Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Hellboy characters, settings, etc. The original characters and plot of this story are mine though. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this work.

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Chapter 50

He was so small! It was the first thing that struck Nuada as his eyes fell upon the tiny stone figure lying in the shadows at the back of the cave. He approached slowly, his stomach churning with an uneasy mix of dread and anticipation. The overhanging rock angled off sharply and he was forced to duck and then kneel as he reached the lapidified remains of the child he and Dihyā had made all those years ago. His thoughts scattered to the four winds, and for a long while all he could do was stare at the smooth, alabaster perfection before him.

Such paralyzing confusion was unfamiliar to him. He tried to imagine himself as he'd been only two days ago. Then, Dihyā and that part of his past had been many centuries laid to rest and he'd had no knowledge of this small life they'd created together. The rift with his sister had eaten at his soul as fiercely as ever – more so perhaps since she'd taken her life and his – but he'd long been accustomed to the weight of that grief and had fully expected to bear it until he breathed his last... finally breathed his last, he amended. And as for the killing of his father – his killing of his father – it too was a weight… one which he was still learning to carry. Two days ago there was no sacrifice he wouldn't have made in order to reclaim his people's place in the world, and he'd been steadfast and secure in his hatred of all humans. Though his resurrection and his sister's had been a mystery – still was, for the most part - he had known who he was and what he was. Today, however, nearly all his certainties lay in ruins at his feet and it seemed he knew himself little better than he did the dead baby in front of him. A sick, empty feeling grew within him and he cast his mind about for something to hold onto. As he continued to look upon the lifeless features of the son he would never know, he found his anchor in the thought of what he owed this little child. He drew a deep, steadying breath and focused on the baby's earthly remains.

Elfraine was right; Azenzêr looked like an angel sent from the higher realms. He had turned a pale, almost translucent white in death, and every rounded surface and subtle line was preserved in exquisite detail. Nuada reached out and gently stroked the sweep of his son's unmarked brow. His fingers continued down to the cold, hard curve of a tiny cheek and then on to the delicate outline of a rosebud mouth which was parted just a fraction, as if on a sigh. Azenzêr was the picture of peace as he slumbered in his eternal rest, small comfort though that was.

Nuada's hand went up to the baby's head next and rested there on impossibly fine stone striations… downy wisps of hair once. He wondered what colour it had been - dark like Dihyā's or pale, like his and Nuala's… and before them, their father's. The little pearly shell of an ear caught his attention and his fingers slipped down to trace the tight folds and petite, angular point. The finest of elven artisans had surely never imagined anything so exquisitely perfect, even at the height of their craft.

And his eyes, he thought as he raised his own to gossamer-thin lids, closed now for all eternity. Had Azenzêr's eyes been flame-gold, like his, or smoky silver like Dihyā's? It was impossible to say. The elven warrior's hand hovered hesitantly over long, spiky lashes for a few seconds before he quickly pulled it back. He could wield both sword and spear with deadly precision and yet he feared he would damage or break the fragile-looking structures if he so much as breathed on them.

Someone – Elfraine, he realised – had swaddled the body in a beautifully-embroidered linen blanket and laid it to rest on a small mound of bedding. He reached out and took hold of a dust-covered corner which had come lose near the feet. As he stared at the soft, ecru material a dozen questions crowded his mind and his hand tightened reflexively. He was distracted by a dull, jingling sound as something fell against his knee. Glancing down, he saw what appeared to be an old rattle by his leg. He let go of the swathing cloth and picked it up. Sitting atop an intricately-carved pewter stem were four blackish-brown copper bells and a shaped piece of bone. Nuada gave it a gentle shake; the bells jangled then fell silent. Had it been a favourite toy, he wondered as his eyes flickered back to his son's inanimate form. With hands that were not quite steady, he carefully tucked the rattle back into the bedding. Azenzêr might never clutch it in his little fists again nor play with it but the old toy was at least something to keep the small baby company throughout eternity as he lay here in this lonely, forgotten place.

