AN: Well, here's the last chapter. Let me know what you guys thought, and I hope you enjoy it. I'll see you next season!
Chapter Ten
Mad Sweeney sat on the steps outside. He still held the piece of broken bottle from earlier, twirling it within his fingers and putting the broken lip to his mouth as though he could somehow summon alcohol from it.
His mind was just as broken as the bottle. Pieces were scattered around, searching for the bit they fit beside to reform into something coherent. They wouldn't, though. Not really. His memories were like trying to catch smoke with a butterfly net. So many stories about him had been told through the years, so many of them believed, that each had left their mark.
Approaching footsteps drew his attention. Salim Not-Salim was the cause. With a kind smile that Sweeney felt was wasted on him, the much smaller man took a seat on the top step as well.
"What are ye doin' here?" Sweeney asked after a bit of nothingness. He genuinely wanted to know. "What's Wednesday got on you?"
Salim took in a deep breath and let it out slowly when he answered. "I am here because the Djinn is here, and the Djinn is here because he owes Mr. Wednesday."
"Collects a lotta debt, don't he?" Sweeney said. As he looked out into the garden, his gaze fell once more to the three women in black who'd greeted him when he arrived. They pulsed with shadow and in the distance he could hear the phantom screams. "Told you." He pointed at them. "They're Banshee, harbingers of Death."
"They are women in mourning." Salim said with just enough stress to show he was repeating himself.
"Fine, don't believe me, but I'm tellin' ya." Sweeney toyed with his bottle piece for a little while. "The Djinn and me, we gotta stay." He looked at the man to his side. "We owe Wednesday, but you don't. You can go, and ya should. The war that's comin' it could end in yer man's death. Doesn't need to end in yours."
Salim's lips curled into another delicate, sad little smile. "I love him." Salim said. Sweeney scoffed a bit obnoxiously. It wasn't on purpose, but the sentiment was real. "I can't explain love to someone who has never felt it before."
Mad Sweeney shook his head, mostly to himself, and replied, "I've felt it." His heart was heavy. "I had a family back before this, a wife." He looked to Salim and forced a little smile of his own. "I'm startin' to remember." Salim gave him a reassuring nod. "Hell, I even got one now."
"You are married?" He asked with a hint of surprise. Sweeney nodded. "And you love her?" He was slower to nod, but did. He hadn't ever actually said that he loved her before, but that didn't make it less true. "Then what makes you different than me?"
Sweeney's brows rose a little when he glanced back to the man at his side. "Cos me an' her, we ain't got a choice. We're both bound to Wednesday. She ain't human, like you."
Salim Not-Salim looked marginally confused. "She is a God, too?"
He opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of heels clicking against concrete drew both his and Salim's attention. Approaching them was Tove, her eyes on Sweeney. She'd randomly emerged from the house, and he was glad for it.
"No," He muttered in a slightly mystical tone. "She's somethin' else."
He could see Salim stare at him curiously out of the corner of his eye, probably because of the strange tone in his voice, but Sweeney couldn't help it, or bother explaining why he was in awe if he tried. The truth was, just as he had with the Banshees, he saw Tove as she really was.
Most of their kind, even the lesser creatures like him, the Loas, and the Valkyrie, had another face. They had a face that they kept hidden, a form that they rarely showed, and that was what he saw.
There were no words to describe it, no way to relay to Salim what he saw. A slow, heavy smile pulled at his lips as he stared at her.
"Beautiful," he whispered the word before raising his voice to a proper volume. "Wife,"
She smiled softly. "Husband," There was a small laugh that graced the word.
Tove opened her arms to him, silently beckoning him to her. Sweeney, driven by some need he couldn't identify, rose to his feet. He patted Salim's head like he was some sort of pup as he walked by.
Sweeney's boots scraped heavily against the stone, his shoulders were slumped. His grip on the piece of beer bottle loosened to the point that he dropped it. It promptly shattered against the ground, but he didn't care.
