A/N: Happy Easter to those who celebrate!
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
"Bullshit!" Doubar rages, stumping forward. "If you won't help, just say so! Don't lie to me!"
Maeve elbows him hard, though in truth she wants to join his tantrum. "Quiet!" she hisses.
"Cairpra told us the Tam Lin Protocol exists! That historian in Basra said he heard all about it from a fairy, which I thought was bullshit, but I've seen them with my own eyes. What better authority can you get? I don't believe you."
Maeve is in full agreement with Doubar, and she struggles with everything in her not to say so. This king has so far tolerated her impudence, much as Sinbad does, but she doesn't know where the line is, only that Doubar has overstepped it and if he causes too much offense he's going to get them killed. "I'm sorry," she forces herself to say, though truly she isn't. "His brother's soul is at stake, and he's upset. But he's going to be quiet now." She glares at Doubar as she speaks, dark eyes glimmering warning.
"Bringing such a liability was not wise on your part, little flame," Midir says evenly. "Celts and sìthichean I put up with, when I must. But foreign followers of Abraham, with their books spewing hate and fire and steel, are not welcome here."
"I don't follow Abraham or the Prophet," Doubar says, scowling. "I'm a sailor; I follow the stars."
"Then you are smarter than you look. Smart enough to know when to keep your mouth shut." Midir dismisses Doubar, turning again to Maeve. A small smile touches the corners of her full mouth, though she's anything but happy. At least this king knows who's in charge here. Most southern men refuse to deal with her when presented with a male alternative, but Midir does not.
She struggles, though, with what to do now. How to ask for what she desperately needs. She's as furious as Doubar, as she feels the last shreds of hope crumble around her. The Tuatha dé Danann are known to be slippery, and capricious. She can't be sure he's telling the truth, though everything in his demeanor says he is.
But where does that leave her? She came to this hilltop, returning to the past she wants nothing more than to bury, to beg for the right to face Scratch. Sinbad named her his champion; this is her quest. She's not ready to believe everything she's gone through the past moons, everything she's sacrificed, was in vain. "That can't be right," she says, struggling to maintain her grip on her temper. "It can't be. I made myself something I am not, to free him. I did things I swore I'd never do to save him. You don't get to tell me now that all I've sacrificed was for nothing." Her eyes burn as she stares at Midir, and she's too tired and in too much pain to know whether that's tears she feels, or something else.
"You are lovely and brave, little flame," Midir agrees. "That you stand before me without fear, bloody from birth yet refuse to fall, says enough. Why trouble yourself with the fate of this foreign man? With the power you hold, you deserve a king."
Doubar stiffens. Before he can open his mouth, Maeve whacks him. The blade of her hand against his trunk makes a hollow thump. "I don't want a king." Nor does she particularly expect to come out of this day alive, anyway. "I want my child's father back."
"Any Celt will do for that. Have you been living too long among the southerners, my beauty? Any man of your choosing would raise the babe as his own."
"Not like Sinbad," Maeve says firmly. She knows perfectly well that she could find herself a man willing to keep her and raise Finleigh if she wanted, but that has never been her desire. "I never wanted a man. I still don't. Sinbad was an accident, but he's not one I'm willing to give up now." She presses her palm against the soft suede sling in which Finleigh sleeps. "Please," she says, swallowing back her anger, "tell me what you meant about the Protocol." She needs to know what he knows, needs to find a loophole if she can. She can't let this be the end. "My clansman is rude, but he wasn't wrong. One of the greatest sorceresses in the world told us the Protocol existed. My sworn brother, a sìthiche, confirmed it." This is the part that confounds her. That insufferable historian in Basra could have been mistaken. Even Cairpra could have. But the Protocol came from the sìthichean, or so she was told. She revealed her family to Sinbad, which she never planned to do, specifically to ask this of Antoine. Her brother told her the Protocol existed, and she never doubted him, not once. She attended the teas with Sinbad, willingly conceived a child and carried her in secret, became a liar and ostracized her family and friends, all on the strength of her brother's word. She lost Dermott because of it. Lost Nessa and Antoine himself. Nearly lost Doubar. Hell, she nearly lost everything when she almost miscarried her daughter. And she refuses to lose Sinbad now.
Midir blinks slowly at her. He's so beautiful; looking at him makes something in her ache, though she absolutely does not trust him. The glowing color of his molten silver pupils swirls. "You know how this works, little flame. Your...clansman...may not, but you are no foreigner. You know the rules. If you wish knowledge from me, you must offer something of equal value in return."
"Just for information?" Doubar protests. "She's not asking you to fight, just to tell her what you know!"
Maeve thumps him again. She knows the rules. She was hoping Midir might consider the pleasure of relaying bad news a satisfactory trade for the knowledge he holds, but it's clear this isn't the case. "What do you want?" she asks evenly. It's a very dangerous question.
"The answer to the riddle you pose." The king looks at her steadily. The inhuman fire burning in his eyes chills her, as does the intense interest behind it. She shivers, thoroughly frozen already from the loss of Sinbad, the severing of the spell binding them together. "I told you, fire does not play well with other elements. It's why so many of your mortal religions consider fire a sign of evil. Those born with the spark tend to live solitary lives, or mix only with their own kind. But not you. And not the child you bore, who holds two opposing elements in one human soul." He frowns at her.
"I can't answer you." Maeve tightens her grip on the newborn sleeping in her sling. She's so, so tired, and her head reels every time her eyes shift, the dizziness threatening to upend her, but she has no time for physical weakness. Already the sun is westering, each moment eating away at the little time she has left to free Sinbad. "I would if I could, but I don't know the answer."
"I think you do, though you may not realize it. One touch, little flame, and I will know the truth."
Maeve inclines her head to him. She does not like this man, but she's more afraid of losing Sinbad than she is of Midir touching her.
"So." Midir inclines his as well, cementing the deal. "You wish to know the truth of the Tam Lin Protocol. I warn you, it is not a pleasant tale."