Not forgotten, Nuada reminded himself fiercely. Elfraine had always known where his son was; she'd laid him to rest here, visited him… brought him his father. She'd been his son's link with the living, and Azenzêr's memory had been kept alive by her for almost four hundred years until now, when it could finally be given into the safekeeping of his father and his people. "Not forgotten at all," Nuada murmured. Leaning forward, he carefully picked up his son's body and pressed his dark lips to the cold, stone forehead; it was time to find out what had happened, what had gone so terribly wrong all those years ago… and to face up to the awful truth that he had failed not only the woman he'd once loved but also the son he'd never had the chance to love.

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It should have been peaceful sitting there in the warm, morning sun with the hum and scent of nature filling the air; instead, Elfraine fashed herself over how Nuada was faring. She knew from bitter experience something of what he must be going through and a feeling of agitation gripped her. There were some things even friendship and love couldn't make better, nor all the good will in the world either.

A shadow fell across her face and she opened her eyes. The brightness dazzled her for a second and she started as she saw Nuada's dark form standing over her, silhouetted against the sun; she hadn't heard him approach. Her eyes quickly adjusted and her mouth formed a silent "oh" at the sight of Azenzêr's tiny body in his arms.

"Do you mind?" he asked quietly, holding out his dead child to her.

"No, of course not!" She scrambled to her feet and reached over to take the small bundle from him. Whilst Nuada divested himself of his weapons and armour, she gazed down at the inanimate and perfectly-formed body of the baby she'd once loved and cared for. He looked exactly the same as he had when she'd last seen him almost a hundred years ago and then three hundred years before that again, when he'd died. Tears welled in her eyes once more as she thought of him as he'd been in life, a smiling, gurgling infant who was mercifully unaware of the dreadful circumstances he and his mother were in… or of the savage blow fate, or rather the Vizier Reşid,was about to deal him.

She glanced up as Nuada laid his hard, leather armour on the ground beside his sword and spear. Straightening up, he silently held out his hands and she gave him his son back.

He cradled Azenzêr in one arm and sat down on the large, flat rock where she'd been resting. "Please, sit," he said, gesturing with his free hand to the space next to him.

Elfraine resumed her seat and angled round to face him. She bit her lip as she fought the urge to look away; the picture he made sitting there, holding his son's remains, was almost more than she could bear. His head was bent and he was staring down at Azenzêr. The pale fall of his hair hid his expression but the carriage of his body - usually so proud and upright - seemed bowed somehow. She reached out and brushed his hair back from his face.

His head snapped up at her touch and she flinched at the fierce, pained look in his eyes. "He… he had your colouring, love," she said softly, not knowing what else to say as she smoothed down a stray lock of Nuada's hair.

His dark lips formed a thin line and he gave a short, jerky nod. "What – what else can you tell me about him?"

She looked at the tiny, stone body in his arms and tried to concentrate on the happier memories she had of the wee boy. "Well… as I said, he had your hair but his skin was a deep bronze - like Dihyā's - and his eyes were the purest, gleaming silver. Not dusky silver like hers but Elven silver, she used to say." Elfraine flashed him a hesitant smile. "He was a happy baby. Once they'd gotten over their fear of him, he charmed all the women in the harem. Even the most jealous of the…"

"Harem!" There was no mistaking the sudden anger in his voice. "What, by Aiglin, were Dihyā and my son doing in a harem? What were you doing in one?"

Elfraine's face fell. She hadn't settled on any good way of telling him their story – in fact, she was certain no such way existed – but blurting out random bits and pieces of it was most definitely not something she would have done had she been thinking more clearly.

"Do you mean to tell me someone made slaves of you all?" Nuada asked, his fury utterly scorching by now.

"The Vizier Reşid," mumbled Elfraine.

"Slavery is one of the worst manifestations of your kind's grasping, voracious greed!" He practically spat out the words. "Only a hollow, empty human could think he had the right to own another!"