When Sweeney reached her, Tove encircled him with her arms. A wave of warmth instantly swelled within him, fueled by her. He let out a sigh and let his head fall against her shoulder. Tove curled against him and even held the back of his head, softly combing his hair with her fingers. He felt better for it.
They remained that way for a moment or two before she spoke.
"Come with me." She said.
He complied.
They sat in a parlor, a room designed for the people who attended the funerals (usually the family) to sit and compose themselves. It was quiet, there was a fire roaring in the fireplace, and they were alone.
Tove was sat on the couch leaning into the corner formed by the back and the arm of the couch. Sweeney was lying down with his long legs over the opposite end. His head was in her lap and as he told her that the Mad King's memories were returning, she stroked his hair.
He couldn't see them, but tears were slowly trailing down her cheeks as she stared at him, running her fingers through his fiery hair in the most reassuring way she could. Tove knew, the moment she saw him on the terrace with Salim, that he was the reason The Veil had descended the parlor. She knew it in an instant.
Black pulsed off his body, a cloud of ethereal darkness that emanated from him. Before she let her presence be known, she noted the Banshees sitting in the garden by candlelight. The way the darkness surrounded them was mirrored by the giant. It was the touch of Death.
Tove knew instantly that Sweeney wasn't longed for the world, and there was nothing that she could do about it. That was the curse of her species. It generally didn't matter, knowing when someone was going to die, but there were rare instances where that knowledge threatened to rip your heart out.
Saint Ronan's curse would be fulfilled that night. She'd suspected as much earlier after speaking to Shadow, but now she was certain.
"Tell me you can hear 'em, too." He said, his voice still soft and barely more than a whisper. He sounded afraid.
"Yes," She said on a breath. "I hear them, too."
"No one else believes me."
Her heart ached. "Death knows death." She told him softly.
"Baron said the same thing." Sweeney said.
Her brow furrowed as she looked down at him. The pain in her chest was fathomless and there was nothing she could do or say that would matter. Once Death chose you, that was the end of it. Tove gently laid the flat of her hand on his head and when she blinked, a tear glided down her cheek, off her chin, where it fell. The small droplet of saline landed on Sweeney's forehead. It garnered his attention. For the first time since lying down, he looked up at her.
His confusion was instant, twisting his features as he pushed himself up. Tove kept her eyes on his, watching him as he looked over her. He was as confused as one of those gorillas in the jungle who'd been given a mirror and saw their reflection for the first time. The thought made her smile internally, but the action never reached her lips.
The black continued to pulse around him, like steam curling off a human body in the cold.
"Yer cryin'." He said. Sweeney reached out and held her face. "Why?"
Tove couldn't bring herself to say. How can you tell someone you know they're about to die? How can you tell them there's nothing they can do to escape it? You can't, but Sweeney seemed put some of the pieces together.
"You know who they're wailin' for, don't ya?" He asked.
She nodded slowly. His jaw clenched and she saw him swallow hard. Tove could see the question bubbling, his desire to ask surging just beneath the surface. She waited for him to ask, but he never did.
Instead, a strange calm understanding washed over his face. He forced a light smile and leaned forward, still cradling her face. Tove's eyes drifted shut on reflex.
She felt Mad Sweeney place a kiss on her forehead. He withdrew, but barely at all. She still felt the prickle of his beard as he lowered his lips and placed a small kiss on each of her eyes. And then, his lips brushed hers and he kissed her. She returned the sentiment, pouring more of herself into it than she had for a long time.
As with the kiss in New Orleans, there was a swarm of emotions that passed between them in that moment. He was tender and sweet, and it only served to hurt her more.
When he pulled back, Sweeney let his forehead rest against hers. They remained that way, as content in the moment as they could be until he finally spoke.
"This ends tonight." He said.
Tove's heart felt as though someone was squeezing the very life out of it. She felt him draw back and heard him stand, but she couldn't open her eyes and watch as he walked away. But she heard it, heard his heavy feet take him out of the room and closer to his fate.
Fifteen minutes later, she felt it. Tove's eyes shot open and a strangled gasp left her lips.
He was gone.
