Hello, dear readers! Sorry again for the delay but goodness this was a monster to write and edit. Between my impossible schedules and shifts at work, I've been furiously scribbling this baby down, until the bulk of it somehow ended up in one of my Urologic Emergencies files! XD

But I'm letting it go now. I hope you enjoy it. Longest chapter so far so buckle up and hang on tight!

P.S. I love angst :P And these two idiots are the perfect canvas to write it.

Chapter 14 – The Red Dress

As soon as the door closed behind him Sinbad sagged against it, closing his eyes and resting the back of his head against the hard wood. A heavy sigh escaped him, his shoulders slumping down as he reveled in the silence, darkness and intimacy of his room, away from the crew's small talk and the concerned looks they had thrown his way every now and then on the whole ride back from Kalilah's castle.

He felt weary and emotionally drained, muscles wrung dry like roots. And he felt angry. This last cargo delivery had definitely not gone according to plan—it rarely did in the Nomad's case—but still he hadn't expected this whole adventure to be so strenuous on his nerves. As it was his heart wanted to burst out of his chest and never come back, and there was nothing more he wished to do than sleep for many long hours until he had no choice but to wake up and face the world again.

Wrenching himself from the door, he went to his desk and lit the single lantern that rested amongst the numerous rolls of maps scattered everywhere. The small flame produced very little light but it was enough for his current mood, the long shadows that sprouted to life and darkened the corners of his cabin somehow filling the emptiness he felt within. He removed his belt, hooking it over the back of his chair with his sword still in its sheath, then unlaced his navy-blue vest down the front, slipped out of it and draped it over the back of the chair as well.

His head ached, like a distant hammer pounding on iron. It had for most of the day now, pulsing slowly in his forehead and his temples, the tension radiating down the muscles in his neck and shoulders, stiff and sore like battered steel. He stretched the articulations a little and shuffled his feet to the bed. He could endure the physical discomfort for the night, but he knew for certain the emotional wreckage inside him would not allow him a peaceful slumber.

He sat down heavily on the simple mattress and rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and his thumb, yearning for the blackness of sleep, praying to find refuge in the realm of dreams even if there was a considerable chance they would torment him instead of grant him some relief. But he didn't care.

He just wanted to be with her.

Out of reflex his hand went to his pocket, his fingers finding the golden pin he kept with him at all times. He took it out and brushed his thumb over the Celtic knots delicately, remembering their intricate patterns.

He would dream about her again tonight, he was sure of it. She was always there, a faithful ghost to keep him company, every night since she had left, but he could never predict whether he would relive a precious moment they had shared, dream he was finding her at last, suffer the nightmare of the storm again or whether his imagination would prey on the longing in his heart and he would wake up with the pain of broken desire in his core.

He never knew what he was going to get, but it didn't matter because at least she was there. All he had to do was sleep and he could be with her.

But tonight he had the wicked feeling that things would be different, that the shadows would snatch her away from his grasp like righteous thieves sent to punish him. The thought nearly chocked him but it was quickly outmatched by the rising anger that pooled in his gut, spreading in his limbs like poison.

He had kissed another today.

Sinbad clenched his jaw at the memory, balling his hand into a fist around the golden pin, the sharp angles digging into his palm like barbs, painful and chastising.

He had granted a woman her last dying wish, risking his life in the process, not knowing what else to do. Kalilah had had her heart stolen and broken, and the ocean had stolen and broken his. It had seemed tragically fitting that he should kiss her, offering her this last taste of life before she died.

But while he had given her the peace she had desperately sought after all these years of misery, reuniting her with her heart at long last, she had in turn left him with a feeling of crushing emptiness, a mighty black void endlessly filling up with bitter regrets, unkept promises, missed chances, ghostly memories of secret smiles and fleeting touches...He had enjoyed the kiss—as ashamed as he was to admit it—but for the space of a tiny moment he had lost himself in an illusion, fiery curls slipping through his fingers like silk, a beautiful, cruel illusion that had swallowed him up whole, a fabrication of his weak mind that had been more than enough to rip him apart a little bit more inside.

The anger had been blazing within him since then, burning his flesh like a terrible sin he could not forget nor expunge from.

But the root of his torment didn't stem from Kalilah's kiss replacing the one kiss that meant everything to him. No. The last woman he had locked lips with hadn't even been Maeve anyway. It had been Cassandra, that young nymphet—as Maeve had called her—in the Vorgon's village, mere minutes after he and Maeve had embraced each other out of the blue.

But that insignificant kiss with the young woman back then had led to a promise. A substantial promise that he himself had made.

After his lip-lock with Cassandra, Maeve had obviously been green with jealousy but she had masterfully concealed it with a teasing, double-meaning comment.

How nice it felt…

He would never forget those words, candidly falling from her lips like a spell.

She had caught herself by specifying she was referring to their previous wild hope of reuniting with Dim-Dim, but he had known better. They had both known better.

How nice it had felt indeed.

That day he had promised her that they would get that feeling again, and had they been willing to listen and stand witness to his pledge, he would have sworn an oath in front of all the gods right then and there.

But time had slowly slipped away like sand blown in the winds and his promise had wrinkled and crisped like an autumn leaf. He had never kept it, just like he had failed to protect her from the furious tempest that night where she had been so terribly scared, the ocean swallowing her whole like an unforgiving beast.

He should have claimed her lips…he should have held her back after she kissed his cheek for luck, in case the sky fell on their heads. He should have kissed her senseless until she forgot the entire world and all the threats that were lurking in the dark to get them.

But he hadn't. He had just stood there mindlessly, watching her retreating form down the hall as she woke the others, his cheek tingling with embers. A moment gone by as fast as a blink, seconds wasted and slipping out of his grasp as easily as water through his fingers.

Kalilah's kiss had only served to remind him of that broken promise he had never held, igniting the brazier of anger in the depth of his core, its flames mingling with the scorching longing that was constantly licking at his bones. But there was nothing he could do about it, nothing except try to numb the pain as hard as he could, to douse the fire by any means possible.