"Only a human?" The question was out before she could think the better of it.

He pinned her with an angry, flame-gold glare for several uncomfortable seconds but she held his gaze, a slightly defensive look on her own face, and made no attempt to take back her words; after all, experience had taught her they were only the truth and as a prince amongst the Fae, he would certainly know it.

Nuada looked away first. "And some rare few of my kind," he added grudgingly.

Elfraine inclined her head slowly and picked her next words with more care. "They were different times, Nuada, and I would like to think a great many of my kind have… well, if not exactly changed, then at least gotten better in some respects. You are right though," she said quickly before he could argue the point. "Reşid was certainly a hollow, greedy man and yes, he… he made slaves of Dihyā and Azenzêr… and of me."

Nuada's eyes narrowed but he focused instead on what really mattered at that moment. "How could this – this Reşid have made a slave of her?" She was a leader, a warrior of her people. She was Djinn; a human should not have been able to bind her." The irony of his words struck him even as they left his mouth and he scowled; he was an Elven prince and a warrior, and yet a human had managed to bind him.

"Perhaps I should start at the beginning," Elfraine suggested.

"Please, do," he said curtly, looking down at his son's body. He was immediately aware of how he must sound and his eyes cut back to hers as he strove for a more even tone. "Forgive me, Lady. I – your words surprised me. I do not mean to be impolite."

"Oh, Nuada!" She knelt up and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a quick, fierce hug. She went to sit back but he encircled her with his free arm and held her close to him for a few seconds longer. "There's nothing to forgive, sweetheart," she murmured against his hair. "What happened is... It's not easy to tell and you won't find it easy to hear."

His lips curled in a mirthless smile and he loosened his hold on her. "Nevertheless, I will try and remember my manners. Now, please, tell me just what did happen."

Elfraine twisted round to sit beside him and leaned back into the crook of his arm. Keeping her eyes fixed firmly on Azenzêr's body, she began her tale. "About a month after I'd been hung I found myself in Constantinople."

"Constantinople! That… is a long way from England."

"In more ways than one," she murmured. "At the time I thought it was Hell."

"Was it so terrible?" he asked, a frown creasing his brow.

She gave a small, empty laugh. "No. Yes. I mean, I really did think it was Hell… or Purgatory at the very least."

"What?"

The note of surprise in his voice made her wince. "You'll no doubt think me foolish but I – I thought myself dead. I was convinced I was in Hell and about to be tormented by the Devil."

Nuada was utterly perplexed. As incredible a thing as their resurrection was, it had taken him no more than a few minutes to work out what had happened to him and his sister after they'd regained consciousness in the Chamber of the Golden Army four months ago and though Thomas Manning had most certainly proved himself a torment, there'd never been any question of mistaking him for a devil. "But – but you must have surely realised the truth of the situation…"

Elfraine shook her head, a faint blush staining her cheeks. "You have to remember, I'd only been alive for thirty five years, and it was 1615. What else was I to think except that I was in Hell? I couldn't even begin to imagine any other explanation for it all."

Nuada recalled one of their discussions from the previous afternoon - the one involving the dragon, or 'sly wyrm' as she'd called him, her precious vial of holy water and some salt, amongst other things. It was suddenly only all too easy to see how she'd believed herself to be in Hell - for a short while, at least. "Yes… but - but to think such a thing for a month…" he said.

"Well, maybe not quite a month." She was starting to sound defensive, she knew, but it was a touchy subject.

"How, by the Gods, did the truth escape you for so long?"

It was Elfraine's turn to scowl now; she was convinced his words carried an implicit rebuke. "A day or so after my execution, I found myself by the Pool of London," she began, a little testily.

"I won't even ask," Nuada muttered.

She snorted at that. "Probably best not to. Anyway, I'd stumbled into the docklands and almost immediately ran into some Barbary pirates, on shore and up to Heaven only knew what mischief."

Nuada raised his eyes skywards; Ottoman corsairs!

