A/N: Someone in a DM likened Maeve to Danerys, and it's so amusing to me! Maeve will always be the original Unburnt in my eyes, and you will never convince me she wouldn't jump at the opportunity to ride a dragon.
The fact that the battle in the fairy tale of Tam Lin coincides perfectly with Maeve's most notable canon abilities (animals and fire) is one of those strange acts of providence that has nothing to do with my dubious skill as a writer, lol. I wasn't thinking nearly that far ahead when I started this story, and I certainly don't plan that well. So it was beautiful to me to see how apt a heroine she turned out to be for this tale once we got here! Thanks for hanging around and keeping faith that we WOULD get to this point, lovely readers!
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
Cold rain blankets Breakwater, a steady, bone-chilling drip Sinbad has come to loathe. How a woman with a spirit of flame was born into this bleak, sodden environment, he doesn't know. All he knows is that he burns for her.
And mourns for her. Cairpra says to keep hope, but Maeve and his Fin are gone and with each passing moment he's more and more sure they're never coming back. Night is closing in swiftly, the last glimmers of wet daylight nearly gone. He waited the day out with Cairpra and the children, barely hearing as the old woman repeated over and over that he must not lose faith. He lost it, he fears, the moment he woke up alone. Maeve is the strongest woman he's ever known, but even she cannot fight fate. His soul was sold to Scratch moons ago, and nothing she does now will change that. Tonight, the demon will take him. Tonight, he will fight for his soul, man to man, no more hiding, no more putting others in danger instead of himself. Part of him welcomes the opportunity. Another part of him loathes it, for it means that Maeve is not coming back.
This is no longer a family matter, a burden shared amongst the Nomad crew and Maeve's northern clan. It's his fight alone. His men cannot help him, Maeve is gone, and her family has been shattered past healing. That's why he's here, standing at the water's edge, looking across the narrow channel separating him from the main island of Eire as his last day on earth dies around him. This isn't Cairpra's fight, isn't Niall's fight. He doesn't want anyone foolishly trying to help him and possibly getting hurt in the attempt. Maeve's people have lost too much because of him already: Dermott, Antoine, Nessa, now Maeve herself. Their home could so easily have come down around them during Scratch's storm. He can't allow them to sacrifice anything more. The little girls have lost their father; Keely's son will never know Antoine, just as Sinbad's daughter won't remember the father so committed to keeping her safe. No more. He's done putting others in harm's way for the sake of his immortal soul. Losing the others was damning, but losing Maeve and Fin has put him over the edge.
His baby may no longer be alive. Probably she isn't. It's a fact he wants desperately to fight, but the uncertainty paired with the staggering enormity of his loss leaves Sinbad unable to struggle any longer. Maeve. Fin. He will likely never know the truth of their fate, and this reality is something he cannot live with. He thought he was good at accepting the uncertainties of life—embracing the inability to know everything. But this loss looms huge inside him, blocking everything else as the clouds above hide the stars. Those two lives mean everything—more than his soul. More than the world. He can't live like this, logic telling him they're dead, stubborn hope refusing to believe it.
And so, for these and so many other reasons, it's best he leaves Breakwater before full night descends. He will fight Scratch with everything left in him, but in his heart he knows how this story ends. It's not a hero's tale, after all, but the tragedy of a coward who let the brightest light in his world go out because he feared for his soul. Never mind that she insists he never asked her. When have they ever required speech to know the other's truth? Not since the loss of Dim-Dim, maybe before. He may not always understand her thinking, but he's always felt her pain, and knows she feels his. And she agreed to the Protocol without the question ever being posed, agreed despite her reservations. She had her own life, her own quest—her brother's curse, her desire never to bear children. She agreed anyway, and she never wavered, no matter what that vow cost her. Whatever she may believe now, Sinbad knows the truth: she didn't fail. She tried her hardest, and did more than any other woman could have. She's his hero, and no matter what happens tonight, she always will be.
But it's time for him to fight for himself now. No more hiding.
He wades into the frigid water up to his waist, biting cold knifing his skin. Despite the bitter temperature, he welcomes the sea back with relief. He's been landbound for what seems an age, and the touch of seawater on his skin, even this unknown western sea, feels like a homecoming. The narrow stretch of water between Breakwater and the main island isn't too far to swim, but with the frigid temperature he's less sure he'd make it easily. He shudders even now, his fingers and toes quickly numbing. As the cold slices through him like daggers, he retrieves one of the little coracles the children use to paddle back and forth to visit their friends on the other side. Scratch's storm flattened Breakwater's outbuildings and tore all the watercraft loose from their lines, but one coracle, which looks like nothing so much as a floating bird's nest, has returned on the tide. Sinbad crawls over the rounded side and hauls himself into the wet little craft. The paddle is gone, but he can use his hands. There's no rush now that he's off Breakwater, away from the people who might try to stop him from leaving. He wants this family nowhere near him when full night closes in. He has no idea what will happen then, and he doesn't want those children finding out. They've suffered enough because of him.
The household spent the day cleaning up after Scratch's storm and preparing for Samhain. Under other circumstances, Sinbad would be both fascinated and creeped the hell out by their customs as they prepare to enter what Keely calls the dark of the year, the season of death. He saw the bonfire Niall built in the meadow, ready for lighting at sundown, and was vaguely aware of Wren baking nut-filled bread to offer as appeasement to the spirits. Keely and Cairpra took down the boards from the windows and opened all the doors wide despite the rain, so no wandering spirits might be trapped inside tonight. But he was too fraught with worry to care much about their preparations or question their reasons. He held Con woodenly when the boy permitted it, yearning for his own tiny newborn, not her big, loud cousin, but did little else, everything in him attuned to the sounds of the house, the feel of the air around him, on alert for Maeve's return.
A return which never came. She's gone. Whatever last-minute effort she planned, it failed. And now it's too late.
Sinbad does not believe he is very intuitive, or in-tune with the sorcerous elements of his world, but even he admits he can feel the change as night descends upon Eire. A gathering tension hovers in the air and he can almost taste the magic, as he can on Maeve's lips when she's been conjuring. A faint shudder drips down his spine. He never asked her exactly what Samhain was meant to celebrate, but he gathers that this is a time of changes—of passages between worlds, living and dead. A time of mourning, and a time of letting go. It's a fitting night for Scratch to claim the souls he's marked throughout the year.
"Captain!"
His gut sinks as he hears the thin little shout. Craning his head in the nearly-full night, he sees Declan, Maeve's favorite, standing desolate on the shoreline. He wears short breeches despite the cold, his baggy white linen shirt stark against the gathering night. His dirty feet enter the water as he steps forward, unafraid.
"Let me go with you!" the kid begs, kicking up spray as he wades frantically into the channel. "Maeve is mine! I want to fight!"
Sinbad knows the feeling. Not only have these children lost Antoine and Nessa, but they've now lost Maeve and their newborn cousin as well. The older boys didn't care much about the arrival of a baby girl, but this kid adores Maeve as much as she loves him, and there is no way Sinbad will ever be able to fix this hurt. Not for either of them. And he's definitely not letting the boy go with him. He recalls earlier days, kinder ones, when he envisioned a future where Maeve and Finleigh both lived, and he brought Dex aboard the Nomad as a cabin boy. That will never happen now.
"Stay back!" he orders the boy as the last gleams of sullen daylight disappear from the rain-shrouded horizon. But whatever else he might have yelled is cut short. His final chance for last words disappears as the brand on his chest begins to burn. Scratch's mark has never hurt before, though it looks like a festering bruise. Now the skull-shaped brand throbs, hot and heavy, hard and swollen, and the heat within begins to grow. He sets his jaw, abandons any attempt to paddle or speak to the watching boy, and breathes slowly as the pain mounts.
When Scratch's summons arrives, it's a sudden, yanking jerk, as if someone looped a rope around his torso and hauled him backward. One moment he sits steadily in a child's little boat, the next he reels, arms flailing as he seeks balance, his body struggling furiously against the force compelling him. He feels like he's falling, plummeting from a high cliff, and he's positive he's going to smash to pulp when he hits either earth or water below.
