#the last section needs a reread tomorrow when i'm conscious

[beansidhebumbling]

We Stand Between Goliaths- Chapter 1

This was originally intended for Feylin week but in keeping with my reputation I am fashionably late. Thanks to @ae-neon, @kateprincessofbluewhales, and @feyres-divorce-lawyer. I can't write without encouragement and they were an endless well of it. Also I reckon this will be about 3 chapters in total if I stay motivated lol 😅

Some translations and notes at the bottom. I'll return later to add more. Please ask if there's something you don't know about and I'll make a note on it. If there is anything I missed or anything you have questions on please ask.

--

Old Moore's Almanack, a publication weighted by the faith of a nation, the bible of every town and village dotted liked barnacles on the rock of Ireland, failed them that summer. The worn pages of the copy, tied with string to the dresser by the back door, held no warning of the rare scorching heat that hit Mayo that August.

It held no warning of him either.

--

It crept in slowly first, the continental warmth a welcome novelty. Sure, on days like this, they said, when the cornflower blue skies kissed the rolling fields of Monet-painted green wasn't Ireland more beautiful than France and Spain?

'You're lucky to be away from Dublin for the Summer, young Archeron, aren't ya?'

Big Paddy McCaffrey commented, ringing up their purchases to add to the account, as Nesta ventured down the shop's only aisle for some flour. Feyre, focused on saving her 99, the milky ice-cream already saturating the thin wafer rim of the cone and dripping onto her sunscreen sticky hands, threw the man a tight smile.

'Suppose I am.'

She answered tersely.

'Strange all three of ye be home together, isn't it? First time since yer Ma passed, God rest her,'

He pressed, his hulking frame leaning over the old counter of the siopa, eyes searching for any shred of a story, or even better, a tear.

'Bout as strange as how you've aged ten years in the space of two, Paddy-boy.'

Her elder sister sniped as she emerged from the back corner of the shop, the bag of Odlum's safely in her grasp. The sharp lines of her trousers, some fine London make, cut through the dust motes, conjuring whirling ghosts as she marched towards the till.

Not leaving the huffing giant any room to retort, she grabbed Feyre's free hand, and they left the shaded confines of the shop to face the noon-day sun, a blistering presence high in the clear sky.

'Not looking like you're here to make friends, Nes.'

Feyre snorted, once out of earshot.

'Nosey fucker. They'll do his autopsy one day and find the Toormakeady Tribune instead of lungs inside him.'

The laugh that tickled its way from deep in her belly, had no breeze to dance on and so hung happily between them, another sign of the welcome if unfamiliar camaraderie birthed between them since their return to the home place in May.

Feyre did not know what her sister had found in London these last two years, but it looked an awful lot like peace.

'Speaking of gossip, did you see the new owner of Drimbawn House?'

'New new or new to us?'

Feyre asked. It was a relevant question. With Elain in Cork working in one of the big houses, Nesta abroad terrorising the lawyers at her new secretarial job, and Feyre in college, they had happily lost the rhythm of their birthplace.

'New to us. He bought it off Hollywood. Tamlin Stewart-Carmichael is his name. A fine block of a man by all accounts.'

Nesta paused to climb the gate behind the GAA pitch as they followed the path of their childhood, cutting through Ma Bryant's fields to get home.

'He's English. No surprise with a name like that. An excessive bunch in every way. Has only visited the place once after buying it but it's been kept in ship shape since last July, in case he wants to call on his summer residence.'

Feyre scoffed, running her hands through the grass that tickled their calves, rippling like the waves at her touch.

'What in Christ's name are they at? Houses for the seasons. Have you ever heard the like?'

'You wouldn't believe half of what I hear back in London with that posh lot. It's a different world Feyrín.'

Nesta grew quiet then, lost to a place across the sea, her mind's eye turned towards the unfamiliar horizon and, Feyre reckoned, to the secret letters that had been arriving with an English postmark since she'd landed on Irish soil.

Her heart full at the sound of a pet name she had not heard from Nesta in years, Feyre followed her sister home, as she had done all her life.