Elfraine continued speaking. "From the moment I revived after my hanging, everything seemed like a hellish nightmare. In my… my daze, I suppose, I wandered through some of the worst parts of London – places I'd never seen before - and I thought everyone I encountered was either another lost soul awaiting judgment, like me - whom they all surely thought mad - or else a demon put there to torment the damned. I mistook the pirates for the latter, and nothing they did gave me any reason to think any different."

Nuada frowned; it suddenly struck him that it must have been a terrifying situation for her to find herself in.

"I had no idea what they were saying; they were speaking in their – their demon tongue, or so I thought at the time," she continued. "They grabbed hold of me and pulled me about, and I started screaming. That only seemed to annoy them and one pulled a knife. He seized me around the shoulders and in less time than it takes to draw breath, he slit my throat." She shook her head as she thought of that sudden, brutal act. "I might have only recently been hung but I wasn't used to such… rough handling. It – it was quite a shock and the first – the only – thing that came to mind was that it was God's punishment for taking it upon myself to pass judgment on Gretheved in the first place and then for not repenting of it afterwards. That I might be immortal… well, why would I think such a thing? In any event, I died – once more - and my corpse had barely hit the ground when I revived again."

She looked up at Nuada, a grim smile on her face. "In my ignorance and stupidity, I quickly lost the one advantage I could have had in the whole sorry situation. The corsairs must have been utterly astounded to see me get to my feet but I was so petrified, I never even noticed. I know now they probably thought I was the demon, for a short while at least. It soon became apparent I was no such thing and from then on in I was an astonishing curiosity… something to be cut, slashed and carved into pieces as some sort of - of… I don't know, experiment, I suppose. The experience pretty much tallied with everything I'd ever been told about eternal damnation and though I screamed and cried and pleaded throughout the whole ordeal, it did me no good. I was no longer anything more than sport for the Devil."

"Oh, Elfraine!" Nuada's arm tightened around her. To think of her being terrified and helpless, being treated in such a way… He pulled her in close.

She reached up and touched his cheek. "It's all right, Nuada. Four hundred years is more than enough time to come to terms with a great many things, don't you think?" Her hand slid down to the opening of his shirt and slipped under, coming to rest on a small scar, about an inch or so wide, on his chest. She could feel his heart beating, strong and steady, against her palm. "I'm sure you've discovered that for yourself over the centuries."

"True," he acknowledged, staring down at her splayed fingers. "But some cuts go deeper than mere flesh and some never entirely heal." Though the scar beneath her hand was one of the smallest he bore, it was also the one which had caused him the most pain.

Elfraine followed the line of his eyes. She moved her hand slightly to reveal the small ridge of mended muscle and skin on his chest. "You are right there," she agreed quietly. "Like this one?" Her fingers lightly traced the neat, raised edges.

He hesitated for a second. "Yes, like that one."

Elfraine looked back up at him, not quite certain how to ask her next question. "Um…"

"Nuala," he said, correctly anticipating her.

"Oh." Her fingers stilled.

"She no doubt has one exactly like it." A hint of sorrow lurked in the depths of his dark gold eyes. "I finally found the one thing she was willing to share with me." To his surprise, he felt none of the usual bitterness at the thought.

Elfraine could think of nothing to say to that. The healed wound was right over his heart and she realised it must have been the fatal blow which had ended his life – and Nuala's – four years ago. She slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him. The heat of life coursed through him now - warm and vital - and to think of him as cold, inanimate stone… to think of a world without him in it… She repressed a shudder but in the next instant her heart squeezed painfully as she reminded herself yet again that if she succeeded with Fortune she would live out her natural span of years, be it one or fifty, and Nuada would be neither memory nor dream nor anyone who waited in her future. He was not hers, she knew, and never would have been in any event but if she triumphed in her quest she would have absolutely nothing of him to hold onto over the years. Some cuts did indeed go deep but then that was a lesson she'd already learnt, nearly four hundred years ago when her beautiful, adored child, who'd looked at the world – and her mother - with such bright, trusting eyes, had been abused and murdered for Gretheved's vile purposes and then tossed aside like a mangled, broken doll. She forced her mind away from the agonising images; she had a chance to fix things so that she would never let the piece of filth who'd been her third husband into their lives in the first place, and obliterating the memories of her time with Nuada was a sacrifice she'd have to make if she was to stand any chance of putting things right by Fortune.