But right now, in the darkness of his cabin in the middle of the night, weary and defeated with her golden pin crushed in his palm like shattered glass, he could feel his composure slipping away, his mind treacherously drifting to that night where he had yet again been granted an opportunity to honor his promise, and where he had once again let it slip through his fingers…

"Sinbad?" Her voice echoed behind his cabin's door. "Are you ready?"

"Aye, you can come in," he called back as his fingers worked on the buckle of his new belt and he fetched his white shirt on his desk.

"We're going to be late-" He heard the latch of his door click open as she stepped inside his cabin, but then her voice abruptly went dead.

Pausing halfway before he slipped his shirt on, wondering why she had gone silent so suddenly, he turned around to face her and this time he was the one who lost his voice.

Standing in his doorway, frozen in place and wearing a long, stunning red dress that made her look nothing short of a goddess, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. She was all soft and fiery and regal at the same time, a bewitching spirit from a distant realm come to steal the wind from his lungs and bring him to his knees. It was a dress from Queen Nadia's chest, he was sure of it, stunning and elegant with a wide oval neckline adorned with a rim of gold that matched a belt of large golden coins resting lowly on her hips, with a string of the same round coins falling down in the middle all the way to the floor at her feet. Long red sleeves with golden rims fell from her arms as well like rivers of fire and blood, and with her flaming red hair gorgeously framing her face, it was all Sinbad could do not to stare at her dumbfoundedly like a stunned fish.

But then he noticed she was staring right back at him with equal shock stamped on her features, her cheeks flushed bright red like her dress as her eyes unabashedly traveled down his body.

That's when he realized he was half-naked, his white shirt still clutched in his hand as he had been about to slip it on when she came in. He felt himself blush instantly, the heat rushing to his ears and his exposed flesh, and suddenly their eyes met across the room.

He cleared his throat and swallowed hard, attempting to find his voice past the initial shock of her singular beauty and past the embarrassment of standing before her utterly shirtless. "You look stunning," he stuttered a little, his eyes briefly travelling down her striking silhouette again before he quickly caught himself.

"Thank you." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, looking like she was fighting the redness in her cheeks and cursing herself not to blush any further. "You look…" her voice trailed off as her eyes travelled past his bare chest and down to his trousers, a frown furrowing her brow. "Is that leather?"

Avoiding her gaze awkwardly, he finally slipped his white shirt on, welcoming the garment as it brought back some measure of physical barrier between them. "I have nothing else to wear," he proceeded to explain. "The soup I spilled this morning made an awful stain and when I tried to scrub it off with Firouz's detergent, the product literally burned a hole through the fabric."

Maeve blinked, eyeing him up and down once more as if he was a completely different man, looking confused and debating something in her head before she quickly came to a conclusion. "You look like a pirate."

He snatched the blue vest he had found in his chest of spare clothes and put it on to complete the look, chuckling at her biting comment before adding his two cents. "It's not that bad. Besides it's really not as uncomfortable as I thought it would be." As he tucked the shirts into his pants, he waited for her to reply something but strangely she remained silent and frozen in his doorway, gaze still riveted on him like she couldn't compute his change of attire. There was still the faint hue of a blush on her cheeks, but it was the subtle, almost feral glint in her eyes that suddenly made his blood threaten to rush back into his face like white hot flames. "What?" he finally asked her to snap her back to reality, unable to bear the weight of her scrutiny any longer, especially not with that look in her eyes.

She blinked again, twice, her gaze finally meeting his at last, and the spell was abruptly broken as she realized she'd been staring at him like a maid, her composure returning at the speed of light with another snippy comment. "You look ridiculous."

There was a criticizing lift in her eyebrows as they slid back into their usual banters, and Sinbad made a point of replying with a smug grin. "I happen to think I look quite dashing."

Maeve rolled her eyes, an amused and annoyed expression he knew quite well, and he beat her to it before she could wittily comment on his outfit again.

"My only regret is…" he added with disappointment, lifting the remnants of his red bandanna up with a finger. "…that I won't be able to wear this again anytime soon."

"What happened to it?" Maeve frowned at the half-singed fabric, which was now too short for him to wrap around his head like he used to, and she took a step inside his cabin for closer inspection.

"I accidently knocked the bottle of detergent over onto my desk," he explained regretfully, brushing a finger on the black blotch Firouz's inflammable product had made on the wooden surface of his desk. "It almost burnt through the wood as well."

Maeve leaned down a little to glance at the mark for herself, and shook her head at the upshot of the scientist's invention. "Unbelievable…" she muttered. "Good thing you didn't splash any of this onto yourself. You could have gotten serious burns."

"Trust me, the thought occurred to me." Sinbad agreed, then lifted a bandaged hand up, sporting two bandaged fingers. "But too late."

Maeve grimaced empathically. "How bad is it?"

"It stung surprisingly hard, but I'll live," he replied, balling his hand into a fist and curling his fingers to check the lingering, stinging pain. "Shall we?"

He dropped his bandanna on his desk and went about the task of fastening his blue vest so they could finally join the others on deck. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if one of them showed up right now to inquire as to what was taking so long.

He headed for the door, aiming to complete the lacing up on deck to save time, but when Maeve noticed how ineffectively he was faring with two bandaged fingers, she halted him and brushed his hands away. "Let me do that."

Sinbad froze, staring at her as she invaded his space and stood right before him, her head bent and her fingers expertly working with the ties of his vest. Strands of hair fell into her face as she concentrated on the task, a curtain of red curls veiling her eyes from him but still he watched her as she fixed his clothes, this godly woman dressed in fire, so calm and composed as she played the laces like the strings of a harp, as if this was completely normal and trivial.

Only it was not.

This was familiar, intimate…domestic. This was something spouses did, and Sinbad had to swallow hard past the sudden warmth that swelled within him as he marvelled at the situation, at this little moment that spoke volume on how close he and Maeve had truly become despite everything that always held them back.