He opens his eyes to darkness.
His belly churns and rolls, trying to rebel, but he's fed it nothing today so it has nothing to return. Did he even hit the ground? He doesn't remember a crash and he doesn't feel injured, but he's lying on something cold and hard, dusty and dry. Why doesn't he remember landing?
He blinks slowly, gathering the shreds of his equilibrium. He's still soaking wet from the rain and the sea, but he feels no drops on his skin now. Nor does he feel the stinking, sullen heat of Scratch's domain, the place of rock and fire he rescued Rongar from more than a year ago. He inhales a jagged breath of frozen air and lifts his head.
Darkness. Just dry, freezing darkness that sinks into his flesh, far worse than the cold rain of Maeve's homeland. The moment he raises his head, he remembers this feeling, this place. He encountered it once before, when he in desperation used the power in his bracelet and Maeve's opal to take him to Breakwater without her. In his inexperienced hands, the opal almost didn't work. He hung in limbo between the Nomad and Breakwater, in this place of frozen darkness, long enough to chill and sicken himself. Long enough that he remembers well the unnatural feel of this place, where the darkness swallows sound like layers and layers of thick velvet, creating a numbing, leaden quality to the air. This is a place, and yet no place. And, while he does not want to be here, he guesses it's better than hell. For now.
Until a loud, rolling laugh peals from the darkness.
"Hello, Sinbad. I've waited a very long time to say this to you." Cold gray light blooms around the demon. He lounges indolently on a macabre throne made entirely of skulls—and not clean ones. These are no bright white bones bleached by the sun or scoured by sand. Dried blood coats their curves, dark, ragged bits of flesh and scraggles of hair, rotting slowly even as Scratch reposes upon his beastly chair. "Checkmate, captain. I win."
Sinbad slowly rises to his feet, staring at his enemy. His saber is belted to his side, and though he stands alone, he stands firmly in his conviction that this fight is not yet over. He's not afraid. He is, however, incredibly pissed off. This demon took Maeve from him, the brightest, sweetest thing in his world. He toyed with her, threatened her safety, and ultimately caused her to take their newborn and leave on a desperate last attempt to save him that obviously failed. Sinbad doesn't blame her. He blames Scratch.
"You haven't won yet." He doubts he can kill the demon—Scratch is too powerful for that. But fuck if he's not going to try. He has nothing left to lose. His soul isn't worth everything he's lost to keep it, anyway.
"Oh?" Scratch snickers. "That soul you regard so highly belongs to me, captain. You relinquished your right to it the moment you traded yourself so foolishly for a child who, in the grand scheme of things, means nothing. And what did the girl do with the freedom you granted her? Nothing. She sits in the same prison she grew up in, tended by the same wardens."
"But now she does so by her own choice." This is the key, the thing neither Rumina nor Scratch seems to understand. Just because Serendib remains in the City of Mist doesn't mean his sacrifice was in vain. She's no longer a prisoner. Her magic sustains the city, not Rumina's. She lives as she wishes, not in service to an evil mistress. That is the freedom his sacrifice purchased, and he doesn't consider it a waste or a loss. Even Maeve, who considers his decision to trade his life for Serendib's foolish in the extreme, doesn't argue the principle on which he did it.
"Her choice, and yours, has damned you." Scratch giggles like a gleeful child. "Oh, I do love All Souls Night! I have many more souls to collect after yours, my dear captain, but you've been a thorn in my side for far too long. I had to make sure you were done away with first."
Sinbad wants to punch that smug goat in his smug mouth, but he knows if he lunges he'll never get close. Scratch's power may be hindered in the human world, but this isn't the human world.
"I warned you, you know. You can't deny it. I told you explicitly how I would play this game—every gambit, every parry. That you did not listen was your own failing, not mine. Such a hero," he mocks.
Sinbad's hand hovers near the hilt of his saber, though he keeps enough hold on his temper not to draw it. Yet. "I told you, you haven't won yet."
Do you mean that flimsy piece of steel? You'll never get close enough to use it." Scratch sets his chin on his fist, observing Sinbad with amusement. "Or do you mean the woman? The loudmouthed barbarian onto whom you foisted all your hopes, your entire future?" He tuts. "Surely you know better than that."
"I'll cut you down if you even speak her name." Sinbad draws his saber, advancing on the figure lounging indolently on his grisly throne.
"Your redheaded savior? Your champion?" Scratch mocks. "Do you still truly believe she's coming to save you? You're a bigger idiot than I thought, if you do."
Sinbad holds his saber defensively but does not advance. She's not coming. He knows that. She did all she could possibly do, but he admitted the truth to himself hours ago: no matter how strong she is, he asked too much of her. Maeve and Fin are probably dead, and even if they aren't, whatever she attempted today didn't work. He's on his own. That doesn't bother him—what does is knowing he'll go to his grave without answers. Without the assurance that his girls are safe.
"Maeve did all she could. More than anyone had any right to ask of her. You're the one who made her task impossible." He throws the words angrily, knowing how useless they are and not caring.
Scratch's laughter redoubles, exploding like a volcano. He chortles. He howls. He pounds the armrest of his throne, cracking one of the skulls in the process. Gore-encrusted bone splinters with a sickening crunch. "Me? Me?" His cloven hooves dance on the ground like a small boy who needs to piss. "Oh, captain, can it be that you don't know yet? No one's told you? You haven't figured it out?"
Sinbad tenses. "Figured what out?" He's itching to charge Scratch. It probably won't end well for him, but he's not opposed to going out this way.
"My dear naive, idiot captain." Scratch gasps the words through his laughter. "You trust too easily. Far, far too easily. That's the chief fault of all you heroes, you know, all those who fight on the side of good. You trusted that stuffed shirt in Basra. You trusted your aged sorceress. You trusted the insect-man who ultimately did more to injure your so-called champion than I ever did." He giggles gleefully. "They all convinced you to believe a fairy tale, to entrust your soul to it." He leans forward, hands on the arms of his throne, claws curling over the bloody brow ridges of two skulls. "Like all fairy tales, however, this one collapses into dust when examined in the light. There is no Tam Lin Protocol, captain. There is no law binding me to permit a champion—any champion—to fight for you. Certainly not a mere woman, heavy with child or otherwise." He snickers.
Sinbad fights to assimilate this information, unsure whether to believe the demon or not. Surely if it were true, he or Maeve would have had some clue before now? No. No, he refuses to believe it. He can't trust anything Scratch says.
"How is your firecrotch, by the way? I have an inkling she may not be feeling quite up to saving souls today, anyway."
Rage fills Sinbad. "You know what you did. You meant to do it. Don't lie to me! Why would you intentionally shock her into giving birth early if the Protocol doesn't exist?"
"Because it pleased me to do so." Scratch slouches back against his throne. "Because that half-breed bastard in her belly is your blood, and you adore them both. That's reason enough to want them out of the way, preferably permanently." He grins broadly. "Tell me—I can see so little of those wretched Breakwaters. Is the child dead yet? Or will you enter eternity in my domain without knowing what became of the bitch and her spawn?"
With a roar of fury, Sinbad lunges for the demon. It's a foolish action and he knows this, but reason dissolves as rage takes over. No one insults Maeve or his Fin, no one hurts them, and this demon cannot be permitted to continue laughing about doing both. Sinbad leaps, saber outstretched, only to find himself frozen, turned to living stone as his blade reaches for Scratch, unable to move.
"I told you that wouldn't work," Scratch says calmly as he regards his captive.
Sinbad struggles against the magic holding his body stationary, but the only thing he seems able to move is his mouth. "Monster!" he rages. "Fucking demon!"
"Flattery will get you nowhere with me," Scratch says blandly.
Sinbad wants to punch the self-satisfied smirk from his face.