"I didn't think it was." Maeve ducks her head and rests her lips against her baby's forehead for a moment, her skin downy-soft, her tiny weight immensely comforting. Fin sleeps peacefully against her mother's chest, one little palm pressed to her skin, Maeve's heartbeat steady against her cheek. It's the rhythm she's known since conception, the pulse of blood that kept her alive until so recently, and she's soothed by it even now. Maeve kisses her gently and lets her sleep. If Midir is correct, Maeve conceived and bore this child for no purpose, but she can't make herself regret it. Not when she's holding the result to her heart. The time for regret is past. Now she just wants to fight.
If she can convince someone to let her.
"You know the tale of Tam Lin," Midir says, leaning back against the trunk of a dripping tree. "It ends when Jennet wins his freedom from the supposed queen of the fairies."
"Yes," Maeve says. "But the sìthichean have never had a queen; my brother said so."
"You are correct, my fire. And you have an exceedingly confusing clan, did you know that? A southerner who claims he does not follow Abraham. A sìthiche. A little tree-spirit—a throwback to an earlier era."
A small, ironic smile touches Maeve's mouth. "They're just the beginning. You have no idea."
"I will in a moment. But I will uphold my side of this agreement first. The queen of the fairies bit is nonsense—Tam Lin was to be sacrificed, aye, but by a witch named Fúamnach—a witch my brother and I killed in retribution for her later curse on my Étaín, but that is a different story."
"I know that one, too," Maeve says, her delicate eyebrows drawing together as she frowns. "You're saying the Protocol has nothing to do with the sìthichean?"
"Nothing at all," Midir confirms, "though the events in question happened so long ago, I doubt even they know the truth anymore. Your brother did not knowingly deceive you, my beauty, if he told you otherwise."
"He never would," Maeve says firmly. Antoine may have disowned her in a fit of rage over Nessa's disappearance, but that was long after she spoke to him about the Protocol. He wouldn't have suggested the teas and helped Sinbad feed and protect her through her pregnancy if he'd known it was all for nothing.
"Fúamnach was born human, but was stolen away as an infant by one of my kind, and as such became functionally immortal. But long life in the other realm does not always translate, as you mortals assume, to eternal youth and beauty. Her soul was twisted and deformed, and the evil magic she wrought shaped and changed her into something as ugly on the outside as she was within. She wished to marry a king, but despite her power no man would touch her—including me, which was why she attacked my Étaín. Scratch, a newcomer brought to these shores when southerners first began spreading tales from their holy books, caught the witch's attention. He wished for souls to devour, and he promised her the youth and beauty she so craved if she helped him gather them. She was more than willing." Midir snorts lightly. "Stupid woman."
Maeve agrees. Anyone who deals with Scratch and expects him to uphold his end of the bargain is as delusional as Rumina. Or as desperate. Fin stirs in her sling and she rocks gently side to side, soothing her baby and sending her back into deeper sleep.
"The witch ventured into the mortal realm and captured the first human she came across, the young man Tam Lin, holding him in a web of magic until All Souls Night, when the barriers holding Scratch at bay fall and he may seize souls for his own. She was unaware, or more likely did not care, that the man had a lover who was searching for him. Jennet, heavy with Tam Lin's child and unwilling to let him be sacrificed to another woman's vanity, stormed into the middle of the sacrificial rite and pulled him from the altar where he would have been killed. She held tight to him and would not let go. Fúamnach would happily have killed both humans with no regret, but Scratch forbade it. Exacting rules govern his gathering of souls, and this magic is old, older than he, older perhaps than the mortal world itself. Had Jennet and her unborn son been killed, Scratch would have lost the ability to claim Tam Lin's soul."
"Wait. Are you telling me that all Maeve has to do tonight is just...hold on to Sinbad? Not let go until Scratch gives up?" Doubar grunts. "That's easy."
"It can't be that simple." Maeve shushes him gently.
"Nor was it for Jennet," Midir agrees. "Scratch did everything within his power, everything he was permitted, to make her let go. He could not act against her directly, but he could act against Tam Lin. He turned the man into a host of dangerous beasts—a lion, a boar, a deadly snake. The beasts bit and clawed and gored her. Bleeding and torn, still she clung to him. Finally, Scratch turned Tam Lin into a burning brand. The fire scorched and melted her flesh, but still she refused to let go. She rolled herself, still clinging to Tam Lin, into a nearby stream, putting out the flame. The brand turned back into a young man, and by rights his soul thereafter belonged to Jennet, not to Scratch. But brave Jennet was never permitted to savor her victory."
Doubar curses quietly behind Maeve. "Of course not. Because Celt stories can't have nice happy endings."
"She miscarried that day, after the violent struggle, her mortal body unable to cope with the mauling, the fire. Tam Lin remained at her side long enough to bury his son, but then, uninterested in caring for a woman so injured and permanently disfigured, he left."
Maeve's mouth thins. So the dark whispers that so often follow the telling of this tale are true: Jennet won, but unlike male heroes who rescue their damsels in distress, she didn't get to keep her prize. She lost her son in the attempt to save his father, and won herself nothing but injury and heartache for her heroics. "That sounds...very believable," she says grimly.
"Doesn't it?" Midir looks at her meaningfully, at the child she holds against her chest. Maeve knows perfectly well what he's implying, and she's not biting. Sinbad isn't here because she deliberately chose for him not to be here, not because he doesn't love her. She'll fight for him until her death, and she knows without a doubt that he will never forsake her so long as she remains alive. Jennet's only fault was picking a man unworthy of her courage, her devotion. Maeve has not made the same mistake.
