A/N: So we should have gone back to Bollnah for this chapter, but I figured we could switch it up since I left the last one on a small cliffhanger.
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
What's happening behind a closed door has never meant more to Sinbad in his life.
Of course, what's happening behind a closed door has never before been the birth of his child and the shattering of her mother.
He left Maeve's room at her insistence, her fury absolutely the only thing that could possibly wrest him from her side. He wouldn't have broken for Keely. Not even for Cairpra, no matter how much he respects her. Only Maeve. Had she allowed him to stay he'd still be there now, convention be damned. He has two days left on this earth, she and Finleigh may have less, and he needs to be with them.
But Maeve snarled at him like a wild thing, a creature turning on her mate. Do animals even do that? He doesn't know, and he has no Firouz to ask. But she was out of control, so very close to what felt like a permanent shattering, and with Keely's insistence that he was only making things worse ringing in his ears, Sinbad bowed to her wishes. He wondered, when this whole mess began moons ago, just where his fierce, proud sorceress's breaking point was, and he's terrified that they've finally found it. He swore he'd keep her safe. That he wouldn't ever hurt her. But he has. He's broken the most important person in his world, and he doesn't know that she can be put back together this time.
The door swung shut and latched behind him, but Sinbad didn't go far. He can't. He remains stubbornly glued to the hallway outside her sturdy wooden door, pacing swiftly when standing still becomes unbearable, but never more than a few steps in either direction. He can't leave her. He just can't. The rainbow bracelet on his wrist pulses with light, still too swift and arrhythmic for her usual heartbeat and breaths, which tells him clearly that she's in distress and he can't go far. She needs him, needs the energy and power he channels, whether she chooses to admit this or not. This spell works best when they're in contact, skin to skin, but that fucking door and Maeve's intractable stubbornness deny them both this comfort. He does the only thing he can to help her under the circumstances, remaining close, as close as he's allowed, feeding her what energy he can.
Because behind that door, his daughter is being born.
Thoughts skitter and collide in his head without focus as he remains firmly on the brink of panic. His own soul doesn't matter—in fact, he's oddly at peace with what will happen in two days' time. Now Maeve and Fin won't have to fight Scratch. The panic rushing through his blood, bitter as bile and cold as ice, is for his chéile and his daughter. For the time he still has left with them, if she'd only relent and let him in. He doesn't give a fuck what Keely says about childbirth being women's business—his time left on this earth is now measured in days, his daughter's possibly in hours, and he wants back in. It may not be right, and it may not be manly, but he doesn't care. That's his family. His daughter. And she may be dying even as she's being born.
It's too early. She's too small. Maeve did the best she could—did more than any other woman could have, he's convinced. But Keely warned them from the start. Not to name Finleigh. Not to get attached. Too much has happened to her—too much stress, too much dark magic, and the attack from Doubar on top of everything else. Fin fought through it all like the little warrior she is, but Sinbad just doesn't know whether she can survive this, too. Early babies do not live—everyone knows this. They're small and sickly, prone to illness, and often their tiny bodies just give out.
Not Fin, his mind insists as he paces. Not his Fin. She's stronger than that. She has her mother's incredible will, he knows she does, and he's convinced that stubborn streak can save both his girls if they apply it in the right direction. He'd be there to encourage them, if Maeve would only let him. He'd face down an entire army of angry midwives to get to them. But he can't, and he's not confident at all that Maeve is putting that iron will of hers to good use. Has she come around, as Keely said she would? Begun to walk, supported by her sisters? Or is she still lying in the big bed as he left her, refusing to participate in this process? She can't fight fate, can't deny what's already been set in motion. But when he left her, that's what she was hell-bent on doing and it terrifies him.
At first the door opens and closes with reasonable regularity, Wren and Cairpra and little Cara fetching and carrying objects to and from the room and beginning to clean the kitchen between shifts at Maeve's side. They clear the shattered glass and plaster from the room and carry it away, and he hears pounding as the broken window is boarded up. Once the kitchen fire has been relighted they bring hot water and broth and caudle; whether Maeve eats, he doesn't know. Piles of clean linen disappear into the room, the soiled sheets from the bed taken away. Wren shoots him sympathetic glances when she passes; Cara ducks her head and slinks by.
Is this normal for a woman's lying-in? Sinbad doesn't know, but he doubts it. Nothing about this situation is normal. The house around them is a wreck, every face pale and tense. They all know exactly what's at stake here: once Fin is born, Sinbad will have no champion to claim his soul from Scratch. Maeve is delicate from illness, though he can't quite bear to call her weak. Not his sorceress. But the fact remains that she and Fin are not physically prepared for this trial, and it's too soon.
And as each minute passes, Sinbad is more and more sure that he fucked up worse this time than he ever has before. He's made devastating mistakes in his time—terrible ones. But asking Maeve to do this for him is by far the worst. Yes, he failed to protect Leah as a child, and consequently lost her. And many men have died under his captaincy, losses he mourns and regrets but has never denied. These haunt him, but nothing will ever shred his soul as much as the look in Maeve's eyes when she slapped his face and ordered him from the room.
So you love me. Tell me what that fixes.
Her words hurt more than any physical wound he's ever received.
He broke her.
She's broken.
Rumina never managed to break her, no matter how much she took from her: her beloved older brother, her health, almost her daughter. Even Antoine's furious repudiation didn't break her, though it brought her close. Scratch drove her to panic and would have killed her, but the demon couldn't touch that beautiful, indomitable spirit.
No, Sinbad did that himself. He brought her to this point, where she knows she's about to lose him, blames herself, and is desperately trying to close herself off from that pain before it hits, like a ship battening down the hatches before a storm. But she's not a ship about to crack open on the shoals, she's a very human woman broken so badly she's even refusing to birth her daughter, which Keely says may kill them both. And she won't let him in to try to help.
"What did she do?" he demands of the empty air, not sure if he's talking to an absent Scratch or someone else just as absent and just as uncaring. "I've made plenty of mistakes. Punish me." Not her. She's done nothing that could ever warrant this sort of punishment. All she's ever done is try to protect people. She's loyal and steadfast, utterly unwavering, devoted to the people she bound herself to. She chose them, chose this charge. It wasn't placed on her shoulders, as it was placed on Doubar's. She chose her people, both here and on the Nomad, bound herself to them willingly and never looked back. What god would decree that she now deserves this?
Sinbad reaches the furthest he's willing to move from the door as he paces. Four steps. He's improving, he guesses; an hour ago it was two. Two hours ago it was none. He turns to pace back in the other direction and plows into Niall.
The smaller man reels back, rubbing his chest where Sinbad smacked into him. There's a pale sìthiche man with him, a man Sinbad vaguely recognizes though he's too distracted to remember from where. The man puts his hand on Niall's shoulder to steady him.
"Easy, man," Niall says gently. His black eyes are compassionate, and there's no anger in his tone. He knows. Sinbad can tell instantly that he knows.
"Ronan," the blond man says, offering his hand to shake. Sinbad stares at it blankly. He can't bear the conventions of civility right now. He's not sure his brain can even string words together and make his mouth speak them.
Niall puts an understanding hand on his shoulder. "Scratch's attack sent his chéile into early labor," he says, and Sinbad's glad he doesn't elaborate further. No one else needs to know he's a dead man walking.
The pale man's blue eyes are compassionate. "I'm sorry. I wish I could say the demon will pay for this, but he never seems to."
"No," Sinbad agrees tightly, staring at a scuff on the worn wooden floor. "He never does." But he's going to fight with everything in him when Scratch comes to take him. For Maeve's sake. For Fin's. For all the demon has taken from them.
