"Where to?" the man asks. Diarmuid looks again to where Frére Geraldus had disappeared beneath the sapphire glass. For a moment, he is tempted to follow.

He swallows.

"Back to shore," he says.

For no reason that Diarmuid can decipher, the man obeys.

The man rows away, toward things Diarmuid can only guess at, leaving him on the shore. Each step he takes toward the unmoving Mute fills him with dread.

Diarmuid rolls him onto his back, the arrow that killed Brother Ciarán pointing up to the heavens out of the Mute's stomach. A weak pulse flutters at his neck, and his breaths are shallow and labored.

The remaining soldiers begin to approach. Slowly, slowly, the horses' hooves sink into the wet sand as they took measured steps.

"I'm sorry," Diarmuid whispers to his friend. There is nothing he can do. Nothing he can say except, "I'm so sorry." He hopes the Mute hears him. He stands to face the advancing army of three.

It takes all the strength Diarmuid has left not to fall to his face when the soldiers toss him to the ground in the middle of the French encampment. The bones of his wrists scrape together, bound much too tightly in front of him with rough, fraying rope. The skin underneath the rope is broken and begins to bleed, and his fingers begin changing colors from lack of blood.

The Baron de Merville storms to the group. He yells in French, and Diarmuid can't make out a single word of it. One of the soldiers answers, pointing a crooked finger in Diarmuid's face.

The Baron's eyes fall on him. He feels panic rise in his chest. The Baron grabs Diarmuid's face in one hand, lifting him in the air by the chin. He drags him until his back hits a round wooden pole in the center of the encampment, shouting orders to his soldiers the whole time. Tears burn hot in the corners of Diarmuid's eyes, but he fights them back.

"Mon fils," the Baron hisses, his face mere inches from Diarmuid's. And that, that he understands when it is said slowly and alone. He is to pay for the younger Merville's death with his own life. He wonders, as the Baron screams words he doesn't understand in his face, if anyone will remember him. If anyone will even notice his absence. Surely his brothers will realize eventually that Diarmuid and the others aren't coming back, but how long will that take? Will they ever really know?

A hard slap across his cheek brings Diarmuid back to his current situation. His hands are retied around the pole behind his back. The Baron cocks his fist and punches him across the eye, into his stomach, on his mouth. Diarmuid closes his eyes and let go of the tears he was holding as the Baron exhausts himself, throwing every ounce, every shred of anger into making Diarmuid hurt.

The Baron spits in his face and turns on his heel to leave. Diarmuid sinks to the ground and lets his eyes close.

Night falls, but it is still hours before all the soldiers go to sleep. It isn't like the wild, merrymaking celebration Diarmuid witnessed before. The mood is somber, reserved, and mourning. When a soldier does spare him a glance, they spit in his direction. To them, he is the reason Raymond de Merville and their other compatriots are dead, and when they are done with him, they will burn him where he sits. He tries unsuccessfully not to imagine the hate he will see in their eyes as they watch him scream and beg and die.

He wants desperately to stay awake, alert to the camp around him, but the exhaustion has settled in his bones and his soul, and his eyes start to close on their own. Eventually, he lets them.

When he awakes, it is to a hand covering his mouth. His noise of shock is muffled by the rough palm. He bites down, and the hand removes itself. But he knows that screaming for help will do him no good. These men don't care what happens to him so long as it is horrible, long, and painful.

He prays silently, tears streaming unbidden down his bruised, raw cheeks until his hands come loose of the ropes. And suddenly he is being lifted to his feet, dragged away from the encampment that was to be his death site. The hand returns to its place over his mouth, not only keeping him silent, but also keeping his head from turning. He is still too tired to stay awake, he realizes. As another hand lifts him into strong arms against a solid body, he allows himself to drift off once again.