Conn stood stolidly by the door of An Beitheach's hall, watching the other men take their morning meal. Bright beams of morning sun came through the openings in the wall to the outside, slanting over the long benches spread with breads and meats, glinting on the golden cups, and warming the enormous shaggy dogs who slept in the pools of light.  His face settled into a scowl. 

He was always amongst the last to take a turn at each meal, always the one posted at the doorways as a watch. A watch against what? A force that was cunning enough to find their way through the mountains' heart was cunning enough not to be outdone at the final doorway by Conn Ó Cleirigh. But no such force existed. His scowl deepened, seeing An Beitheach at the head of his table taking his meal and shouting with his men, Maedbh beautiful about his shoulders. Who was he to treat him like this? He, Conn was no slave. He had shown before that he would be bound to none.

He shifted a little at that memory, and then caught sight of one who hovered in the passageway just behind him, as though unwilling to either enter or leave.

A girl with dark curls and pale dirt streaked face. A girl he had played with and fought with in childhood. A girl who knew well what he had done, and whose family had borne the smart.

"Enter or leave Beibhinn, but do not attempt both," he said, as sharp as the thorn of memory  that she had stirred.

Beibhinn looked hard at him, and the eyes which had once flashed with laughter or temper now held nothing but disdain. His own gaze shifted away swiftly. Though not before they noticed, for they were plain enough for the blind, the shadows on his foster sister's face.

"Conn," she said coldly, " I had hoped not to even find you in such a place as this."

Conn frowned harder yet. Was that an insult? He could not tell. He never could tell with Béibhinn.

"Though," Béibhinn continued, "Ruadhán tells me that you are well established here."

"Not so well established as you it seems," he replied, "from what I can tell, you are An Beitheach's guest. I, merely - one of his men. Why then do you not go in?"

Béibhinn looked hard at him, expression still disdainful, "I know you are not so witless as to be unable to answer your own question." Suddenly she seemed to reach a decision for, with a curt nod, she stepped past him into the hall.

A certain amount of whistling greeted her entrance. It meant nothing, Conn knew, it was just their way. And what harm in it? It did not trouble Beibhinn, with her chin raised as she walked to a place near Meadhbh. But memory prodded Conn that Beibhinn and her brothers had kept their chins very high that time when they met the wolves in the forest long ago...when they had all gotten lost in the mist Oíche Shamhna, when.... Conn shifted his position and reminded himself of how hungry he was, and that soon pushed any kindling sparks of pity or sympathy for Béibhinn from his mind, replaced with pity and sympathy for Conn Ó Cleirigh.

Tired and unoccupied, he braced his back against the stone of the doorway and let his eyes rest on the figures within the hall, absorbing their doings with little effort .

"Ho Vixen! Maidin maith agat!" An Beitheach hollered his customary greeting as, Conn noticed, Maedhbh glowered from behind his shoulder, like a dampened cat. But there was it seemed, a certain edge in An Bheitheach's voice that morning. Conn was familiar with it, and he was glad to hear it directed at anyone other than himself. 

Béibhinn nodded frigidly and took the place by his side as indicated. 

 Not too proud for that, are you? thought Conn, Know what's good for yourself all the same. 

She hadn't done a thing, and she was getting breakfast.

 An Bheitheach's interest turned from her as soon as she was seated, and Beibhinn kept her look vacantly to the front, as though  oblivious to the men seated beore her. After a few moments she reached quietly for a jug, her hand gliding unobtrusively over the table surface, but before she grasped it, An Bheitheach suddenly thought to offer it to Maedhbh, removing it from her reach. The vague expression dropped from Beibhinn's face for an instant, but before Conn could read what replaced it, it returned again. 

Several more minutes passed. Then  from the doorway he could see her reach, again so quietly, for the rough cut tranches of bread, piled in a basket almost before her. Again, An Beitheach pulled it from her reach before she could take any,  offering it not to Maedhbh this time, but to the lower table. And as he did so, Conn thought he caught a small smug look directed from the lord to Beibhinn.  

Her face however, betrayed no change.

After some moments,  as those before her helped themselves to bread that they did not seem to want, Beibhinn got to her feet. "Would you be so kind as to pass me that basket?" she asked, with a pleasant smile, of the weather beaten warrior across from her.  He complied wordlessly, and Beibhinn sat again, though  An Bheitheach did not look at her.

"You have no fílí here I note,"   Beibhinn remarked in a clear, cool voice which carried easily in the cavern, though apparently it was only directed to the warrior  before her. She paused, then added thoughtfully, "Just as well really."

