Prologue 2 - Always

She was gone.

No warning.

No goodbyes.

Nothing.

It was unreal and made no sense, and Sinbad couldn't make it make sense.

All he knew was that he wouldn't get to hold her in his arms and tell her how worried sick he'd been when she fell overboard, when he couldn't find her in the stormy waters, when he thought she was dead. He wouldn't get to see her smile at him with a teasing comment to discard his overprotective concern. He wouldn't get to wish her goodnight tonight, nor watch her come out on deck tomorrow morning.

She was gone.

Sinbad's hand tightened on the line he was holding, the calm ocean glittering with flecks of gold on the horizon as the sun descended in the purple sky.

There was a knot in his chest, cold and painful, as if all the emotions inside him had merged together into a heavy stone he had swallowed. He felt miserable, heartbroken, confused, angry and empty.

What was he supposed to do now? Go on as if nothing had happened? As if nothing had changed? How could he go on without her? How could he go on without even speaking with her to make sure she was alright? He knew she was physically safe with Dim-Dim, but if she was feeling remotely like him at the moment, alone and grieving, then he wanted to know. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her it would be alright, that he would take care of Dermott for her, that they would see each other again. So many things to tell her...

But Dim-Dim had denied them any kind of farewell and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. How could his mentor wrench them apart like this, when he had played match-maker in the first place when they had met?

Perhaps it was because of what he had said earlier...when he warned them about the dark forces growing stronger every day and thus implying that Maeve would have been vulnerable if she had stayed with them on the Nomad.

Did that mean Dim-Dim thought he wasn't strong enough to protect her? That he would have failed to keep her safe and defend her against any threat of black magic? How could he possibly believe that? Sinbad would have given his life for her. He would have done anything and everything to keep her from harm.

And yet she had fallen overboard because of him. Because he had told her to grab some bloody lines.

He kept replaying the scene in his head, like a nightmare on a loop, hearing her scream his name in wild fear. But he had been too far to get to her. Too late to save her.

The knot in his chest hardened, pressing against his heart.

He would never be able to forgive himself. If he hadn't asked her to secure the lines, she never would have fallen overboard and Dim-Dim never would have plucked her out of his life so cruelly.

"Sinbad." Doubar joined him at the prow, his heavy brow darkening the mourning look in his eyes.

Sinbad gave him a quick look to acknowledge his presence but didn't even try to force a smile as his eyes went back to the sinking fireball in the horizon.

He could tell his older brother was uncomfortable, unsure what words or questions should be spoken without twisting the knife deeper into the wound, and Sinbad welcomed the feel of his warm, heavy hand on his shoulder that gave a consoling squeeze, choosing silent comfort instead of an outright conversation.

Besides Dermott, Doubar was the only person aboard the ship who could fully grasp the depth of his grief at the moment. He alone knew that this was the second time he was losing a woman to the sea, unable to save her from the raging waves. But this time the loss was a thousand times worse. When he had lost Lee he had been no more than twelve years old, and what he had shared with her had been an innocent childhood's romance, naive and chaste. It had hurt to lose her, propelling him into manhood and the life of a sailor, with a quest to master the seas so they would never take anyone from him ever again.

But he had failed. This time the ocean had taken Maeve, and what he had shared with her was rooted much deeper than the young puppy love of a child. But fully acknowledging that notion right now was more than he could endure.

Lee's loss had pushed him down the path of sailing. Where would Maeve's loss take him?

"Sinbad," Doubar spoke again softly, his voice dripping with careful empathy. "It's getting late and we're wondering what you want to do with Bryn. She's going to need a cabin..."

Sinbad briefly met his brother's gaze, his heart skipping a painful beat as he understood the hidden meaning in his words. He swallowed hard and nodded. "Give her the guest cabin for tonight. I'll clear Maeve's cabin so she can take it tomorrow." Maeve's name felt like liquid fire in his mouth, and he knew he was speaking the name of a ghost who would haunt him every day from now on.

Doubar nodded and gave his shoulder another squeeze for lack of better words. Then he simply stood there for a while next to him, silent and hesitant to speak. He watched the sunset for a moment, admiring the fiery colors ripping the sky, until his brotherly concern won out. "Are you alright?"

Sinbad shifted his grip on the line, letting the rough texture scratch his palm, and he breathed in slowly. "No, I'm not," he admitted shamelessly. "She's gone."

