Author's Notes: Now that The Gift is complete, I am placing all relevant author's notes here at the beginning and deleting the others. I do not believe in pulling to publish so this will remain freely available on both AO3 and FFN so long as the platforms do not remove it. Anyone who wishes has permission to translate; all I ask is that you credit me as the author and link back to the original either at AO3 or FFN, and send me a message telling me you have done so. I can be reached by private message on FFN or CrisChalcedony on Twitter.
Trigger Warnings: Domestic abuse in a fantastical context, dysfunctional family dynamics, cultural/racial tensions, plotline and characters firmly rooted in binary genders, passing mentions of miscarriage/stillbirth/infant death/abortion.
Other Tags: HEA, no major character death. Not AU, though it does delve into an original backstory for Maeve (most of my stories do). Heavy use of original characters in supporting roles. PG-13 violence, very explicit cishet sexual content. Action/adventure, romance, hurt/comfort, family/found family, magic/supernatural, pregnancy/children. I would not classify this as angst but others may disagree.
Historical Notes: While I try to be more historically accurate than the original show, I do take deliberate liberties and of course I have also made mistakes. I've left a few historical notes at the end of relevant chapters. The story of Tam Lin is not recorded until the 1500s but was probably in oral circulation well before. The original Sinbad stories are 8th/9th century. My Maeve is always pagan, though historically she would have most likely been Christian; this is deliberate. I downplay the role of religion because religion causes the kind of conflict that isn't fun to write about and is of no interest to me. Where the show's canon conflicts with cultural accuracy I tend to side with the show's canon, though not always.
Other: I didn't know when I named the Breakwater kids that both ZG and JC had sons named Rory. I wouldn't have chosen it if I knew, but I didn't change it because it's difficult to find Gaelic names that a) aren't blatantly Christian and b) are easily pronounceable to English-speaking readers. I also tried for about 3/4 of this story to write Rongar without using *dialogue* to sub in for his signing, but it eventually got too difficult as he became a more prominent role. Writing a main character who does not speak in conventional ways is tough!
About the use of "Moor": I wanted to address this directly. I was uncomfortable using the term, since it seemed like it would be considered racially insensitive at the least. So of course I Googled. It's really not a word anyone should be using to reference Black people, though it is historically accurate as such (see Shakespeare's Othello: The Moor of Venice). However, the Moors are a distinct historical and cultural group from North Africa who moved north, particularly into the Iberian peninsula, where their influence remains to this day. Referring to someone of this cultural group as what they are is not problematic, which is why in my stories (though it may not be blatant) this is the cultural background I give to Rongar. It may not make a difference to others but it does to my conscience.
Thank You: A huge thank you to readers and reviewers, especially those who read this in serial form as it posted throughout 2020-22. I am a wordy bitch, but even so this is the longest story I have ever completed. One reason it ended up as long as it did was the serial nature of posting chapter-by-chapter; I felt the need to remind readers through exposition of things they had read maybe over a year ago and I didn't expect them to remember. In consequence some things may feel repetitive if the story is read all at once; for that I apologize, it's just the nature of the beast. If you've gotten this far, I hope you enjoy this "gift" as much as I enjoyed giving it to you.
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
"Do you have any idea what it is?"
Cairpra looks grave. Her face, normally still smooth despite her years, wrinkles with concern. "I do," she says, leaning back in her chair. For the first time Sinbad can remember, she truly looks old. Her shoulders slump under her silver silk shawl and she tucks her sharp elbows in, as if warding off a chill no one else can feel.
Her somber expression, her posture—everything tells Sinbad that the answer he's looking for is very, very bad. He holds his breath, steels himself for whatever the news might be. He can take it. He has to take it.