A sudden urge to touch her abruptly possessed him, his hand aching to reach out and pull her flush against him, a fool with a death wish to burn himself to the fire of her flesh and drink from her lips until they were both winded and she reduced him to cinders. His heart flared in his chest, pounding like thunder so hard he feared she might feel it through the fabric of his shirt, betraying the rapidly coiling tension in his body, but just as his hand twitched at his side her voice shook him out of his daze as good as a bucket of cold water dumped on his head.

"Here you go," she declared, stepping away to briefly admire her work and then quickly avert her eyes with an awkwardness that officially broke the moment, as if she could no longer bare the invisible heated tension between them.

Sinbad felt himself rock back on the heels of his feet as he adjusted to the sudden distance between them, the heat of her previous closeness fading away and leaving him casting about to gather his composure until he glanced down at his laced vest and found his voice. "Thanks," he murmured, making a final adjustment on his belt as Maeve picked up his bandanna on his desk.

"If you're not going to use this anymore, can I?" she asked, rubbing the fabric between her fingers.

Sinbad glanced at his bandanna in her hand, wondering what she could possibly want with it. "If it doesn't fit around my head, I hardly think it's going to fit around yours."

"I know." Maeve rolled her eyes at his wittiness. "But I can tie my hair with it. It's going to fit with the dress."

Sinbad blinked, touched by her unexpected request to wear his old bandanna as a hairband. That little piece of cloth had become such a singular token of his identity that he never though he would one day relinquish it to somebody else. Not that he had much of a choice now anyway since it was singed in two halves, but still, the gesture of giving it away felt profoundly personal. But this was no stranger he was giving it to. It was Maeve. And there was a strange stirring within him at the thought that she wanted to own something that belonged to him.

"Sure," he nodded after finally finding his voice and locking eyes with her. "Take it. It's yours."

Maeve smiled, that special smile she seemed to give only to him. "Thank you."

Then she went about the task of pulling her hair up in a messy bun, wrapping and tying them up with his bandanna with a few loose strands of red curls falling free and framing her beautiful face.

And Sinbad once again marvelled at how easily they could dance on the edges of intense awkwardness one second and comfortable chitchat the next one, both being well-practiced in the art of wandering close to that inevitable flame between them, just enough to get warm, but never enough to get burned. It fascinated him.

"Let's go," she finally declared, her hands still up to arrange her hair properly as she stepped to his door. "The others are waiting for us. We'll see what they think about this new outfit of yours."

Sinbad held the door open for her and grinned smugly once more. "Like I said: dashing."

"Like I said: pirate," Maeve retorqued, lifting an eyebrow at his complacency, although Sinbad saw her eyes flick away to steal a glance at his general figure.

Strangely satisfied about the way his new attire seemed to have a non-negligible effect on her, he followed her into the galley and up on deck where the soft light of dusk was warmly twinkling in the sky.

"Well!" Doubar's colorful voice greeted them as they joined the crew on the main deck. "Aren't you two quite the sight for sore eyes!"

"Sorry again for your clothes, Sinbad," Firouz apologized. "I may have overestimated the inflammatory component in the ratio I used between the-"

"It's alright, Firouz," Sinbad cut him off politely, first because he wasn't really mad at his friend and second, because he mostly wanted to spare his crew another scientific lecture about this new revolutionary detergent he had invented. "I'm sure I'll find something suitable at the market square tomorrow."

After settling Dermott comfortably on her arm, her long red sleeves opening at her elbow and almost touching the planks on deck, Maeve tossed him a criticizing look. "You can't seriously be considering presenting yourself to the festival this way."

"Well, I'd rather be wearing leather than be naked," Sinbad replied, noticing the way she had steeled herself now that they were in front of the crew, the previous softness of her composure carefully hidden away.

"I bet the girls wouldn't mind," Doubar jested under his breath as he leaned towards Rongar who hid a giggle in his hand.

Maeve ignored the grinning duo and insisted again. "We can make a quick stop by the market right now. Maybe a few merchants are still-"

"We don't have time," Sinbad interrupted with a shake of his head. "We're already running late as it is."

"You like these pants, admit it," Maeve challenged him, tilting her head to the side as she rocked her weight on one hip.

"No, I don't," Sinbad protested.

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Oh come on!" Maeve gestured to his trousers. "They're so tight I can't even understand how you put them on. How are you even going to dance?"

"Who says I'm going to dance?" Sinbad argued back, startled by her suggestion.

"Doubar, will you knock some sense into him?"

Doubar held his hands up pacifically to avoid conflict. "Nice try, Maeve, but I'm not taking sides in one of your arguments. That's a mistake I don't intend to repeat."

Maeve sighed with irritation and latched her attention back on him. "You can be so stubborn sometimes."

"Look who's talking," Sinbad snorted.

"What-" She opened her mouth to argue but Doubar finally stepped between them, urging them off the Nomad.

"Come on, you two, let's get going before something catches on fire again."

Stifling a grin of victory as their disagreement was put on hold and he miraculously managed to have the last words out, Sinbad quietly followed his companions as they stepped off the Nomad onto the gangplank that led to the docks, watching with satisfaction as Maeve pressed her lips tightly together in annoyance. He made a point of walking behind her for a while to let her cool down, and also because that way he could steal a few glances at her alluring figure without being caught.

They strolled down the cobbled-streets for some time, passing by deserted stalls and empty booths as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows between the buildings and bathed their white walls in warm gold. Maeve was surveying the market square like a hawk, as if hunting for a late-running merchant who might still be in business to sell him a new outfit, while he kept a wary eye out in return and hoped they wouldn't meet anyone.