Doubar hung his head down in quiet grief and before he could offer a few comforting words about how safe she was going to be under Dim-Dim's protection, Sinbad cut him off.

"She was afraid last night," he swallowed hard, painfully remembering the look in Maeve's eyes before the storm had hit. "I found her reading in the middle of the night and she told me she was scared, that there was something at work with magical forces."

Sinbad clenched his jaw hard as he recalled the scene, as he recalled the feel of her against him as he held her tightly in his arms in an attempt to ward off her fears. "I told her everything was going to be alright…then she fell overboard after I told her to grab some bloody lines." He had lied to her, offered her a fake sense of protection, and he felt his heart crack some more in anger. "I might as well have thrown her into the water myself."

"Sinbad," Doubar said, his brow drawing down in protest as his heavy hand on his shoulder shook him slightly. "It wasn't your fault."

"It was, Doubar," Sinbad insisted miserably. "I couldn't keep her safe, that's why Dim-Dim took her away."

"Nonsense," his brother firmly replied. "Master Dim-Dim knows you would have given your life to protect her. You jumped in after her. You-"

"It wasn't enough," Sinbad shrugged again painfully, his throat going dry. "It wasn't enough…"

Doubar went quiet and looked away, as if he knew that nothing he could say right now would make any difference.

The weight of silence crushed them as the sun continued his descent in the horizon and they just stood there, quietly mourning.

"We're all going to miss her," Doubar finally said heavily, his voice dripping with sadness.

Sinbad stared ahead and fisted his palm hard around the line, sensing his composure was on the verge of slipping. "Aye…" was the only word he could form.

As a soft breeze flew by, gently blowing in their faces as if to wash away their grief, Doubar calmly nodded, acknowledging the end of their conversation, and with a final brotherly squeeze of his shoulder, he stepped away.

When Sinbad heard the door leading below deck close in the distance, he let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. The knot in his chest nearly choked him at the prospect of giving away Maeve's cabin to another, confirming the reality of her departure and breaking the illusion he was clinging to that she couldn't possibly be gone.

But he had no choice. He wished he could give Bryn the guest cabin but it was a much smaller one and they often needed it when passengers traveled with them, otherwise using it as a spare storage room the rest of the time, and he couldn't let her sleep in the crew's quarters with all the other sailors either. She was a lady and was entitled to the same privacy Maeve had had.

As he contemplated the task of going through Maeve's things, Dermott flew down to him and perched on the railing before him, a sad little squeak escaping his beak.

Sinbad extended a hand and softly ruffled the feathers on the hawk's chest, at a loss of words to comfort the grieving bird.

Dermott squawked in quiet understanding, puffing his feathers and turning around to look at the last bit of sunlight disappearing below the ocean line, like a dying fire slowly burning out. When the sun had vanished for good, its bright flames no longer casting their warm golden glow on the ocean and the ship, Sinbad felt cold and empty, and the knot in his chest hardened again.

"What are we going to do?" he asked in a low voice, afraid to speak louder lest he heard an answer he didn't want to hear. Dermott gently squawked, letting him know he had no clue either. "The Nomad won't be the same without her," Sinbad observed painfully, a shiver running down his spine as he sensed he wouldn't be the same man without her either.

Dermott screeched again in mournful agreement, his keen black eyes fixing the horizon where the sun had shone moments ago.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect her," Sinbad added sadly, running a gentle finger on Dermott's feathers in apology, only to earn a protesting flap of wings in return.

But Sinbad dismissed the hawk's disproval, and with one final glance at the sunless horizon, he finally turned around to head below deck to do the unthinkable.

When he stepped into the galley, it struck him how foreign everything felt. He had owned the Nomad for more than a year now, knew every creaking sound in the hull and every notch in the beams and every shadow in every corner of every room, but tonight, it felt like a ghost ship.

The galley was deserted and not a soul could be heard or seen. There was no sign that people had eaten supper, no ushered discussions in the dark, no card games, no fiddle or flute, no laughter. Only silence and a lonely lantern. As if everyone was quietly mourning in solitude.

Sinbad's eyes fell on the table, where a single book lay in one corner. One of her magic books. And no one had touched it.

He picked it up, his jaw clenching in response, and after grabbing an empty wooden crate in a corner, he snatched the lantern and headed for her cabin, to the last place where they had shared a moment together.