The eerily skull-shaped mark appeared over his heart a week ago, like a bruise the color of old blood. It doesn't hurt, but refuses to fade. Firouz can make nothing of it; Maeve shuddered when she first saw. So pale already, she turned white as the dead and ordered him to find a fully-trained sorcerer to read this riddle. With Dim-Dim missing he trusts no magic more than Cairpra's, so here they are, in Basra, to learn whatever the aged sorceress can tell them.
"The Greeks called it oulí, the Romans cicatrix."
"Scar," Firouz murmurs.
Cairpra nods. "Aye. But more than that. It is a mark denoting ownership."
"Ownership…of me?" Fury simmers in Sinbad's gut. Nobody owns him. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He's master of the seven seas, and master of his own self. If somebody wants to own him, they're in for a fight.
The old sorceress's voice is flat. "Of your soul."
"Waaait a minute." Sinbad holds up his hand. "Someone's claimed ownership of my soul? Since when?" He thumps his knuckles on his chest; it makes the same sound it always has. "I don't feel any different." Shouldn't there be some…some sign if his soul's been taken? He feels the same. The mark causes no pain, not even the dull ache of a normal bruise. He doesn't feel hollow or…or anything else that might lead him to believe someone has claimed his soul.
"You won't. Not yet." Cairpra clasps her thin hands together in her lap. She's a small woman and looks smaller hunched over in her chair, old and unhappy. "The claim has been made but possession not yet taken."
"All right, so who made it, and how do we keep them from taking possession?" Doubar demands. His knuckles crack as he clenches his meaty hands into tight fists, anxious for a fight, for an enemy he can see and touch. Sinbad agrees.
"That is the question, isn't it?" Cairpra shifts her hands, moves in her chair as if in pain. This isn't like her. Sinbad can feel her distress; he appreciates her worry but doesn't need her pain. He and his crew can fix this. They always do.
Maeve, beside Sinbad, is quiet as Rongar. He's grateful for her presence, the comfort of her nearness. On her other side, Firouz stands ready to take in whatever information Cairpra can give. Despite Maeve's temper she's not so excitable as Doubar, and Sinbad is glad of the cooler heads in his crew in this situation. They'll need all the caution and cunning Firouz and Rongar can muster, he can feel it, as well as Maeve's magic. Doubar's strength and protective instinct become assets only after they know where to unleash him.
"Your soul will have been offered in trade to the demon Scratch for something—I don't know what. That mark is his signature, his acceptance of the bargain." Cairpra nods at Sinbad's bared chest. He shrugs his shirt back over his shoulders and tucks the open front around himself, hiding the mark once more.
"But who bargained with my soul in the first place?" Sinbad demands. "I sure as hell didn't."
"Someone with enough of a claim on it that Scratch was willing to trade." Cairpra's bright eyes pierce him. "Think, Sinbad. Think hard. Who might arguably have a claim, no matter how trifling?"
But Sinbad can't think of anyone with any sort of claim on his soul. The most important people in his life are in this room, and he knows with absolute certainty that none of them would offer his soul for any price.
Minutes tick by, everyone searching their memories, digging back deeper into their shared past, trying to find an answer, any answer, to this puzzle. Sinbad closes his eyes, breathes deeply. His soul. He's accepted the fact that he may lose his life at any time —his dangerous career as an adventurer all but ensures he won't die of old age. But his soul? This is something he never thought he'd lose. You can't lose it by accident, can you? Have it stolen, like a coin or a horse? You have to willingly give it away, and he can't remember ever even coming close to doing so.
A soft intake of breath next to him forces his eyes open. He blinks, finds Maeve's beautiful, troubled gaze. "Rumina." He can barely hear her.
Rumina? She's their enemy, yes, but… "I think I'd remember if I gave her my soul."
"You gave her yourself. In the City of Mist, in exchange for Serendib." Maeve turns to Cairpra. "Is that close enough? It's the only thing that makes sense. Sinbad and Rumina made a deal, trading for a captive young girl. But then Serendib and I together were able to best Rumina's magic, so Sinbad said the deal was off. Rumina didn't exactly agree, but she left without him."