In the greenhouse, Shadow still couldn't bring himself to his feet. He couldn't even tear his eyes away from the Leprechaun lying in a pool of his own blood, struggling to gain a single breath. He hadn't even register Gungnir being vanished into whatever 'the sun's treasure' was.
Without warning, the air began to vibrate, to sway and move around him. Shadow turned a frightened eye toward the door, the source of the energy. He saw the way it twisted, as though something was trying to push through, and soon he was proven right.
Through forming mist and shadow, through the nothingness that was once there, a figure emerged. Tove. Shadow was paralyzed, frozen into place by the sheer beauty, and majesty of what he saw. And it was terrifying.
She appeared in the room mid-stride, walking toward him and the others as though she'd entered the greenhouse normally. Pale, shimmering, silvery fabric billowed around her. The dress she wore held no true shape, and yet still seemed to form perfectly to her body. In truth, it seemed to be made of the same mist that surrounded her –there, but not there at the same time.
Her brilliant eyes shined the brightest blue he'd ever seen, like two glowing beacons in the night. Her raven's-wing hair was down in a long cascade that touched her waist. It fluttered in the same unseen and unfelt breeze that touched her clothing.
She exuded such power and grace that Shadow was dumbfounded by it and her sudden appearance, and yet, there was more that robbed him of his wits. Just behind her shoulders, barely visible and still undeniably there, were wings. They flickered in and out of sight, less tangible than her ethereal clothing, but real –a pair of large, black wings, folded behind her. There were so large, in fact, that as she passed him, Shadow could see them drag across the floor.
He felt like he was seeing her for the first time, the real her that Tove kept hidden beneath a human mask.
Tove glided past him without a second glance and knelt at Sweeney's side. The dying Leprechaun looked up at her and tried to force a smile, but it was as weak as his body had become. Tove tenderly set her hand on his wound. Sweeney reached for it, smearing blood across her ivory skin.
"I used to be a king." He told her breathily.
Shadow saw her small smile that faded just a moment later. Tove leaned forward even further. She cradled Sweeney's jaw and stared at him lovingly. A single, shining, silver tear trailed gently down her cheek.
"You are still my king." She whispered just before pressing her lips to his forehead.
Before she withdrew, Shadow heard Sweeney breathe his last and wondered briefly if that was the reason behind the kiss. Tove let her forehead rest against the leprechaun's, tears still staining her cheeks. Shadow could feel her sadness, the loss that surrounded her, and his guilt was immediate. He hadn't meant to kill Sweeney. It was just reflex.
"Leave him."
Wednesday's cold voice sliced through the tender moment that had completely captivated Shadow. Tove wasn't pleased he'd spoken.
Her head shot up and Shadow swore he felt the temperature drop.
"Never," She told him cruelly. "He is mine."
Wednesday arched a brow as he looked at her with sheer annoyance. "Leave. Him." He repeated.
"I said, never." Her voice was soft, but the word she stressed echoed in a loud, booming way regardless. It caused Shadow to physically jump.
Wednesday scowled. Tove's eyes drifted back to Sweeney. Shadow had risen to his feet and stepped around to see the scene unfold in profile. He was mystified by it, entirely consumed.
Tove tenderly set her hand on Sweeney's chest once more. Her gown continued to flutter around her, her hair doing the same in the unseen breeze. As she drew back, a golden, blinding ball of light began to emerge from the Leprechaun's chest. The higher she pulled it, the brighter it became until Shadow had no choice but to shield his eyes. Even then it was so bright he had to turn away. No matter how tightly he held them shut, or the fact that his hands were secured over them, he could still see the brilliant light.
It felt like he was staring at the sun.
When it finally faded seconds later, he opened his eyes once more. Shadow blinked the spots away and when he had, he noticed that Tove was gone. Sweeney's body was still there, yet somehow, Shadow knew it was empty. He knew that the Mad King's soul was gone and Tove had been the one to take it.
The cool breeze helped temper the midday sun. It rolled off the ocean, curled up the towering cliffs, and glided across the grassy fields where he laid.