He couldn't help but wonder why she was so hellbent on seeing him out of this new attire and back to his old style. Why was she disliking it so much? Perhaps she simply needed some time to adjust to the change, but Sinbad could sense there was something more to it. While it was true Maeve had a fashionista side showing up every once in a while, appreciating nice garments and ogling over pretty dresses she wished she had the chance to wear more often, she was never shallow about it all. What was inside the book always mattered more to her than its cover, so her entire attitude about his new outfit had to be caused by something else, something that dug deeper.

Judging by the awkward glint in her eyes and the near permanent flush in her cheeks earlier in his cabin, she was obviously uncomfortable and unsettled by something, as if sharp fangs were biting into her composure while she tried to maintain a façade of calm indifference. Only she was royally failing at it. The others didn't seem to notice as they walked down the streets, but many times Sinbad caught her stealing quick glances his way when she thought he wasn't looking, and her eyes seemed alight with a strange simmering flame, as if something feral and possessive had awakened within her.

And then it dawned on him. She was jealous.

She was jealous before she even had any cause to be, probably because she was anticipating the attention he would henceforth draw from other women dressed as he was, and she would have to deal with all the frustration that entailed. If his new outfit was having such an effect on her, then of course she'd be pissed about the effect it was bound to have on others.

He had to admit he looked quite different indeed. His former outfit had been rather ample, masking the outline of most of his body under layers of slack cloth, whereas this new attire pretty much carved out his shape for everyone to see. And if he was honest with himself it made him feel a little self-conscious, but the feeling transformed into smug satisfaction every time he saw the blush returning to Maeve's cheeks. Cracking through her solid shell was hard enough to do, he would certainly try to enjoy this while he could.

If she only knew what that dress of hers was doing to him as well…outlining her curves and filling his head with wild thoughts and shameful images…

But he shook them all aside as they walked towards the palace, its impressive, dome-shaped top rising above the buildings and the sound of its feasting crowd guiding them closer and closer.

"Here we are," Doubar announced as they rounded the final corner, the lavish courtyard taking their breath away when it came into view.

The massive double gates of the palace, their outer rims all gilded with gold leaves, stood wide open to the sides, revealing the interior of an immense courtyard surrounded with an arcade of tall granite columns rising many feet above their heads, beyond which the absence of ceiling cut the pale blue sky into a wide rectangle. Long, endless tables were erected on either side of the room, crumbling under the weight of hundreds of alluring dishes.

Dozens upon dozens of people were already indulging in the annual feast, some seated on cozy cushions on the ground while others stood in small groups on the dancefloor, chatting with glasses of wine in their hands. Judging by the diversified clothes of the guests, there were obviously many economical statuses in the room, ranging from common merchants and farmers to noble aristocrats and lords. But all were meddling together in smiling conversations, while the women illuminated the scenery with their colorful dresses, some tending to young children while others swayed their hips on the dancefloor to the music of a small orchestra mounted on a small dais at the far end of the courtyard.

"Nothing beats the annual festival of Bakar," Doubar marveled, eyes sparkling as he surveyed the buffet and assessed the entire gleam of the room.

"So it would seem," Sinbad agreed, politely nodding to a valet in neutral white robes as the man bid them welcome and they officially stepped inside the vast square.

"Sinbad!" His name immediately rang across the dancefloor as a young man, stylishly dressed in rich velvety green robes with golden embroidery, a reflection of his higher status, marched towards him with open arms.

"Nejib!" Sinbad recognized him at once and happily returned the embrace with a squeeze of the lad's shoulders. "You were just a boy the last time I saw you! My, how you've grown!"

"It's all in the beard," Nejib replied with a smile, scratching his young stubbles with pride. "But look at you! Is this the new fashion trend on the high seas?"

"Not quite," Maeve smirked a little off to the side before Sinbad could answer. "He left his eye patch and his peg leg on the ship."

Doubar laughed loudly at her dry jest, immediately accompanied by Firouz and Rongar who giggled like children, before he joyously stepped past Sinbad's grumpy grimace to greet their long-time friend in a crushing hug. "It's good to see you, Nejib!"

"Doubar!" Nejib embraced him in return. "It's good to see you, too! All of you! My father was so happy when he learned you could come."

"It's been too long," Sinbad noted, biting his tongue not to snap back something witty in Maeve's direction. "How's Myriam?"

"Wonderful as always," Nejib replied, a smile instantly illuminating his young face as he looked around to spot his wife and welcome her to their small group. "But she's gained a few pounds since the last time you saw her."

"Hello, Sinbad." Myriam emerged from the crowd, her long blond hair cascading over her shoulder on one side, almost touching the round belly that was softly bulging beneath her silky blue dress.

Sinbad beamed as he exchanged cheek kisses with the young, expecting mother. "Congratulations to you both."

"Sinbad!"

As Nejib circled an arm around Myriam's waist, drawing her affectionally closer, an old man in solemn burgundy robes and a neat grey beard lively stepped up to join them.

It was Merim, the minister of Bakar, an imposing man with kind eyes set in a generous round face, and gifted with a deep benevolent voice. "Thank the spirits you could join us! It's been so long! How have you been?"

Sinbad embraced his long-time friend with a smile and a pat on the back. "Never better. Calm seas. Good business. An amazing crew. I couldn't ask for more."

"I'm glad to hear it," Merim beamed as he welcomed Doubar in a strong hug then greeted Firouz and Rongar with friendly handshakes. "I hope you enjoy the festivities and-" He stopped when his eyes fell on Maeve, who stood beside Doubar with a polite smile on her lips.

Merim stared at her, momentarily losing his voice, but then his mouth slowly curved into a wide grin. "Why, Sinbad, you didn't tell me you were married!" he exclaimed, swiftly taking Maeve's hand to drop a kiss on her knuckles. "It's a pleasure to meet you, my lady. You are a vision."

Sinbad drew in a sharp breath as his heart skipped a beat.

The crew instantly broke into giggles again while Maeve's face turned as red as her dress. "Oh no, I'm…we're not-"

"We're not married." Sinbad stepped in to her rescue, politely correcting his friend.