"In despair over the loss of her child, and fury over the betrayal of his father, Jennet dragged her dying self to a doorstep of the Tuatha dé Danann. She begged a boon of my sister Oicnis—not the saving of her own life, which she knew would soon be over, but that no other woman would ever suffer her fate. Oicnis is not the woman I would appeal to for mercy, but mercy was not what Jennet wished. She wished everlasting vengeance. My sister took her beyond the veil, where I believe Jennet still resides to this day, scarred but alive. And together, with permission from our father the Dagda, they crafted a retribution not simply for Tam Lin, but for all men of his ilk who follow. It is a lovely work, a beautiful trap, and one mortals blindly helped lay by spreading the story of Tam Lin, the one you know, the one which does not reveal the truth of his betrayal. Oicnis and Jennet spread their own tale beside it: the fiction that a man could free his soul from Scratch's clutches by entreating a woman to do as Jennet did and fight for her lover while big with child. But any man who would willingly place his pregnant woman in danger for the sake of his own soul doesn't deserve to be saved." He smiles beatifically. "Therefore, any man who attempts the Protocol, as decreed by my sister and Jennet, the original claimant, is by his own actions damned to hell. I see no cause to object to their reasoning. Men who put their souls within Scratch's reach often deserve what's coming to them, anyway."
Fury erupts deep within Maeve. No. No, this all can't be true. Not after she worked so hard, battled for so long to keep Fin alive. She's furious at Midir and his amused little smirk. At the women who crafted this trap to begin with, not knowing whom they might snare down through the centuries as their curse struck and held. Jennet was wounded beyond measure and her rage is something Maeve understands well, but not her desire to damn men she never knew, men who did her no harm and do not deserve her wrath. It's a neat little trap, as Midir attests. And most who fall into it likely deserve what's coming to them. Men fall into Scratch's clutches, by and large, through their own failings—mistakes made, deliberately or otherwise, serious enough to endanger their mortal souls.
But not Sinbad. He fell afoul of Scratch by falling afoul of Rumina, offering himself in trade for the child Serendib whom the witch held captive. It was a foolish gesture, rash to the point of idiocy, but utterly symbolic of who Sinbad is. Maeve has berated him constantly for it in her mind these past moons, but she'll never do so to his face. The urge that forced him to offer himself is the same urge she wishes now to save—the inherent selfless goodness in him, the spark that makes him who he is. She loves him for his self-sacrificing nature, even as it may have damned them all.
"I don't accept that." She steps forward, hands cradling her baby. "Sinbad didn't do anything wrong. He doesn't deserve this!"
"Doesn't he?" Midir's dry, amused smile remains. Maeve gets the distinct impression she's the best fun he's had in ages, and she loathes him for it. "You are here, weary unto death, sweet fire, and he is very much absent. I consider that quite telling."
"What it tells," she grits through clenched teeth, "is that I have more sense than to bring with me a man whose entire goal these past moons has been to hold me back from danger."
"Were he truly so eager to hold you back, he would never have named you his champion in the first place. He would never have got you with child, knowing you would put that child in mortal peril."
Maeve snorts. "You think so?" She's sick of this king, sick of the way he hovers like mist, laughing at her without laughing, beautiful and powerful and incredibly annoying. "What do you know?" she demands, lifting her chin to stare at him defiantly. "Nothing! As it so happens, genius, he never asked me. He never asked me. I offered. Fuck, I demanded. I told him we were doing this, and I didn't leave him any room to argue."
Midir's molten eyes gleam at her in a way she cannot read and does not like at all. "Then he likely knew arguing with that temper was of no use. You sparkle, lovely fire."
Damn right arguing with her is of no use, particularly when she's set her mind to something. Except, if Midir is correct, she set herself a goal that was never going to free Sinbad. She took him to Breakwater for the teas, revealing her family, conceived and bore a child that cost her two brothers and a sister, and all for nothing. Sinbad's soul will be forfeit to Scratch at sundown if she doesn't think of something quickly. She strokes Fin's little curled body through the soft suede of her sling, her mind scrabbling desperately for any way out of this mess. Sinbad adores this kid. Maeve carried and bore her out of a mistaken belief she was the key to saving Sinbad's soul, and in this moment, as she holds her baby tight against her chest, she can't make herself regret any of it. Not as she looks at that little sleeping face. Fin is her father's daughter, her fierce little warrior, and she's not a mistake, even if the promise of her birth was.
"I have told you what you wished to know," Midir says, extending his hand, "and now it is your turn. Give me your palm, my fire. Let me read this riddle."
"Not yet," Maeve says firmly. She stares at the man, resolved. He has no interest in helping her; that's more than clear. She's dealt with enough pigheaded men in her lifetime, she knows well what they look and sound like. No. She's going to save Sinbad, but she's going to need someone else's help to do it.
"Going back on your word is a very dangerous thing, my beauty," he warns.
"I'm not going back on anything. I'll give you what you want. But I want to see Étaín first."
For the first time, Midir's amused little smile vanishes. He looks utterly serious, verging on angry. "No."
"Yes." Maeve gestures at her knife still thrust in the ground. "I summoned. You answered, but you never asked who I wanted to speak with. Like a man, you assumed it was you. You're useless to me; I want to talk to Étaín."
The king's face draws up in a furious scowl. "I am king under the hill, king beyond the veil, and I have every right to monitor when and to whom mortals such as you speak. I'm quite fond of lovely redheads, little spark, and you intrigue me greatly, but be very careful. Do not mistake my interest for anything more than that."
"I don't." Maeve knows full well she's nothing but a passing flicker of interest for the man, as a pretty bird on the wing might be to her. He has less care for her than she for the bird. "I want to speak to Étaín."
"No."
"Why not?"
Fin sneezes and snorts softly in her sleep, rubbing her tiny hand against her scrunched eyes, her little face. She sucks her palm briefly, and Maeve can't help her smile. She's watched her nieces and nephews do the same thing, but this is her own kid and that makes it a thousand times more captivating.
"No one sees Étaín," Midir says firmly.
"Why? I'm just a puny mortal, a human mother with a newborn. I'm no threat to you." She wouldn't be here at all if she had any other choice.
The king shifts uneasily, eyeing Maeve. "No threat, you say, but you also claim to be a fully human woman, nothing special or unique. I take nothing you say at face value after that."
Maeve scowls. "I am fully human, and there isn't anything special about me except how pigheaded I can be about the people I love. Let me talk to Étaín, coward! Or admit you're afraid of a mortal woman still bleeding from birth," she taunts.