------

In a country where too much of a good thing was highly distasteful the unnatural heat soon extended beyond its welcome. After a week of no rain and blistering, bruising sun, the rumblings of concern began. The labourers started to seek shade to avoid the rage of noon and the farmers nearest the Lough Mask, let their cattle cool in gentle waters, for neither man nor beast in Toormakeady was built or bred for a Mediterranean climate.

Having been on nursing duty Monday night, Feyre greeted the dawn with a weary welcome. He was fading and she knew it. Her father, who had looked so frail when she'd come home that Summer, a husk of the hale man she'd known from childhood, felt like a figment now.

It hurt too much to sleep knowing by the minute more of him was lost to her, gone to a heaven Feyre had never truly believed in until death loomed. Because there was no way the story of John Archeron ended with a skeleton in the ground.

He was the ritual footing of turf. Lunch together on the bog, eating sandwiches Elain wrapped in tinfoil, the fresh bread slathered in Kerrygold with thick slabs of salty pork. A needed balm for the tired ache that radiated from neck to ankle. Sitting in the rusty Ford come sunset, drinking cold tea from a shared cupán before heading home, his wordless clap on her back the only praise she'd ever got or needed at the end of the day.

He was the man who'd never raised his voice in all of Feyre's life, bar the time she captained the U-15s to a camogie final, when his bellowing and cheering could be heard from Galway as she raised the corn above her head. She remembers him, cheeks full and face ruddy, the proudest he'd ever been Nesta said. For hadn't his Feyrín óg scored three goals and two points that day and led her team to victory.

He was her father, and, in that word, a million memories were stored.

Elain's bustling entry into the kitchen brought Feyre back to the present.

Her sister, already busying herself with making breakfast, whispered.

'How is he Feyrín?'

Stretching in the armchair by the stove, feeling the tension roll from her shoulders and down her arms, she shrugged.

'Not too bad, slept like a log for most of the night. He's still running a bit of a fever but that stuff the doctor gave him has eased the pain. Also don't worry about whispering, fairly certain Judgement Day couldn't rouse him right now.'

Meandering over to her sister she added.

'What's on the schedule today then?'

'Elain, expertly frying rashers and eggs, ran a critical eye over Feyre.

'Well, some food and the leaba for you I'd imagine anyways. Did you sleep at all?'

Feyre ignored the question.

'I'm not tired, El. Actually was going to head on over to the Kelly's place. They've been shocking good taking the herd when Da got sick, but I can manage them now. Reckon I'll sell half at Ballymote this month, bring the number down, you know?'

Elain's back stiffened, her sister in temperament and posture as flexible and fluid as the willow, became stone. Only the crackling and hissing of breakfast could be heard.

Words careful and softly spoken passed her lips.

'Have you spoken to Nes?'

'No. She's never been interested in the farm. Didn't think I needed to ask permission.'

The words, daggers of her making, pointed at Elain.

Her sister's soothing tone did nothing but rankle her further.

'It's not about permission, Fey. I just think we should make these decisions together.'

But though Elain dealt in serenity, she could wield knives too and often did with deceptive skill. Sticking one in Feyre's gut she said with feeling.

'It's what Da would want.'

Her doe-eyed sister who vomited sugar and ribbons could be a right bitch.

Too close to bleeding from her eyes, hurt and a desperate anguish crawling from her stomach and up her throat, Feyre turned towards the back door, grabbing some blackberries, juicy and shining, from the glass bowl by the Almanack.

'I'm going for a walk. I'll be back for dinner.'

The words spilled from her, gruff and broken, trails of hot saltwater carving famine roads along her high cheekbones.

With Elain who'd always read people like Nesta read books, burning holes into her back, Feyre pulled on her boots and grabbed her old hurley, that was tucked neatly in its shrine of a nook by the door.

It was time to visit the forest.

---

The camóg sat like a comfort in Feyre's hand, its weight familiar and grounding, the sleek ash stained with dirt at the boss. She imagined this was how warriors of old felt carrying their swords, this strange companionship, an extension of herself that knew her in a way no person could.  

As was the case when Feyre had a hurl in hand, time moved differently, the mixed woodland hurtled by a blur of brown and green, the ferns that crept onto the path crushed beneath her boots. Bouncing the sliotar off the ash, she focused only on that settling pulse, on finding the perfect balance to keep that round ball on the curved head of the stick, on the thumping of her feet against dusty ground.  