"Ronan's from the council. He's just surveying the damage," Niall says. "They'll send men to help with repairs once we know better what's needed."
Sinbad struggles for comprehension of the man's words above the gnawing, knifelike panic in his mind. Only one thing cuts clearly through his worries for Maeve, and that's more worry for Maeve. "The house. Is it sound? Is it safe?"
"Oh, aye," Ronan confirms, his easy confidence with this answer settling Sinbad's spiking anxiety. "The foundation isn't even cracked, and the supports are fully sound. There's a lot of damage, but it's fairly superficial."
"Could have been worse," Niall agrees. "The roof's gone, and most of the glass on the north and east sides of the house. Some of the mortar crumbled from the force of the hail. The outbuildings are gone and we have a good few trees down, but the boys rounded up the animals and it looks like we didn't lose any. The eastern beach is...well, there isn't really a beach anymore, but it always changes with winter storms so I have no idea what it will look like come spring. The books are fine, and no one's dead. That's the most important thing."
Sinbad nods grimly, though the man's words barely register. No one's dead—yet. But his time is running out swiftly and he has no idea what's happening behind that barred door.
"Early babies need warmth if they're to survive." Ronan scratches the spiky blond hairs on his chin. "My sister's first was weeks early, hard to say exactly how much. He's doing well now, though. I'll have our blacksmith send over the biggest brazier he can transport, and a load of charcoal to get you going if you don't keep a supply here. I wish you the best, man." He nods at Sinbad respectfully. "Your chéile need anything else you can think of?"
Hope. But not even sìthichean can conjure that up for the asking.
Niall glances at Sinbad before answering. "I'll check with Wren," he says, "but I don't think so. We have food and blankets enough. The pipes are damaged, as you saw, but there's a stream. We can get on as regular humans do without running water in the house." He leads the other man toward the stairs.
"We'll have to thatch the roof for now," Ronan says as they begin to climb. "Re-shingling will have to wait until spring, most likely."
"It's fine. The attic's full of food and fabric stores, anyway, not books. So long as we keep the library from water damage, the rest doesn't matter." Niall's voice trails away. Sinbad lets them go. He should care about the house's condition, he knows he should, but he doesn't. So long as it won't crumble around Maeve, he really doesn't give a fuck. All he cares about is behind that gods-be-damned door, and he's growing more and more concerned as the activity in and out ceased a while ago and has not resumed. How long, he can't say. Time has very little meaning as he paces his limited course up and down the dark hallway, no window to show him the advance of his second-to-last day on this earth. It could still be morning. It could be night. He can't tell. And he can't tell what's happening behind that door, which is even more maddening.
Scratch mentioned his crew in his long-winded gloating rant, and Sinbad knows he should do something about them, do something for them. Tell them what's going on, at the very least. He's the captain, and he has responsibilities to these men, these brothers who have been by his side for years. But he can't leave Maeve, and he wouldn't even if he could. He has too many responsibilities pulling him in too many directions, and he can't fulfill them all. He says a silent apology to Rongar and Firouz and even Talia, but he's made his choice. There's nothing else he can do. He trusts Rongar with his life and his ship, and he's perfectly content leaving the Nomad in his hands. Scratch said Rumina was with them, but he's not worried. Rongar is intelligent and resourceful, and why would Rumina bother with them anyway? She's never cared about his crew. She's only ever cared about him—and tangentially Maeve, because Maeve is in her way. There's no reason for Rumina to bother Rongar or Firouz.
He supposes he could ask Niall to help him use an opal and go south for a few minutes, to at least tell his crew what's going on. To say goodbye. Probably he should. But he remembers all too well what happened the last time he left Maeve, how frozen and depleted they both were, and he cannot do that to her again, especially right now. She needs all the energy he can give her. That means, depending on what happens behind that door, his men may never hear from him again. He hates this, but he hates the thought of harming Maeve more. He can't leave. He'll ask Niall or Keely to go south after he's gone and explain everything. Rongar and Firouz will understand, and Talia's only waiting to learn what the payout on her bets will be, anyway. The Nomad is Fin's birthright if she survives, and Sinbad trusts that Rongar will keep it safe for her until she's ready to take up the mantle of command. He can continue to sail or dry-dock her in a safe port like Baghdad or Basra, or even bring her north to Maeve if he's willing to brave that voyage.
And Doubar?
No.
Sinbad's mind slams the door firmly on this question, as firmly as Maeve's door was slammed in his face earlier. He has too much to deal with already, his time has suddenly become a very precious commodity, and he is not interested in wasting it wringing his hands over the man who hurt his daughter and helped cause this situation. Maeve's waters may have broken because Scratch nearly brought the house down around her, but he didn't cause Fin's precarious situation on his own. Rumina helped. And so did Doubar. Goaded or otherwise, he still had free will and he still made the choice to violently attack a pregnant woman both smaller than him and too sick to fight back. So no, he's not interested in any sort of closure or resolution with his brother. Many people never get closure; that's life. Or, rather, that's death.
From behind the door, Maeve's voice rises. Sinbad's head snaps up, listening hard. He still can't make out words, but she's angry. Very, very angry. He can't blame her. He's furiously angry, too. Never at her or Finleigh, but at Scratch. Rumina. Himself. At every step that led to this point, where he can hear her pain but do nothing to quell it, his doom assured and his family's lives hanging so precariously by such a thin thread.
A gentle hand touches his shoulder. He flinches, but it's only Niall. The pale man is nowhere to be seen; how long was Niall gone? Five minutes? Five hours? Sinbad's usually good at estimating time, but today it's lost all meaning.
Niall holds out a full bottle of golden-brown liquid. "The cellar was spared. No damage done to the whiskey." A humorless smile touches the corners of his mouth.
Sinbad shakes his head, refusing the offer. Yes, Antoine told him it's customary for fathers to get blind drunk during this time, but he's not interested. He needs to stay alert.
"I won't bother asking if you're hungry." Niall tucks the bottle away. "Is what I'm saying even registering right now?"
Sinbad blinks at the man without answering. It is, but it isn't. He hears him, but nothing matters except Maeve. Not knowing what's happening behind that door is plunging him headlong into insanity.
Niall turns, leaning his back against the smooth white wall. "If it makes you feel any better, the wait is always maddening. Yours moreso, I know, but it never really gets easier."
Sinbad will never know. "How much longer?" he demands, though he knows Niall can't answer this. Maybe even Keely can't.
The man shrugs his shoulders. "You want the truth?"
"Always." A harsh truth is always better than a gentle lie, no matter how well meant.
"It can take days, sometimes, though I know that's not what you want to hear. And the longer it takes, the less likely the outcome will be good. But a first birth always takes longer, and there are too many variables at play for me to even guess what's going on in there." His dark eyes are compassionate. "I don't know what's going to happen, but it's not time to worry yet." His entire stance says he knows Sinbad is worrying anyway, that he was the moment he saw the dark stain spreading on the sheets that meant their time had run out.
"Wren and I were on our own when Bran was born. We had no coin or barter to pay for a midwife, and Wren was still so skittish around people after the massacre that took her clan. She wouldn't have knocked on a door to ask for a midwife even if we could pay. She'd assisted women in her family, I guess as all girls do, so she knew more or less what to expect. But she'd never given birth herself and she shouldn't have had to go through that the first time alone. I was clueless. She let me help her walk around for a while, but then she was in so much pain and so sensitive that she screamed at me not to touch her. Made me stay more than an arm's length away so there was no way I could reach her. I was positive she was going to die. There was more blood than I expected, and she kept making these sounds. I didn't know my sweet, quiet girl could make noises like that."
