had seen her, lovely enough to take to the Winter Court and boast that she was his. She was new to his world, to Amber; showing it to her, and taking her into Shadow, making a house a home, they helped to keep him from dwelling on what he could never forget. Beatrice stirred, and Morgan returned to the bed, lest his absence wake her. Morgan pushed the cries of dying horses and the smell of blood from his mind, and forced himself into a fitful slumber.

An hour passed, two, and the first stirring began. The slumbering Morgan began to sweat, as if he were running a marathon, and his breath came hard and fast. He twitched beside Beatrice, his legs sometimes kicking, grunting words, commands, acknowledgments under his breath. He called the names of dead men, and whispered directions to Fiach, and finally in a voice that rattled the windows, he bellowed, "LOOK OUT!"

Beatrice's eyes snapped open at the shout, and between one breath and the next, before her mind caught up with the reaction, she dove over the edge of the bed. She hit the floor on her hands and knees and rolled to the side just enough to set her back against the mattresses. She took several hard, fast breaths, adrenaline surging...

...And then her waking mind kicked in, noting with mildly confused interest that she was lying on the rug beside her bed, braced for some sort of impact, when she could swear she'd just gone to bed with Morgan not too long ago.

She sat up and shook her head sharply to dislodge the fuzzy feeling that something was going on. There was, so far as she knew, very little in County Sligo that night that could be a serious danger to her bedroom. She sighed and levered herself up to get back in bed, with a quiet, "Morgan?"

Morgan was still asleep, though not at all peacefully. His arms and legs twitched, and she could hear his murmurs, whispers, and words now. He spoke names she didn't know, and couple she did, and was clearly in distress. His expression went from alarmed, to firm resolve, to profound sadness. "Dinnae worry, Lad, I'll haveya on yer feet in no time. Nonna that now, ye can be tellin yer Mum that yerself, this is a million crown wound, lad, we'll send ye home for sure." She could see tears squeezed out of the corners of eyes that were tightly shut, "E's dead, Sam. I couldnae get all the shrapnel out -- INCOMING!"

Despite herself, Beatrice ducked just slightly at the final word. She caught herself before she did more than that, and - taking her gut reaction as firmly in-hand as she could - she crawled back up onto the bed and reached out towards him with a muttered Irish curse.

She paused, hand outstretched. Something sparked memories, one of how he had brushed aside her magic with Pattern and will without ever really knowing it was her - and something distant and vague, something with her Father in it and a child's night fears. She held there in the quiet moonlight for a moment, and with a thought checked her shields - which were solid - and poured a little extra into their strength.

"You may well come t'regret this, girl," she murmured softly to herself, and then she reached out and touched her lover's shoulder. She said his name again, stronger, trying to command his attention. "Morgan."

Morgan was suddenly an explosion of motion, and she had barely laid her hand upon him for the space of a breath. He whirled from the bed and to his feet in a motion so swift and smooth, she could swear he'd done just that countless times before. His bare left arm went entirely silver, the metal covering his left pectoral, his shoulder, and likely his shoulder blade, all the way down his arm to the silvery fist at the end. Ogham characters glowed blue-white all along its length, as it formed in bands. His right hand burst into flame, the fingers and thumb pressed together to turn his hand into a fiery blade. She recognized fighting posture when she saw it, his knees bent, his center lowered, his expression a murderous scowl, his green eyes bright and lit by blue fire.

"F**k!" Beatrice scrambled backwards off the bed and to her own feet.

She froze there for a moment, her eyes a bit wide, thinking. Her left hand drifted up until the fingertips rested among the moonstones and gold of her necklace; the right stayed at her side a moment as her eyes flicked to the nightstand and then back to Morgan. Then she managed what was almost a "why didn't I think of this sooner?" smirk as she pointed at the alarm clock and with a breath of magic, set it off.

Morgan was startled by the clock, and for a split second, it seemed that the ringing device was in mortal danger. Then the caul of sleep was torn of his eyes, as they opened wide and realized what he was doing and where he was. He shook his hand a few times, as if he thought it were not a fire of his own making, and then frowned at it before it went out. He looked at his arm, and then at Beatrice, his eyes widening.

"Oh Goddess." He whispered, and took a few steps towards her, "Did I hurt you? Are you alright?" The Silver Arm remained, while the tone in his voice was of deep concern and mortification.