"Everyone ought to be afraid of the temper of a new mother," Midir mutters, but Maeve is still alive after calling him a coward, so she considers this a win.
"Leannán."
The female voice is gentle, delicate and sweet as as new spring morning. It sparkles like the promise of warmth on a late winter wind. Behind Maeve, Doubar jerks.
"Leannán, be at peace."
"Go back!" Midir rounds on the newcomer before Maeve's searching eyes can settle on her figure. She appears as swiftly and soundlessly as he did, a vision of pure loveliness clad in filmy white. Étaín is said to be the most beautiful Celt who ever lived. Gazing at her now, Maeve believes it. Huge eyes as blue as the summer sky sit above a pert little nose, a spattering of faint, warm freckles kissing her cheeks. She's a slight thing, of average height for a Celt woman but willowy of build and graceful of movement, small and delicately wrought. Maeve knows she herself is beautiful, but she feels awkward and ungainly as an ox next to Midir's beloved queen.
"Why should I leave?" Étaín cocks her head to the side. A tumble of bright hair lost somewhere between red and gold cascades down her shoulders. "What harm could a new mother still shaky with birth be to me?" She blinks at Maeve. "You are not well, child. You should be at home, tended by your midwife. Your man may not realize, but you should not still be bleeding as you are."
"She's stronger than she looks," Midir says darkly. "I do not know what that woman is, so I worry, mo chailín. I went through too much to get and keep you. I will not have any of it happening again."
"No one has offered me harm in centuries." Étaín rolls herself onto the balls of her bare feet to kiss his cheek. Her gauzy white dress floats around her like mist. "And I don't believe this woman means any. You really should have told me there was a newborn near."
"I don't want to harm anybody," Maeve says. Well, except for Scratch. And Rumina. And—okay, she wants to harm a lot of people. But not Étaín. "I just need help." She glances at the forest canopy, very aware the autumn sky is already darkening.
Étaín smiles, her soft pink lips parting and curling sweetly. "May I see the child?"
Maeve doesn't want to. The pupils of Étaín's big blue eyes shine molten silver like her king's. She may have been born human, but she has lived beyond the veil for a very long time and is mortal no longer, and the Tuatha dé Danann are well known for stealing babies. But she needs this woman's help. "If I get her back."
"Oh, aye," Étaín says, taking no offense from Maeve's hesitation. "I would not take a newborn from such a mother."
Maeve really, really doesn't want to. But she desperately needs aid. She's learned from long experience that men muck things up more often than not. She needs someone to listen to her, which means she needs a woman's help. Quashing her reservations, she removes Fin from her sling and hands her to the queen.
"So little! So lovely," Étaín croons, cradling Finleigh in her arms as the newborn wakes, blinking sleepily at the face hovering over her. "Such a little beauty! I hardly remember when my own daughter was so small."
Maeve winces internally. She wonders how Étaín can bear mentioning the child, considering what Midir did to her, sending her to become the wife of her blood father, the high king of Eire.
"Against my wishes, Étaín is here," Midir says stiffly, holding out his hand. "You must complete your side of this agreement if you wish to speak further. I will know what you are. I refuse to put my chéile in danger from an unknown source."
His hand is a command, and Maeve bows to the inevitable. She doesn't begrudge him whatever he can glean from touching her, not really. Not when she herself cannot give him the answers he wants. She steps toward him.
Doubar's hand closes over her shoulder, warm and hard. "Don't, girl. It's some sort of trap, it must be. Bad enough that you handed the baby to that one." He glances suspiciously at Étaín.
"Why would I hurt a baby?" Those huge blue eyes blink innocently at him. "I never would. Would I, precious?" she coos at Fin.
She has no reason to, which is why Maeve was willing to hand her over. "They don't lie, Doubar," she says gently. Which isn't to say they can't, but lying is a peculiarly human trait. The deception Midir's kind engage in is of an entirely different flavor.
"Everyone lies," Doubar grumbles. "You've done your fair share these past moons."
"I didn't have a choice!" She feels guilty for the hell she put him through, but not enough to actually regret doing so. It was necessary, no matter how much he wants to dispute that fact. "All I care about is Sinbad's soul. I thought you felt the same."
"I do!"
"Then what the fuck are we arguing about?"
He shuts up.
Maeve steps forward, though the silken hairs on the back of her neck and arms rise and every internal alarm screams at her as she nears Midir. Her body knows this is dangerous. Her mind really doesn't care.
Midir extends his hand expectantly, palm up, a welcoming gesture. "I will not hurt you, my beauty."
"I know." She knows exactly what he's saying, and what he is not. He won't hurt her. Not in this moment. They've agreed to an exchange of knowledge, and his vow holds for the length of that exchange. No further. It's fine. She can live with that. She glances at her daughter cuddled in Étaín's arms, then takes Midir's hand.
He's warm. Considering his silvery coloring, she expected his skin to be cold. She only has a moment to feel surprise at this before a barrage of images deluges her mind, a tidal wave of memories bearing down on her. They rush her like the incoming tide, things long forgotten, hidden away in the recesses of her mind like ore beneath a mountainside, veins of memory waiting to be unearthed. Midir's silver eyes latch onto her and she freezes, unable to move as the images engulf them both.
First is Dermott. Other people come and go—her mother, her father—but these first memories are overwhelmingly of her brother. A sweet little boy with a mop of red hair makes faces over her, urging her first laughs. Careful hands hold her little fists, pulling her to her feet, supporting her as she takes her first hesitant steps.
For the first time since the woman's death, she sees her mother's face. Her real face, not the one Scratch revealed to her, taking the form of the wrong dead mother.
Máire is beautiful. The resemblance to Dermott, to herself, takes Maeve's breath. She's careworn and aged beyond her years, but even a hard life eking out an existence in the shadow of a brutal man has not completely killed the warmth within her. Maeve can see it in her eyes, in her smile as she watches Dermott urging Maeve to take her first hesitant steps.
"Don't push too hard." Máire turns back to the fire. "She'll walk when she's ready."
"She was born ready to run."