"Listen well. I purchased your soul from dear little Rumina fair and square. It was mine the moment that brand appeared on your skin. The rules by which I am bound forbade me to claim it until this night, but that never negated my ownership. I let you scheme. I let you hide. It amused me to watch you struggle, believing the lie of the Protocol as so many men have before you. You never saw the truth lurking just behind the fairy tale because you chose not to see it. You wanted so badly for the lie to be true. You wanted an easy way out, and that is the shining allure the Protocol promised: that you could retain your soul without any effort on your part. That, by placing a woman heavy with child in my path instead, you could wriggle free like a worm off a hook." His visage darkens like a thundercloud. "The real world doesn't work like that, captain. You of all people should know that by now. When you chose to believe the lie, and chose to put your insolent wench in harm's way, you sealed your fate. Now you are mine, and she and the child may be as well. I am not stupid. She hasn't been well in moons, and pushing her into childbirth too soon means her spawn stands no chance. I don't know what's happened on that damned island since I left you, but if they still live in this moment, it won't be for long. And when I find their souls torn loose from their mortal bodies, they will be mine."
"They'll never be yours!" Sinbad insists, but behind his belligerent exterior he's terrified. Were Maeve and Fin still safely ensconced at Breakwater, he wouldn't worry. Fin is strong, stronger than she has any right to be considering all that's happened to her, and he trusts that together Keely and Cairpra can care for Maeve. But Maeve took their newborn and left the safety of her clan, and he has no idea what's become of them. Tonight Scratch gathers souls. What if the demon is right? What if his girls end up sharing his fate? It's what he feared from the beginning, the moment Maeve told him she would be his champion. He wanted his soul. He wanted her safety more.
"What happens to the wench and your bastard is no longer yours to decide," Scratch says. "You gave away that right the moment you named her your champion."
And the thing is, Sinbad realizes as cold fear settles in his gut, Scratch is right. He should never have done this. He had reservations from the start, reservations which grew stronger as the danger Maeve faced grew greater. She sacrificed everything for him—her place on the Nomad, her family, and now her life—and it's all been for nothing. He feels the urge to drop his head, his shoulders, to collapse in defeat and hide away from his failure, but he can't. He's still frozen under Scratch's spell and the demon will not let him hide from this truth.
"Was the child born, by the by?" Scratch taunts. "Did you see it? Touch it? Was it half-formed and grotesque, being born too soon, or did it look almost human?" He snickers. "Did your little heathen manage at least to give you a dead son to mourn in your last moments?"
Sinbad strains against the invisible bonds of the spell holding him frozen. If he could reach the demon, Scratch would be dead. Finleigh was born alive, alive and perfect, tiny but beautiful, with a spirit as strong as her mother's, and not knowing what's become of her now is killing him. She's not a son, as every foul idiot seems ready to remind him, but he never required her to be. All he ever wanted was for her to be herself.
The devil eyes him, watching how his muscles strain as he struggles without movement. "You did see it, didn't you? The futile fruit of your fairy tale?" The red fire deep in the demon's pupils gleams. "I fully intend to seize that soul once I'm finished with you. Your mouthy bitch has irritated me a little too much these past moons, and it always pleases me to devour children." He smirks, the expression lost somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "New souls fresh from the ether are the sweetest, you know."
"Leave them be!" Sinbad struggles, but not a muscle in his body moves. Even breathing against the spell is a challenge. "I'm the one you want. They're not part of this."
"Your soul I have sought since you were an infant. I knew when you were born, knew you would challenge and harass me all your life, hampering my ability to work in your world like your insolent mentor before you. I chased you all through your youth—caused the storm that took your parents, whispered to al Disar to push the little princess into the sea before your eyes. But every move I made, you countered. Every act I committed only seemed to make you stronger. I took your parents, yet you still felt the call of the sea. I took your first love, which only set you in the path of the barbarian wench." Scratch's grimace drops. "No more. This time, I'm taking everything. Your brother. Your crew. Your woman and child. Your soul is mine tonight, and I will mop up every last piece of your memory, until the mortal world forgets that such a hero ever existed." His eyes burn. "They all have it coming anyway. Your bumbling oaf of a brother for saving you as a child. Your Moor has the will and heart of a hero in his own right. Your scientist's loyalty makes him a problem. And the woman—you must understand how dangerous a Celt set on revenge is? No. They are all forfeit to me. And you, as captain, will go first."
"I don't think so."
Sinbad's eyes close spasmodically, the only movement he can make. He's elated. He's horrified. Maeve's voice, strong and assured, rings out through the frigid blackness. Golden light, sweet and warm as summer, slices through the freezing dark like a red-hot blade, and from that light she steps.
Holy fuck, she's perfect. The shock of seeing her rips through him, hot and intense. Those dark eyes framed by bright copper curls, that full mouth she wields like a weapon, her words often wounding, her kiss sweet as honey. She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen...and possibly the most dangerous. The expression on her face tells him she's not fucking around. She stands tall and proud, shoulders thrust back and chin high, taking in the scene without fear. His girl. His sorceress. She's everything...and he desperately does not want her here. The Tam Lin Protocol likely doesn't exist, and even if it does, she's no longer with child. She has no power over Scratch and he's terrified for her. He's also never loved her more.
Or been more furious.
"What the fucking hell do you think you're doing?" he demands, straining against his invisible bonds, fighting to move, to reach her, to get between her and the demon slowly straightening on his throne. Two men step out of the golden light behind her. One Sinbad does not recognize. The other, to his fury, is Doubar.
Maeve regards Sinbad calmly. He can see so much lurking in her eyes, but her facade is firmly up, refusing to let him in. This isn't the time to call her on it. "What do you think I'm doing?" she says, planting her feet firmly, her stance aggressive. "I'm saving your ass, just as I said I would."
"Where's Fin?" he demands, straining hard, throwing himself with everything he can against the spell binding him. He needs to know his baby lives, that she's safe. Maeve rejected her when she was born, and while he knows a lot has changed since then, he's still incredibly wary of her decision to take the baby with her when she ran.
"Here," Doubar says hoarsely, and yes, there's something cradled in his huge arms, but Sinbad can't see well from his position. Did he think he was furious before? He wasn't. He is now.
"You brought my newborn daughter into hell?"
"This isn't hell. This isn't anywhere. And I brought a babysitter," Maeve says with unruffled calm.
"The man who almost killed her!"
"I was a little low on options," she snaps, her calm breaking as she glares at him, something she's always excelled at. Her irritated scowl can scorch the soul. It burns through Sinbad, and maybe he's crazy, but at this moment it feels like love.
"Were your ears burning, heathen?" Scratch chortles. "We were just talking about you. You threw a girl, did you say? How unfortunate."
Fin is the greatest fortune Sinbad has ever received, and all he wants in the world right now is for this fucking spell to let him go so he can snatch her away from Doubar. That man shouldn't be anywhere near her. Scratch shouldn't be anywhere near her. He watches her tiny hand rise as she stretches and wiggles in Doubar's arms, and something inside him lurches. He can't watch this. Tears burn his eyes and he can't stop them.
"Get out of here," he pleads. "Get Fin out of here." Anywhere is better than this. Maeve can't be thinking clearly. She just gave birth in the most terrible way he could imagine, and she's not in any shape to fight Scratch. Her choice of comrades also says her mind is not working correctly. There's something wrong with the stranger, something that tells Sinbad the man is not human, though he can't articulate what. And bringing Doubar, putting Fin in that traitor's arms, is beyond the pale.
"I'm not going anywhere without you," Maeve says firmly. "I worked too fucking hard for too fucking long to walk away now."
Scratch giggles. "Oh, well said, little spitfire! Such a rousing little speech. Hasn't your companion there informed you, however, that it was all for nothing? Or was he saving that revelation for later?" He turns his attention to the stranger. "Were you having fun toying with the girl, outlander?"
The stranger frowns. "This is no one's space, so I am no outlander here, and fun is not what I would call this night." He's with Maeve, but considering Maeve's choices today Sinbad isn't sure he trusts the man. He certainly doesn't trust Doubar. The stranger's eyes glow silver, and there's something...something unnatural about him. "Are you ready, my beauty?" the stranger asks of Maeve.