Wariness and worry were writ large across Beatrice's expression as she watched him wake, her fingertips still resting on her necklace until she was sure he was awake. Only when he spoke did the look on her face and in her eyes soften, the wariness easing away. "I'm fine, love." She paused to direct a withering glare at the alarm clock, which promptly stopped making noise. "Ye didn't hardly touch me, not with spells an' not with anythin' else. I might have a bit o' rug burn, but that's from twice gettin' outta th' bed too fast, it is, an' not anythin' you did." She moved to the end of the bed and held out her hands to him.

Morgan moved towards her and sagged to his knees on the rug; he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her where she sat on the end of the bed. He was careful with his silvery arm, and when she touched it, it was cool to the touch, and as smooth and hard as one would expect metal to be. "Goddess, I'm sorry Bea." He whispered.

"Shh," she answered gently, sliding her arms around him to return the hug. "There's nothin' t' be apologizing for. We're neither of us hurt, love." She rested her head against his, the gesture comforting and somehow just slightly protective as well, though from what she might be intending to protect him wasn't entirely clear. "Nothin's broken, even."

She smiled slightly into his hair after a moment and leaned back to meet his eyes. "Next time ye have a nightmare, though, I'm after thinkin' I'll be startin' with th' alarm clock an' not th' tryin' to shake you awake. Ye startled me pretty thoroughly."

Morgan's breathing was slowing down as he held her. He closed his eyes and took a moment to clear his head, not quite recalling where he had been inside his subconscious, when she had tried to wake him. He held tightly to her with his normal arm, the gingerness with which he moved his Silver Arm giving her a hint about what it was capable of. "Beatrice, I didnae meanta scareye, t'was the dreamin' -- the bloody nightmare." He winced at the familiar curse, 'bloody' indeed.

The eyes that met hers were a startlingly clear green, sunlight through a new grown leaf. "If I'd hurtye..." He shook his head slowly.

"I know," Beatrice answered softly. She freed one arm - not coincidentally the one on the same side as his silvered arm - and cupped his cheek with her hand. "Surely you're not after thinkin' I've made it this long without seein' someone have a nightmare?" The smile she gave him showed that she was just slightly teasing him, trying to get him to smile in return. "I knew I was takin' a chance, tryin' to wake you up in th' middle of what you were dreamin', but you seemed so upset, love, an' I couldn't leave you in th' grip of whatever it was..."

Morgan lowered his eyes, "Jus' another nightmare. I - I was working on a boy, crying for his Mother." He shook his head, "I think I'm needin' a shower, an' mebbe some cocoa or warm milk." He hugged her again, and settled with his head on her shoulder for a moment. "I tried ta save 'em all ye ken? They were like my own kin. Such young faces, likely ne'er kissed a girl, an' there he was -- dyin' in fronta my eyes." Morgan took deep breath, "Ye get on back to bed then, I'll be alright now -- takes a bit for Nuada's arm to fade, but I'm used ta it, an' willnae crush a mug."

Beatrice gently lifted his head from her shoulder and searched his face and his eyes for - something. Her bright eyes were still worried. "Morgan, love?" she said softly. "Memory an' dream together, that's a powerful combination, an' you'll not be tryin' to pass it off t'me as 'just another nightmare.' But - " She dropped a feather-light kiss on his forehead. "I'm not after pressin' you any more about it. Go and shower; I'm thinkin' I've got a bit too much adrenaline goin' still to sleep yet, so I'll go an' poke around the kitchen an' see what I can find."

Morgan sighed, "It's jus' -- it wasnae that long ago. Sometimes 'tis enough to see a young lad of tender years, an' I jus' cannae forget." He shrugged gently, "But ye're right, twasnae jus' another nightmare." He smiled gently when she kissed his forehead, and kissed her lips before he got wearily to his feet, and pulled her to hers. "Aye, lemme wash, an' I'll giveya a proper one of those." Morgan nodded, and turned towards the bathroom and the shower. He frowned at his silvery arm, and shrugged, clearly it wouldn't rust.

Beatrice let her fingers trail down Morgan's arm as he moved away, still just slightly worried about him. "Come down t' the kitchen when you're done," she said. "If you want... we can talk..." She smiled just a little. "Well, you'll likely be the one after doin' all the talkin', but I'll listen if you want to."