She was, too. Her legs just needed a little convincing. Her heart aches now for Dermott, this loss she hasn't fully allowed herself to feel. He's always been her champion, from the day she was born. He fought for her. Sacrificed for her. Her heart grieves not just for the brother she's lost, but for the little boy in her memory as a shadow crosses the doorway.
Dermott and Máire flinch. "Go out the back way," Máire hisses, her voice tense. "Take Maeve with you. Don't let him see her; he's not in a good mood today."
Their father was never in a good mood. He was mean sober and meaner drunk, as the memories which tumble forth confirm. They swim past, each gone in an instant, and Maeve wants to collapse, but she's frozen, powerless in the grip of Midir's magic. Máire's death decimates her, watching with far greater understanding than she had at the time. She huddles once again in the corner as her father's blow fells the small, bright mother she barely remembers. Her head cracks the corner of the rough table with a sickening thud, and when she hits the floor she does not move again. Maeve is grateful, in an odd way, for this reframing of her earliest retained memory. She can see now the lies Scratch tried to feed her as he stood in the darkness between worlds wearing the wrong dead mother's face. He told her her beauty came from her father, which is not true. That came from Máire. The man in her memories is big and powerful—she and Dermott certainly got their builds from him. But he otherwise looks nothing like his children. His pale yellow hair is lank and lifeless, his blunt face utterly forgettable. It's his size Maeve will remember, lurking like a shadow, huge and terrifying but oddly intangible. He's no more than that to her, and he never will be again.
The memories continue—her arrival at Brí Leith, the few quiet years she spent in peaceful study on this hilltop, blissfully unaware of what would come. Waking on her hard student's pallet, the smell of fire thick in the air as soldiers blocked the doors of the wooden dormitory and burned it to the ground. She steps from the fire unburnt but choking on smoke, stumbling in the darkness, and Keely's hand is suddenly in hers, pulling her from the wreckage of her childhood into a new life, drawing her to safety. They run.
Images shimmer past, quick as the pulse of blood at her temples. Antoine and Nessa. Dermott's curse, her vow to free him. Wren and Niall and their boys. The search for answers for Dermott, the bequeathing of Breakwater. Maeve watches as she leaves Eire and her family, steadfast and resolute, her brother's sword belted at her hip, her hawk circling steadily overhead. Keely considered this a betrayal of the highest magnitude and didn't speak to her for nearly a year—not that Maeve was around to facilitate reconciliation—but at least she didn't follow. That's all Maeve wanted. They will always be sisters, but their paths lie in different directions.
Dim-Dim found her in the rocky, cave-pocked desert badlands surrounding Baghdad several years later. She'd hunted Rumina the whole time, following a trail not of footprints but of rumor and hearsay, learning what she could of her foe from conversations with locals. One such talk with a drunken band of traders turned her feet toward the fabled city of wonder. No one seemed to know exactly where Rumina and her father might live, but they were known to terrorize the residents of Baghdad when the whim took them. It was as good a lead as any.
Dim-Dim found her before she could enter the city. Though she was initially wary of the old man, he convinced her she could not hope to defeat such a powerful foe as Rumina without restarting the sorcerous training she had shunned since the burning of Brí Leith. Agreeing to become the old man's apprentice was a lesson in trust, a lesson well worth the struggle it cost her. He was nothing but gentle, nothing but kind. His lessons were often frustrating, but she learned quickly that his methods, though irritating, were sound. She learned faster with him than she ever had at Brí Leith.
The loss of Dim-Dim flashes by in an instant, her time with Sinbad on the Nomad swift and bright and sweet. She has no control over what memories Midir accesses, but she gives them all without shame: she feels little regret for any of it. She's made mistakes, yes, and so has Sinbad. But she feels strongly that the good they've done makes up for it. They've fought so many battles, and largely won. They battled each other, too, until they finally realized the struggle was pointless: this was meant to be. He's a massive pain in the ass, but he's her pain and she doesn't want any other. He's a great man, yes, but more than that he's a good one, and that's why he's worth every sacrifice she's made, every sacrifice she's still willing to make. The world needs him. Fin needs him. Maeve has come too far in this fight to let Scratch win now.
She's breathing hard when Midir finally withdraws his hand, breaking the connection and ceasing the flood of memory. She reels, but Doubar is instantly behind her, his hands on her shoulders, steadying her. "Sit," he urges, but she refuses.
"Sit," Étaín echoes, rocking Fin gently. "You are not well, child."
"I know that." Maeve obeys the queen, allowing Doubar to help ease her down on a wet fallen log. Her heart pounds and she's bathed in cold sweat, but she stares defiantly at Midir. "Well? I told you. Keely's the special one, not me. Fin and I are human, no more, no less."
Midir's stare grows more intense. "Human, aye. And yet very much not as you were when you were born. You have given me some answers, my sweet fire, but not all."
"I gave you all I had." She scowls, inhaling deeply into her belly, wishing she could stop the shaking of her arms, her knees. She's not afraid, just so fucking tired. And angry. Sinbad's time is trickling away; she can see it as the quality of the light below the forest canopy shifts. She doesn't care what she is, or what Midir seems to think she is. All she cares about is saving Sinbad, but no, she's stuck here enduring a stilted conversation she does not want with a volatile demigod who can't seem to decide what he wants from her.
"You gave me more than you think, but I admit I'm having difficulty putting the pieces together." He steps close and kneels abruptly, staring up into her eyes as she sits on the wet log. It makes her intensely uncomfortable, but she's physically trapped, unable to move. "Human. Utterly human. Yet you have reshaped yourself, as fire never does. Altered and grown in ways humans are incapable. You have risen to your challenges, and made yourself what you are, what your daughter is."
"I'm human!" Maeve snaps, barely managing not to bellow in a supernatural king's face.
"You were born fully so. I am not sure you remain that way." Midir scowls, as upset as she is. "This is not how fire behaves. It is not how humans behave. Mortal beings have no ability to alter the makeup of what they are!" His molten eyes burn as he stares at her. "Yet there you sit. You are not your sister—not a throwback as I first assumed, bearing the blood of something more than human. I am not often proven wrong, and I do not like it at all."