A twisted scream of pure fury and pain echoes through the walls. Sinbad lunges for the door, but Niall fists the collar of his shirt and yanks him back.
"Noises like that," he says dryly. "Easy. If she doesn't want you in there, she doesn't want you in there. Throwing a fit won't change that."
Another howl sounds, and Sinbad swears that cry rips through him like a predator's claws through flesh. He wants to batter that door down, needs to be with her no matter what Keely says. The only thing keeping him from trying is the knowledge that it will do no good and may upset Maeve in the process. There's a wooden latch and metal bolt on that door, and he already examined the hinges. They're not simple pins, and he heard the bolt snick shut when he was kicked out. He's not getting back in until someone lets him.
Niall lets out a low whistle. "She's really angry."
"Can you blame her?"
"No. I never blame any woman for what she says or does during this time, and Maeve has more reasons than most to be angry. Keely says most women plot vengeance on their men during their lying-in, swear they hate them, threaten to kill them. Mostly they take it back once the ordeal is over. Mostly."
Sinbad stares at that damn door that refuses to open. Maeve probably does hate him right now, and she has every right to. He's leaving her alone with a child to raise, and that was never part of the deal. He swore he'd take care of her, whether she wanted him to or not. This is the most important vow he's ever made, and she knows he's going to break it. How could she not hate him?
"We'll take care of her." Niall's steady, quiet voice remains even as his black eyes watch Sinbad. "I swear it. Whatever happens, we're her family and this is her home. I can never tell what Maeve will decide to do; she's always been sort of impenetrable to me. But whatever she chooses, we'll support her."
"I know." Sinbad grips the man's shoulder, though he doesn't bother even trying to smile. That Keely and the rest of Maeve's clan will take care of her—and Finleigh—was never in doubt. But they shouldn't have to. That's his job. The only job he wants, the task he was fully committed to spending the rest of his life enjoying. Now all of that has been thrown into violent doubt. He's going to fight Scratch. It's not in him to just go quietly. But he's not sure this coming fight is winnable. Not if Scratch has a true claim to his soul.
"I wish I could tell you that everything's going to be fine," Niall says, exhaling a deep breath. "I can't. You already know I can't. But I can say without a doubt that Maeve will do her best."
Will she? Sinbad wants to be as certain as her Roman brother is, but he's honestly just not. She loves Fin dearly, but she's also adamant that their daughter will not be born today. And that scares the shit out of him. She's fighting nature, fighting Fin, and that will not end well. He doesn't need Keely to tell him so. Birth, like death, has to happen when it's time. No one gets to decide, not even Maeve. She can do almost anything in the world, he's convinced, but she can't fight this.
"The moment Wren put Brandon in my arms for the first time was the best and most terrifying of my life," Niall says softly. "Cherish yours, when it comes. No matter what happens after."
He will. Once Finleigh is in his arms he's not giving her up until Scratch forces him to. She'll have her father for as long as he can possibly hold out. She won't remember him once he's gone, just as he doesn't remember his lost parents, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't make his remaining time any less important.
"I've got to go," Niall says with a small sigh. "The women are busy, and there's still children to soothe and feed."
"Are they all right?" Sinbad manages to ask, as he knows he should. He knows what's expected. He's just finding it very difficult to concentrate on anything but that fucking door.
"Everyone is fine. The boys are rattled and Lily wants her father—nothing new there. We swept out the kitchen and sitting area and we'll bed everyone down together tonight. Like old times." A wan smile touches his mouth. "I put my foot down about shoes today, though we'll have the same argument again tomorrow. Such is parenting."
Sinbad wishes he had Niall's problems.
The door opens.
Sinbad rushes it. He doesn't care who emerges or what they want, this time they're not going to brush past him. He needs to know what's going on in there. He'll stay out if Maeve insists, because she gets to decide how she does this, but he doesn't have to be happy about it and no one here scares him enough to keep him quiet anymore. He has a right to know what's going on.
To his surprise, a head of brown hair framed by a bright green forelock appears. Keely hasn't left her sister's side all day. Sinbad's stomach turns a sickening somersault as he sees her tight, drawn face. Something's wrong. It has to be. He glances at his bracelet out of reflex, but its glowing light still pulses on his wrist. Maeve is alive, but something's wrong.
"Let me in," he demands. He towers over Maeve's tiny sister. "Let me see her!"
Keely regards him evenly, those unnatural green eyes catching the light of his bracelet and reflecting it back, like a cat's. She looks older than she did last night, lines like sabers carved along the corners of her mouth, tension in her throat and shoulders like the stress on a sheet in a storm. She's so tired. How long has it been since she kicked him out?
"Listen to me, and listen very carefully. Shut your mouth and do not talk."
He does. The steel in her voice brooks no argument. He's desperate to get through that door, and if he angers her there's no way she'll allow it.
"Maeve was very clear that she didn't want you in there, and I never like men hanging around a birthing room, sticking your noses where they've no cause to be. But we've reached a point where I don't think I have a choice."
"Maeve—"
"Shut up, I said." She holds up a quelling hand, stilling him when he would have rushed forward.
There's blood on her skin.
It's the shock of this that halts his steps, not her insistence that he wait. She's clearly wiped her hands, her palms and the pads of her fingers clean, but blood remains ringed around and under her short nails and between her fingers, dark and ominous in the dim hallway. Sinbad stares. He knew women bled during birth, didn't he? Surely he did. But knowing it and seeing it for himself are two different things. That's Maeve's blood on her sister's hands, and he stares wordlessly at the dark stains.
"Maeve is still fighting me. I've tried explaining things calmly. I've tried bribing her. I've cajoled. I've ordered. I've screamed in her face. None of it has done any good, because nothing gets through that girl's skull unless she wants it to. She won't listen, so you have to. You have to change her mind."
Sinbad tries to swallow, but his throat is bone-dry and he nearly chokes. He wants in that room badly, but he's not sure he can do what Keely wants. "Maeve doesn't listen to me, either." This is exactly what he's feared all day. Maeve can't continue to fight this, but she seems determined to try.
"I'm not letting you in there unless you agree. She doesn't think she wants you, and she's mad as hell. I'm not going to provoke her further if you refuse to help." Those green eyes glitter dangerously at him. "This isn't something she can fight, Sinbad!" The pitch of her voice rises, as it always does when she grows agitated. She sounds almost as young as Mia, and looks almost as old as her dead mother. "I can't lose my sister, do you hear me? But I can't help her because she refuses to let me! She won't work with me, and I can't do this alone. I'm fantastic at my job, but ultimately a midwife can only assist. I can't do this for her, and she refuses. Maybe someday midwives will develop a way to pull babies from the womb without killing their mothers, but I won't live to see it. And I can't convince Maeve to do what she doesn't want to do. You have to help me!"
"I'll try." Is that his voice? It doesn't sound like him at all. "Of course I'll try." Why would she ever think he wouldn't? He's just not confident in his ability to change Maeve's mind about anything. Keely put it perfectly: his sorceress can't be swayed unless she wants to be, and right now he doubts she wants to be talked into anything. "But she's Maeve. I may be her captain, but that's never mattered to her."
"I don't want you to be her captain! Do you think anyone here gives a fuck about chain of command? If you try to order her now, she's going to kill you. Probably quite literally. She does not want or need her captain. She wants the person she loves most in the world. It's because she knows she's losing you that she's acting like this. It's going to kill them both, and she doesn't seem to care about that. Hell, maybe part of her even thinks she wants to die if the alternative is being alone. But if she keeps resisting she's facing an agonizing death that may take days to finally claim her. And she'll witness her daughter suffocate and die before ever being born. She doesn't really want that, no matter what may be going on in that head of hers right now, and I know you don't, either."
