Note: Story was previously archived, but the site seems to have fallen off the face of the Web, so I thought I'd put it here. This time without the ill-placed endnotes!
Sunrise
The earliest streaks of sunrise colored the sky a cold silver as Angus, standing at the crest of the Eastern Cliffs, watched the dark waves crash against the rocks below him. This was one of the few neutral places left on the island, a place that neither belonged to Kells nor Temra. Despite the clamor of the winds, despite the early morning chill, he felt safe here, untouchable.
Soft footsteps sounded on the rock-strewn path behind him.
"Hello, your Highness," Angus said quietly, "You're here earlier than I expected."
Maeve, Queen of Temra, Sorceress of the Isle, smiled at him faintly. "Hello to you as well, Angus." She was dressed more simply than usual, her cloak plain, her gown unornamented. For the first time in months, Angus saw her features softened, an absence of the hatred and fury she so often wore in battle. "Has it been a year already? You've grown taller, it seems, since our last meeting. And certainly more handsome."
Angus shook his head. "You're just trying to flatter me." But he smiled as he said it.
Maeve moved closer to him, catching his eyes in her steely gaze. "I see your wretched means have not improved, however." She picked disapprovingly at his gray peasant's shirt.
He shrugged. "It keeps out the cold."
"And you're as thin as a pole. Doesn't Conchobar feed his knights properly?"
Angus sighed. "There's no use in delaying, Maeve. You came here to make me an offer, the same one you press upon me every year. And you know my answer already."
Maeve's smile twisted slightly. "I will never understand you, Angus. I would give you riches, power, even a throne. . . and you choose to play the lackey to that gilded brat who calls himself Draganta." She paused. "I forgive you for your actions of the past. You were a frightened child in the beginning. You didn't understand. Yet year after year you've continued to defy me, despite every chance I've given you. How can you refuse me? I offer you everything and ask so little of you in return."
"I don't see how that can be true. You're still committed to war with Kells, still communing with the Dark Powers, and expect me to do the same. I can't accept it Maeve, and I never will."
"You'll have to." Her voice had a hardened edge to it. "Torq has named the reward I promised him for all his faithful years of service. He'll decide Deirdre's fate, once the war is over. And yours."
Angus nodded, "So he doesn't know about my ties to you."
"He'd use you against me, and I cannot allow that. You'd be beyond my aid should you be captured. I would not be able to protect you." She clasped his hand, tightly. "Come back to Temra with me and all will be forgiven. Swear fealty to me, loyalty to my standard, and you will share in all that I have, forever."
"And not a month ago you threatened me with enslavement, torture, and death. And I know you wouldn't hesitate to carry out any of it if I stood between you and Kells. You wouldn't stay your hand, much less protect me. Why would fear of Torq's wrath be any worse than fear of yours?" Slowly, he freed his hand from her grasp. "It's no different Maeve, and my answer's still no."
"What would it take?" she insisted, "Need I spare Rohan? Or your precious princess?"
"Stop the madness of this war. Shun the darkness which poisons your soul. Forge peace with Kells and turn your eyes back to Temra and its people." It was a litany he had repeated many times. "Give up your hatred and I'll return to your side."
"Impossible," she hissed.
"Then I cannot go with you."
"So you will play the jester to the court of Kells, the fool among royalty. You'll trade every right and claim you have for whatever scraps of glory Conchobar would allot you," Maeve shook her head, uncomprehending. "Angus, look at your life. You're not even the hero of your own story."
"Better a beggar of the Light than a prince of the Darkness."
She nodded, bitterly. "So be it."
The sky was brightening now, the silver of the clouds now a warm gold. Angus turned his back to Maeve, and sat down on one of the flat rocks looking out to sea. He felt her lay a hand on his shoulder, and let it rest there. "There's just one thing I don't understand," Angus murmured, barely audible over the roar of the winds.
"Yes?"
"Every year you come, you ask me to return with you, and every year I refuse you. Surely you've realized by now that it's hopeless. Why do you keep coming to these cliffs every year, knowing you will always fail?"
Maeve reached up and softly stroked her fingers through the young man's hair. "Despite our differences, Angus, I still care about you very much. On any other day of the year, I would as soon kill you as look at you. But today, for just a little while, it doesn't have to be that way." Angus thought he could hear her voice waver ever so slightly. "I will never stop hoping that you will come to your senses one day, and claim your heritage, your birthright. Even if it is not meant to be, I will come every year, as long as I am able. After all, a mother cannot stop loving her son, even if she must hate him."
Angus gave no indication that he had heard her, didn't even acknowledge that she was there. Maeve let her hands fall to her sides. "And why do you come, every year, to bring false hope and break my heart anew?"
He didn't answer her. Slowly, she backed away, her eyes fixed on the youth. She could still see the boy of seven who had startled her in her sorcery one horrible night, who had run away from home and never come back. "I always thought it a sign of good fortune that your birth should coincide with our holy days, when war is forbidden, if only for a moment," Maeve said softly. "Happy birthday, Angus," She turned, and walked the twisted path back towards Temra, her heart freezing to ice once more.
Angus stared out to sea as the sun rose, and tentatively, fingered the braid of cord he wore about his neck. No one, not even Rohan, had ever seen the silver medallion knotted in its length, hidden beneath his shirt. No one knew how close the royal sigil of Temra lay to his heart. He remembered Maeve as she used to be, all smiles and laughter and song. And he remembered that night, so long ago, when he knew she had changed forever. "A son cannot stop loving his mother," he whispered, letting the tears come at last, "Even if he cannot save her."
A new day dawned over the Emerald Isle, over a lone figure at the edge of the Eastern Cliffs, who was one year older than he had been the day before.