Fury lights through Sinbad again. She's no man's beauty.
"Ready for what, exactly?" Scratch asks, leaning forward on his throne.
"To challenge for Sinbad," Maeve says firmly.
The demon's amused face disappears, anger replacing it. "You have no right." He just finished explaining this, but Sinbad notices the demon isn't laughing anymore. He rises slowly to his cloven hooves, the cold gray light around him turning more sinister, the shadows sharpening. "The Tam Lin Protocol does not exist, and even if it did, you are no longer with child. No earthly force can compel me to let you challenge."
"Then it is a good thing my force is not earthly," the stranger says calmly. His long golden hair shifts around his shoulders as he turns to Maeve. "This is your last chance to change your mind, my sweet fire."
Bitter rage burns in Sinbad's blood. She's not this man's fire. She's not his anything. She belongs to no one, not even to Sinbad. She's made that abundantly clear over the past two years. And she should not be here. She needs to take Fin and leave him to his fate.
Maeve does not object to the stranger's words, as she so often does when men patronize her. "You know I won't change my mind."
"I'm aware. But I offer you this final chance, anyway. My Étaín will not be pleased if I tell her you failed and the child came to harm because of it."
"I won't fail." Maeve's eyes lock firmly with Sinbad's. Fuck, he loves her. But she looks so tired. So sick. He hasn't seen her in her own clothing for a very long time and the way it hangs from her unnerves him. She's not meant to look so gaunt. But the will in her dark eyes is as strong as ever, and in this moment he can't doubt her. He's going to kill her for being here, and for letting Doubar near their daughter, but he can't doubt her. She's everything.
"Death and failure are not always the same thing," the stranger says, his voice dry as a dune.
"Listen to the man," Scratch urges. "Run, heathen. Take your brat and go. It should have died by now. Count yourself lucky, and do not tempt fate."
Sinbad can feel the icy press of death all around them—heavy and grim, full of foreboding, painful in its own right. His skin shivers. He feels true fear eating at him like weevils, fear for Maeve, fear for the child who should not be in Doubar's grasp. But Maeve's presence batters back the darkness, the cold. She does not radiate light like a candle, but somehow she is the light, warm and sweet, beckoning to him like the heat of a fire on an icy northern night. In her clear light, Scratch burns a bitter, deep, smoldering red. His eyes glow like malevolent embers as he points with one hairy hand, long grimy nails filthy with dirt and dried blood.
"I'm not leaving without Sinbad," Maeve says firmly. Fuck, she's perfect, and he's never loved her more. But he's also never been more terrified. Yes, she's here, and she's brilliantly confident, but he can also see so starkly how torturous these past moons have been for her. His Maeve is long, lean and muscular, softly slender, tall and strong. She still stands tall now, but her body's gaunt, her energy spent. She's exhausted—he can see the telltale fine tremble in her limbs, the set of her mouth which tells him she's running on raw determination and nothing else. She has no intention of failing him, but her body and her spirit may be in disagreement on this point. Everything in him aches to go to her, to get her out of this place. But he can't. He can't move, and anyway, Cairpra's words echo in his head as if she stands beside him. This isn't his fight. It never was, and if that's the case, how can he protect her from it?
Scratch growls. "If you stay, I will merely add more souls to the night's haul—yours, your bastard's, and that oaf of a giant for good measure." He eyes the stranger grimly. "I don't believe you have a soul to reap."
"Nor do I," the man says with perfect calm. "Not as such."
"And you can't have ours." Maeve sounds utterly confident as she steps forward, one long, measured stride. "None of ours." This is not the sorceress Sinbad knows so well, a young woman blustering to hide her nerves, quick to anger, fighting always to be what she thinks she must. All that has passed. She's beyond it—beyond anything he's ever known her to be. She's calm. Whatever happened to her between waking and now, it's as if all the doubt in her has burned away. She stands before Scratch, firm and resolute.
"You can't stop me! Are you deaf as well as stupid? The Tam Lin Protocol does not exist. You have no claim on him!"
"I do. He's mine. I didn't want him, didn't ask for him, but he's mine now and I refuse to let you change that. His soul is not yours to take."
Scratch's eyes narrow, the glow deepening to a darker red. "Watch me."
The stranger sets his hand on Maeve's shoulder. Sinbad bristles, ready to slice it off if only this spell would release him. "You know the true tale, brave beauty. You know what to do."
"Stop!" Scratch bellows. "Just stop. You want a soul from me tonight? Fine. I can be a reasonable devil. Tonight is my night to reap. That sailor has been a thorn in my side for too long, and I will not release him. But pick another, any other owed to me this night and you may have it. You don't even have to fight. I'll free it willingly. Happily. Just not that one." He sidles closer to her. "Pick someone else, wench. Find a better father for that child, eh? This one, he's no good for that. You already know that deep down, don't you? He's a sailor. He won't stay with you, won't ever love you. His devotion is only to the sea."
"That's not true!" Indignation swells within Sinbad and he struggles once more against the spell holding him frozen. "Maeve, listen to me, it's not—"
"Silence!" Scratch roars. He waves a hand and Sinbad finds that he can no longer speak. What little freedom he had before is now gone. He's as good as a lump of stone. Inside he seethes. Scratch will do anything to keep Maeve from fighting this battle, but he prays this isn't the argument that does it. He's made many, many mistakes over the past two years, but Scratch's words aren't true. He adores her, and the child she bore him. He'd do anything for them. But he's not sure he's told her enough, showed her enough.
But Maeve, apparently, doesn't need him to. She doesn't need his words, nor his arms around her. Calm brown eyes stare steadily at Scratch. "I must have you scared badly, old man."
Scratch snarls at her like an animal, his pointed teeth bared. "I have never been afraid of a mortal, and I never will!"
"If you expect me to believe that, stop lying to me. Sinbad left the sea for me, and he'd do it again if I asked him. But I never will. That's the thing you don't understand about loyalty. The people we willingly sacrifice everything for are the people who would never ask us to."
"You sacrificed everything," Scratch taunts. "He demanded it of you, and you did it. You lost your dear brother. The insects you claim as family. You nearly lost your life, your bastard's life, and yet you stand there and talk to me about sacrifice? You're weaker than the southern girls you claim you never want to be like, giving up so much for the sake of a man."
The warm golden light around Maeve grows as her calm disintegrates and her anger spikes. Sinbad almost feels sorry for Scratch in this moment. Almost. "I gave what I gave," she says, "of my own free will. No one forced me. He never even asked me. What broke him, these past moons, wasn't your whispers in his ear, but watching what the Protocol did to me. Midir explained the trap, that the Protocol was meant to lure dishonorable men who would willingly put their families in danger to save their souls. But Sinbad isn't one of them. This trap snared a man who doesn't deserve to be damned, and I claim my right to fight for him."
"You have no right!" Scratch bellows.
"I say she does," the stranger says calmly.
"You have no power here!" the demon insists. "You were not part of the bargain between the witch and I, and you did not set the trap of the Tam Lin Protocol. You have no power to compel me."
"He doesn't need to. He brought me here, and I know the truth now. I know what to do." Maeve strides forward confidently. Fin squalls in Doubar's arms. Sinbad's heart lurches at the sound of his child's distress, but he can see nothing save those resolute brown eyes as Maeve draws close, so close he can feel her warm breath on his skin. The whisper of warmth is indescribable. His lungs fail him for a long moment. All he's wanted since waking alone was to have this back—her warmth, her touch. He thought she was dead—felt it in the pit of his stomach for most of the day. But she's not. She's here, she's a breath away from his skin, and she plans to fight. The strongest soul he's ever encountered stares back at him from those lovely light brown eyes. She's unafraid. He's terrified.
"No!" Scratch howls, but even as his talons reach for her Maeve's arms slide around Sinbad's shoulders.
"He's weak. Constrained," she says, pressing her body close to his, and as skin touches skin, Scratch's spell disintegrates. Sinbad can move once more. He opens his fist and his saber clatters to the ground. "Don't let go," she says, her arms firm as she gathers handfuls of his vest and grips him tightly. "Don't let go and don't be afraid."