Morgan smiled at her as her fingers trailed down his arm. He nodded, and walked away. Before he turned a corner he seemed to be poking his arm with his other hand, as if annoyed that it wouldn't go away. He slipped out of his cotton pajama pants, it was all he had worn to bed, and stepped into the shower. He turned the heat up, and stood underneath the water for a long silent moment. He closed his eyes and focused, pushing the dreams and the memories from his mind. Slowly, he found his center again, and dismissed the spell upon his arm with directed effort of Will; conjurations did not break easily, especially one's as long lasting as Nuada's Silver Arm.

Close to a half an hour later, he came downstairs toweling his hair off, wearing a pair of black boxers, his skin still steaming from the heat of the shower. Morgan was wide awake, the combination of hot shower and cool air having done the job, she could tell by the brightness of his eyes. His expression, however, was still a bit weary.

"Did we have any marshmallows left from last time?" He asked lightly, walking up behind her and slipping his arms around her.

Beatrice turned her head slightly to smile at him; the kitchen was heavy with the smell of chocolate... and both the stove - where she was warming some milk - and the oven were on. She was in the t-shirt she'd gone to bed in, which was ridiculously oversized and badly faded; whatever it had once said, the words and images were long gone. It fell just past mid-thigh, and she probably could have fit Morgan inside it with her and still had extra room.

"I think there's a few left - and I'm not sure that marshmallows go bad, either, so they should be safe." She was wide awake, of course; once she woke up, she was generally awake for a while. "They should be in the pantry - middle shelf, maybe?"

Morgan kissed the nape of her neck, after gently brushing aside her fiery red hair, and then moved to the pantry to check on the marshmallow supply. "Ha! Tupperware hath saved the day." He pulled out a blue topped container, and in it, a rolled shut bag of marshmallows, about half the usual size each; perfect for cocoa, hot or otherwise. He returned to her side, and prepped their mugs, peeking into the oven. "Whatcha makin'?"

"Brownies," she answered, as though there was nothing at all odd about cooking brownies at - according to the clock over the doorway - three a.m. "The mix, it was about to go off, so I thought I might as well cook it." She slipped an arm around his waist, stirring the milk with the other hand, and fell silent for a moment; by the look in her eyes, it was a fair guess that she was remembering something. Finally, "My father and I, when I was little..." She looked up at him with the strange little smile she sometimes wore when talking about a good memory of Brand. "I had a few of me own night terrors when I was very small, an' I'm going to say some of them weren't his fault, but... he never made me go back to bed after them. We'd always stay up and do something - usually cooking or lessons."

Morgan smiled, "Mmm, Brownies." The expression did not quite reach his eyes. He gathered her to his side when she put an arm around him. He met her eyes, "Night terrors? Is that what it was? Good, I'm gladya jus' weren't ignored and sent packin'. Nuthins worse than lyin' in bed starin' at the stone ceilin', wonderin' if the nightmares will somehow come ta life and getya." Morgan leaned down and kissed her lightly, "Brownies are better than lessons, by far. Brand always struck me as someone that knew a nightmare or two."

She smiled, a little sadly. "Some of th' nightmares were real; I just hadn't met them yet." She stirred the milk again, and then snorted in quiet laughter. "I seem t'remember one of them was that your Da was going to eat me, an' I couldn't find a place to hide from him, but I could run..." She shook her head. "An' there were the normal ones for kids, too... things under the bed, things outside the windows. I was terrified of the dark for a while, but every time someone left a light on, I'd manage t'cast a spell in my sleep and set something on fire..." A moment of silence, and then, "Aye, he had th' odd nightmare. There's reason why I didn't do more than touch you when I went t'wake you."

Morgan hugged her a bit, "Aye, I ken how that can be. If we werenae in a place made a bit more real by soakin' up the presence o' Da an' Flora, we might be dealin' with stuff outta Shadow." He shook his head, it was clearly an experience he'd already . "Ye were only in trouble if ye went ta bed wearin' relish." He half-smiled a bit, "I had similar about Eric I think, well, that might've been 'cuz Da said he did." Morgan smiled, "An' ye said I was the pyro." He sobered a little, and nodded. "Aye, best not to o'erly shock me or Brand awake, tonight it was spells, tomorrow I could conjure a beastie..." He shook his head.

"You set fire t'things intentionally," she answered, a bit more cheerfully. "I was only a child, an' me Father started on th' fire spells first." She sighed and leaned against him lightly, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. "No conjurin' beasts in th' bedroom, now. That'll be a fair bit more trouble t'contain than your sorcery, an' harder on th' furniture, too. I thought about tryin' to touch your mind, but I was after thinkin' that might not be th' best approach either."