"Yet." Doubar quipped, joining Firouz and Rongar in their fits of giggles, while Nejib and Myriam bit their lips to restrain themselves from joining in the contagious laughter.

Merim eyed the scene curiously while Maeve glared at Doubar and dropped her hand, struggling to hide the flush in her cheeks. "Oh. I see. My mistake," he apologized, glancing somewhat suspiciously at the chuckling crew. "All things in due time, I suppose."

His attention was then thankfully diverted by a white-robed valet who leaned in to speak with him.

Merim nodded to the young lad before addressing the crew once more. "Well, I'll be with you in a few minutes. Please, take a seat and enjoy the food, the wine, the music. Make yourselves at home and I will be right back."

"We sure will," Doubar bowed his head, still giggling despite Maeve's burning glower, as Merim retreated into the crowd to greet other guests.

"This way," Nejib extended his arm to guide them towards empty seats at the nearest long table, clearly still amused by the scene he had just witnessed.

The giggling crew followed after him and Sinbad fell into steps with Maeve, placing a hand at the small of her back to guide her forward. "After you, wife," he said under his breath, picking up on the crew's tease despite the tight coils in his nerves.

Maeve swatted him in the abdomen right away, brow still furrowed in annoyance. "You wish."

She was obviously embarrassed by the situation, the red flush of heat still burning strong in her cheeks. Her expression would almost have been cute and comical if not for the fact that Sinbad knew she was probably fuming beneath it all.

But shouldn't Merim's honest mistake make her happy somehow? If the simple act of standing next to each other led people to believe they were married, then logically she would have fewer pestering women to worry about lurking around him, no?

Sinbad's palms burned at the thought that this was the image they were projecting, and he was half a mind to suddenly yank Maeve against him and claim her lips to seal the masquerade for the night, but he quickly tamed the wild urge by fisting his hands at his side, preventing himself from reaching out to her.

When they all sat down at the luscious table, he strategically positioned himself between Maeve and Doubar to keep her from roasting his brother for his mocking comments, and eventually the crew's giggles died down as they all began to dig into the food, piling pitas and fruits and different mashes onto their plates, although Maeve's first instinct was to reach for the wine after Dermott took flight and perched on a nearby lantern behind them.

They ate and chatted socially, listening as Nejib discussed his father's peaceful politics with Bagdad and his economic trade contracts with lesser villages in the area. Merim eventually joined their company, adding his point of view to the conversation and addressing his projects for the nearby future, like the construction of a dozen windmills along the river to optimize the production of grains for his people.

Many subjects followed each other; Nejib's training as the future minister, Myriam's pregnancy, the places the Nomad had visited over the past year, their next destinations. At some point, Rongar was lured away from the table to the dancefloor by a shy woman in a purple dress, Firouz and Merim became engaged in a deep conversation about the latest discoveries in the bubbling world of science, and Doubar began reminiscing the crew's adventures with Nejib at the lad's request. The only problem was that the ale did little to censure his tales, and whenever the subject veered towards his and Maeve's many moments of bickering and teasing, Sinbad kicked him under the table while Maeve silently seethed on his other side, hiding her face in her glass of wine and probably biting hard on her tongue not to correct the stories according to her version of the events.

At some point, it was Myriam who came to her rescue, snatching Maeve away to introduce her to the few magic practitioners of the city, an invitation which Maeve eagerly accepted after downing the rest of her wine in one swift motion.

Disappointment swelled within him as she left his side, his eyes lingering on her retreating form as she faded into the crowd like a ghost, the blood in his veins pumping slightly harder when he noticed the feral look in the other men's eyes as she glided past them in her stunning red dress, an ethereal goddess made flesh. It made him wish they would make the same mistake as his friend Merim; assume that she was married, that she was his. That way it would be clear she was off limits and the men wouldn't look at her with such open covetousness.

To think Maeve's disgruntled behaviour all evening stemmed from her fear that his new outfit would lure women to his side like moths to a flame while she watched in quiet dismay…yet now here he was, the situation turned upside down as he was the one battling with the hungry bite of possessiveness ripping at his core. Unbelievable.

It wasn't the first time Maeve was turning heads in her wake of course, and most of the time it usually stirred warm pride within him, but not tonight.

Tonight, he wanted everyone in the courtyard to know that the woman in the red dress belonged to him.

Tonight, he wanted her to himself.

Sipping his wine as he officially lost sight of her in the crowd, his mind began filling up with all sorts of ideas about how he could make it up to her for all of the crew's teasing and giggling she had endured so far. Most of those ideas consisted of sneaking off into the night at some point, to heed the call of that heated hunger that had briefly shone in the depth of her gaze hours ago in his cabin when they were alone. He longed to see that look in her eyes again, to meet it with the same scorching thirst, to steal her breath away with his lips, to let his hands-

Reining his thoughts in with a small groan of admonishment, he tried to bring his attention back to the ongoing conversations at the table, but miserably failed to properly focus on any of them. All he knew was that at some point, Merim excused himself to speak with an associate merchant, Rongar made it back to their table with the girl in a purple dress stuck to his side, only stopping briefly to drink some ale before heading back to the dancefloor as a new tune reverberated around the room, while Firouz scooted closer on the bench to join in on Doubar and Nejib's conversation.

With hundreds of torches and lanterns hanging all around the courtyard in iron brackets fixed on the dozens of columns, the bright golden light of the party never even dimmed when night gradually settled in. Sinbad only noticed how much time had passed when he glanced up and saw the stars and the moon sparkling in the velvety sky.

As he glanced around however, the life of the party was far from dwindling. The festive orchestra was still playing lively tunes for the people of Bakar to enjoy, there was still ample food on every table and much wine still to drink.

He nibbled at a few grapes, distractedly listening to Firouz telling the tale of how his ruby beamer invention had nearly started a war on the Ilse of Corusar, while Doubar pointedly observed that the laser in question had also nearly singed off his jewels. Much to Nejib's pleasure, the conversation then turned into a friendly banter between the two men, with Doubar complaining about the fact that he often served as a guinea-pig for Firouz's inventions, recalling the time when the inventor's solar-powered beard trimmer hadn't been much of a success.