He doesn't dare disobey her. Not on the first part, at least. His arms clamp down hard on her body, that sweet pressure he feared he'd never feel again. He'll never let go. Even if Scratch takes his soul, he'll never let go. But he can't help his fear. Fin is crying in Doubar's arms, Scratch hovers near, and all he wants in the world is his girls safe. But he has to face facts as he buries his cheek in Maeve's soft red curls, holding her as tightly as he can: this is her fight. It's always been her fight. He battled this truth for as long as he could, but there's nowhere left to hide from it. She's not his wife, she's his champion, and he has to let her do what she was always meant to do.
"Do you know what happened to the last wench who tried this?" Scratch warns as Maeve tucks herself hard against Sinbad. She shoves her body along his almost aggressively, winding herself around him, settling firm as she prepares for a fight Sinbad cannot fathom. Her sword remains sheathed at her side—whatever is going to happen, she doesn't seem to believe she'll need it.
"I know what happened," she says confidently. "And it won't happen to me. You think you watched us? You think you know me? You know nothing if you think your old tricks can stop me."
"What's going to happen?" Sinbad demands, speaking into her skin. Her cheek is cold under his lips, and he aches as always to warm her, soothe her. But Keely's spell is shattered, the time for comfort past. He and his bracelet can't fix her any longer.
She moves far enough to meet his eyes, sweet brown filled with determination. "I'm going to win."
"You want to play this game?" Scratch lowers his head, and his snarl is the snarl of a beast, not a man. "So be it."
The brand on Sinbad's chest burns like hell. An instant later the rest of his body does, too, as he's torn apart, ripped to pieces as his bones shift, flesh melts, and he becomes...something else. Something inhuman. He opens his mouth to scream, but a forked tongue emerges. It flicks Maeve's skin. She shivers, but refuses to let go.
"I know," she croons. "I'm sorry. There was no way to prepare you. It's okay. I'm here." She drops to her knees as the overpowering weight of his new body drives her down. He's unable to support himself; a heavy, scaled tail lashes the ground, stirring up dust. She rearranges her body around him without letting go, cradling his huge lizard form. "It's all right," she says close to his ear, stroking his leathery scales. "I learned all I needed to know from Midir. Scratch knows nothing about me, or else he never would have tried this." Her lips touch the top of his sleek skull. He's bigger than she, far more powerful, belly low to the ground as he crouches on all fours, struggling to grasp what's just happened. His forked tongue flickers over her shoulder once more, and a cascade of taste and scent crashes into him. She smells delicious...she smells like blood. His powerful jaws full of dragon's teeth hover so close to that tender skin, the sweet flesh beneath.
"No, Sinbad," she says softly, stroking his muzzle without fear. "I know you're confused. I know. Just trust me, please. I can't lose any more blood today, and you can't lose me."
All right. He doesn't understand anything, only the instinct within him aching to sink his teeth into the sweetness of that flesh presented so appealingly. She smells like blood, and it's a terrible temptation as his forked tongue flickers over her skin again. But she speaks to him in a voice he understands, a voice something in the back of his mind knows and remembers, and he willingly obeys despite the bloodlust. His long talons scratch her skin as he struggles; she hisses. He stills instantly, tucking his large, graceful skull close to her torso, shoving his muzzle under her arm. His scales feel oddly dull when she strokes them, not as sensitive as skin, but every time his tongue flicks out to taste the air he's drowned by sensation. It's too much and he wants to lash out, to stop the onslaught, but Maeve is there. She's with him, and he trusts her. He sets his muzzle of razor teeth under her arm like a frightened pup and refuses to move.
Behind him, the sound of a furious roar erupts. "What is this sorcery?"
"I don't think it's sorcery," a familiar voice says over the sound of a baby's cries. "That's all Maeve."
"Fascinating," another voice drawls. "Creatures usually flee from fire. But not hers."
The world dissolves into fire and pain once again, and Sinbad's mouth opens to cry out. Instead of a man's scream, only a hiss emerges. He blinks, and a smaller forked tongue flickers from a much more delicate snout. Maeve exhales a slow breath.
"You really need to trust me, Sinbad," she says softly. "Do not bite me. Hide all you want. I know this is frightening. I know it hurts. Dermott tore me to shreds when he was first turned, and that was only one transformation. But Keely isn't here to put me back together this time, so I need you to stay calm and trust me." Her hands are steady as she strokes his sleek black scales. He flattens his hood in the distinct shape of the deadly asp and coils his long, cool body around her arm. His head bobs at eye level; she stares back at him, unflinching. "Animals don't harm me. No creature has ever harmed me on purpose. I refuse to let you be the first." Without fear, her fingers hover near his head. She lets his tongue flick them, tasting her. This time, it's not her shed blood which attracts him but the warmth of her skin in this freezing pit of darkness. She's so warm, and that heat calls to him like a pool of sunshine. His tongue flickers over her fingers again; she grazes one fingertip lightly along the midline of his skull.
"You're a very pretty snake."
He hisses.
"Yes, very fierce. You could kill me with one bite. But you won't. I know you won't."
That heat is too inviting. Despite the chaos in his mind, he capitulates. He winds himself further up her arm and along her shoulder, burying his head in the heat behind her neck, under the fall of her hair. She lets him. She trusts him. His tongue touches beneath her ear, tasting her calm, her faith. He settles. His hood retracts.
"That's not how this works!" the angry voice behind him bellows.
"It is with Maeve."
The ripping sensation returns, like a jackal pack fighting over a fresh kill. Sinbad roars, and his voice tears from him with a mighty bellow. He expands in size in the space of a heartbeat, no longer a cobra able to slink along her shoulder but a great hairy beast far bigger than Maeve. They collapse as the weight of him crushes her beneath him; he struggles to pick himself up, claws scrabbling along the ground. He snuffles at her with his snout, again scenting blood, but also, to his relief, hearing the whoosh of air in her lungs. She strokes his long, shaggy fur and laughs even as she groans, sucking in a deep breath.
"This is adorable, but I think I prefer you clean-shaven."
He growls.
"Between the two of you, I think Doubar makes the better bear. But I'll call you scary if you want." She scratches behind his ear. He can't decide if that feels good or just patronizing. He sets his lips against her arm and nips.
"No," she says firmly. "You'll never forgive yourself later if you do that."
Time has no meaning, and he feels no sense of "now" or "later," but he decides to trust her. His tongue licks her skin. He can smell her blood but feels no particular hunger for it; he can keep his teeth to himself.
"Good bear," she croons. Sinbad's skull is probably twice the size of hers, his full weight three times or more; he lets her press tight against his furry bulk. She smells good, below the taint of blood, and something about her calms him. He whuffles her hair and blinks owlishly at the hovering figures nearby. He can't see them well—they're blurry and indistinct, but he doesn't care for their scents nearly so much. The big red angry one stinks like death. There's something off about the golden one—not diseased, but not quite right, either. He doesn't trust the fat one with the familiar scent, but the cub crying in his arms smells like Maeve, and he's intrigued.
"Stay with me," Maeve says when his head turns to seek out the cub's scent. Her arms tighten around his neck. "Don't let go."
He won't. Not ever. He doesn't remember who he is or why he's here, but he trusts her with his life. He lowers his huge head to her shoulder and sits still.
"That race of bear is known for violent maulings," the red creature growls.
"Not of her," the golden blur of a man says. Sinbad decides he doesn't like the man's tone. He's far too intrigued by Maeve, but she's Sinbad's. The golden man can't have her.
The transformation begins again and Sinbad retches. He's so tired; it takes everything in him to endure the pain as his body collapses and reforms itself, muscle and sinew, bone and ligament. He roars his fury that someone, he thinks the red creature, keeps toying with him like this. To what purpose he doesn't remember, if he ever knew. His patience is at an end. He opens his jaw and roars.