Maeve doesn't like it, either. "That's not my fault; you're the one who keeps asking questions. And humans change all the time."
"Mortals learn and grow—some of you, as much as your brief little lives permit. But the very essence of what you are has changed, woman, and that is something humans are fundamentally incapable of."
"Étaín changed." Maeve bows her head in deference to the queen holding her baby.
Midir does not like this comment. "She was changed by fate. By circumstance. By magic. You have altered yourself. It is a radically different thing."
"You're acting like I did whatever I did on purpose to piss you off. I didn't even know I was doing it." Maeve glares back at him, her caution in his presence rapidly diminishing as he prods her prickly temper. She can behave and be polite...to a point. But this man is getting on her nerves. "All I care about is saving Sinbad."
"Your foreign sailor's soul is forfeit. That is beyond discussion." Midir dismisses this with a small wave of his hand.
"No! I don't accept that!" Maeve jerks to her feet, staring down at the kneeling king. "I'm the one who chose to follow the Tam Lin Protocol. He's been wailing and lamenting about it for moons—you saw that for yourself. Punish me however you like for being an idiot, but not him. He doesn't deserve this!"
"Leannán, perhaps listen this time," Étaín says, attaching herself to his side as he rises. "You stilled your hand when this one was a girl, refusing to punish two frightened children for an accidental slight."
"And look what that boon begat—an entreaty for yet more aid."
"An entreaty that may be worth attending." Étaín tucks Fin against her shoulder and touches her king gently, pressing her palm to his chest, above his heart. "You like riddles—admit it. She brought you two, herself and the babe. Surely that's worth at least hearing her out?"
The corners of Midir's mouth turn down and his silver eyes flash, but he covers her hand with his own. "For your sake, mo chailín, I will hear her. Not for any other. I am still not entirely sure what she is, or how she passed it down to that child. Scars are not inherited."
"Then her alteration is not a scar," Étaín says reasonably. "Come, child. What exactly is the boon you seek? I saw what my céile saw."
"I didn't," Doubar grumbles. "I hate magic."
"You were there for the important parts, so hush," Maeve snaps. "All I want is Sinbad safe."
"She wants me to swoop in like the proverbial fairy godparent," Midir says with disgust. "It will not happen. Foreigners are no concern of mine. Celts are barely concerns of mine, and only when they get in my way, as this one has."
"My daughter is half Celt." Maeve shifts her weight on her feet, planting herself firmly before the king. She's sick of this foreigner nonsense. Sinbad is hers, and by Celt tradition that makes him no longer an outsider. The Tuatha dé Danann apparently feel differently, but she has no time for it. "I'm fully Celt, and I carried and bore her. She was born in the Breakwater bequeathed to me, the sanctuary I earned by blood right when this hilltop burned." Her eyes narrow as she glares at him. "That library is her legacy, every bit as much as her father's ship is. I refuse to let anyone, even a king, deny her right simply because of her father's blood."
"I deny that child nothing," Midir says blandly. "Her maternal birthright is a mortal matter which has nothing to do with me."
"You're denying her her father." Maeve seethes. Maybe this isn't technically Midir's fight, but he's admitted to being more closely linked to this mess than she previously knew. He allowed her to live the night she and Keely burrowed into his hill. He didn't have to. That willing action on his part may well have set everything else in motion, everything leading to this moment. And his sister took pity on Jennet—if pity it was—and fashioned the trap of the Tam Lin Protocol with her, into which Maeve and Sinbad blindly walked. That's not Midir's fault, but it places him closer to Maeve than she realized and she will absolutely exploit that proximity if she can. "Sinbad adores her. I was afraid that he wouldn't want her. All men want sons—hell, I wanted a son, if only because this world is a far kinder place for boys. But Sinbad loved her from the beginning, and he never wavered. He left the sea for us, cared for me when I so badly needed him. He cared for Fin when she was born—I sure as hell didn't. Not one little girl in a thousand gets a father like that, and I refuse to let my daughter lose hers."
"A doting father of a little girl is a rare thing, indeed," Étaín agrees, cuddling Fin gently. "Midir, leannán, consider. You remember when Messei was so small. How you felt? What you would have done to stay with us?"
He bristles. "There is no similarity."
Maeve bristles as well. "Definitely not," she snaps. "You couldn't have possibly loved that girl, considering what you did to her."
His molten silver eyes blaze bright as he wheels on her. With the swiftness of a deer and the fury of a lion, suddenly the king is upon her. His warm hand, broad and long-fingered, closes around her throat. He squeezes—not hard enough to stop her breath, but hard enough to warn her very clearly that she went too far. Maeve lifts her chin and stares him in the eye, standing perfectly still. Doubar lurches forward.
"Stop." Her eyes never leave the king. "You're here to protect Fin, not me."
Doubar curses darkly. "I hate this! Let her go. What did she say? I knew that mouth of yours was going to get you in serious trouble one of these days, girl."
"It gets me in trouble all the time, same as yours. Now shut up." Maeve inhales slowly past the constriction of fingers on her throat.
"Tell me," Midir says, flexing his fingers against her skin, "what you meant by that insult, Celt, and be very careful as you choose your words. I will not hesitate to snap this lovely neck."
He could do it, too; she can feel the power in his grip, though he's not precisely hurting her, his grasp hovering just on the edge of pain. She meets his eyes without fear, as irritated with him as he is with her. "Just what I said. What everyone has said about you for centuries."
"Let her go, love." Étaín tenses beside him. "You don't want to hurt her."
"That depends entirely on what she has to say. What tales have you mortals been spreading about my daughter?" he demands. "Tell me now! I have many sons born of many different women, but only one daughter, as bright and shining as her mother. Any insult to her is an insult to all of my kind, and will not be borne."
Maeve frowns at him. "You don't know the tales of your own family?"
His fingers tighten slightly. "I do not pay attention to mortal affairs. Time flows differently for us, and you humans die so swiftly it hardly matters anyway. Tell me now, my lovely. I will not ask again."