"Never." What he wants is his family alive and safe no matter what happens to him. He'll do his utmost to achieve that goal, though he's never been very successful at changing Maeve's mind before. No one ever has except Dim-Dim. "Let me see her."
Keely watches him for a moment longer. "Don't provoke her more than necessary. I know you're good at it, but now is not the time. Just...change her mind. Make her work with me. I can't lose my sister."
He knows. She's lost too many people already. She can't afford to lose Maeve, too, and neither can Sinbad. He bows his head to her and she steps aside, allowing him into the room.
He feels as shaky as a new cabin boy without sealegs as he enters. This room has been his quarters for a long time now, his space and his bed as well as Maeve's, but immediately as he passes through the doorway he knows this is no longer the case. It's Maeve's room once again, hers and only hers, because he's leaving her and she's desperately attempting to extricate herself from him, controlling what little she can control, removing herself as much as she can from the source of this pain. He understands. It won't work, but he understands. She can pull away from him all she wants, hate him all she wants. But she has to stop fighting her body, fighting Fin. She can't run from this, can't hide from it, and if she keeps trying she's going to kill not only herself but Finleigh, too. He'll give her whatever she wants today and tomorrow, whatever it takes to stop this, even if what she demands from him is solitude. He'll leave her be, no matter how much it kills him. He'll do whatever she demands, so long as she stops this fight. He can't just sit back and let his daughter die now.
The broken window has been boarded over; only a few dim glimmers of daylight peer through cracks in the boards as wet wind whistles through the chinks. It's late afternoon. Maeve has been fighting Keely and Fin since before dawn.
The big bed is empty. A moment of sheer panic takes Sinbad before his eyes fall to the floor, where Maeve lies on a thick pile of sweet hay, a sheet of old, stained linen protecting her delicate skin from the worst jabs of the straw. She's on her side again, tucked around her belly, and every line of her body, every movement as she breathes, speaks deep exhaustion.
"What is this?" he demands, dropping to his knees on the straw. "She's not an animal!"
"No one said she was," Keely snaps back. She motions the other women out of the room. Cara disappears gladly. Cairpra moves much more slowly, and her compassionate gaze lingers on Sinbad for a moment before she leaves. "Where did you expect a woman to give birth? In bed? That ludicrously expensive mass of fabric and feathers? No way. Not even queens do that. Birth is incredibly messy. Maeve is already bleeding more than I'd like, and it's only going to get worse before it gets better."
If it gets better. The words hang unsaid between them.
"Don't talk about me as if I'm not here," Maeve says tightly. "I'm not dead. And I am not giving birth today." Her head shifts, and one dark eye glares over her shoulder at Sinbad. "He shouldn't be here. I don't want him."
"Why shouldn't he be here, if you're not giving birth? Why should I keep humoring you?" Keely's voice is dark with bitter sarcasm. "He lives here."
"He's a dead man. He doesn't live anywhere." Maeve's head drops back down with a crackle of straw.
Sinbad knows. He knows. But despite her utter rejection of him, he feels a surge of rightness flow through him. No matter how angry she is, he's exactly where he needs to be. Where he's supposed to be. He won't leave her side again until Scratch forces him. "I know you don't want me. That's fine. But we're connected, mo chailín, whether you like it or not."
"Fuck off. And don't call me that."
Good luck, Keely mouths before retreating, shutting the door behind her. He's grateful for the privacy, but feels fully adrift left alone with a laboring woman. He has no idea what's happening inside her body right now. Keely said she was bleeding and he can smell that much, the metallic odor of blood mixing with the sweet, dusty smell of straw.
"You told me to call you that," he says just before a wave of pain takes her. Sinbad's stomach lurches as the smell of blood thickens. She huddles, fighting against the pain, against her body, looking smaller than he ever imagined she could as her breaths come fast and light and shallow. A small cry takes her, wrenched from her lungs without her permission. Does she not want him to hear her? He'll never fault her for any noise she makes now.
Her white cotton shift is stained with sweat and blood, her skin stark white, her beautiful hair sweat-dark and tangled. He aches to touch her, but until she slumps against the straw he doesn't dare. She looks so fragile, almost as fragile as she did just after Doubar's attack, when neither he nor Keely was sure she would survive. They're not sure now, either, and he hates that they're mired in this uncertainty again. He needs her to be safe. He can't let Scratch take him until he knows she and Fin are going to pull through.
Her body relaxes into the straw, damp and shuddering, and he finally finds enough courage to touch her. He can't keep away any longer. She may attack him again, but he doesn't care. She needs the energy he can give her, and he needs her. Just her. He spoons himself gently around her, conforming his body to her shape rather than pulling her into his. He's had plenty of practice over the past weeks, but never has he touched her with more care. The last thing he wants to do is hurt her or cause inadvertent harm. The scent of the straw rises around him—it's the scent of summer, sweet sunshine he'll never see again. He doesn't care. He has today and tomorrow, and one last task to complete. He has to change his sorceress's mind. She may be about to lose him, but if she keeps fighting she'll lose everything else as well.
"I take it back," she says. Her voice is angry; he can feel the heat of her fury, but he can also hear her exhaustion. She can't keep fighting like this, but she's determined to try. "I take all of it back. You're not my céile. You're not anything! I renounce you." The last syllable cracks apart in her mouth like an empty eggshell trod underfoot.
"I don't think you can do that, mo chailín," he says, holding his ground. She lashes out when angry; she always has. He's learned not to take what she says in anger at face value, though he has to admit that this one hurts. He deliberately switches languages though no one can hear them and there's no point in hiding anymore anyway. "I learned your tongue so I could tell you how much you mean to me."
"And it didn't matter," she growls. "Scratch knew the whole time."
"He knew," Sinbad acknowledges. "But that doesn't mean it didn't matter. We fooled Rumina. She would have kept coming after you otherwise. You know she would have." He presses his lips lightly to her bare shoulder. Her skin is hot with exertion and pain, the struggle to repress what's happening within. "You gave me the gift of your words. Told me what to call you. Mo chailín," he says, a little firmer this time. "You can't just erase that."
"I can," she insists, sucking a deep breath into her lungs just as another pain takes her. They're coming much swifter now. Ordinarily Sinbad would suspect that's a good sign, but since she's still trying to prevent his daughter's birth he's not sure what to think. Her chest expands as she inhales deeply, her rail-thin back pressing tightly against his chest. He can feel how delicate she is, but also how strong. His lips taste honest salt when he kisses her skin.
"Denying me won't stop what's coming," he says quietly, lips ghosting her shoulder as he speaks. "If it could, I'd let you. I'd let you repudiate me permanently if it meant you'd never be hurt again. Whatever the Celt equivalent of divorce is, I'd let you have it. But that's not how this works, Maeve. You know that."
Her breath catches in her throat, shallow and shaking, as her body slumps against his. "I told you to go away."
"I know. And I'd obey if I could, if it would help. But I can't. I'm sorry. You're going to kill yourself if you keep fighting like this, and kill Fin in the process." His hand rises to cup her belly. Her soft cotton shift is soaked through, fully sheer as she turns slightly toward him. Her skin feels stretched to its breaking point under his hand, the swell of her belly hard and unyielding. He wants Fin to kick him, to reassure him that she's okay in there, but she doesn't. Do all babies become still during this process, or should he worry? He doesn't know, and he hates not knowing. "This isn't your fault, and it's not hers, either. Stop punishing her."