Cairpra nods slowly, mulling the details. "Legally tricky," she says, tenting her fingers. "Was the deal fully struck? Did the sorceress give the girl to you? Did she take possession of Sinbad?"
He nods slowly, dread suddenly filling him. Gods, this can't be happening, can it? Could Rumina really have the ability to sell his soul to the devil because of some hastily-proposed, altruistic deal he'd nearly forgotten?
"That can't be right," Doubar argues. "She left without him! Surely that means she has no claim?"
Cairpra's face remains troubled. "If Scratch has approved the deal, that means he thinks she has a true claim."
Beside Sinbad, Maeve swears in her native language. Despite the situation, Sinbad thinks it's sexy as hell.
"So what do we do?" Firouz shoves his curly hair out of his face. "Is there some sort of…demon law court to appeal to?"
"No." Cairpra shifts again. "Scratch claims souls all year long, but he cannot gather them until the eve of Samhain."
It's not a date or a word Sinbad is familiar with, but beside him Maeve raises her head. "All Souls Night."
"Aye," Cairpra confirms. "On that night, he will attempt to collect the souls he believes are his due. If he is correct, that soul is doomed."
"If not, it goes free?" Firouz asks.
The old sorceress nods.
"That's not good enough!" Doubar pounds a fist on the table, rattling the whole room. "There has to be another way!"
Cairpra doesn't look hopeful. "I don't know of one. Besides the Tam Lin Protocol, of course. But I'm quite vague as to its details."
Sinbad doesn't recognize the term, but Maeve's head snaps up. She narrows her eyes at Cairpra warily, and he can feel uneasy tension leaking from his sorceress. It's such a strange reaction, and it puts Sinbad instantly on alert.
"I will look in my books. Maeve, if you would go through Omar's library? I make no promises, Sinbad. But I will do all I can. You are dear to Dim-Dim, and dear to me. We will not let this happen without a fight."
The Savage Sultan will no doubt open his library for them, but Sinbad doesn't feel any better. Scratch has claimed his soul. If Cairpra and Maeve can find no recourse in their books, what then?
The crew huddle close together as they make their way toward Omar of Basra's magnificent white palace. Maeve's arm brushes Sinbad's with each step, Doubar just as near on his other side, Firouz and Rongar nearly treading on their heels. It's like his friends are willing their presence to protect him from the looming threat of Scratch. Impossible, but he appreciates it nonetheless.
"Maeve?" The back of his hand grazes hers. She turns her head, waiting willingly enough for his next question. He's hesitant, due to her reaction to the subject at Cairpra's, but he needs to know. "What's the Tam Lin Protocol?" His mouth stumbles over the unfamiliar words.
Her open, lovely face immediately slams shut, the warmth in her dark eyes disappearing. "I don't know."
"But you know something." He knows better than to prod her like this, but right now he's too desperate to care. Whatever knowledge she has, he needs. It could mean the difference between life and death, salvation and doom.
Maeve's big, dark eyes flick from one face to another; she dislikes being the center of attention like this, much preferring to deal with people one-on-one. Her steps slow; Sinbad unconsciously matches her shortened strides. His sorceress is beautiful—the most beautiful girl he's ever seen—and keenly intelligent. Loyal to the grave, once her trust has been earned. But she's also prickly, and evasive about her past. Much like the delicate roses their mentor Dim-Dim loves so much, she's difficult to grasp. Rush in too swiftly or without enough care, and she'll wound as surely as if she had thorns of her own. Like their mentor's flowers, she must be handled gently and with forethought.
"Please, Maeve." He touches her wrist lightly, her milky skin cool under his callused fingertips. She watches his hand, eyes full of caution. Touching her is always a risk. Sometimes she welcomes it, other times not, and he hasn't yet learned what triggers her reactions. He wishes he knew. Upsetting her upsets him, too, and he's not sure what to make of that. He only knows that he feels it, feels her, deeply, without understanding any of it.