She bows to his demand. She's not opposed to dying today, but not until she frees Sinbad. "The stories say that Étaín bore the daughter of the mortal king Eochaid, and you raised her as your own. But when her father sought to take Étaín back by force, you gave him the grown girl instead. Not realizing the difference, he kept her as his queen and fathered a son on her. When he learned the truth, she was cast off and abandoned, her child left exposed to die. You won the game, but only by sacrificing Étaín's daughter in the process."
Rage fills Midir's face, and for a moment Maeve is positive she just signed her own death warrant. He's going to snap her neck with his fingers, and Doubar really is going to have to return Fin to Keely to raise.
But he doesn't. His hand falls away from her throat even as a feral growl of pure fury boils from within him.
"That's truly the story mortals tell?" Étaín's sweet blue eyes blink with confusion. She has red eyelashes, unlike Maeve, and they gleam in the fading light of the dying day.
Maeve nods. "Sinbad wanted to burn the book when he heard. I stopped him. Burning books is a sensitive subject in my clan." She glances back the way she came, where the ruins of Brí Leith lie silent on the hilltop.
Étaín touches her arm gently, then offers Fin back. Maeve takes her baby with relief, cuddling her sleeping weight against her breastbone. "You shared your daughter. I will do the same." Étaín raises her voice. "Messei? Come here, please."
From the gathering gloom beneath the trees, another woman steps. Her perfect face is strikingly similar to her mother's, ageless and smooth, delicate and so, so beautiful. But the resemblance ends there. She's slightly taller, and like her father wears Celt hunting leather, not the filmy white cloth of her mother's gown. Her bright red curls have been cropped around her ears and bound back with a braided leather headband. Her eyes hold the unnatural silver pupils of the Tuatha dé Danann, though she herself was born of mortal parents.
"My daughter," Midir says proudly, tucking the girl close to his side and kissing her temple. She allows this for a moment before pushing him fondly away.
"Quit, da. I'm no babe in arms. What's all this, then?" She eyes her mother with protective caution. "Should you be out here?"
"I'm fine, mo chailín. We're just setting the record straight." Étaín looks troubled. "I didn't know mortals told such terrible stories about you. I would have put a stop to it far earlier, had I known."
The girl snorts. "What are they saying? That I alone slew all the giant elk whose sprawling antlers they sometimes find buried in the earth? I did. Mostly. My brothers helped a little." She grins.
Maeve decides she likes Étaín's daughter.
"No," Midir says, looking much less pleased than Messei. "They have offered both you and I great insult. If I knew whom to punish for this slight, he would already be dead. I acknowledge that this mortal woman is merely the messenger, but that does not make me any happier with her." He glares at Maeve. She glares back. She told him what he wanted to know and she refuses to apologize for it. She's also very aware of the gathering shadows, the last of the daylight slipping away as night closes in. She's running out of time.
"High King Eochaid did indeed offer great insult to the Tuatha dé Danann," Étaín says, wrapping her arms around herself and hugging gently. She looks uncomfortable, and Maeve watches as both her céile and her daughter hover protectively, mindful of their more delicate family member. "He ordered his army to dig up as many hills as they could find, searching for Midir and me."
"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Maeve says, aware that this is the correct response, though honestly, she doesn't care about anything right now except saving Sinbad.
"It doesn't really matter anymore. It was so very long ago, even by our reckoning, and he would never have reached me anyway. But the insult was too much for Midir and Messei to bear."
The girl smiles unpleasantly. "That bastard had it coming. Mama never wanted him in the first place, and he treated her horribly. I knew he was my father by blood, but he was never my da. I would have put a dagger in him sooner, had he showed his face before."
"That's my girl." Midir's satisfied smile echoes his adopted daughter's. "She wanted revenge on the man who dared treat her mother as anything less than a queen, and I wanted revenge for the insult to my people. When Eochaid demanded Étaín back, Messei begged to go in her mother's place. How could I deny her?" He looks at her proudly.
Maeve laughs despite herself. "You killed him."
"Stupid man. Da didn't even cast a glamour on me to make me look more like mama. He just let me go as I was, and the idiot didn't know the difference. I made sure he knew the truth before I slit his throat, though." Her eyes gleam coldly. "No one hurts mama or insults my da."
Doubar grunts. "This. This is what the Nomad's going to be in twenty years."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Maeve mutters. "And that princess may look twenty, but she's old enough to be your distant ancestor."
Messei smirks. "I'm no foreigner's ancestor, but I could be yours. It's a possibility."
"Any kid of Sinbad's is a fast learner. She'll be taking over before she's ten." Doubar shrugs. "You Celts sure take insults seriously, though."
"You have no idea," Maeve says dryly.
"Ah…" Doubar suddenly looks very worried. "Have I mentioned how very sorry I am for everything?"
She rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to slit your throat for what you did, Doubar. I can't say the same for Sinbad, but you've nothing to fear from me. Now shut up."
"What do the humans want, mama?" Messei stares curiously at Maeve, at the newborn in her arms. "That one reeks of blood and doesn't look long for this world. Are you taking the baby? Am I getting a new sister?"
"No," Maeve says firmly. "I'm trying to save my céile, a man caught in the clutches of the demon Scratch. He doesn't deserve what's about to happen to him, but no one here is taking me seriously." She scowls.
"Do you want da to fight the demon for you? Is that it?" Messei cocks her head to the side. "Why should he? What would you trade for his service?"
"That's not what I want. I don't need a man to fight my battles for me—I've never needed that, nor wanted it," Maeve snaps, holding Fin tighter. "I can do that myself—fuck, I want to do it myself. But the Tam Lin Protocol apparently doesn't exist, which means Scratch has no reason to let me fight. I only want the chance." Her heart pounds against her ribs, its rhythm ponderous and labored, as irritation blooms into anger once more. Sinbad needs her. All she wants is the chance to fight.
Messei turns to her father. "Well, da? Aunt Oicnis is the one who laid that trap. If you set a trap for a fox and accidentally catch a deer, it's only right to set the beast free."
Midir scowls. "It's no concern of ours."