"I'm not—" Her outraged voice breaks off and she growls, a noise of sheer animal frustration.
"You are." It's so unfair of him to press this while he knows she's hurting, but he has no choice. She has to listen. Most of the day has passed in this fight, and Keely says it's too dangerous to continue. "You're punishing her for coming early, but it's not her fault. You both did the very best you could. You need to stop fighting her now, and accept reality. You're killing her. Do you hear me?"
"No," she grits out through clenched teeth.
"Yes," he insists. A breath of cold wind snakes through the cracks in the boarded up window, freezing his wet cheeks. Only then does he realize he's crying. He buries his cheek in her damp curls and holds her as tightly as he dares as another wave of pain takes her. "Don't do this. Please. Dim-Dim says everything happens for a reason. I know you don't believe in fate, but if you have any faith in him at all, please, try to trust it now. This is happening. Finleigh is being born, and maybe it's happening for a reason." He kisses the delicate whorl of her ear, the beautiful sweep of her elegant throat. She's his firebrand, his fierce, uncompromising sorceress, and she always will be no matter what she chooses to tell herself in this moment. He takes a deep breath, braces himself, and plays dirty. She can hate him for it if she wants, so long as he changes her mind. "You're stronger than me. You always have been. I know I'm leaving you, and that's not fair. I know. But you can handle it. I can't. Don't make me watch you die. Don't kill my daughter before I get a chance to meet her. Please."
The grunt of pain that leaves her mouth twists like molten metal into a cry of pure fury. "I hate you!" she wails, but the sound is deep and strong, the roar of a warrior, not a wounded woman. It holds the strength he knows she possesses inside, the strength she's stored not just these past weeks but her whole life as she's faced hardships that easily fell weaker souls. It's okay that she hates him, he tells himself firmly. Oddly enough, her fury gives him hope.
"Hate me. You're entitled, and I don't mind. I did this to you, and I'll never be able to make that right. But don't take my mistakes out on Fin. It's not her fault. Please. I have no right to ask anything more of you, but no one else can do this. You have to make the choice. Fight with her, not against her."
"I will," she snarls, her head thrashing from side to side as she fights whatever's happening within her body, this invisible war he can feel under his hands but cannot see. She's so tense, her poor muscles contracting and bearing down without her command, outside her control. Her teeth snap together, clenching hard on nothing, and he's afraid they may crack. "I'll fight on her side, but not until after I fight Scratch."
"You don't get to decide that, mo chailín. It's out of your hands."
Those light brown eyes he loves so much are full of fire, and her skinny body writhes in his hold as her muscles clamp down and refuse to relent. He smells blood, stronger than before. How much is too much? How much before he needs to yell for Keely?
"I never wanted to do this!" She grunts deep, her palms clutching spasmodically at handfuls of stained linen and straw. "I never wanted a kid in the first place! I only agreed to save you!"
He knows. He knows. He should never have made her do this. It's not fair, and he can feel the fury radiating through her body as he holds her tightly. But he thought something had changed in the moons she sheltered Fin within her body. She may not ever have wanted children, but he thought she nonetheless loved Fin as much as he does. She was adamant about protecting her—far better at it than he was. Now, though, faced with her continued anger, her refusal to birth her child, he's forced to question all of this. Was this love only ever on his side? And if so, what does that mean for Fin? Sickness rises in him, physical queasiness as his heart constricts and his mind reels.
"Please," he whispers. What else can he say? He needs her to do this. Finleigh needs her to do this, no matter how she feels about her baby. There's no other choice. He has no pretty speeches to give her, no rousing pep talk as he's so often found for his crew when they land in dire straits. He has nothing, and he needs so much. "Please. Don't kill my daughter."
The snarl that tears from her throat is the sound of a cornered beast, not a woman. The smell of blood intensifies, and he can now feel the warm, sticky wetness against his thigh where it rests behind hers. She screams. The door slams open, and a moment later Keely is beside them.
"Turn her," she demands. "On her back or on her hands and knees, whatever she'll allow. Maeve, I swear to all the gods, if you fight me now I will fight you back. Sinbad won't dare hurt you, but I have no problem with it. Turn her, captain, I'm serious. I need to see."
He rolls them awkwardly. Maeve doesn't fight him. She may be in too much pain to struggle, no matter what she wants. He sits up and props her shaking body against his chest. She convulses, wrenches her body to the side, and vomits into the straw.
"I told you childbirth was messy." Keely's voice is dark. Her hands are gently efficient as she presses her sister's legs apart and wipes with a damp cloth.
"Do you need hotter water?" Wren asks, hovering close. "I can run back downstairs."
"No. I need her to stop fighting. She's bleeding too much, even for a first birth. But Fin is close. Maeve, I need you to work with me. The bleeding won't stop until the baby and the afterbirth are out. Do you hear me? Not before. Stop fighting against your daughter. Fight with her instead."
"If she can't wait two more fucking days, I have no daughter," Maeve growls. She tilts her head to look at Sinbad, and the darkness in her eyes at that moment will haunt him forever. Her eyes are usually sweet, warm brown veined with streaks of gold, but as she stares at him now they're flatly dark, the pupils hugely dilated and the surface strangely glassy. She's utterly broken, and he did this to her. "You want her?" she pants, and the way she taunts him feels like a knife blade. "Fine. Take her. And take her with you when you leave." There's something darkly dangerous to her words, and it chills him. Maeve is many things, but not cruel. She's short-tempered and prickly, but there's no evil in her. At least, he didn't think there was.
Her body seizes as pain takes her once more.
"Breathe deep. You're no good to anyone if you faint on me," Keely says, and Sinbad's not entirely sure whether she's talking to him or to Maeve. He supports his sorceress against his chest as Keely gently tilts her pelvis, adjusting her position, and nods Wren and Cairpra forward. "So long as you don't keep fighting me, this shouldn't take much longer. Bear down. Good girl. Just like that. The sooner this is over, the sooner the pain and bleeding will stop. We can clean you up, and you can go back to bed."
"Just get it done," Maeve snarls through her teeth as she finally obeys Keely's orders and bears down. "Get it done and leave me alone!"
Sinbad is positive no other lying-in has ever been so desolate, so angry and desperate. He's fairly sure the mood in a birthing room is usually supportive and anticipatory, all participants looking forward to the birth and the end of this ordeal. But not today. His soul will belong to Scratch the moment Fin is born. He desperately wants his daughter anyway, but Maeve seems to have changed her mind on that point. Or maybe she never loved Fin as much as he thought. He can't ask. This is not the time, and he would rather not know the answer.
At least she's abandoned her desperate fight against Fin and her own body, and now seems to want to get this over with as quickly as possible. Her too-thin body is hard as iron in his arms as she bears down, finally engaging to actively birth their daughter. Wren and Cairpra kneel with Keely, taking Maeve's legs and pressing them open, hands gentle but bodies firm as they give her resistance to push against.
Just how long Maeve labors like this, Keely's voice now calm as she gives direction and encouragement, Sinbad doesn't know. Not long, he thinks. And then suddenly the tenor of Maeve's cry changes, and another cry joins it. Keely's hands move, placing something wet and wiggling on Maeve's partially deflated belly.
For a heartbeat, just one heartbeat, he thinks things might be all right. That's Fin. That little wiggling thing is his Finleigh, she's out and she's moving, and Maeve is no longer screaming. Fin is, bleating her furious defiance of this new world she's been born into, and the strength of that cry bowls him over. Antoine was right. She owns him. Utterly. She's crying, she's moving, and suddenly everything in his world is put right again.