"Aye, I do." He sighed, "Things explode by accident." Morgan smiled, "I've always been handy with fire." He chuckled softly, "Aye, bad for the furniture indeed, an' the County if a Jabberwock gets loose." Morgan shook his head, "Aye, ye didnae wanna see what was in there at that moment. Trust me on that. I cannae forget, there's nae reason ta put that in yer mind, when ye've manuscripts ta finish and all."

"It wasn't what I was goin' to see that I was worried about," Beatrice corrected gently. "You were talkin' in your sleep; I had a fair idea of what might be going on. I just wasn't too eager t'find out if you were goin' to decide my touch was an attack an' strike right back." She gave him a one-armed hug and smiled slightly, looking up to meet his eyes. "That's not much fun t'deal with. It went as well as it could have, love; I had a spell in mind to keep your sorcery under control if th' alarm didn't work, an' I always could have run, since you were nearest th' window and all. Beasts... that I'd have t'think about." She hesitated, and then added, "Do you want t' talk about it?"

Morgan took a breath as she described his nightmare from her perspective. "Ya did the right thing, an' hurtin'ya is nae sumthin' I ever wanna do by accident or otherwise." He looked at his free hand a moment, his eyes distant for the space of a breath. When she hugged him, he came back to himself and met her eyes. "Good. This is why I've put up my sword an' dinnae leave my pistol lyin' about." Morgan sighed, "Maybe over, Brownies, A Run, I'll try ta tellya some, maybe it'll help me get back ta sleep."

"I know ye don't want to hurt me, accident or otherwise," she answered in that gentle voice she'd used earlier. "As long as I'm awake, I've a better'n fair chance of preventin' that, Morgan, an' well ye ought t' know that. I don't walk around loaded up with enough firepower t' take out London, sure, but I do well enough." She kissed his cheek lightly. "Here, love, I think th' milk is ready for the cocoa; stir it one more time for me, an' pour? I need to check on the brownies." She handed him the spoon she'd been stirring with and reached for a pair of potholders on the counter.

Morgan nodded, "I ken thatya have yer own defenses, Beatrice. But today it was Fire and the Arm, I dinnae want next time ta be a fireball or the Storm." He shook his head, and did as he was asked. He stirred and poured, and soon had two hot mugs of cocoa, one with marshmallows. He carried them over to the table, and took a seat as he asked after the brownies, "How are those coming along?" Morgan looked into his mug, watching the marshmallows float in circles.

"Alarm clock first," she answered mildly as she pulled out the pan of brownies. "They'll want a minute or two to cool, I'm thinking, but I think they're ready." She trailed off, looking around blankly, and then moved to a drawer to get a knife. "An' if the alarm doesn't work," she continued, "well, then I'll have t'start bein' more creative. Don't get me wrong, love - I'm not discountin' your worry." She paused, knife in hand, and offered him a quiet smile. "But surely you're not after thinkin' I'm going to let you suffer through those without tryin' to do something..."

Morgan smiled, watching her move about the kitchen. "Okay, as long as ye're careful, and keep yer wits aboutya. I know there's at least three shields ta protect ya, but I'd rather not damage the place either -- any place we are." He nodded, "Alarm clock is best I think. Simple too. We'd best get one for all our places." Morgan shook his slightly when she smiled, "Nae, I dinnae think thatya would, e'en if ya should." He sipped his cocoa, green eyes going distant once again.

"I've a few thoughts, an' I've been meanin' to change out what I keep hung anyway," she answered, turning back to the brownies. "We'll probably want t'get th' ones with the clapper an' the two bells; they're easier to set off than th' electronic ones, an' at least th' bells should work just fine in Amber..." She cautiously pried a brownie out and took a bite. "Mmph. Aye, they're still a bit hot for eatin'," she said ruefully, dropping it on top of the rest and sucking at one finger. "I always manage t'do that..." She snorted a soft laugh after a moment. "Just can't wait... me Father used t'do the same thing, dependin' on what we were cookin'." There was another pause, and then she scooped up the pan with the potholders and brought it with her to the table. "All right, love?"