"Isn't it? I like her. She's warm."
"I'm very aware," Midir says dryly. "That's the flame she's kindled, though the gods alone know how."
"All I want, all I'm asking, is the chance to fight," Maeve pleads. She's not above begging if she has to, but she suspects Messei has more sway over her father's decision than any plea Maeve could make. "I'll save him myself. That's all I've wanted to do since the brand appeared on his skin. I just need Scratch to let me."
"The sun's nearly down," Étaín says quietly, glancing at the shadows under the trees. "Stop stalling, leannán. We both know you're going to help."
"I don't know that." Midir frowns at his queen and his daughter. "Oicnis laid the trap, not I. That means I will require permission from the Dagda to circumvent it." His molten eyes flick to Maeve. "And payment for services rendered. What will you give, my beauty? I know you know how this works."
Yes, Maeve knows how this works, and now that they're finally in negotiation, she feels a strange calm settle over her. She sets her mouth gently against Fin's head for a moment. "What do you want?" She's fairly sure she knows what the answer will be, and she's ready. She wonders if Doubar has figured it out yet.
"I would gladly take the babe," Étaín says, a small, knowing smile touching her lips, "but this is the one thing I suspect you will not give."
"No," Maeve agrees. "I know you would care for her, but she belongs with her father." There's no question. Fin would lead a comfortable life beyond the veil, doted on by this gentle queen, but she can't make such a drastic decision for her child, or take her from Sinbad permanently. They belong together. Besides, Finleigh was born mortal. To live beyond the veil would make her otherwise, as it has made Étaín and Messei. Maeve can't do that to her. "But I will go."
Behind her, Doubar gasps. Maeve holds steady. Cairpra warned her, but she already knew the choice she was likely facing in asking a king of the Tuatha dé Danann for help. He has unimaginable wealth already; no objects she might give could buy his aid. His kind are well known for stealing children and beautiful young women, however. She will not abandon Fin to that fate, but she will willingly leave this world for the chance to save Sinbad.
Midir's eyes gleam. He knew she would offer, and she can see how tempted he is to take her up on it—even moreso because he knows she does not want to go.
"You can't!" Doubar protests behind her.
"I told you to be quiet."
"You knew this would happen," he accuses her, furious. "You knew."
"Of course I knew. Why the fuck do you think I brought you?" He's here to take Fin back to Sinbad, because she doubted from the beginning that she would be able to do so herself.
"I am very tempted to accept that offer, lovely flame." Midir flicks his eyes from her head to her feet and back again. Maeve loathes being ogled like a prize horse at market, but she holds her tongue. "You are a powerful beauty with a powerful will, and I have not yet fit together all the mosaic pieces of what you are and how you came to be this way. You've proven you can bear, as well. To the idiot southerners who prefer their women untouched that would be a mark against you, but up here we know better." Intense curiosity and male hunger war for dominance in his gaze. "But, my flame, I'm afraid despite the temptation I must decline. I have lain with many women besides my Étaín, but none could challenge her place as my queen. Bringing you beyond the veil, however, I already see would beget trouble I have no wish to cultivate."
"That's because you're a very intelligent man," Étaín says approvingly, wrapping her arm around his. She smiles warmly at Maeve. "Besides, I have a better use for you than bearing my king more sons he does not need." She glances at her daughter. "Midir will help you free your sailor this night, young fire, and in return I place you under geas to myself and my family."
"What does that mean?" Doubar hisses.
Maeve ignores him. "What is my task?" she asks readily. She will gladly take on a new quest in exchange for Sinbad's soul, no matter how onerous. The possibility of reuniting with Sinbad is more than she dared hope since she left him at dawn.
"You won a library by blood right, which means you are a protector of the stories your fellow mortals tell. I charge you and the rest of your clan—your daughter, your sister, all of you—to right the wrong done to my king and my daughter. Tell the truth of their story. Give Midir his honor back; give Messei her heroism. She is no tragic princess, as you can see, but a warrior beloved by her family. Tell the truth of what happened. Change the narrative. These things take time, I realize, especially when measured in mortal years. That is why I lay the charge on all of you, down through your clan."
Maeve bows low to the immortal queen, clasping Fin close to her chest. "I swear it, my lady." She hugs her baby tight, her head swimming. She was fully prepared to leave this world with Midir after battling Scratch—that was what she assumed he would require in payment. That's what the stories all claim he would want. But his unnatural fascination with her tells Maeve it's best he did not accept her offer. She has no wish or intention to supplant Étaín in his affections, and this tension is not something she wishes to foist on the sweet little queen.
"Now that that's settled," Messei says, grinning devilishly, "let's go kick some demon ass."
"You," Midir says, "are staying here. Both of you." He glances up at the sky as full dark closes over the forest. The sun is down, All Souls Night upon them. Maeve feels the flickering response in the magic of the forest, the gathering strength of the mystical energy of this place. A faint, haunting cry sounds from the direction of the ruins.
"I never get to have any fun," Messei protests.
"You have nothing but fun. However, tonight the veil between the worlds is paper-thin, and your task, as always, is to guard your mother. I will not have a wandering ghost from those ruins accidentally slipping between worlds." He eyes his daughter. "Can I trust you to do that?"
She sighs dramatically. "Yes, da. But I'd rather go to hell with you."
"Maybe next time as a treat." He pushes her shoulder gently. "Go now. Both of you. Back where it's safe."
Étaín kisses her king. "Uphold your vow, my love. Don't let Scratch win."
"You struck this deal, not me, but I will uphold it. Whether Scratch wins or not is no concern of mine, but the girl will get the chance to prove herself."
Maeve smiles grimly as she kisses her baby and hands her over to Doubar. "She's your responsibility now."
"And Sinbad is yours." Tears stand out starkly in his gray eyes. "Save him. Please."
"I will. I swear it." She's too confident to fail. Grim certainty fills her. She may die in this fight, but she won't lose. She can't. The world needs Sinbad, and Fin needs her father. She's convinced a demigod to let her fight, and she has right on her side. Scratch doesn't get to win this time.