Until it isn't.
"Get that thing off me," Maeve growls. "Sinbad wanted this. I didn't." Her voice is so hoarse it's nearly gone and her body shakes with fatigue against his, but her bitterness is not yet spent. Sinbad's heart crashes back against his ribs. For one brief moment he thought that everything might be all right, but it's not even close. Wren catches up the newborn in a fold of linen and Keely yanks at Sinbad, pulling him bodily to his feet. Before he quite realizes what's happening, Wren, not Maeve, places his newborn daughter in his arms.
"Go," Keely snaps, her voice tense as she resumes her seat between her sister's legs. "Take her down to the fire. As close as you can bear. Do not leave the hearth. I'll come look at her when I can."
No. This isn't how this is supposed to go. He clutches Fin awkwardly, terrified that he's going to break her. She needs her mother, not a clueless brute of a man. And he can't leave Maeve. He's shocked at just how much blood he sees coating the linen beneath her and seeping into the straw, and the wet red mess freezes him in place.
"She'll be okay," Wren says softly as Cairpra offers Maeve water to sip. She pushes the cup away with a shaking arm. "Once the afterbirth is delivered, we'll clean her up and she can rest. She'll come around. She loves her baby, she just needs a little space. Take Fin to the fire, as Keely said. She needs to be kept warm."
"Will she stop bleeding?" he asks, staring at the dark smears of blood on Maeve's skin and clothes, the clots sinking into the straw.
"Mostly. Probably." Wren pushes him gently. "Go. Niall's down there. Go."
And so, barely a minute after his daughter's birth, Sinbad finds himself on the wrong side of that fucking door once more. The bolt snicks shut behind him. Maeve's blood is wet and cold on the thighs of his sirwal, and he's not entirely sure his lungs are still functioning as he stares at the linen-wrapped bundle in his hands. She's so new, so small, so scared as she cries desperately for a mother who does not come.
"It's all right," he says, but the words are purely reflex. Nothing is all right, and he doesn't know that it ever will be again. He doesn't know anything. He's just in shock. Numb? No, not numb, because everything inside him is screaming in pain. But he's stunned, and he can't wrap his mind around what's just happened, how he got here, on his feet in the dark hallway, his newborn daughter wailing in his arms. He was holding Maeve just a moment ago, her angry, exhausted body propped against his chest. Now he's holding a double handful of wet, living flesh, and yes, he knows this is his daughter, but it hasn't quite hit home yet. He sways on his feet and nearly stumbles.
The hearth. Keely said to go to the hearth. Sinbad takes a cautious step. His knees hold. Leaving Maeve is not a good idea, he knows it's not, but Keely says Fin needs warmth and he can't ignore that. He holds her awkwardly, afraid to even shift his grip on the fragile little life in his hands, as he slowly descends the stairs. Each step wrenches. He should be with Maeve. Fin should be with Maeve. She's so new, and all she knows is her mother's body, her mother's scent and voice. Now, after being wrenched from her safe little nest and thrust into this new big, cold world, Maeve is gone. Everything safe and known is gone. How can he possibly soothe that? She should be resting on her mother's chest, her aunts and grandmother clustered close, arguing about who gets to hold her. But those first gentle moments of care in a circle of loving female attention have been denied to her, and instead she's stuck with him. He's willing, but utterly clueless and convinced he can't replace a missing mother in this instance.
The kitchen, when he finally reaches it, is full of children.
"Fin!" Mia bolts up from her seat on the floor, spilling her bowl of what looks like oat gruel. "I want to hold her."
"No." Absolutely not. No one's touching her. Sinbad himself can hardly bear to.
Niall frowns and puts Con down, coming swiftly to Sinbad's side. "What—?" He cuts off the question quickly.
Sinbad collapses onto the low stool at the side of the hearth, drawing it as close to the flames as he dares. The heat caresses his skin, but he can barely feel it. In the warm, well-lighted kitchen, he looks carefully at his daughter for the first time.
She's so small. Curled in a little ball like a kitten, he can hold her cupped in his two hands.
"Water, please, Mia," he hears Niall say, but the words barely register. "Hot but not scalding. Fin is brand new and very delicate."
She's so incredibly delicate. She's not round like Con, her tiny limbs scrawny-thin and wrinkly. She looks like a newly-hatched baby bird, like she's not yet ready for this world. Her tiny closed eyelids are practically transparent. Her skin is an odd color, somewhere between gray and purple, wet and streaked with blood, and her head is oddly shaped. Her mouth takes up most of her tiny face as she screams her displeasure at her new world.
"Listen to those strong lungs. That's a good sign," Niall says.
"Does she have to scream like that?" Declan makes a disgusted face.
"You be quiet," Mia grunts as she heaves a bucket of gently steaming water onto the hearthstones. "She's cold, and she wants her mama. Why is she here? Where's auntie?"
Sinbad's eyes meet Niall's, and he sees instantly what the man fears. He thinks his sister is dead. And why shouldn't he? Why would Fin be downstairs with Sinbad if Maeve is alive? "She's not dead," he says swiftly. How to explain with so many little ears listening, though, he has no idea. He can't just say straight out that Maeve has rejected her newborn and wants nothing to do with her. "She's not dead," he repeats, hoping with all his heart that this remains true. The blood drying on his clothes tells him this is not a certainty. "But I'm...on my own for now."
Mia frowns, but Niall doesn't ask any further questions. "Well," he says, "let's clean her up. She'll feel better, and we need to keep her warm. Mia, Rory, go fetch me a few of Con's warmest blankets. Be careful where you step upstairs, there's still broken glass everywhere. And do not bother Maeve or your mothers. Leave them be."
Mia heaves a long-suffering sigh but obeys, Rory darting up the stairs behind her. Sinbad suspects it's not the chore she minds, but the order not to poke her nose into the birthing room. These children know perfectly well how births are supposed to work, and they know this one is not normal. Sinbad shouldn't be downstairs with his daughter while Maeve is still locked in her room. He should be blind drunk with the other males in the family or weeping joyfully at her bedside as he watches his baby suckle for the first time.
Not this.
Niall gently peels Fin out of the thin linen rag Wren tossed over her. "Try not to worry too much," he says, wetting a corner in the hot water Mia brought and using it to wipe gently at her skin. She squalls her dislike of this procedure. "All newborns look strange at first. She'll turn red for a bit, then her color will settle to whatever it's supposed to be. The shape of her head will change. They get squeezed during birth, Keely says. Her skull's not fully formed yet, see?" He brushes his fingertips lightly across the top of her little bald head. Sinbad follows, and yes, he can feel the softness under his fingers where her skull should be. She bleats at him and he desists.
"She's so small."
"She is." Niall's trying to be comforting, but he can't deny this. "They all look too small and not quite...not quite ready for the world at first. But she's the smallest I've seen."
Fin. This is his Fin. Sinbad holds her gently, unable to control the shaking in his hands as Niall wipes her down. After all the wait, all the worry and uncertainty, she's finally here. He stares at her. She's not quite what he imagined, but then, what did he expect? He knows nothing of newborns.
"Huh. That's odd." Niall takes one tiny foot between his fingers, gently pulling so she extends her curled leg. The knee joint doesn't look quite the same as the one on the other side, but it flexes easily enough with encouragement. Fin squawks her dislike of this, and before Sinbad realizes it, he's pulled her firmly against his chest. He didn't mean to snatch her away from her uncle like that; the man wasn't hurting her. But that sound did something to his insides, and he needed it to stop.