A distant call of a seabird roused him from his sleep. He tore open heavy eyes and saw the endless blue sky, dotted with wisps of translucent white clouds, not thick enough to block the sun, or full enough to rain. They were simply there, breaking up the ocean above.
He sat up and looked around. He was lying in a pool of emerald grass that swayed in the wind, rippling in a hypnotic way every time it blew. A few dozen yards ahead, the emerald suddenly ended. It was a drop-off, the edge of a high cliff that plunged to the ocean below. He could hear the water crashing against it.
Confused, he rose to his feet. Keen eyes continued to dance around. This was familiar. He knew this place –from the craggy rocks, to the tree line that stretched endlessly behind him.
As his gaze swung from left to right once more, he noticed something that hadn't been there before. There would have been no missing it. The flat landscape before him offered no place for a person to hide, and yet, there was suddenly a person standing on the edge of the cliff.
Awareness straightened his back and heightened his senses. He approached the being, his leather-clad feet falling into the fresh grass silently. It was female, the figure in the distance, and her back was to him. He approached in profile, moving toward her sideways to keep his body safe. His position offered a smaller target should she attack.
The wind threw her dress into the air. Long tendrils of waist-length, black hair did the same, dancing and twisting.
He continued to stalk toward the stranger like a cat stalking toward its prey. His body was primed with a coming fight that, until he was perhaps ten feet from her, he hadn't realized would never happen. When he was close enough she seemed to sense him, the young woman turned. Their eyes locked and he was motionless.
Every tight muscle in his body loosened. A wave of relief, of calm, swept through him, and it allowed him to face her completely. His brows pulled together in confusion. Somewhere, somewhere deep inside his mind, he recognized those fluorescent blue eyes surrounded by thick black lashes.
He narrowed his eyes. "I know you." He said to her. She said nothing, but things were happening in his head, pieces were beginning to fall into place, to 'un-fog'.
His gaze drifted to his hands, his arms –to the rest of him.
Cuffs of leather were tied around each forearm, rising roughly half-way to his elbows. Bands of braided leather were tied just above the bulge of each bicep and his chest was entirely bare. A thick, braided coil of gold was wrapped around his neck like a collar, but it didn't quite meet forming a complete circle. His breeches were leather as well, leather and golden fabric fashioned in an ancient design that matched his boots.
Curious fingers touched each adornment, helping him commit them to memory and count each piece. When he touched his hair, he realized that it was braided away from his face -five interwoven strips of his fiery mane that combined into a much thicker plait at the back of his head. He felt the bite of something sharp stuck within his locks –many of them- and somehow knew they were quills.
His hands trailed down the sides of his face, across his beard and down his chin where there was yet another braid. He could see himself in his mind's eye, see the warrior without the war paint –the warrior from a distant time.
He looked at her again and in a low voice, he muttered, "I remember."
Her face softened with a smile. "There's no madness here." She told him. Her delicate voice caused his skin to prickle. His feet took him closer. "There are no Grey Monks, no curses, or stories of fairies. You're who you always were, Lugh."
He flinched as a shock of familiarity touched him. To add to his surprise, she bowed her head to him, a sign of respect to anyone, no matter their origin.
"I'm dead." He said.
Tove raised her head and met his gaze. Her eyes were sad, tears welling and causing them to glisten.
"Yes," she answered on a breath.
The God King was surprised that the answer didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. Perhaps it was simply the clarity offered by a clear mind. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the Former Mad Sweeney wasn't clouded with a thousand different stories. For centuries, he'd been lost, almost like standing in a foggy, hazy forest. He knew there was a way out, but no matter how hard he tried to remember, or how far he wandered, he never found the edge.
It had been like that for hundreds of years.
Ever had a day that seemed to go on forever? Minutes felt like hours and no matter how much you wanted it to change, wanted time to hurry up, it wouldn't.
Now imagine more than 36, 500 of those. That was only a century. The legend of Mad Sweeney was over a thousand years old.
He had spent so long wandering in that hazy forest, so long broken and lost that he eventually accepted Mad Sweeney and forgot all about Lugh. It hadn't been all bad, though. In the hundreds of thousands of days of endless madness, he'd been given a few of respite.