After some time listening to their harmless quarrel, Sinbad finally decided to stretch his legs a bit, using that as an excuse to go look for Maeve amidst the crowd, but then as if on cue his eyes caught sight of a red dress on the opposite side of the room.

Tilting his head for a better view across the dancefloor, past the flowing crowd of dancers, he saw her sitting at another long table, casually conversing with a roguish man with sweeping blond hair, who looked nothing like a magic practitioner or a wizard. Dancers kept fractioning his view of the scene but Sinbad could clearly see them laughing, the two of them leaning close as they spoke over the music, her wide smile shining like a beacon for sailors lost at sea.

The sight sprang him into action in an instant, limbs and muscles suddenly alight with liquid fire. Excusing himself, he finished his glass of wine in one gulp, stood up and left the table, with Doubar, Firouz and Nejib only absently acknowledging his sudden departure.

Keeping a raptor eye on Maeve across the room, but especially on the blond man and his every move, Sinbad weaved his way through the crowd like a wolf circling a prey, moving along the outskirts of the dancefloor with measured steps as his mind spun like a wheel until the simplest idea struck him.

When he reached the orchestra energetically engaged in an upbeat jig, he leaned in towards the closest musician, a white-haired harpist who was currently clapping her hands and not playing. He beckoned the old woman closer so she would hear him as he spoke in a low voice, asking for a special request for the next tune and hoping she and her comrades would know the specific song he had in mind. When the elderly harpist nodded with a smile, her old eyes wrinkling in kind, he smiled back in gratitude and returned his attention back to the room, this time heading straight for Maeve as his heart flared in his chest like a mighty storm threatening to unleash hell upon earth if anyone stopped him.

She had her back to him from where she was comfortably seated beside the handsome blond man, and he could tell by the small tremors in her shoulders that she was laughing again, clearly entertained by whatever her interlocutor was saying, which was probably some lame joke at best.

Sinbad skittered past a group of playful children, ducked beneath the food tray a valet was carrying above his head, then annoyedly removed the wanderings hands of a young woman who vainly attempted to invite him over for a drink.

He was halfway to his destination when the current tune sounded its final notes, the jig softly dying down as dancers halted their steps to clap joyfully in appreciation of the orchestra's talents. The majority of them stayed on the dancefloor, awaiting the next tune, while a few patches of people glided away to catch their breath and indulge in a few refreshments.

The throng of retiring dancers to the tables slowed Sinbad's progress but his eyes never left Maeve's back, and when the first notes of his requested song finally rang in the room under the harpist's expert fingers, the chattering of people in the entire courtyard abruptly lowered, men and women craning their necks to steal curious glances at the orchestra and straining their ears to identify this foreign song they had rarely, if ever, heard before tonight.

As the buzzing festivities considerably dimmed in the room like a thin veil slowly depositing over the crowd, with everyone intrigued and pausing to listen, it took a moment for Maeve to show any kind of reaction, her senses probably not paying enough attention to the palpable shift in the room and the music. But when the single fiddle echoed at last with the melody she knew so well, Sinbad saw her shoulders tense and her head snap to the side, her brown eyes scanning the crowd to anchor on the musicians as both surprise and puzzlement stamped themselves on her beautiful features.

It was the Skye Boat Song.

Sinbad moved again, staying his course and knowing full well he was the only person still moving in the courtyard, which made it easier for Maeve to spot him, a lone figure walking amidst frozen statues. Her eyes locked with his across the distance, as if nothing else but him suddenly existed in her world, the blond man beside her vanishing completely.

People chattered quietly all around, puzzling at what was going on while many inquiring gazes settled on them.

When he reached her side at last, his entire body taut as a bow string and ready to snap, he was lost within the storm of emotions in her eyes before he could take another breath, her beautiful gaze looking up at him, overwhelmed, touched, exposed…And then a strange calmness swiftly overtook him like a gentle wave, and his hand extended down to her as easily as blinking.

She looked down at the invitation with speechless surprise, her dark eyes staring at his outstretched palm like some ancient, precious relic unearthed from its hidden cave.

"I seem to recall you took a rain check the last time I asked," he spoke softly, referring to the evening they had shared on the beach after the battle of Skull Mountain, where she had declined his invitation to dance and instead chose the quiet reclusion of the beach.

His words seemed to shake her back to reality, awareness sinking back into her gaze, and a special smile curved her lips, the smile she gave only to him. With no hesitation she slipped her hand in his and he pulled her up from her seat, their private shields properly discarded as he led her to the dancefloor under the many sweet glances and tender smiles directed their way.

Out of the corner of his eyes, as the citizens of Bakar began paring up into couples, the men lovingly embracing their women as they gently let themselves sway to the unusual Celtic music, Sinbad noticed the crew at the distant table, grinning like pumpkins to the sound of the beautiful song they had recognized as well. He paid them no attention, his focus entirely anchored on the woman he was guiding to the center of the dancefloor, to a spot the other dancers seemed to have deliberately left empty for them.

For Sinbad the Sailor and the Woman in the Red Dress.

With Maeve's flaming red hair matching the foreign notes of the music like some ancient muse, it was obvious the special song was playing on her behalf, and with Sinbad as her leading partner it was twice as obvious that he had been the one requesting it for her.

Turning to face her as they both stopped in the middle of the dancefloor at their dedicated spot, she was looking at him completely wide-eyed, pupils blown with warmth and longing, yet not without a flicker of fear at such a public display of affection. She looked halfway between wanting nothing more than to mold against him forever, and a prey ready to bolt into the darkness before she was trapped. His own gaze probably matched hers with equal warmth and insecurity, but a strange calmness continued to thrum through his body like a spell, and before all the fears and questions and doubts could rise to the surface he gently snaked an arm around her slender waist and pulled her close, their hands remaining linked on his chest near his heart.