Niall chuckles. Mia and Rory return to the kitchen, their arms loaded down with what looks like most of the blankets in the house.
"What's funny?" Bran asks, lifting his eyes to his father. Declan has decided that a screaming newborn is not interesting, and retreated to the pantry to dig for food, though what he expects to find on a night when his mother hasn't been in the kitchen, Sinbad doesn't know.
"Nothing. Sinbad's just very much a father now. Put those blankets near the fire so they can warm. Not in the flames, Rory. The last thing this poor house needs today is you burning it down."
"She doesn't like you poking and prodding at her," Sinbad insists, immediately defensive as he curls his arms around the tiny weight on his chest. He tucks her under the flap of his shirt, warming her against his skin. Her cheek rests on Scratch's mark, utterly obscuring the brand.
"I know. They never do, but it's important to get her clean. And we'll have to ask Keely about that leg."
"I don't care about her leg. She's perfect." She's his, and she's perfect, from her oddly shaped skull to her minuscule toes. Everything about her. He holds her to his skin, dropping his lips to rest cautiously against her head. She does have hair, he realizes, but it's like the colorless peach fuzz that coats Maeve's skin, downy-fine and nearly invisible, so light he can't feel it with his hands, only his sensitive lips. Her cries quiet as he holds her against his body, warmth to warmth, skin to skin. There. There's his brave girl. He's not her mother, not what she really wants and needs, but he'll do his best. Holding her like this feels so strange. He's never in his life played with dolls, but that's what she feels like—a warm, desperately fragile little doll with a head too big for the rest of her.
"Listen to her breathe," Niall says, dipping his ear close to her skull.
"It sounds like she's humming."
"They do that sometimes. What I mean is, her lungs are clear. I don't hear any congestion, and she's not struggling to take air in. Her lungs are strong, for all she's so small."
And, despite everything, Sinbad feels a small, satisfied smile touch the corners of his mouth. So much about this is not all right at all, but his daughter's alive. She's here, in his arms, and she's strong. He knows she is. She has her mother's lungs, and Maeve's unstoppable will as well. He gazes down at her, watching as her eyes slowly squint open for the first time. They're his—his mother's, blue as his ocean under the midday sun, this gift passed down from his Gaulish grandmother. It's a link to the past he's suddenly glad to have handed down. They're beautiful. Fin is beautiful. Squashed skull and all. She looks at him, and something inside him lurches. He's terrified, but as she stares at him with more focus than any newborn ought, he's also fully lost in that sweet gaze. His Fin. His perfect little girl.
Niall runs his wet cloth gently down the back of Fin's head. Her eyes snap shut and she squalls again.
"Quit that," Sinbad snaps. "She doesn't like it."
"You do it, then. Once she's clean you can wrap her up and get her warm. Newborns can't keep themselves warm, and she's so skinny I'm sure that only makes it worse."
Sinbad scowls. She doesn't want to be messed with, and he doesn't want to force her. Niall is probably right—he has five children of his own, plus two nieces. The man knows what he's talking about. But Sinbad isn't sure he can bear Fin's cries. She's spent her whole existence floating gently in a warm, safe little home, and now—
Floating.
Sinbad glances at the wooden bucket of water steaming gently on the hearth. He shifts Fin into the crook of one arm and dips his other hand into the water. It's warm but not scalding, just as Niall asked. And it's far more water than they need to wipe Finleigh off.
"I want to help give Fin her bath," Mia says, plopping herself down on the hearthstones.
Of course.
"Who said she was getting a bath?" Niall asks, but he sounds as little surprised as Sinbad is.
"Nobody. I just knew. I want to hold her. She's my first girl cousin. The boys don't count."
"You have a sister."
"Not the same," Mia says, and Niall gives up.
"Is it safe?" Sinbad asks cautiously.
"Sure. Just be careful with her head and don't let her inhale any drops of water. That means no splashing, Mia. I'm serious."
Sinbad isn't sure he wants any of the kids touching his newborn. They're good kids, generally speaking, but Fin is tiny and fragile and precious. Hell, her skull isn't even fully formed yet. But Mia, like her mother, doesn't seem interested in taking no for an answer. She watches expectantly as he eases Fin gently into the bucket.
The moment his daughter's skin touches water, she melts. Her nervous cries at being moved cease, and her body sinks happily into the liquid warmth, her tiny scowl replaced by an expression he swears is bliss. She's not afraid of the water at all, and she makes no protest as his hands support her tiny self and Mia, admirably gently, rubs the streaks of dried blood and fluid from her skin.
"She likes it," Mia says, giggling.
She does. Sinbad could be blind and he'd know it from the way her tiny body relaxes utterly against his supportive hands.
"She's gonna be a good sailor."
Will she? He doesn't know. Her future is painfully unclear in this moment, and there's nothing he can do about that. But what is clear to him is his daughter's instant rapport with the water. She loves it. And he loves her. Everything about her. Even the little wrinkles under her arms. She's tiny and perfect and all his.
For a day.
Niall holds out a warmed cloth and helps Sinbad pat her dry, then shows him how to wrap her securely in a fire-warm blanket so she feels safe.
"Now can I hold her?" Mia says, her little foot tapping with impatience at the hearthstones. "I've been waiting forever."
Sinbad wants to refuse. He doesn't like anyone touching his Finleigh except him, and Mia is every bit as rough as the boys. But she's been exceptionally gentle with Fin so far, and she seems to understand that this baby needs more care than most. "For a minute," he says finally, giving in. "And you have to sit still and be gentle."
Mia holds out her arms expectantly. Aching with reluctance, he places his daughter gently in her cousin's arms. Mia sits still on the hearthstones, beaming at the tiny face peering out at her. Rory creeps close, Duncan on his heels, but neither boy attempts to touch Fin.
"What happened?" Niall asks, dropping his voice low as he crouches next to Sinbad, watching the children meet their new family member.
"Maeve rejected her." Sinbad's voice cracks. He clears his throat roughly. Just saying the words makes this feel so much more real, and so much more terrifying. He watches as Mia croons over Fin's tiny form, delighted with her new little cousin.
Niall stares at him. "Women don't do that. They're not sheep or cows, Sinbad. That just doesn't happen."
Sinbad gestures expressively at the newborn cradled in her cousin's arms, not her mother's. "You want to go explain that to Maeve? Be my guest."
Niall falls silent.
"I just...I'd do this myself. Happily. I want to be whatever my girl needs. But—"
"But you're leaving in a day. I know."
Mia kisses Finleigh's forehead. "You can have my pony when I get too big for him. I'll teach you to ride."
"My pony," Duncan says, his fingers firmly in his mouth.
"No way. He's my pony, and I don't share with boys except Rory."
Sinbad wonders idly what will happen when Mia's brother arrives. She's been much more invested in Fin from the start. Maybe Lily will decide to like him.
"I don't know what to do." His hands clench at his sides. He can't make Maeve change her mind. No one can do that except her. But he can't leave things like this. "I'm going to fight Scratch. As hard as I can. As long as I can. But I can't guarantee anything. Cairpra says that if his claim on my soul is valid, there's nothing I can do. Only the Tam Lin Protocol, which I should never have tried in the first place. But I can't leave my newborn daughter as good as orphaned. I can't."
"She'll be cared for," Niall says softly, catching Duncan's arm gently before he can poke Fin. "I think Maeve will come around once she calms down, but if she doesn't, Fin still has a clan. She's not alone."