Lugh continued his slow approach until he stood within arm's reach of the Viking woman. He looked down at her, further down than he ever had before. She almost had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. That had never been the case before.
His hand came forward and as he swept the back of his fingers across her cheek, he noticed that even his hand was bigger. Somehow, Lugh knew it wasn't her who'd changed. It was him. He was the one who was taller, his hands larger.
Understanding swelled within his chest and brought a warmth to him. He was as he should have been, how he used to be. The God King of the Sun had spent so long being beaten down and forced to feel small that he became small. He'd withered. But now, here in this world, he stood proudly once more at his seven-plus feet.
"What happens now?" He asked. Lugh slid his hand along her neck to the back of her head where he held it tenderly.
"What do you mean?"
He lifted his head and glanced around the idyllic scene briefly. "What is this place?"
"Home," She said, drawing his gaze.
"Where's everyone else?"
"It'll fill in." She went on to explain. "Once I'm gone-"
"What?" He interrupted her sharply.
He saw sadness even though she did her best to keep it hidden. "I can't stay here."
"Why?" He had tried to not growl the word, but didn't succeed.
"Because I'm beholden to Odin."
Lugh dropped his hand from her shoulder and took a stilted step away. "Fuckin' Wednesday. That fuckin' one-eyed cunt. I'll fuckin'-"
He continued to speak through his teeth, hurling insults at the deity who had ruined a fair portion of his life. He hated the man more than he could genuinely express, so it emerged as little more than childish insults.
Toward the end of his rant, Lugh returned his eye to Tove. She hadn't moved, still standing in the same spot with her hands clasped in front of her, and that constant look of sadness. His shoulders slumped as a result.
She seemed to sense he was finished and spoke again. "When I'm gone, you'll begin to forget." Genuine panic reached him. "This world will start to fill in. You'll go about your life as you normally would, and people, places –all of it- will just be."
His brow creased as he walked over to her once again. "I don't wanna forget again."
And he didn't. There was a very real fear in forgetting. A curse had already robbed him of his life, and he didn't want it to happen again. But Tove only smiled that soft, small, reassuring little smile as she looked up at him.
"It's not like real forgetting." She told him. "I'll just… fade, a little bit."
The sinking feeling in his gut grew. For some reason, 'fading' sounded worse than simply forgetting. Even if it was just his imagination at that point, Lugh ran through his memories of Tove and saw them slowly disappear. Knowing that it would happen made it harder to accept.
He stood over her once more and reached out. Lugh threaded his fingers through her hair and pulled her close. He strained his neck just to let his forehead rest against hers. His eyes drifted shut.
Tove stepped even closer, until her chest was pressed to his. He felt her hands grasp at his back, her dull fingernails digging briefly into the muscles of his shoulders. They lingered until he felt her shift. Tove lifted her head and body, probably standing on the tips of her toes, and her lips brushed his. Lugh let his lips part and kissed her.
They kissed one another for a little while until, for whatever reason, he drew back slightly. Lugh was sure he could still feel her lips on his when he spoke.
"Stay," he whispered against them.
"As long as I can." She replied before tenderly nipping at his bottom lip. When she had, he kissed her again, but it was filled with more passion than before.
He had no intentions of letting her go at that moment. She belonged to him.
Lugh lifted her into his arms, guiding her legs around his waist. Their kiss broke as a result. It was her turn to look down at him, and for him to crane his neck.
She sweetly held the sides of his head, staring at him with an emotion he hadn't seen in such a long time. He recognized it, and knew he felt the same. Mad Sweeney might never have said the words, but Lugh would.
"I love you," He told her.
A light flickered in her eyes, a sign that she was surprised by what he'd said. But the way she relaxed against him and the smile that followed his declaration told him she was glad.
Tove looked over his face. She delicately touched his cheek with her fingertips and said, "I love you."
He couldn't immediately express what it felt like to hear those words and know, with certainty, that they were true.
Lugh kissed her again.