It suddenly struck her that he too had a chance to fix things and she was glad, both for him and of the distraction from her own thoughts and feelings. "Last – last night, whilst I was introducing Mistress Gràinne to the others, your sister seemed... happy to talk to you," she began tentatively. Out of the corner of her eye, she'd seen Nuala embrace her brother and she'd seen too the look of disbelief on his face and then the dawning of a nascent joy before Krauss had commanded their attention.

"You are remarkably observant," he replied, glancing down at her.

His words gave Elfraine pause and she looked at him suspiciously. "You're not making fun of me, are you?"

"No, not at all. I meant it as a compliment." He tilted his head and gave her a questioning frown.

"Well, I did manage to go a whole month once without noticing I was alive…"

Nuada's lips twitched and a sudden gleam of amusement appeared in his eyes. "Not quite a month, I believe, and were I in your place, I would have made the same mistake," he gallantly lied.

"You would not have!" she averred. "Though it's kind of you to say so."

His amusement faded and his expression became sombre once more. "I do not mean to make light of what you went through, Elfraine."

"I know you don't, sweetheart," she said quickly. "I'm the one who led us down that path. Sometimes, with some things – not everything, I know – but with some things, the only thing you can do is make light of them to… to…"

"Put them in their proper place?" he suggested, recalling her earlier words about some of her less pleasant experiences as a musician in the courts of Europe several hundred years ago.

"Yes, that's it exactly," she agreed as she lifted her hand and reached out to touch Azenzêr's cold, stone face. "Though there are other things which can never be put into any sort of perspective." She wrapped her arm around Nuada's waist again. "Anyway, I do hope you and your sister can make your peace with one another."

"I think we might," he replied slowly, staring at his son; he thought he could see a resemblance to his sister and himself in those still, tiny features. "At least, I think it's possible to find some common ground, something which has eluded us for far too long." He glanced back at Elfraine and hesitated once more before plunging on. "It… it was the one thing about her I could never understand."

"Oh?"

How to explain it? Nuada thought to himself. He wasn't entirely certain he could. "We share…" He stopped abruptly. "We shared a connection. There was a time when no matter how many miles separated us, I was always… always aware of her - of her presence in this world."

"We all carry our loved ones in our hearts," Elfraine remarked.

"Yes, but it went beyond that," he replied. "She wasn't just in my heart; she was everywhere. When we were close by one another – when we stood in the same land, it… it was as if… she was with me, in me. And more than that, we shared a physical connection too; if I bled so did she." His lips twisted in the grimace of a smile. "It was one more reason to make sure I was proficient in battle - to spare her any… consequences." He glanced down at a faint, silvery scar, just visible on his forearm under the edge of his sleeve. "I was not always successful in my efforts. It was only after I went into exile - after there was an ocean between us - that her… her presence - my awareness of her – dimmed. But even then, like the song of the land, she was always with me… never separate from me."

"How did you breathe?" Elfraine mused. "How did she breathe?"

Nuada looked startled. "It was never a burden!" But it was, he realised, even as the words left his mouth. He'd known for the greater part of his life that it had often been a weight on Nuala - in all sorts of ways, many of which he'd never properly understood - but he'd never considered until this moment that it might have weighed heavily on him too and, just like that, he found himself looking at the shattered remnants of yet another certainty. His brows snapped together and he stared blindly at the horizon as he wrestled with the idea that the treasured connection with his sister had been in some way suffocating. Though it had delighted him and had been such an intimate part of him, it had also been a source of intense frustration more often than not… a piercing ache which could never be assuaged, a promise never to be realised.