And gradually that burning sadness that ate at her heart, the searing anger at her sister's face, too soft to be so cruel, faded from stinging tears to a small hole at the pit of her stomach. Contained and controlled for now.  

After all, Setanta didn't cry. 

She ran and ran, taking joy in the burning muscle of her thighs, the stinging of her eyes, the heavy panting of her breath, until she reached the boundary line where Toormakeady Forest met the Hollywood Hills.  

Stopping at the rusted gate choked by bindweed, where lus na teanga grew between the tufts of grass as the path faded to an end, Feyre stared out across the rolling hills of the English fella's fields, just about able to spot the glittering waters of Lough Mask in the distance.  

When Richard had lived here, it was custom to walk through the hills. Hollywood, as he was known, a retired American actor had been genial if distant, happy for the village to take the short-cut through his land provided they never approached the house. 

Feyre reckoned he might have been more than a bit offended if he knew exactly how well that suited the villagers in kind.

But now this Tamlin Stewart-Carmichael had co-opted the land the rules had likely changed.

With a fecklessness more characteristic than she'd prefer to admit Feyre hopped the gate anyways. Ignorance was bliss and in weather like this no jumped-up staff of an absent gentleman were going to get between her and the shining waters.

---

Lough Mask lapped at her legs cool and tickling as she stood to her knees in the water, a medicine Feyre had not known she needed, easing the feverish redness that coloured her cheeks and gently tempering the fire that still roiled quietly in her gut. 

Looking out from the shore, Feyre faced the distant veridian mountains that sat the far side of the expanse of rippling greyness. There they stood, imposing Goliaths set in sharp contrast to the saturated summer sky. The bays and cries of livestock nearby seemed so muted, overwhelmed by the gentle rhythm of the calm opaque waters.  

Tranquillity found her briefly. 

And left rapidly when, out of nowhere but Hell surely, a naked man arose from the lake, splashing and gasping for air, a siren of old. 

'Sweet Jesus!' 

Feyre yelled, lifting her hurley above her head to take a crack at the blond menace before her.  

‘Don’t!’ 

He commanded, raising his tanned well-muscled arms in mercy. His voice was deep, with the distinct sharp bite of an English accent. 

She dropped her hurley before him in the water in panic before grabbling it and retreating to the land. Her wet feet smarting at the pinch of the pebbles as she made the rapid withdrawal, putting distance between them. Man, or siren, she was not interested in drowning either which way. 

‘Who the fuck are you?’ 

She pointed the hurl accusatorily at him.  

Sitting back into the water, his lower half became submerged once more. Not that Feyre would forget what she saw in a hurry. As it was, the well-hewn muscles on his abdomen, shining with water droplets and the crosshatch of curling golden hair on his chest, was distraction enough.  

Smirking slightly, green eyes dancing, he replied, 

‘I could ask you the same question...Miss.’ 

Apollo had stopped pulling the sun and landed his chariot in Toormakeady to laugh at her apparently.  

 ‘Anyone who is anyone in these parts knows my face, Sassenach. On voice alone, if you’d ever set foot in the village, I’d know ye.’ 

His dimples seemed to share an inside joke with the lines that creased his eyes as he stared at her. Definitely entertained and strangely delighted at this bizarre encounter it seemed.  

‘Touché, Miss.’ 

‘Odd name that,’ 

She stated drily. 

He laughed. A gentle thing, carried in huffs and breaths by the soft breeze off the lake. 

‘You wield your words as well as your weapon....’ 

He motioned lazily towards the hurley,  

‘...Feyre Archeron.’ 

Her eyes widened in shock, and, following the movement of his arm, were confronted with the thick Sharpie scrawl of her name along the handle.  

Well, shit. 

Her pulse began to settle all the same to a somewhat normal rhythm now she was out of arm’s reach of the dangerously alluring specimen. 

‘You must be connected to yer man moving into the big house then,’ 

She gestured vaguely towards Drimbawn. If she had the sense God gave a rat she’d walk away now, leg it back home. But Feyre would not be scared from the lake, let alone by some Englishman so she continued, 

‘Usually, the posh lot hire locally or at least Hollyw.. the last fella did. But then again, it’s been a few generations since we’ve had someone with the brass neck to keep such a beautiful place as a second home. Can’t say I’m terribly fond of your boss there, stranger.’  