An Beitheach turned this time, and his handsome face was hard as the rocks of his home. ""If you fault my hospitality, " he said, "Know that those who have proven themselves ungrateful cease to be my guests. And those who cease to be my guests must pay for what they eat and drink - as I see fit."

Beibhinn's chin went up. 

That has rattled her. Conn thought.  What  would he do if An Beitheach went beyond mere threats? Oppose him?  All within him turned to ice at the very thought. 

Nothing. I would do nothing. I would be able to do nothing...

"Excuse my words please," said Beibhinn, her tone as sweet as poison, "I spoke unjustly." 

An Beitheach's eyes narrowed.

"I ought never to complain when I have received all the hospitality that my host is capable of." She rose and inclined her head slightly, the tiniest of smiles on her lips, while her eyes met the full force of his glare without shifting.

An Beitheach's lips curled back in a sneer, and he muttered something Conn could not catch, but he saw Beibhinn raise her eyebrows a fraction. Then, still holding An Beitheach's eyes, she traced something on her forehead, her hand moving up, down, across...

Conn screwed up his eyes, trying to make it out, but Beibhinn turned and stepped swiftly away across the hall.

"Is minic a ghearr teanga duine a scornach!" shouted An Beitheach, rising from the table, his dark eyes livid coals. But there was silence among his men, and the girl he shouted after did not look back. 

****

Béibhinn came swiftly past Conn, pushing him aside and hurrying down the passage, but he heard her footsteps stop almost as soon as the first corner had hidden her from sight. And they did not resume. Nobody seemed to be looking his way, after Beibhinn's exit they had resumed their meal. Conn slid into the passage and followed her. He made little noise, and as he turned the corner he saw Beibhinn in the passage with her back to him. A strange silhouette in the torchlight. She had stopped, and as he came near in silence he saw that she was trembling.

Small wonder, the little gligín.

"For -'' he began, and Beibhinn jumped, turning around with a look of mingled fight and fear. This she lost as soon as she beheld Conn.

Conn began again, "For someone who left in such haste, you did not go far," he said, folding his arms.

Beibhinn also folded her arms. "I am thinking." she replied. "I wish to find the stream,"

"Why?"

"Water. To drink from it."

"There is water and besides in there." Conn jerked his head backwards," Although you were so busy clipping my lord with your words perhaps you had not chance to note them."

Beibhinn glowered at him,"For one who dwells among brigands, it seems I know more of evil's tricks than you do," she said.

"I shall let you think that."

"Strange boast." She nodded curtly and walked further down the passage, turning to an opening on the right. A turning which Conn knew led into a terrible maze of tunnels altogether.

"Oró! Amadán!" he called, almost in spite of himself, "I would not go down there If I were you,"

Beibhinn looked back at him, clearly suspicious.

"Go to the end of this tunnel and take three lefts. Go under the arch on your right. The stream's there." he paused, "And Ruadhán beyond, " he added.

Beibhinn's eye rested on his face for a moment, and he did not see her usual defiance. Hard it was to tell in the dim light, but it seemed that for a moment that they held something like grief. Grief for whom? Conn drew his own eyebrows down sternly.

"Thank you," said Beibhinn simply and walked the direction he had spoken of.

Conn turned his own steps back towards the hall. And then suddenly some uncomfortable recollection of An Beitheach came to mind. An Beitheach in the dark arched doorway of the stables, uttering something very like a threat. Conn ran back down the passage after his foster sister like a scampering child.

"Beibhinn!" he hissed once he was close enough for privacy.

" Yes?"

"An Beitheach, my lord...in the name of Go- well, give me your word you won't tell him I spoke with you."

"Why?" Beibhinn frowned at him

"That matters not. Give your word."

Beihinn still looked puzzled, and alarmed. "I give it," she said.

"Good," Conn nodded. She he could trust not to break it. "Slán."

"Dia dhuit," said Beibhinn and it was impossible to tell if she meant it as a formality or prayer.

Then the once-siblings parted and walked their separate ways. Beibhinn to Ruadhan, Conn to The Beast.

****

Fílí - Poet. Fílí in Ancient ireland could be attached to a house or travel around, creating poems of praise or blistering satire about the great (mainly for failing in hospitality) Béibhinn's comment is an insult directed at An Beitheach, implying as it does that his house is too insignificant and ignoble to have a fílí, that his hospitality is abominable and that he and his men are uncultured. 

Gligín - idiot (Also, fun fact, used in North Dublin to refer to the runt of a brood of pigeons.)

'Is minic a ghearr teanga duine a scornach' - 'It's often a person's tongue cut their throat' (a seanfhocail: a proverb)