He'd always placed the lion's share of the blame for that state of affairs on their father. "Athair tried so hard to shield her heart from mine… to smother the connection we shared," he murmured as he glanced back down at Elfraine, a troubled expression on his face. "Even though his efforts succeeded for the most part, I – I could never understand why she didn't feel as I did when it came to our people, not when it was so important a thing as our survival. How could she not see it my way? How could she betray us… betray me?"

"She must have wondered the same thing about you," observed Elfraine.

"No!" His denial was emphatic. "She had to know I would never…" He paused. "She could never expect me to agree with her thinking – his thinking – in that of all things!" But once given voice, the idea would not be quite and he struggled with it. "Perhaps she could," he admitted grudgingly after a moment or two. "Though if she did, it would only be thanks to Father's interference."

"Did you never think she could make up her own mind about things?" Elfraine continued. "Without any interference from anyone, including her father or brother… though you both surely influenced her just as she must have influenced you."

Her tone sounded neutral enough but Nuada seized on the opportunity to change the subject; he'd never discussed his and Nuala's connection with anyone, not even Dihyā or before her, Éadaoin, the other woman he'd once loved, and he was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the conversation now. "You seek to rebuke me?" he asked, giving Elfraine a narrow look.

His question surprised her. "No! Not at all! I want to see you happy. It's an unavoidable consequence of…" She stopped dead. "Of the way I feel. I merely sought to reassure myself that you could make your peace with your sister. I meant no offense or criticism. It's just I - I don't want it to go wrong for you. I don't like to think of you being alone in this world or at odds with someone you love." She glanced up at him, anxious shadows haunting her soft, brown eyes.

"Don't look at me like that, Elfraine. You and I are not at odds, mhuirnín." The words were out before he could stop them and he could have kicked himself. She went still against him and as she stared up at him, her expression a gut-wrenching mixture of disbelief and cautious hope, he cast his mind about wildly for a way out of the yawning hole he'd just dug for himself. "You - you need not worry about me, Lady, but I thank you for your concern," he added stiffly.

The dawning light in her eyes faded and he looked away before he said or did something to dig himself even deeper… like give in to the almost overpowering urge to kiss her until her eyes were shining once more or heap upon her the words of love which clamoured in his heart for release. Nothing had changed and it was unforgivable of him, he knew, to have raised her hopes for even so much as a second. But then he made the mistake of looking at her again and he couldn't help himself. With a groan, he bent his head and slanted his lips over hers. She sighed against his mouth and melted into him, her hands coming up to thread through his hair.

With some of the most fundamental truths of his life in ruins, and his thoughts and feelings – his sense of self - in turmoil, reality came down to this: his cold, dead child in one arm and this warm, living woman in the other. He deepened their kiss and tightened his hold on her. Though she'd played an unwitting part in the tearing down of those truths, she'd shored him up too he realised. For all that he held fast to his determination to reclaim his people's rightful place in the world, a small part of him had begun to despair of ever being able to drive back the swarming tide of humanity. The three pieces of the crown had been destroyed by Liz Sherman and with them, all chance of reawakening the Golden Army. And with no Golden Army, there was no chance of succeeding against the old foe. If he was honest, his promises sounded hollow and his threats empty, even to his own ears, and the chilling silence of oblivion pressed in on all sides, for both him and his people. Yet twice now Elfraine had told him he had it in him to find a way through for them, that his time to shine had not yet come and when it did he would rise to the occasion. They were easy enough words to say even though she claimed her knowledge came from their experience of joining together in the glittering web of magic but the conviction he'd heard in her voice and the faith he'd seen in her eyes were less easy to dismiss. He prayed to the Gods she was right and that whatever it was she thought she saw in him was real.

She pulled back first from their kiss. "I - perhaps I should continue with my story," she murmured breathlessly against his lips.