Now she slows still more, nearly stopping until his fingers fall away from her delicate wrist. Her eyes drop and she crosses her arms tightly over her chest, as she often does when she's upset. Though the gesture looks impatient, Sinbad feels rather that she's hugging herself, physically holding back or holding in…something. She shakes her head lightly, tossing back her flame-colored hair, and increases her pace once again.
"It's a story," she says, words clipped, eyes fixed on the worn street in front of them. "Not from my people, but the next island over. Just a fireside tale."
"About what?" Doubar demands. Though he has learned to appreciate and even like their resident sorceress, he has little patience for her moods. They often bicker back and forth like siblings, with the occasional blowup Sinbad has been fortunate enough to smooth over thus far. What will happen to their relationship if his soul really is doomed, he doesn't know.
Maeve frowns at the big man, but her eyes return quickly to the ground. She's silent.
To keep Doubar from making things worse, Sinbad risks another attempt. His fingers flex, the pads of his fingertips finding Maeve's as they walk, tucked under her crossed arm. She shies away instantly, breaking contact. Irritated, she favors him with a dark glare. Her gorgeous, lush lips compress into a tight, displeased line, but at least now she's frustrated with him and not Doubar.
"Tam Lin was designated as payment to hell by the queen of the fairies," she says, voice tight, words clipped. "His pregnant lover showed up at the sacrifice, claimed him, and won the right to keep him. I told you, it's just a story."
"And you don't know what the protocol is?" Firouz asks from behind them.
"I already said I didn't," she snaps.
Sinbad holds up a hand to his men, warning them to drop the subject. He can see from every line in Maeve's body that she's about to snap. Why, he doesn't know, but she radiates tension as a fire radiates heat. Her arms are like stone across her chest, her shoulders raised and curled slightly forward, her spine a rod of iron. Her short, quick steps look like an escape attempt, but from what? A children's fireside tale? It makes no sense, but he's wise enough to stop his men from making things any worse.
Omar looks grave when they explain their request to him, and he personally leads them to his library, instructing the guards outside the double doors that the crew are to have unlimited access, day or night. Maeve, somewhat recovered, charms the older ruler, as always. Sinbad secretly suspects that Omar would like to offer for Maeve's hand but knows better, understanding that the proud Celt would never submit to life in a harem.
Once inside the impressive library, Firouz and Maeve immediately get to work. She finds the section of magic books, he history, and both heft impressive stacks of dusty tomes to sturdy low tables drenched in sunlight from large windows above. Rongar settles with Firouz and so does Doubar after a moment, grumbling about not being worth much as a scholar. Sinbad sits cross-legged on a cushion across from Maeve.
She looks up in surprise. "What are you doing?"
"Helping. It's my soul we're trying to save, after all."
She considers him for a long moment. Those dark eyes, so unusual among her fair people, hide so much. He's learned to read more in the cast of her lips, the shape of her mouth, the tilt of her head. Most eyes reveal; hers conceal. He's curious where she learned such a skill.
"How many languages can you read?" she asks finally. "If it's just Latin and Arabic, you're better off helping Firouz."
Sinbad takes a look at the pile on the table. All of the documents look ancient, and they're covered in a thick layer of sandy dust. There are loose papers, rolled-up scrolls, and leather-bound books all jumbled together—though Omar's library is grouped by subject, there seems to be no discernible organization within categories. Maeve pulls a large bound book toward her, stirring up dust. She sneezes, the sound a high little squeak, and Sinbad's forced to hide a smile. For all her temper and pride, sometimes she's unbearably cute.
The book's leather spine cracks and pops as she opens it, evidence of age and little use. She scans the introductory pages quickly, finger skimming along lines of elaborate, handwritten calligraphy as she reads, then shakes her head, closes the book, and puts it aside.