When he closed the door behind him, the silence and darkness of the room hit him hard. It was as if her presence and her scent were still lingering in the air, yet there was no sign of her. Her cabin was still inhabited by all of her things and yet it felt emptier than ever. She was gone.

The knot of tangled emotions in his chest rose in his throat, almost choking him as he simply stared at the room. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see her sitting at her desk, her red hair shining a warm copper in the candlelight.

He retraced the steps he had taken the night before, walking to her desk to stand behind her chair and peek over her shoulder to see what she was reading.

He set the crate and the lantern on her desk, casting light on the empty chair.

If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see her as she stood up to replace her book on its shelve in her bookcase and then hesitantly turned around to face him, admitting she was scared.

Caught in the painful memory, his feet took him to the very spot where he had taken her into his arms, holding her close for the last time.

But there was no one to hug now. She was gone.

He balled his fists at his sides and swallowed hard, brushing the scene away from his mind.

He went back to her desk and as the anger and the pain began to simmer inside him like a storm threatening to explode, he decided he would only leave the books behind, for Bryn to use in the future. Maeve had read them all countless times to pursue her training on her own for lack of having a teacher after Master Dim-Dim was swept away. Perhaps Bryn could find a few tips on how to control her powers somewhere in the little library as well.

But Sinbad couldn't let her have the rest of Maeve's stuff. He just couldn't. It was silly because they were both women and Bryn would most likely end up using the same basic things, like a hair brush and a mirror, but these things belonged to Maeve and the possessiveness inside him was burning like a bonfire. No one would touch her things while she was gone, especially not her personal belongings. He would guard them in the safety of his own cabin until she returned.

After placing her hairbrush and ivory mirror inside the crate, remembering how the sun hit on her flaming curls, he took the small wooden box on the corner of her desk and ran his fingers softly over the Celtic knotted symbols carved on the lid.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he opened it and peeked inside, feeling like an intruder in the life she'd been so secretive about. Inside were numerous little trinkets; a golden brooch with a beautiful pattern of woven knots, a small dagger with a dull blade, a few coins and hair pins, a bronze bracelet with two finely carved dragon heads on either end of the wrought material, one of the knotted triangular golden pins she wore on the shoulder of her outfit and that had come off a few days ago, an old folded letter written in Gaelic...Tokens of the life she had lead before she had met him, a life he barely knew. Did these things belong to her family? Had the small pieces of jewelry once belonged to her mother? Was the letter from a lover she had left behind?

Sinbad gritted his teeth in an attempt to lessen the pain in his chest while every beat of his heart felt like nails hammered into his lungs.

He closed the box and carefully placed it inside the crate before moving to the large wooden cabinet in the corner, where more books were stored along with candles and bowls and magic potions. Those he could leave to Bryn, but not the long blue scarf Maeve had often draped across her shoulder and hooked at her hip. This he took and stuffed inside the crate as well.

Then his eyes rested on the massive chest next to the cabinet, on top of which was a helmet adorned with two horns. Eyolf's helmet.

His heart tightening warmly, he lifted it gently in his hands, a sad smile almost tugging at his lips as he recalled the teasing look in Maeve's eyes as she had placed it atop her head and wittily averted his question about what had happened exactly between her and Eyolf, shamelessly trying to make him jealous. And jealous of the Norseman he certainly had been, with Doubar, Firouz and Rongar giving him their best trademark grins while he blushed and babbled to defend himself and blame his interest on simple curiosity.

Shaking his head softly at the memory, he glanced down at the massive chest at his feet, which he knew was full of luxurious dresses and beautiful silks, a gift from Queen Nadia after they had rescued her kingdom from Vincenzo's treacherous form of art. Sinbad had secretly asked for the gift as a favor, with the hope of sprinkling some womanly delights back in Maeve's life which had become that of a sailor on a men's ship, to prove to her that he did acknowledge her femininity and could be as considerate of women as Vincenzo had pretended to be with his fake romantic attitude that had seduced and lured her to his artistic wicked trap.

He could still remember the look on her face when she had opened the chest on deck and the moved gratitude in her voice as she marvelled at the soft fabrics. He had felt like a teenage boy giving flowers to a girl for the first time, inwardly blushing like crazy, and in return she had given him a small stubborn smile and assured him that all she truly wanted was to be part of his crew.