The sound echoes through the suffocating darkness. The cub squalls in fear or pain as the sound hits her; Sinbad's head snaps toward the noise. His tongue licks his chops. He scents young flesh, succulent and sweet.
Maeve buries her fists in his tawny-brown mane and yanks his head forcefully around. "Don't you even think it." For a moment predator and prey lock eyes. He's king of the savannah; he doesn't have to listen to a weak human. He hisses in her face, his ears pressed flat against his skull. He's getting very tired of people messing with him, telling him what to do.
"No," Maeve repeats without fear. "She's yours. Can you scent that? You can't eat her. Let her be. I know you're confused, but you need to trust me."
He considers what little he comprehends of her words. She smells like blood and it's tantalizing, but he can also scent the crying child. His, she says, but he can't remember anything, and the cold, dead air of this place doesn't allow the subtleties of scent to travel well. He rises to all fours easily, and Maeve somehow ends up on his back. He lets her stay. She can't stop him from doing what he wants to do, and he likes her scent, her warmth, the way she feels against his fur.
"Maeve, what do I do?" the fat man holding the cub demands, backing up swiftly as Sinbad approaches.
"Hold still. Don't run. If you break now, he'll chase. Instinct will take over; he won't be able to help it." She leans down along the powerful line of his shoulders, his neck, her torso lost in his mane. "Sinbad. Listen to me. I know she's loud and interesting, but you can't eat her."
"Do eat her, please," the red stinking creature urges.
"Sinbad." Maeve's arms tighten around him.
He stops in front of the fat man. The cub shrieks, one tiny arm waving. She's wet herself, but otherwise she smells...Sinbad lifts his nose and pushes his muzzle firmly against her clenched fist. His whiskers tickle her cheek and, startled, she squawks. Her head turns instinctively toward the touch, and bright blue eyes settle on his golden gaze. He blinks. She blinks. He licks his muzzle and inhales deeply.
"Get him away!" the fat man hisses.
"That's still Sinbad in there. He hasn't hurt me so far, even with those animal instincts screaming at him. I don't think he'll hurt her."
"Do you know the risk you're taking?" the man demands.
"Yes. I trust him."
"I don't." But the man holds still, obeying Maeve's command not to turn and run. Sinbad licks the tiny fist, then the face turned toward him. The cub stops crying, and the scent in his nose, on his tongue, tells Sinbad what he needs to know. This cub is indeed his, as Maeve said. She carries his scent, his marker in her blood, as well as her mother's. He turns his head toward Maeve.
"I know." She strokes his mane. "I know. It will all make sense again soon, I promise."
Okay. He trusts her. He understands nothing, but he knows the now-silent cub is his, and Maeve is her mother. He lets Maeve lean down over him and nestle into his mane, his ears flicking back to hear the beat of her heart, the pace of her breath. She's not physically well, but she's calm and unafraid. If she does not fear, neither will he.
Maeve struggles to keep her breaths slow and even as she buries her cheek in the lion's mane. She can't let Sinbad know how close she came to breaking, as she told Doubar firmly not to do, when the beast put his muzzle so close to her newborn and licked her face. That lick could have so easily been a bite, a bite that would have ended them all. But she's asking Sinbad to trust her, and she has to do the same for him. He's in there, fighting the instinct of the beasts just as Dermott fought the instinct of the hawk when he was first turned. Sinbad's soul remains intact, beneath the fur and scales, beneath whatever Scratch's power is doing to his mind. He loves her. He trusts her. Animals listen to her because she listens to them. These facts keep her whole and nearly unscathed, unlike her predecessor. Whether poor Jennet had any magic of her own Maeve doesn't know, but Midir said Tam Lin mauled her horribly in his animal forms. Maeve is scratched badly from the giant lizard's claws and a deep bruise has already formed where the bear nipped her, but his teeth didn't break skin. She was afraid the scent of blood might aggravate the beasts, but so far Sinbad has managed to overcome all the trials set him. And honestly, thus far, she considers these transformations more of a trial of him than of her. She doesn't have to withstand the physical pain, the utter terror and confusion as animal instinct and human intellect clash. All she has to do is soothe him, and hold on. No creature has ever harmed her, and Sinbad never would. Constancy, in this case, is not the struggle for her that it was for Jennet.
She turns her head to the side, her cheek nestled in the lion's coarse mane, and regards Scratch. "Do we keep going?" she taunts him. "Or do we end this now? No matter how you change him, you can't break us."
Scratch roars his answer, and beneath Maeve, the lion heaves. She wraps her arms around his neck tightly as the form shifts beneath her, Sinbad's exhausted body trembling as he endures yet another transformation he cannot fight nor understand. It's the cruelest sort of torture, the torture of both man and beast, and Maeve can do nothing but hope Scratch tires of it soon.
She's never been particularly disturbed by the smell of any animal, but as the mane under her fingers turns to short, wiry bristles that scrape unpleasantly at her skin, she braces for the stink of the boar. His sharply ridged withers dig painfully into her torso and she swings herself swiftly off the uncomfortable beast, her arms firm around his neck. She can feel him trembling under her. He's been patient, been trusting, but his tolerance is at an end and the fury of the wild boar shines in his baleful little eyes. She kneels beside his large, ugly form without fear, only empathy.
"I know. I'm sorry. Just a little longer." She prays this is true: Scratch has to realize at some point that this game is futile. She has a special understanding with creatures, even dangerous ones, and Sinbad is still Sinbad underneath the skin of the beast. Scratch can't win this fight so long as he keeps up the same tactic.
But the fury of the boar combines with the end of Sinbad's patience, and for the first time, the animal tries to duck away from her. "No," she says, holding firm, but as his head swivels away and rebounds, her arms drawing him back, his thick yellow tusk glances off her leather clothing and gores deeply into her upper arm. Maeve cries out sharply, but refuses to let go. Blood flows swiftly; Sinbad flinches back, knowing he's caused harm, and the anger of the beast instantly dies.
"It's all right." She bites back her dismay and refuses to let go. "It was an accident; you didn't mean it."
The boar grunts anxiously, unhappy at being held still, unhappy at his inability to understand. But he offers her no further aggression, dropping his head and standing miserably still.
Midir shifts his weight from one leg to another restlessly. Maeve glances up, meeting his gaze. It burns through her. He'd take her with him at the end of this fight if he could, regardless of the risk; she can see it plainly. Watching her fight has only sharpened his interest. But she struck this deal with his queen, not with him. She's beyond his reach, and he knows it.
"I wish to be back with my family this night," Midir says, breaking eye contact and turning to Scratch. "End this fight. You've lost. By ancient law you cannot harm the girl with your own hands, and you've proven you cannot force him to do it for you. I doubted the worth of the man she wished to save, but he's stronger than I gave him credit for. She's won. They've won. Say it however you like; you've lost."
"Not yet, I haven't," Scratch's voice drops, all hints of amusement long banished. "She may have power over dumb beasts, but I've watched her struggles with magic. She has yet to master the elements."
Maeve tenses as the miserable boar beside her trumpets his distress and his body contracts, changing once more, turning long and slender and hard. Fire leaps from her palm as she catches the burning rod of iron before it clatters to the floor. It glows red-hot, white-hot, but she holds it carefully in her palms and withstands the discomfort. This was the final task set to Jennet, the one she passed by rolling herself and Tam Lin into a nearby stream. There is no stream here, but Maeve doesn't need one. She climbs to her feet, her knees threatening to buckle but her grip on the burning brand firm. Blood sizzles as it drips down her arm and meets the glowing iron. She lifts her swimming head and stares defiantly at her enemy.
"Transform him as you will; you won't break us. Beasts don't scare me. The elements don't scare me. Bury me in a mountain, strangle me in tree roots, drown me. I won't let go." Her hands burn with pain, but fire has never physically harmed her before and she refuses to give into the fear that it might this time. She remembers falling into a sea of flame when the roof of the student barracks at Brí Leith collapsed. The other children cried out in agony and died—some mercifully swiftly, some not so lucky. She did not. Bruised and bleeding but unburnt, she emerged from the flames to continue on. "I survived my trial by fire as a child. What do you possibly think a burning iron can do to me now?"