With the distance finally abolished between their bodies, the chance to bolt away no longer an option, he felt her relax instantly, her free hand coming up to rest on his shoulder, the long sleeve of her red dress cascading down his arm like a drape of blood while her red hair glinted in the torchlight like bright copper. Her face was mere inches from his, their breaths mingling together as he softly started them into motion, gently swaying to the lyrical version of the Skye Boat Song.

"You look beautiful," he whispered in her ear. He had already told her as such earlier on the Nomad, but back then he had been too stunned to react otherwise, voicing out the compliment impulsively whereas right now his words were coated with genuine honesty.

Maeve smiled softly against him, then pulled away just enough to meet his eyes. "You don't look so bad yourself," she conceded, almost half-reluctantly.

"Really?" he smirked in satisfaction at her first nice comment about his outfit. "Is that so?"

She rolled her eyes and leaned her head back against the side of his. "Don't let it get to your head."

He chuckled softly, then gave her hand a little squeeze. "If you really don't like it, I'll buy something else first thing in the morning."

She grew silent as she considered his offer. "I guess you can keep the shirt," she began, bargaining with him. "But leather does not become you."

Accepting the deal, he secured his hold around her waist. "Fair enough."

He felt her smile against him again, her cheek slightly brushing his as the orchestra's bittersweet rendition of the Sky Boat Song lulled them into a gentle trance, their bodies rocking together while their feet barely moved.

It was a tender moment, one he wished he could bottle up or freeze forever as easily as he could lock a treasure in a chest. He wanted to engrave every detail of it in his mind; the sound of the lonely fiddle and the harp resonating in the courtyard, the heat of her supple body against him, the warmth of her hand resting on his shoulder and the weight of her sleeve brushing his arm, the soft skin at the nape of her neck where the core of her scent seemed to be stowed, sweet and intoxicating. She smelled like lavender. Sea lavender. A floral scent that always reminded him of the coast, of the shore. But not just any shore. She smelled like home. A port he would always sail back to.

He found himself closing his eyes, and as the nostalgic melody played for them, his mind drifted away to everything they had gone through in the past year, memories and adventures following one another in his head like the pages of a book, every victory they had celebrated after all the evil they had defeated, every close call they had faced, cheating death and sailing on, all the dangers that were yet to ambush them in the dark…

But let them come, he thought with fervour. He would shield her from it all. This woman he was dancing with, who bore the scars of all the hardships life had put her through. A woman whose flesh was fire, a fierce warrior, a powerful sorceress, a spirited temper, a compassionate soul, a secretive heart. He was holding her in his arms right now, all of her, this woman he admired so much. And by the gods, he never wanted to let her go.

"What do you think hurts the most?" Her small voice plucked him out of his thoughts. "Saying something and wishing you hadn't? Or saying nothing and wishing you had?"

Her unexpected words jolted him as good as an arrow, stealing his breath and his voice like a mighty blow to the chest. Her voice was soft and sad, a tiny trace of curiosity laced through it but nothing more, and they both knew it was a rhetorical question. Wikken Hells, he knew the answer, and she damn well knew it too. Silence was always their choice, lest a few words gave shape to this thing between them, this thing that had the power to change their little world forever. A few words that could grant them everything they dreamed of, and yet at the same time shackle them with the fear of losing it all.

So why ask the question if they both already knew the inevitable answer? Why torment and corner him with the choice? To shove him into action? To dare him to break this cursed yet secure silence between them?

He racked his brain for the right words to use, for the words she wanted to hear, his pulse rising in his throat with every second while his body spoke on its own accord, his arm coiling tighter around her waist to press her closer against him, a simple gesture that screamed louder than any word he could possibly utter.

"I'm still trying to figure it out," he murmured with sorrow in her ear. "But I suppose actions can be just as loud as words. Perhaps that's enough." His voice nearly trembled, gruff and low, and he had to steady himself before seeking her approval. "What do you think?"

He gave her hand a squeeze, tucking it more securely between them and over his heart, hoping his answer was enough for her sake as he waited for her response. The fiddle and the harp continued playing, the music swallowing everything in its bittersweet tune as the seconds trickled by endlessly, the wait nearly driving him mad.

He was on the verge of cursing himself into oblivion when he felt her hand move in his palm, her fingers linking through his like she had done a week ago on the beach, in that most intimate moment they had ever shared. She pulled away just enough to rest her brow against his, her free hand gliding higher on his shoulder to lock around his neck, an even more intimate gesture. "Aye," she rasped lowly. "Perhaps that's enough."

He swallowed thickly, her lips so temptingly close he had to painfully restrain himself not to lean in and claim them, not with such a large crowd floating around them to witness their embrace. He wanted her to himself, away from prying eyes, his hands aching and burning with the feral urge to whisk her away, somewhere in the darkness between all those numerous columns surrounding the courtyard, somewhere in a quiet hallway where he could press her against a wall and kiss her senseless.

His state of urgency was only heightened when the long notes from the fiddle slowly began to drag away in the night's air, the song close to an end. Gods be good, not yet, he pleaded silently.

He felt her stiffen in his arms as she sensed the end of the tune as well, her lips slightly parted and hanging inches from his own, a cure to his torment so easy to reach and yet impossibly hard to touch. He couldn't help but shudder against her, his breathing growing heavier as his composure threatened to slip away like a swirl of smoke.

But then the Skye Boat Song was over. Just like that.

The fiddle and the harp died down in the courtyard and a cloak of silence engulfed them all like a mighty dark cloud. The dancers all around them seemed to emerge from a dream, with no sound to be heard except for the distant claps echoing from the tables in appreciation of the musicians.

He stopped swaying yet was unable to move further at all, his feet rooted in place like stone. Maeve barely moved as well, her warm body still locked with his like a coil of vines impossible to pry apart, theirs arms and hands refusing to let go while they both clung to this moment between them, a moment that was dissolving faster with every second their senses sank back to the reality of their surrounding.