Turning his attention to the task at hand, Sinbad reaches for a scroll. The silken binding cord is so old that it crumbles in his fingers when he tries to untie it. Slow, careful as Firouz when he's handling his exploding sticks, Sinbad unrolls the scroll. It's papyrus rather than paper, and he doesn't recognize the symbols on it at all.
"What is this?"
Maeve looks up from her own work. "Ancient Etruscan." She scans the foreign symbols. "And useless. It's a collection of spells for conjuring rain. You can set it aside." She turns back to the paper in her hand.
"It's not what we're looking for, but rain spells aren't useless," Sinbad protests. "This isn't your island, remember."
She lifts her dark eyes to him without raising her head. "Don't remind me. But the very fact that there are so many rain spells there is evidence that none of them actually work."
"Oh." He looks at the papyrus one last time, the inked symbols much faded with the passage of time. Ancient Etruscan. How old is the scroll in his hands? And how did Maeve, a barbarian from the far northwest edge of the world, come to learn its tongue? "How many languages do you know?" he finds himself asking. The abrupt realization that he knows virtually nothing about this woman is both shocking and unwelcome. He knows her moods, her sarcastic sense of humor, how to read emotion into the tilt of her head and pace of her breath. He knows the color of her milk-pale skin by heart, the length of her dark eyelashes—even the taste of her mouth, from one short, furiously passionate kiss. But he has no idea who she was before he met her, before Dim-Dim took her as his apprentice. Did she grow up in a village, or a city? An isolated farm? Does Eire even have cities? The Romans refused to set foot on her island, afraid of the rumors of the fierce, wild people living there. Generations later, those rumors still abound.
Hell, he doesn't even know how old she is.
She watches him warily, and Sinbad can see that something in his voice or expression has set her off again. "I don't know exactly," she says slowly, setting aside the paper in her hands without taking her eyes from him. She reaches for another. "I've always had a knack for picking them up."
"You don't have much of an accent anymore. You used to."
"That's on purpose." She relaxes slightly and breaks eye contact, turning to the new document in her hands. "I'll never fit in here, but at least I don't have to sound so…foreign."
"Why do you want to fit in?" Sinbad frowns. She's perfect the way she is, prickly temper and all. He doesn't like the thought of her trying to be anything else.
She snorts, and an unexpected smile lifts one side of her mouth. "Look at me, Sinbad. I told you, I'll never fit in. Even if I decided to wear long skirts and cover my head like your women do, it wouldn't work. I'm just too different. But making some small concessions, like the accent, makes things…a little easier."
She's right, of course. Even were she to dress in southern clothing, she's too tall and slender, her skin too pale, to be mistaken for anything but what she is: a northerner. The delicate, regal set of her elegant features, the flames of her red hair—she's perfectly beautiful and perfectly barbarian. And he realizes he misses the sweet lilt of her native accent. It trickled away so slowly that he hadn't consciously noticed.
"Say something in your mother tongue." The request is out of his mouth before he can think better of it.
"Imigh uaim agus fág orm féin."
Her tone tells him that what she's just said is rude at the very least, if not downright vulgar. He doesn't care. Her language somehow sounds exactly as he imagined it would—unfamiliar and yet seductive, the syllables round and soft, pleasant to the ear. Impulsively, he reaches across the table and strokes his fingers lightly down her cheek. "Thank you."
She stares at him for a moment, shocked. Then she laughs, a low, sweet chuckle. "Cad a dhéanfaidh mé leat? Go help Firouz, southern boy."
He lets her shoo him away. "Southern boy? How old are you?" he demands, voice light, teasing. Inside he's truly curious but doubtful she'll answer.
She grabs a scrap of blank paper and one of the quills prepped and waiting on the table, and writes. Holding it up, she asks, "Can you read that?"
"No." It's just a couple of nonsense symbols again.
"Then go." She points imperiously to Firouz's table.
Sinbad rolls his eyes, grabs the scrap of paper from her fingers, and goes.