Morgan considered her words, "Aah, that might be a good idea. As would a fire extinguisher." He nodded, "Aye, the old fashioned sort, with cogs and wheels would be best and loudest." He shook his head, and after she had placed the pan down on the table, he took her hand, and as he hummed blew upon her finger. It cooled, and soon felt better. "You should be careful." He pressed her hand to the side of his face, "I like these as soft as they are right now." Morgan sighed, "My mind's still on a memory is all..."

"I don't think I'll be needin' a fire extinguisher," Beatrice answered thoughtfully, "but we can get one if it'll be after makin' you feel better." She smiled and blushed brightly as he pressed her hand to his face; after a moment, she gently stroked his cheek with her thumb. "Ah, Morgan... You're always welcome to tell me about it, you know, but you don't have to - especially if you're not ready..."

Morgan leaned into her touch slightly, his eyes closing as he took a long slow breath. "T'was about three years in." He began in a soft voice, soft baritone that she knew he could make the very last person in a taproom hear, without the aid of magic. "Long enough for Replacements ta be sent in. Those of us that were there from the word go, we were a little hard on 'em. Not because we didnae like 'em, No, but 'cuz we didnae wanna like 'em too much." He opened his eyes, and looked into hers. "Kids, all of them, just kids. By then, everyone had learned ta keep a little distance, so when a mate died, it didnae hurt so much." Morgan paused and reached for his cocoa, swallowing hard. "There was one, Ellis Fitzshane. He was bound an' determined ta make friends."

Beatrice's head tipped just slightly as she listened; she frowned just slightly after he opened his eyes, likely at the age of the reinforcements, but she didn't seem like she planned to interrupt. When he set the mug down again, she rested her free hand against his beside the mug, fingertips gently brushing the back of his hand.

"Ellis was a bit o' a goof. He had this bright carrot-red hair, y'know, not so much fiery like yours, but almost orange, and freckles that seemed as big as my thumb print. Goddess, he was one o' those kids thatya jus' liked despite yerself. It was like havin' a mascot, an' he could play harmonica like nobody's business." Morgan smiled slightly at the memory. "He got a bit drunk on leave one time, an' he got his head shaved, inta what do they call it? A mohawk. His Mates thought it hilarious, an' we all took ta callin' him 'Rooster', cuz now he had the comb."

Beatrice smiled at that, quietly.

Morgan took a breath, "Rooster died a week later." He looked at his hands, "Right under these. Some o' the warriors we fought on the road, they exploded. I mean, ye'd run them through, an' boom. If they're in armor, the shrapnel could kill yer mates, sever limbs, make ya blind, killya outright, or all o' the above." He looked into his mug, "It was a rush, Rooster an' his Mates were on picket. I heard the first boom, sent 'Gina the word, an' me an' Fiach rushed in. I knew there'd be wounded, y'see?" He shook his head, "There was. Rooster had put a bullet in one at close range, it blew an' he took the worst of it, but it caused a chain reaction, an' other baddies exploded too. So much blood. Another two lads were down, so I had ta decide who ta try an save. Rooster was the youngest, Allan -- he had two little boys back home, Jameson -- a bachelor, an' older fella." Morgan looked up into her eyes, his gaze shockingly clear, "D'ya ken what its like ta decide what a man's worth?"

Beatrice met his eyes with real sympathy in hers, her fingers tightening just slightly against his skin - but she had to shake her head just slightly.

"Allan had a piece of metal in 'im as big as my hand, I pulled it, checked for shrapnel, an' healed him. He was on his feet again -- took three steps, was killed by arrows. He was dead before he hit the ground." Morgan sniffed, and took a deep breath. "Mebbe I coul've saved Rooster if I'd worked on him first, mebbe both him and Allan. I was diggin' 'round in Rooster's belly, lookin' for the shrapnel. Ya cannae close the wound with bloody hot metal left inside a body, he'd jus' die later." He tilted his head and covered one of his ears with his hand, and unconscious gesture. "He cried for his Mother, he was wanted her to know he loved her. He cried for me, 'Morg, Morg! Don't you let me die! I don't wanna die!', and then his Mother again. By the time I found the metal, he was gone." Morgan's nostrils flared, "Fiach covered me, Sammy pulled me away. We had ta go back later for the bodies."

"Later on, a buncha Rooster's mates shaved their heads inta mohawks, and dyed their hair." Morgan looked at her, seemingly on the verge of tears, but not letting himself go that far. "I wrote that song later, after the War, in Cornaro -- before you arrived." He finally lifted his cocoa for a drink. "It's not the blood or the battles, it’s those moments where I had to choose -- I can see where other choices might've led me." Morgan took a final deep breath, "I remember all of them."

