Alima heads to Galway with the group for a day trip, though she's not surprised when she takes three hours to find a dress in her size. (But at least she also finds a couple of tops.) They take her to Aniar for lunch--once she spots lamb ribs on the menu, she immediately orders it, to Brighid's delight.
"Lamb friends!" She claps. "I must be the only one who likes goat and sheep meat."
"Those are weird," Aine remarks over her crab. "They taste good at a restaurant, but at home I can never get the gamey taste out."
"If you don't like it, the trick's to trim the fat and soak it in milk the night before," Brighid tells her.
"No wonder. I get trimming the fat, but I'm not wasting milk on some bloody sheep meat," Aine digs the last of the claw meat out.
"Well, more for me and Alima, then," Brighid retorts.
-----
Next is a bar crawl--Aine and Harry are the drivers. Alima steps out with Owen when she needs a breather, and Brighid follows. "I swear, Brighid, I'm not going to throw up," Alima tells her.
"Well, what am I supposed to think when everyone's been drinking?" Brighid sits on the curb. "Anyway, I only had two or three, so--"
"Okay, fine. I'm a little off." Alima shoves Owen when he smirks at her.
"Are you a cunning-man, mate?" Someone asks. Three men have followed them out from the bar. "I hear the Knights of Aaron met you once."
The name alerts Brighid instantly, and she tries to get Owen inside. "S-sir, I think you're mistaken--Owen, come on!" She motions for Alima as well.
"What else did you hear, mate?" Owen asks, eyes narrowed.
The first man grins. "I hear they threw you in the river 'cause you're a fag."
"Wrong person, sods! They don't have the balls for that!" He lunges out of Brighid's grasp, hair and eyes burning like night.
"Oh god, Mal!" Brighid shrieks.
-----
"There are people you can't save," declares a Knight of Aaron. "He's no changeling, but--"
"Oh, really?! I'm fucking twenty, and everyone just now realized I'm not that kind of fairy?!" Owen spits out a clot and drags himself up on an oak tree. "Nobody ever thought that shit, not till last week! They just want to get rid of the queer!" He wrenches a gnarled branch off and shoulders towards the rushing water.
"Owen!" Mal grabs him. "I know you got hit with a crowbar, but even you have to know the river's not--Owen, listen to me!"
"You are my best friend, Malachy Bray." Owen crushes his hand for emphasis, then turns to the Knights. "You think I'm afraid to die? You think I'll marry someone with tits if you hit hard enough? Or do you think I'm afraid of you?"
There is a tentative silence.
"Well, I follow the People of Danu!" Owen retorts. "And they say to FUCK. THAT. NOISE! I fear nothing of God's men, and I will NOT. DIE. HERE!" He pushes Mal away and lets himself plummet into the Maidin.
"OWEN!" Mal skids down after him, but the snow-melt is faster than anyone could swim.
-----
One man holds Owen down while the other two gang up on him. Something's wrong with Brighid--she's frozen white, tears running like a waterfall. "Mal! They've got Owen!"
The others come out with the doorman, whose lips thin when he sees the lopsided fight. "No ganging up on a drunk bloke!" He orders, and hoists one of them off. "If you're going to fight, at least--"
The other one stops after one last kick, then draws a knife and kneels over Owen. Brighid is even more terrified: "No, please, please! Don't--"
The guard steps over, hands up but ready to move. "Hey now, mate. GREG! FOURTEEN!" He hollers into the door, and a spell gleams around the man's knife. "Move away or drop it," he informs.
"Fucking--" He moves like he's frozen, clenches the knife and tries to aim.
"Am I too pretty?" Owen grins up through a split lip. "Flattered, mate. But faggots have standards like everyone else, and you--"
To the guard's dismay, the man manages a punch to the stomach with his other hand. "God, lad, you don't have to make it worse!"
Mal jerks when something clinks out of Alima's bag. "Alima." He picks it up. "What's this?"
It's the antler whistle from the Fianna. "Help," she says, but she's not certain if it's an answer. She takes a look from the standoff over Owen, then back to the whistle. When she blows, the little noise morphs into the bugle of a hunting horn.
Three of the Fianna appear. The darker-skinned one coughs and shades his eyes from the streetlight. "Of course we get a call when--Owen, what now?!"
"My reputation precedes me." Owen grins and coughs something dark onto the sidewalk.
"Sod your bastard reputation," says their leader, though his fellows are quick to grab the man's companions.
"If I can't do anything with them around--" The man wrenches Owen up by his hair. "I might as well give you a haircut!"
For a white-blank second there's no sound besides Brighid's shrill keening--but as the Fianna home in on him, his threat turns out to be literal: He shears off Owen's hair in two ragged swipes.
The crooked bridge of a scar flares above Owen's left ear, and he brings shaking fingers to his head. He seems to forget everything for a moment, crumpling to the sidewalk with shallow breaths.
"Owen?" Harry asks, but he doesn't answer. He presses Mal's shoulder, and they reach him right as the doorman dials 999.
"You! You! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!" Owen thrashes against them, but more in despair than rage. "FUCK YOU, GODDAMN CUNT!" He clutches his scar and howls.
Brighid tiptoes over and reaches out for his scar. There is no magic from either of them, but once she touches him, he calms down enough. "It'll grow back," she tells him, fresh tears running down. "Okay? One or two years, you're okay--"
-----
He's lost count of how often the oak branch cushions him from the rocks, or he steals a breath of soggy air. But he knows Mal is following him along the banks, stupid and loyal as always.
A boy with blue eyes steps barefoot from the river, leaving no prints. He tugs Owen onto shore like he's nothing. "The bloody God's men threw holy water at me! Makes me itch." He scratches an arm. "I'm sorry about the icy-water deal, but I kept you... mostly... alive? You're not frozen, at least." He presses something small and muddy into Owen's hand. "Here we go."
He doesn't know how long he's been lying on the bank, but it's enough for the sun to rise and river-mud to dry into his hair. He keeps his grip on the rock.
"Owen, you dumbfuck!" Mal finds him and barrels over. He cups a hand over Owen's mouth, peels off his shirt, and wraps him in his jacket. Then he drapes Owen over one shoulder and drags him to his house.
-----
The police call Owen's parents while Brighid patches him up as best she can. She can only manage to heal his ribs before he breaks away, frantic to go home, so the officers portal everyone back. Their cars will take a bit longer, but they'll back at Cloncarrig by late morning or noon.
Brighid's father is terrified when he opens the door and sees her face. "Oh Lord Almighty, are you okay?" He looks outside. "Are those the Guards?! You said Aine was driving you home! What's--"
"Owen got beat up," she tells him. "Three men heard about his birthday. With the Knights of Aaron. He's not too bad now, I healed up the worst of it, it's just--we all got... I'm fine, Dad."
"Here. Here." He takes her inside, sits her on the couch and puts the kettle on. "Don't worry." He dunks some tea into a mug and sits down with her.
She shakes under his arm, but makes an effort to sip the burning tea as he tightens his hold. "You are my daughter. You hear that? You're always safe with me."
"You're not the problem," Brighid whispers. "You're not, Dad, it's everyone else."
-----
Ita and Oscar are waiting on the couch, and Ita runs for the door when they hear a portal opening. The Guards murmur something to Oscar, who nods as they leave.
Owen looks like a corpse, with his bloodless face and numb breathing. His scar looms by his temple, stark white against the remnants of his hair.
"Oh," Ita exhales. "My boy." She reaches for the jagged moon. He freezes and almost backs away, but then he presses his scar into her shoulder.
No one can tell who the stifled crying is from.