A drop of rain falling on her collarbone was what broke the spell. Then another on his cheek.

Soon a small drizzle was clinking on glasses and plates like chimes ruffled in the winds, with people gasping and gazing up to the sky.

Maeve's arm untangled from his neck and her hand returned to his shoulder, her beautiful face pulling away to look up at the gathering clouds and he watched like a man entranced as little drops of rain landed on her forehead, beaded on her nose and caught in her eyelashes. He felt utterly powerless when his own arm relinquished its firm hold on her waist, allowing their bodies to slowly pry themselves loose from one another.

"Looks like the sky is about to fall on our heads," she said, like an eerie premonition.

A rumble of thunder followed her words, ripping the night's sky above them and startling everyone in the courtyard. The light rain then rapidly progressed to heavy drops, promising the arrival of a full volley, with people scurrying to take cover, hiding in the shades of the tall colonnade that framed the banquet while the valets in their white robes rushed to salvage what was left of the buffet and the wine.

But still neither of them moved.

Maeve brought her beautiful gaze back to him, their fingers still linked together like unbreakable mail, and time seemed to stop once more. He let his eyes unabashedly travel down to her lips, which had been his to capture just a few seconds ago. His entire body was pulled taught like a bowstring, ready to snap into action despite the rain sinking into his clothes and into her hair, the urgency returning to his core like claws ripping at his nerves.

He felt himself move forward just when the volley began, a downpour so violent they were drenched to the bone within seconds and she gasped at the unexpected coldness of it all. Lightening flashed and thunder roared, and she was tugging on his hand to seek shelter before he could even blink the rain out his eyes.

A few steps and they were huddled beneath the towering columns amidst the chattering citizens of Bakar, the crowd of people around them properly shattering their previous bubble of intimacy once and for all. But a low groan of refusal escaped him when he felt her hand slip out of his palm and he swiftly gripped harder, refusing to let her go as his arm snaked back around her waist like an iron band, stubbornly securing her close to him once more as he leaned against the granite column behind him.

He shook water out of his eyes and when he could finally look at her, wetter than a fish and beautiful and perfect, hair soaked and tousled, skin flushed pink and dark eyes alight at the spectacle of summer rain, she was smiling. A smile so carefree and happy, devoid of that shade of sorrow that was always lurking in the depth of her gaze like shifting demons, the shadows of her past she carried with her everyday. But he couldn't see them now, and the sight of her, unburdened and beaming, made his heart combust and crack open.

She was smiling. And that was enough.

Sinbad shut his eyes painfully, the pointy edges of her small golden pin drawing ridges in his flesh as he furiously crushed it in his palm, desperate to hold on to the memory before it vanished in the dark like misty ghosts stealing her away. He rested his arms over his knees and hung his head down, the formidable wave of heartache that washed over him almost making him nauseous.

He had been such a fool.

It had been enough back then. The slow dance, their intimate embrace, her bright smile, their renewed vow of silence as they discarded words to the winds once more and chose to rely on touch instead.

It had been enough.

But it no longer was. At least, not for him.

Wikken Hells, he should have said something, should've put a name to that elusive thing between them, to anchor it in reality once and for all, tangible and true, like the colors of a flag meant to be hoisted high. But he hadn't. He'd always been better at show than tell anyway, but even his heated impulse to kiss her had been brutally rebuked by the pouring rain, like a thundering warning sent by the gods to rattle his little world.

It wasn't enough anymore.

Not since the storm.

That cursed storm that had robbed them of farewell, robbed them of time and words. If he had known what would happen that night when she was violently ripped from his life, he would have torn the world asunder just to have a few minutes with her, just a few seconds for one last kiss and a whispered promise.

Wikken Hells, he never even had time to buy proper trousers. The merchants from Bakar had offered no satisfying alternative so Maeve had agreed to wait for the next port to change his attire. But the storm had hit five days later. And just like that she was gone. And the leather pants remained, his own rebelling statement against the world, another promise unkept, tossed into the pile with all the others he had miserably failed to keep.

Anger suddenly rose within him again, dark and foul and poisonous, with the violent need to punch something hard to drive back the insufferable pain.

That fucking storm.

He shut his eyes and ran a heavy hand over his face, the words she had spoken that night sounding in his head like a bad omen. Looks like the sky is about to fall on our heads. The near exact copy of what she had said to him below deck right before the ocean had roared to life in the most formidable tempest he had ever sailed through.

By the gods, he wanted to return to that festival, to let his mind travel back to that dance as its final notes billowed away like smoke, to alter the events and shove himself into motion, to capture her lips and drink from her mouth and dig his fingers into the fabric of that red dress of hers until he was nothing but ashes at her feet.

But he wouldn't dream about that tonight.

Suddenly he knew.

He would dream about the storm.

He'd initially feared she would desert his dreams, a fair punishment for what he had done today, kissing another woman while sinking into a fickle illusion of flames and sea lavender, but he should have known better.

The punishment he would get would be equally chastising. As he opened his palm and watched the tiny red ridges that marred his flesh in the wake of her golden pin, he knew she'd come to him still, a faithful goddess wounded by betrayal, and he would hear her scream his name over thunderous waves and he would watch as she fell into the rampant darkness of the ocean.

Tonight, the sky would fall over their heads, and he would lose her all over again.

Well there you go, lovelies! Thanks for reading till the end and don't forget to leave a review! :)

Now, two things:

1. Here's the version of the Skye Boat Song that inspired me to write this beast of a chapter. watch?v=5IwsLowMICklist=PLSg-QcNY5UvPx5hrziRMXX6n3b5pr1zRuindex=21t=0s

2. Check out the moodboard I spent way too many hours creating for this. I have literally fallen in love with all the potential visual they can conjure. thread/623/touch-destiny?page=4

Thanks again for reading! xoxox