Pink roses blossomed on his cheeks and a large, veined hand pulled at the wavy sun-bleached strands that tickled his shoulder. 

‘He has hired local men. Um... I’m here to just keep things running until he comes to visit. I’m Ta-Tanner.’ 

He went to stand up and shake her hand. Some remnants of well-intentioned civility she imagined, however when challenged by his pronounced obliques, the last of her good sense and innate Catholic shame made her turn rapidly on her heel to face the forest she’d come from.  

‘Easy there, squire. Might want to put some trousers on first.’ 

‘Of course.’ 

He answered, voice apologetic and brimming with a crushing embarrassment that made her want to cackle. 

He was like art. Like whomever Michaelangelo thought of when he had carved David. 

Her supplies had remained zipped away since coming home. It seemed wrong to take joy in the delicate scratch of lead on paper, to crave the feeling of dried acrylic on canvas and skin. Where she usually saw endless, boundless colour and life, there existed only delicate ash structures. It struck her, this sudden wish to paint Tanner, as the first time since she’d seen her father so frail in that flimsy, miserable bed off the kitchen, she wished to paint. Her first time seeing and tasting glorious colour again.  

A shadow fell against her own. 

‘You can turn around now.’ 

Tanner murmured quietly.  

Feyre came face to face with the most beautiful person she’d ever seen. His looks, that were barely palatable from a safe distance, threatened to overcome her as he stood within arm’s reach. The freckles that dotted his nose, slightly crooked from at least one break she imagined, and across his high cheekbones, seemed to map constellations of the night. But he, gilded like the horizon at sunset, was no child of the moon.  

His eyes, speckled with brown flecks like oak leaves smouldered as they met hers, the threatening spark to a flame. 

Casting her sight down, coward that she was, she focused instead on the cotton of his shirt, which though crinkled, was luxurious and well-crafted.  

‘The big man must pay well indeed,’ 

She scoffed.  

‘He’s not a bad guy, all things considered.’ 

He remarked, his hand glancing off her own, a touch just slight enough to claim as an accident.   

‘I’m sure he’s a charmer.’ 

Feyre muttered. 

The silence that settled between with a comfort that seemed unearned, a space of knowing and understanding. It was this, this strange contentment in her soul, that said stay, which prompted Feyre to run. 

‘You best be going, it’s nearly time to do the milking.’ 

She prompted.  

His eyes shuttered, disappointment flickering through them before he nodded reluctantly.  

‘Oh yes, of course. The milking...For the cows.’ 

His hand caught hers gently, encasing it within his, and Feyre who had never felt delicate in her life, felt like a doll in his giant grip.  

‘Do you come here often Feyre?’ 

A question that sounded more like a plea. 

Her heart, ever the loyal organ, beat to the rhythm of his.  

‘I’ll be here tomorrow,’ 

She replied breathily, unsure yet whether it was a lie or truth, before breaking his grasp and running back towards the forest.  

You’ll be back tomorrow,  

Her heart whispered.  

-- 

As she disappeared from view, the mountains and a liar watched on.  

---

Translations:

Feyrín- Little Feyre (Fey-reen). Common structure in Irish. Add -ín at the end and things become small. See names like Róisín (Little Rose) or bothrín (little road, i.e. a lane).

cupán- cup (cup-awn)

óg- young (oh-guh). Common to put after someone's name if they are young, sort of like Junior in English. Especially traditionally in families where there's a family name. E.g. there's a grandfather Connor and a grandson Connor in the one family, the grandfather could become Connor Sean (Old Connor) and the grandson, Connor Óg.

leaba- bed (lah-baa)

camóg- hurl (less common term used for a hurl when playing camógie. See the notes below for more context).

Further Notes for Context:

GAA- Gaelic Athletic Association consists of four indigenous Irish sports (hurling/camogie, Gaelic football, handball and rounders). Hurling and Gaelic football are by far the most popular. I didn't even realise rounders was on the list and I've been involved with the GAA since I was a kid.

#feyre #tamlin #feylin #acotar #fanfic #acotar fanfic #the last section needs a reread tomorrow when i'm conscious