Her eyes were bright, too, with sympathy and sadness and worry for him, and after a moment's silence, she rose and moved to his side. She put her arms around him quietly, much as she'd done in the bedroom a little while before, and spoke softly into his ear and against his hair. "Oh, love... Morgan, ye canna know where th' other choices could have gone. I canna be after tellin' you that I don't do it meself, but trackin' th' other paths and askin' yerself if it couldna have gone better if ye'd done it a different way... that's a dark path, it is, an' not one that's goin' to be doin' anyone any good, most especially yerself."

"Easy ta say, A Run, easy ta say." He shook his head slightly, "There's little ones that won't see their Dad or Mum ever again, possibly cuz o' what I decided."

Beatrice sighed. "Aye, well I know that it's easier t'say than t'do."

She paused, her head bowing slightly against his, and in a much softer voice, so low that if there had been anyone else in the room doing something so small as breathing, he might not have heard it, added, "An' war, it's no place for th' children, be they eight or eighteen - or even twenty. Ye remember me talkin' about Ciaran, me friend what died in his twenties?"

Morgan nodded slightly, and slipped his arms around her, sighing softly. "Aye, I remember. Was it a war that took 'im then?"

"Ye could say that," she answered, still speaking quietly. "He got himself involved with th' IRA, right as things started heatin' up again at th' end of th' Sixties. An' he was fine for a few years - convinced that he wasna goin' to be so much as hurt, because he hadn't been before. He was so sure o' himself, full of th' patriotism an' need t'make th' island whole again..." She trailed off for a moment, and then sighed. "He went up t'Belfast in th' spring of Seventy-three... I never did hear who he was up there with, but it bein' Ciaran... he probably went up by himself. There was a riot th' third day he was there - an' he was right, he was, he never did get hurt. Just got himself killed, killed so thoroughly that they cremated him instead o' havin' a casket... There wasna enough left for a full-sized casket, his Da said."

Morgan winced slightly, "Aye, that's how it can be. Sometimes there's nothin', other times there is, but no husband, wife, father, mother or child should have a look at what's been done to their loved one." He hugged her close, "At leastya didnae have ta see your friend like that. Ye can remember him as he was, which is for the best." He took a deep breath, and continued to hold her there, until his cocoa cooled.

"Aye," she agreed. "So full o'himself that he was like t'burst if ye hugged him too hard." There was gentle laughter in that statement, a laughter that faded and was gone when she picked up again with, "There was a song, a bit of a satire that was written... oh, about th' time we met, I'm after thinkin', about th' cost of th' IRA's war... I don't know if ye heard it when you were here..." She pulled her head back slightly to meet his eyes and smile a bit sadly.

Then she started to sing - something Morgan hadn't really heard her do before, at least not solo; she'd sung along with the radio once or twice, and a few times with him, but mostly she was a listener who claimed she wasn't much of a singer. Despite her claims, her singing voice was as pleasant as her speaking voice, though clearly untrained, and the Irish accent shone through in every word.

"Come all you young rebels and list while I sing
For love of one's country is a terrible thing
It banishes fear with the speed of a flame
And makes us all part of the patriot game

My name is O'Hanlon, I'm just gone sixteen
My home is in Monaghan, and there I was weaned
I learned all my life cruel England to blame
And so now I'm part of the patriot game

It's barely a year since I wandered away
With the local battalions of the bold IRA
I read of our heroes and wanted the same
To play out my part in the patriot game

They told me how Connolly was shot in a chair
His wounds from the fighting all bloody and bare
His fine body twisted, all battered and lame
They soon made me part of the patriot game

This Ireland of mine has for long been half-free
Six Counties lie under John Bull's Monarchy
But still DeValera is greatly to blame
For shirking his part in the patriot game

I don't mind a bit if I shoot down police
They are lackeys for war never guardians of peace
And yet at deserters I'm never let aim
The rebels who sold out the patriot game

And now as I lie with my body all holes
I think of those traitors who bargained in souls
I'm sorry my rifle has not done the same
For the Quislings who sold out the patriot game"

She leaned her head back against his when she'd finished and was quiet again. And then, softly, "Pass me th' brownie I started earlier, would you, love? They ought t'be cool enough now..."