"Well said, lovely warrior," Midir says, but Maeve hardly hears him.
The blistering heat in the brand dies abruptly, and a moment later Sinbad slumps to the ground, a human man once again, shuddering like a rabbit that's scented a fox but physically whole and himself once more. His weight bears them both to the dirt, but Maeve laughs breathlessly as her knees give out and she tumbles down alongside him, her hands still clenched around fistfuls of his vest, as they were when this ordeal began. She wraps her body around his back, covering him like a blanket, ignoring the blood smeared over both of them. She holds him tightly as he shakes. She won. He's free. Her heart hammers against her chest and her head reels, but she buries her face in the damp hair at the base of his skull and breathes him in, refusing to pass out.
"No!" Scratch howls. "You haven't won! I don't permit it!" He takes one long stride towards them.
A burst of powerful, silvery light blooms from above, a beam from on high, strong and bright and beautiful. Maeve ducks her head away from the painful light, her palms still throbbing from the heat of the brand that would have melted through the flesh of most humans. She presses her mouth to Sinbad's skin, breathing the scent of his honest sweat. Maybe there is something to Midir's theory about her after all.
Scratch cries out as the pure light touches his hairy arm. His skin smokes, and the reek of burning hair hits Maeve's nose. Her stomach rolls, but a small, satisfied smile touches her lips. Serve him right for trying to burn her.
The demon jerks back into the safety of the darkness, away from the sweet light.
Midir smiles dryly. "It appears my father disagrees with you. The Dagda has spoken. The girl won."
"No!" Scratch insists. "Damned interfering heathens from beyond! I am not constrained by petty commands from lowly local deities!"
"Maybe not," a loud female voice says, "but you are constrained."
A broad grin splits Maeve's face, though she feels wrung dry, like a piece of laundry, everything within her just...empty. Her vision blurs as she lifts her head, her eyes seeking and finding her sister as Keely, short and round and spitting mad, emerges from the darkness. Niall, Cairpra, and Mia follow, which doesn't surprise her, but so do Wren and Cara, which does. Maeve blinks in shock at the little group. Thankfully Lily and the boys are absent, but all of Maeve's remaining siblings, along with her mentor, her niece, and Keely's apprentice, stand united against Scratch as the light from above dims.
"There's the little tree-spirit," Midir says, amusement lacing his voice. "I wondered when you might turn up."
Keely scowls at him. "Listen, pretty boy, I don't know who you are, but the only reason we were late is because that fucking sailor slipped away without telling anyone, and we had no idea where he'd gone. It took a while to figure it out." She turns her fury on Sinbad and Maeve. "The minute we get home, I'm belling the both of you like cats. And that kid of yours, too, for good measure. How dare you? How dare you both just walk away without a word?"
Sinbad lifts his head from the earth, his hand closing firmly over Maeve's wrist, warm and sweet and very possessive. She'll argue with him about grabbing her later; today, she'll happily let him. "You said we couldn't trace her," he accuses, his voice dripping with suspicion. "How were you able to follow me?"
"I say a lot of things. And I'm not done with either of you by a longshot, but hold that thought for now." She wheels back to Scratch. "Ancient laws bind you. That's why you can't act directly in the human world. You would have killed Sinbad long before today were you able, but you're not."
Sinbad unfolds Maeve's fingers, exposing her palm. A line of bright pink has seared her skin, but it's no worse than an ordinary person burning himself on a pot handle. That brand should have melted through her hand. He kisses her palm tenderly, then tugs at her arm as he sits up, exposing the rend in her sleeve, the tear in her skin his tusk made. "I'm so, so sorry," he whispers, covering the wound with his palm and applying pressure.
"You didn't mean it. If you had, I'd be dead right now. Have you ever seen anyone gored by a wild boar? It's not pretty."
His lips touch her shoulder, her temple. "I may rethink my stance on eating pork after this," he says bitterly. "Keely needs to stop yammering at Scratch and come fix this."
"Let her yell." Maeve tucks herself close to him. She's so cold, and he feels so warm. "At least she's not yelling at us." She has a feeling she'll be getting an earful from her sister—quite a few of them, in fact. For the length of the foreseeable future, at least.
"The demon knows he lost," Midir tells Keely as Sinbad struggles to get his legs under him. "He's just an exceedingly poor loser."
"He lost? We're that late?" Keely groans, but to Maeve's eyes everyone else looks relieved.
"He lost," Doubar confirms. "There was a creepy light and everything. He just won't admit it."
Sinbad cups Maeve's cheek in his hand, his eyes finding hers. "I'm never letting go," he vows. "But...can I let go now?"
She smiles, deeply satisfied and also deeply exhausted. "Yes. Scratch may throw a fit, but I won."
"You did," he agrees. "My champion."
Oh, she likes the way that sounds. "You better remember that."
He kisses her mouth swiftly, then rises cautiously to his feet. When he's sure they'll hold, he strides to Doubar, exactly as Maeve expected. She watches without surprise as his brother pales and hands Fin over quickly. "Don't kill me. She made me do it."
Sinbad takes his daughter, and Maeve can see the absolute reverence and utter relief with which he pulls her against his chest. She's made many mistakes these past moons, but giving Sinbad this child and fighting for their right to stay together aren't among them. She applies pressure to her trickling wound and watches with deep satisfaction as Sinbad tucks Fin close to his skin and her cranky cries quiet. She needs to be changed and fed, washed and warmed, but in this moment, she's fine. The three of them have survived, and that's more than Maeve expected from this day when she left Sinbad sleeping in their bed. He gives his brother a black look but cannot raise a hand to him with Fin in his arms, so he turns back to Maeve without a word, the threat of violence passing.
"Did you not say you had other souls to attend to tonight?" Midir drawls at Scratch. "I suggest you leave here and do so. The wee tree-spirit is incredibly loud, but also correct. You might have won this fight had you studied your opponent better, but instead you chose the same tactic you used against the first woman who would not let go. It worked then, but you badly misjudged this girl." One golden eyebrow hitches. "It was very careless of you. Your loss is entirely your own fault."
Maeve feels like hell, but everything feels slightly better to hear Scratch's words flung back in his face. He's told them over and over their hurts are their own fault for not listening to him. Let him see how he likes it.
He doesn't like it very well at all, it seems. He growls low. Sinbad crouches in front of her, shielding her from the demon with his own body. Maeve would like that better if he wasn't holding her kid at the same time. "Don't—" she starts, but before she can finish a burst of fire erupts from Scratch's taloned fingers, directed right at them. Keely and Cairpra both lift their hands to begin a deflection, but it's too late. Sinbad turns, giving his back to Scratch, huddling around the infant in his arms, shielding her from the oncoming flame. But the fire never reaches his flesh. It strikes an invisible barrier inches from his back, and all Maeve feels is a soft puff of warmth that's actually quite welcome. Her palms still burn from holding that brand, but otherwise she's fucking freezing.
Keely lets loose a string of curses. Midir laughs. Doubar looks like he might faint. Maeve ignores them all, watching as Fin's waving fist catches the edge of Sinbad's shirt and latches on. Her tiny hand waves jerkily, and the flap of fabric shifts aside.
The brand is gone. The skull-shaped mark of Scratch's ownership, the brand Maeve has loathed since the day it appeared, is no more. The skin above Sinbad's heart is smooth and unblemished, and she runs her fingers lightly over it, grateful for the warmth of him. Grateful for him. "I did it," she says softly.
"I knew you could."
"You had your doubts. Admit it."
"At times," he's forced to acknowledge. "Never of your will. Only of the obstacles before you." His blue eyes harden. "And your methods. I love you. But if you take my daughter from me again, I'll kill you."
"If you put your soul in mortal danger again, I'll kill you," she fires back, undaunted.
This is acceptable. They both nod. "Agreed," Sinbad says.
"God, you two deserve each other," Keely says with disgust. "There will be no killing today. I've had my fill of heart-attack-inducing scares."