Nuada exhaled and rested his forehead on hers for a moment. "Perhaps you should." He lifted his head and looked her in the eye. "And Elfraine, of everyone in this world I am… glad it's you here with me now. You cared for my son and I… I know you care for me. I thank you for that. You have a way about you which I think must make even the bitterest of pills a little easier to swallow."

Her eyes were suddenly full of questions and she gave him a small, uncertain smile. "I can't help but think you must consider me the bitter pill sometimes… like just now," she said.

"No, mhuirnín, never that." The corner of his mouth lifted in wry acknowledgement. For all his earlier determination to reach a compromise with his sister, he now realised there'd been some small part of him which had still expected to persuade her to his point of view. In terms of making his peace with her, it would have been disastrous and he was once again in Elfraine's debt. "You only ask the questions I should have asked myself a long, long time ago," he admitted, "and for that too, I thank you." He looked back to his son and drew a deep breath before continuing. "I - I'll only ever know him – know his life – through your words so please, tell me everything…"

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References:

Lapidify: To change to stone [from French lapidifier, from Medieval Latin lapidificāre, ultimately from Latin lapis stone].

Azenzêr: (Amazigh – Berber) boy's name meaning 'sunray' or 'sunshine'.

Vizier: (Turkish - vezir) high-ranking political advisor or minister.

Reşid: (Turkish) masculine name.

Barbary pirates: Pirates and privateers based in North Africa and operating mainly in the western Mediterranean between the 16th and 19th centuries. The height and scope of their activity peaked in the early to mid 17th century. They not only seized ships but also engaged in raids on coastal towns and villages, mainly in southern Europe but even as far away as Britain, Ireland, the Netherlands and Iceland, in order to capture Christian slaves to be sold in North Africa and the Middle East. Though I was unable to find any accounts of them putting ashore in London, for the purposes of this story one lot did. It's at least plausible they could have escaped the notice, for a short while, of what passed for the authorities in those days; some of the pirates were Europeans (e.g. Jack Ward, Zymen Danseker) and these men brought European sailing and ship-building techniques – then the most advanced in the world – to the Barbary Coast in the early years of the 17th century. Also, see Des Ekin's book, The Stolen Village: Baltimore and the Barbary Pirates for an account of a 1631 raid on a small Irish village in West Cork in which some 100 inhabitants (50 children – "even those in the cradle" - 34 women and the rest men) were carried off by Ottoman corsairs. Only two ever returned to Ireland. Ekin notes that the Baltimore story and its glimpse into the Arab slave trade provides a rare example of an occasion when the "boot was on the other foot", so to speak, for those nationalities engaged in the transatlantic slave trade which geared up from about 1562 onwards and resulted in almost four hundred years' worth of shattered lives and crushing misery.

Jiniri: female Djinn. (Djinn: Arabic spirits, or genies, who inhabit an unseen world in dimensions beyond the human world in Islamic mythology. The djinn, humans and angels make up the three sentient creations of God. The Koran mentions that djinn are made of a smokeless and scorching fire, and they have the physical property of weight. Like human beings, the djinn can also be good, evil, or neutrally benevolent.)

Dihyā al-Kāhinat: O/C inspired by and based (very) loosely on Daya Ult Yenfaq Tajrawt (c. early 7th century AD – c. late 7th century AD). A Berber religious and military leader who led indigenous resistance to Arab expansion in Northwest Africa. Al-Kāhinat (the female priestess-soothsayer) was the nickname used by her opponents because of her reputed ability to foresee the future.

Mhuirnín: (Irish Gaelic) sweetheart.

Éadaoin: (Irish Gaelic – see also Étaín) Pronounced 'AY-deen'. Figure from Irish mythology, the heroine of Tochmarc Étaín (The Wooing of Étaín). Identified as a sun goddess.

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A/N: Thank you to the readers who reviewed the last chapter. I appreciate your encouraging comments and am glad to hear you're enjoying the story.
Cheers
ESSI :)