Sinbad pulled at the trunk by the iron rings on the side and slid it to the door. He would have to take that too. He would be damned if he let another woman wear any of these.

Especially the red dress.

He had seen her in it only once, during a festival held in one of the lesser villages near Bagdad merely a week ago, and still the memory of her in the fine fabric with her hair pinned up took his breath away.

But not now.

Now the memory ripped him apart. Because that night during the celebration, he had held her against him as they danced, one arm around her waist and the other one raised up to hold her hand in his, and as the soft music had engulfed them in a bubble of intimacy, with her head leaning close against his, she had softly asked him what hurt the most; saying something and wishing you hadn't, or saying nothing and wishing you had?

Whispering back in her ear, he had told her he was still trying to figure it out.

But it was a lie.

He knew perfectly well what hurt the most. And the pain was unbearable right now.

Sinbad felt himself shake, his jaw clenching as the rage flooded inside him and abruptly reached a white-hot peak, exploding like thunder in his heart. Seeing red, his fingers closed around the three-branched candle bracket sitting on Maeve's desk and he savagely hurled it across the room with all his might, the iron loudly shattering on the wall and clanking to the ground.

When silence crashed down on him once more, he was breathing hard, anger surging through his veins like poison, but then his eyes fell on the bed and his breath caught in his throat, as if a knife had suddenly plunged under his ribs.

On her covers lay her sword, her cloak and her glove.

He stood frozen for a moment, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Because once he took those items away, she would truly be gone.

The dark anger slowly melting away, he walked to the bed and sat down heavily, defeated and broken, his heart painfully beating against his ribcage. Trembling, his hand reached for her sword and delicately closed around the hilt that her own hands had held so many times. He ran his fingers along the length of the blade, marvelling at the Celtic designs engraved in the reflective surface. He had never seen a sword like hers before, and he didn't know where she had gotten it either, but it was a magnificent piece of art and the story behind it must surely include both a very talented blacksmith and a rich sum of money.

At the thought, Sinbad laid the sword back on the covers and cursed himself quietly, angry that all the things he didn't know about her were suddenly jumping out at him from the darkness, taunting him and laughing at him, turning her into a stranger.

How could he know so little about who she had been and yet know everything about who she was?

Her short fiery temper when something or someone picked on her nerves, her insufferable stubbornness to win arguments when she knew she was right, her compassionate nature and ability to listen and console, her unyielding determination to protect those in need, her sense of justice and truth, her witty comebacks when they playfully bickered and teased one another, her emotional strength, her frustration at showing vulnerability, her protectiveness and possessiveness towards him...

How could he know so little about the life she had lead and the trials she had gone through, and yet be able to read her like an open book and see the ghost of those trials and heartaches shine in her eyes when they came to haunt her?

His hand reached next for her leather glove, which he knew he would have to give to Bryn so she could take care of Dermott, something he would make sure that she did with the utmost devotion every single day. Because of all the things Maeve had left behind, Dermott was the most precious one, and Sinbad would guard him with his life no matter what happened. He may have failed to protect her, but he swore to himself he would not fail to protect him.

Carefully, he put the glove back on the bed beside him and his fingers next closed around her heavy brown cloak. He took it in his lap and stared at it, picturing her wrapped up in it in his head, up on deck in the bitter cold weather they often encountered on the high seas.

She had never liked the cold yet she was from the North, a contradiction he had once teased her about and to which her sassy reply had been that as a remedy her people knew lots of ways to keep warm. She had smirked at him with a glint in her eyes, and under the giggles of the crew he had flushed bright red.

By the stars, how many times had a similar scene taken place? With the two of them teasing and flirting while the others enjoyed themselves at their expense? He and Maeve had been so stubborn...so proud...so afraid...How many things had they taken for granted? How many things had they left unsaid?

Sinbad's eyes suddenly blurred.

It was too late now.

She was gone.

He wouldn't get to see her smile again, or hear her laugh, or watch the sun catch in her hair, or hold her safely in his arms, or tell her how much he cared, how much he-

His hands fisted in the fabric of the cloak and he shut his eyes close, clenching his jaw as he felt himself choke. He shook inside and tried to fight it, but the pain that ripped him apart was too sharp and at that moment, alone in the dim darkness of her cabin, he quietly lost it.