Maeve opens her mouth automatically to argue with her sister, then closes it again. She has no good retort, and she's too tired to search for one. Instead, she tucks her head against Sinbad's shoulder, seeking the warmth of his body. Keely's spell may be gone, but he's still her heat. And her heart.
"You'll never be safe," Scratch warns. "No matter where you hide, how far you run, I will always be with you. Watching. Waiting."
"And we'll always be one step ahead," Sinbad says firmly.
"You don't get us." Maeve watches the demon with caution, but in her heart she knows she and Sinbad are now safe. He lost. The rules by which he operates are nebulous but binding; he cannot harm them now. He can continue to harry them, she guesses. Whisper in their ears as he did before. But she won their safety. The Dagda agreed, and Scratch's inability to attack them proved what she already sensed. After so long, so much heartache and struggle, she won.
Scratch snarls at her one final time. "Before, I hounded you because you stood between me and the sailor. Now you are a target in your own right."
"You don't get us," Maeve repeats firmly. Sinbad's shoulder is warm and firm against hers, Fin safe in his sheltering arms. They know his tricks now, and have their own protections.
"Gather your other souls if you must tonight," Midir says impatiently. "Your presence here is no longer necessary. Nor is mine. I upheld my part of this bargain." His silver eyes turn to Maeve. "Remember yours, lovely fire. You and your family remain under geas to Étaín."
"I won't forget."
"What did you agree to?" Keely demands, eyes widening with alarm. "What fool thing did you go and do?"
Maeve isn't worried. Keely will calm down once she hears the charge. This vow will follow them through generations, but it's a far less onerous task than any other she could imagine the Tuatha dé Danann demanding.
"Étaín? She's really real?" Mia stares at Midir in fascination, her little wings flickering with excitement. "I want to meet her!"
"She may wish to meet you, too, little one." Midir's gaze takes in Mia with curiosity as Keely's hand clamps down on her daughter's shoulder. "You and your siblings are quite the curiosities. Especially your brother."
Mia's head tips to the side. "He's a tree."
"I quite agree. And your sister takes after your father, according to your aunt. But you are a unique blend of all your disparate parts."
Mia grins proudly. "I know. Can I see Étaín now? I want to make Rory jealous."
"No," Keely says firmly.
Midir smiles with amusement. "Not tonight, perhaps. The brighter half of the year is a better time for such meetings. Imbolc. Beltane. These are better nights for beginnings than Samhain, yes?"
Mia does not look convinced, but she holds her tongue. Cara clings to Cairpra, refusing to take her eyes from Scratch's form.
"Deals," he growls. "Vows. If I cannot collect here, Rumina has a great deal to answer for this night." His eyes burn as he glares at Maeve and Sinbad. "This isn't over." He abruptly disappears.
Cara slumps with relief. Maeve feels the same, allowing her seated form to lean heavily against Sinbad's side. She's worn out, wrung dry. He can pamper her all he likes for as long as he wants, as far as she's concerned. They've both earned a little peace. Her body begins to shake as she releases all the tension stored in her muscles, her tendons, freeing her body from the rigid control she placed it under when she left her bed before dawn.
Sinbad curses as she sags against him. "We need to get you home. Keely—"
"Yeah, I know. Can't bother to discuss your plans with me before you go haring off, but you need me around to clean up your messes afterward," she says with disgust as she crosses to them. Her hand touches Maeve's cheek. "You're freezing again. I'm not surprised. And I can smell blood, more than just that arm. How much linen did you pack your clothes with?"
"A lot." Not enough. Maeve blinks. Her eyelids feel so heavy. "What does it matter?" she slurs.
Keely curses. "Open your eyes." Her hands are firm on Maeve's arm, the touch of her magic like hot little sparks as she heals the gouge from the boar's tusk.
Were they closed? Maeve didn't notice. She obeys her sister, and is surprised to see that Midir has disappeared without a word. She suspects that's just his way. He didn't want to come, anyway. Without Étaín's insistence, he wouldn't have. And Étaín might not have cared, except Fin touched her heart. This warms Maeve. Her child wasn't created in vain, after all. She may not have been the key to the Tam Lin Protocol, but she played a vital role in saving her father's life nonetheless. Content with this, Maeve tucks her head down against Sinbad's shoulder.
"I said open your eyes!" her sister snaps. "Fucking hell. You always do this. You push yourself beyond your physical capability with that damned mulishness. Usually I can fix it, but you may have seriously fucked up this time. Cara." She snaps her fingers for her apprentice.
"Captain." Mia patters near and wraps her arms around Sinbad. "Dex is very mad at you. I want Fin."
"She's wet," Sinbad warns as the rest of the family draws close. Maeve watches when her eyelids will obey. He bristles at Doubar's proximity as he hands Fin to her cousin, apparently deciding the four-year-old is a better babysitter than his brother. "Keel, we need to get them home."
"Maybe Firouz could—" Doubar's hesitant words choke off, and his eyes widen in alarm. "Firouz! Rongar! Oh…" He groans. "Look. I know none of you have any reason to trust me, but we need to get back to the Nomad. Now. It's important."
"You're not allowed on my ship," Sinbad barks, "and no one is going anywhere with you. Maeve—"
"Could be important," she says, but Keely was annoyingly right, as usual. She pushed herself far beyond her body's capacity today, transporting herself and Doubar over vast distances, hiking through her past, arguing with mystical beings and battling Scratch all while slowly bleeding out. The swirling fog in her brain tells her firmly that the price she'll pay may be an incredibly steep one. Her heart pounds against her ribs, a steady ache beginning in her chest, and she feels as if she hasn't taken a good breath in hours. She struggles to keep her eyes open. "Sinbad—Rongar. Firouz. Talia."
His mouth sets. He wants her safe at Breakwater, which is where she wants to be, too, but she can't let him turn his back on their friends. Rongar guarded her to the best of his ability while she was with child, protecting her from Rumina's scheming and Doubar's animosity. Firouz did his best to heal her after she was poisoned, and cared for her when Rumina's time-spell knocked her flat. Talia played decoy willingly, removing enough of the pressure that Maeve was able to function during those tense moons. If they need help now, they deserve it.
"Sinbad, she's not good," Keely says bluntly. "And Fin's been out in the cold too long. I told you early babies need warmth. She should never be more than a few feet from a hearth or brazier, but she's been gods-know-where all day, and it's freezing here."
Tortured blue eyes turn to Maeve. "Rongar," she says firmly. She can last. She just needs to rest, and whatever help Rongar and the others need, Sinbad and Cairpra can likely handle it. And Fin is strong. Midir said so. She handled the day's ordeals arguably better than Doubar did, and with less fuss. Maeve watches with fondness as Mia holds her little cousin. She has to be hungry, but maybe Wren can nurse her this time. Just this once. She's so tired, and she's not sure she has milk to give. It's really hard to tell when her body's quickly going numb.
"I am going to murder all of you," Keely says. "Individually. Slowly. Tortuously. And then I am going to sleep for a moon."
Maeve cracks a smile as Sinbad chafes her arms gently. "You love me."
"Still going to kill you. Where's your bracelet? If we're going, we're going. But I refuse to do this the hard way if we don't have to." She slips her hand into Maeve's and wraps the other around Mia's wrist. "Grab hold," she orders Doubar as the others link up. "Do not let go."
Despite his earlier promise never to travel by magic again, Doubar obeys. He takes the hand Cairpra offers, on the other side of the ragged line from Sinbad. "With any luck they've already won. But we can't risk it. We just can't."
Maeve understands. They're her family, just as much as the man holding her tight, the woman whose hand rests in hers. And it's time for everyone to be together.
"There, ah, may be a surprise waiting for you on board, too," Doubar says nervously.
"Shut up," Keely snaps. "If we're going, we're going, but you won't make me happy about it. At least the night down south will be warmer than here."
Maeve's opal lights green with Keely's magic. A moment later, the freezing darkness between worlds disappears. Maeve hopes she never sees it again.