Sinbad knows. Niall badly wants a daughter, and Maeve's family will gladly take in Finleigh as one of their own if necessary. But he doesn't want it to be necessary. He wants to keep his girl, and barring that, he wants her and Maeve together. They belong together. He remembers how frantic she was when she believed Scratch had separated them in the darkness. They need each other, whether Maeve is willing to admit this or not.
"Time's up," he tells Mia gently when he can no longer stand the separation. She's been good, but his time with his daughter is extremely limited and, selfish or not, he needs her.
"Not yet," she protests. "I want to tell Fin a story."
"No." Anything but that. He's sick to death of fireside tales.
"Tell Lily and Duncan a story instead, ladybird," Niall says. "Finleigh needs her da."
"She needs her mama," Mia says, but she doesn't protest further as Sinbad carefully reclaims his daughter.
"Maeve is resting right now." Keely's no-nonsense voice overrides her daughter's complaints as she enters the room. "This birth wasn't easy, and she needs quiet. Did you eat dinner? Good." She draws another low stool close to the fire and takes Fin without asking. "Let's have a quick look. Her color's good." She unwraps the baby, Fin protesting her aunt's quick, efficient hands. Sinbad wants to protest, too, but he forces himself to quiet. If there's something wrong with his daughter, Keely needs to know.
"Her right knee's off somehow," Niall says. "That's all I found. She's breathing well."
"She is," Keely confirms. "Early babies often have weak lungs and a weak latch, but she sounds fine. Wren, will you try to nurse her a little? I can't yet."
"Of course," the other woman says, dropping a kiss in Duncan's hair.
Keely frowns as she examines Fin's leg, extending the knee joint gently just as Niall did. Finleigh takes this poorly, and so does Sinbad.
"You're hurting her," he protests.
"I am not. I realize you're overwrought, but don't push me. My sister almost died today." She traces Fin's tiny knee with her fingers. "The bone broke at some point, just here. It healed well, but not quite straight."
"I told you and told you that her leg hurt," Mia mutters.
"You did," Keely agrees. "And you were right, but there was nothing I could do for her. I can't set a bone inside a womb."
Sinbad's jaw clenches so hard he thinks his molars might crack. He knows exactly when his baby's leg broke. There was only one incident that could possibly have caused it. A vicious kick delivered in bitter spite from a grown man often referred to as a giant. He stares at his daughter as Wren takes her, cooing gently.
"Hello, little sweetheart. It's been a rough day, I know. Let's see if you're strong enough to feed. I think you are."
He gives up his seat at the fireside, letting Wren take his place. "Is she healthy?" he demands of Keely. "What about her leg? Will she be okay?"
"Her color is good, her lungs clear. I can't say anything for sure about her leg. It's not hurting her, and she seems to have full range of motion at the moment, but it is a little crooked. What that will mean later on, I just can't say. I'm more concerned right now with whether she can nurse. If she can't, worrying about her knee is pointless."
"She's strong," Wren says confidently. "How could Maeve's daughter be otherwise?"
Con squeals his protest as he sees his mother cuddling and giving attention to a baby who isn't him. Whether he recognizes Finleigh as an actual person or not, Sinbad doesn't know, but she's clearly a usurper in his mind. He grabs onto a table leg to haul himself upright, something he's been doing more frequently lately, though he's yet to master enough balance to successfully walk on his own.
"Easy, little man," Niall says with amusement, catching his son up in his arms. "You have to learn to share. You have a new little brother or sister on the way, anyway."
"Maeve?" Sinbad says, turning to Keely.
"What about her? I think she'll come around once she calms down and gets some sleep. The bleeding finally slowed, but I was forced to use magic to hurry things along, which I never like to do. It's better to let nature take its course, but she was in danger of bleeding out, and too much blood loss increases the likelihood of fever, too. She's clean and as comfortable as we could make her, and I cast a sleep on her because she needed to calm down. Cairpra's with her."
It's better news than Sinbad feared, not as good as he hoped. Maeve should be the one cuddling and cooing to his daughter, not Wren. But they're both alive, and he's not sure he has a right to wish for anything else under the circumstances.
"You really think she'll come around?" he asks, glancing at Wren as she nurses his daughter.
"I do. She broke down but I think she's entitled, no matter how awful her timing was. Let her sleep. Give her space to come to peace with things in her own time. Finleigh isn't hurting in the meanwhile."
Sinbad isn't entirely sure about that. She's accepting comfort from the people around her, so long as those people are gentle and don't poke at her as Keely just did, but he's sure on some level she knows her mother is missing. She must. Maeve was all she knew, and now Maeve is gone.
"Her latch isn't perfect, but neither were any of my boys at first. She's interested, and she's trying," Wren says, shifting Fin's position in her arms. "I don't think there's any problem with her ability."
"That's a relief." Keely sets her palms on her lower back and flexes her spine, stretching slowly. "We'll have to offer frequently. She's too skinny and too small. She needs to gain weight as quickly as possible if she's going to survive the winter. I'll go to the village in a bit, see if Bree's willing to come stay for a while. She just lost her newborn, and having a second wet nurse will take some of the pressure off of you until my milk comes in."
"Maeve won't?" Niall asks cautiously, sharing a glance with Sinbad as he bounces his fussing son in his arms.
"I don't know how she'll feel when she wakes, or over the next few days, but I don't really want her nursing Fin, to be honest. It's almost as hard on the body as pregnancy, and she needs a break. She lost a lot of blood—too much blood. If she kept fighting me much longer, she wouldn't have survived." She scowls. "She's still bleeding a little now, but that's normal. I don't want to risk flooding her body with more magic trying to stop it completely. Sinbad can go up in a bit, and keep that bracelet near her. That will do more good than anything else, I think. She can't kick him out when she's under a sleep spell." She smiles grimly.
"Breakwater a trí sent over a brazier and a load of charcoal," Niall says softly, kissing Con even as his son shoves at him irritably. "I didn't want to bring it upstairs until you gave the all-clear."
"Excellent. Just be quiet setting it up; Maeve is asleep, not comatose. If it warms the room enough, Sinbad, you can keep Finleigh with you in there tonight. Just expect that Wren or Bree will be in and out to feed her."
He acknowledges this with a nod of thanks, beyond grateful for this gift of time with his girls. Maeve needs him and the bracelet he wears to heal, Fin needs heat, and he can't bear being parted from either of them. He takes his daughter back from Wren with relief, tucking her close to his chest and kissing her little head. She's as comfortable as they can possibly make her, clean and firmly wrapped in a thick, soft blanket. Like her mother, she seems to draw comfort from the gentle constriction supporting her body. She's been successfully fed without being subjected to the sheep's milk Con hates, and she yawns as he cradles her close to his heart.
"She's precious," Wren says, offering him a smile. "She has your eyes, but that perfect little bow of a mouth is all hers."
"And her lungs are all Maeve," Keely mutters. "She'll come around, Sinbad. It was too much all at once, but she'll come around."
"How do you know?" He shifts his weight on his feet, exactly as he would with the rocking of his ship. Fin likes it; the soft little noises she makes before dropping to sleep tell him so. "Have you ever had a woman reject her newborn before?"
"No," Keely admits. "But I've never assisted a woman in such dire circumstances before. Just because I've never seen something doesn't mean it never happens. Have a little faith in her, give her a little time, and see what happens."
Sinbad holds his daughter close. She smells like Maeve, and it tears something inside him. What else can he do but follow Keely's advice? He has no other choice. And he'll always have faith in Maeve. He's not capable of doing otherwise.
A/N: BTW, that surprise twist I promised was coming? Still coming. None of this is it.