He cried.

His head fell down and he felt the tears roll down his cheeks, dripping on the brown leather fabric he was clutching tightly, as if he was holding a little part of her against him, his knuckles turning white.

He wanted her in his arms right now. He wanted to hold her tight against him if she was crying as well, and tell her everything would be fine, just like he needed her to hold him and tell him the same thing. That they would be alright. That they would make it through.

But she was gone. And there was no telling when she would come back. Days...months...years...Dim-Dim had failed to mention this precious little detail, and who knew when he would contact the crew again.

It was so unfair.

What had they done to deserve this? What were they being punished for? They had both faced so many trials in the past...neither of them deserved another load of heartache.

But apparently fate had other plans in store for them...Or was it the dark forces taking pleasure in tormenting them? Forcing them to live a thousand miles apart?

Dim-Dim had said the world was growing darker and more dangerous, that goodness was fading under the gathering shadows of black magic and evil doers, implying that Maeve would have been a target of all that impending gloom and that Rumina would have killed her before her time. Why? What did that mean?

Sinbad wiped the tears away, anger returning in his heart, and he latched on to it to suppress the storm of pain that raged inside him.

He didn't understand it, but one thing was clear enough: Maeve couldn't come back as long as the dark forces were too strong or else her life would be in danger, and for some reason Master Dim-Dim didn't believe Sinbad suitable enough to keep her safe, and it hurt to think he might be right.

But he would prove him wrong, Sinbad thought, gritting his teeth in grim determination, his fingers digging in Maeve's cloak.

He would show his mentor and everybody else what he was capable of. Wherever they sailed next, if evil reared its ugly head, he would destroy it mercilessly, with his bare hands if he had to, and he would show everyone just how strong he could be. And he wouldn't stop until the world was safe enough for Maeve to come back.

Clenching his jaw hard, with every fiber of his body ablaze with this new purpose like a rising fever, he stood up, draped Maeve's cloak over his arm and grabbed her sword. He went back to her desk to retrieve the wooden crate containing her things, balancing it on his hip, and left her cabin. After placing everything in his own room, he went back to fetch the large chest of fine dresses and pushed it down the alley, not caring if the noise attracted attention and woke the other sailors up.

With his heart throbing painfully in his chest, he then lingered in Maeve's doorway, eyes surfing on the interior one last time, replaying in his head every small moment he had ever spent in the room with her, burning them all in his memory, then closed the door behind him.

When he was back in his own cabin he wiped a heavy hand on his face, rubbing his eyes wearily, suddenly feeling both physically and emotionally drained. But before he dropped down on his bed—it wasn't like he would be able to sleep anyway—he went about the task of storing Maeve's things away.

The chest of rich clothes was pushed in the farthest corner of his room, with the wooden crate of her personal belongings perched on top of it. After that, he hesitated a moment with her brown cloak in his hands, but then tossed it on his bed to use as an extra blanket for the night, wondering how long the fabric could preserve her unique scent he loved so much. As for her sword, he placed it on his desk as a reminder to keep the blade filed and sharp for when she came back.

As he did so, his eyes fell on his red bandana, or at least what was left of it thanks to Firouz a week ago. It was a little token of the man he had been with her and could no longer be if he hoped to survive without her and fight the dark forces with harsh, unyielding dedication like he intended to.

Squeezing the remnant of the bandanna in his hand with a forbidding look, painfully wondering if Maeve still had the other half or if she had lost it during the storm, he went to the corner and tucked it in the wooden crate with her things, along with all the other memories of the past year.

Then, casting one last look at the relics of her presence, he was about to turn around when a sudden urge rippled through him and he reached for her little box of trinkets.

Gently ruffling inside it for a moment, he wasn't quite sure what he was searching for, but then his fingers curled around the Celtic triangular golden pin she had worn on the shoulder of her outfit, the pin that had fallen off mere days ago and that she had planned to sow back in place. He ran his thumb softly over the fine little knotted design then squeezed it tightly in his fist.

A little piece of her. To carry around with him.

A reminder of his biggest weakness, of the woman who had stolen his heart the moment he met her, and who had ripped it out of his chest when she fell overboard, taking it with her.

He would be an empty shell without her, another man, but at least a small part of her would be with him, no matter how dark his world became.

Always.