The Sun Sídhe

1 - The Soul's Flame

It was a fine day to be pissed.

Mist hung thick in the air, swirling across the muddied ground with sluggish grace. The dirt road I trod, already jagged and worn, was cratered in deep puddles. I didn't bother avoiding them as I strode down the centre of Tirlagh, cold, damp, and thoroughly annoyed. My boots were soaked through anyway, and there was a dull satisfaction to be had in sending water flying with every step.

Being called from my home in the wee hours of morning was bad enough. Having to slog across acres of hilly, storm-torn terrain was worse. But what really infuriated me was that they'd taken so long to call.

"Maeve."

I ignored the voice and stamped in another pool of water. It sloshed up my leg in an icy wave, drenching my trousers. A groan echoed over my shoulder, followed by the scrape of hasty footsteps. I ignored that, too.

"Maeve, your hands are on fire."

"Is that so?" I growled, shaking out my wrists. Flames I hadn't noticed trailed my fingers, burnishing the low fog orange-gold. At my command, they died away. The path seemed much darker without them; only the weak light of the sunrise granted me vision.

My brother appeared by my side, running a hand through his tangled brown hair. I refused to acknowledge him. He was annoyingly tall—if he didn't have such long legs, I would've lost him a long while ago.

But he did, and I hadn't. He reached for me, seemed to think better of it, and pulled back. That was good. His self-preservation remained intact. "I know you're upset, but—"

"Aye!" I cried. "I'm upset! They waited, Ronan—waited until their lad was nearly dead before sending for me."

"They're scared," he said quietly.

"Your point?" I tramped down a bend in the road, narrowing my eyes to see better through the mist. Houses rose up around us, still and silent. It seemed most people in the village were still asleep. Lucky bastards.

"I was getting to it," he sighed. "You're one of the aes sídhe—"

My eyes rolled. "I've noticed."

"Maeve. You know that fear keeps folk from reaching out. It will take time."

"Time?" I spun about—Ronan nearly walked into me before catching himself. I reached up to prod his chest, anger warming my blood. "I've done this for years! Every time somebody catches an illness, I have done this. I've never failed to help. How much time do they need to learn that I am not going to curse them, or—or whatever it is they're so afraid of? Moon and sun, I don't even ask for payment." I frowned at the last bit. I really ought to. Perhaps a free meal every now and then, or spare clothes.

He spread his hands, holding my gaze. It was always a bit distracting when he did that: I found myself looking between his blue eye and the brown one, unsure which to pick. Not that it mattered. Both held the same soft steadiness. "You threatened to burn down a house the last time you were in Tirlagh," he said. "People took that literally. They don't realise how much you care."

My retort caught in my throat. I bit my lip and glanced at my hands, clenched tight at my sides. Sparks skipped across my fingers. "You heard the lass they sent—the boy's on the brink. Fear is no excuse to let your child die."

"I know." Ronan's hand brushed against my shoulder. I shook it off and shot him a glare. "I know, Maeve. All I ask is that you don't shout. Or offer to set anything alight. It won't help."

"...Fine. I can be nice," I growled. It was pointless to argue with my brother, and the boy's plight deepened the longer we dawdled. I jolted back into motion, scanning the houses dotting either side of the street. They all held the same basic structure: thatched roofs, walls of piled stones, and shut, bare-faced doors. But the village wasn't all that large, and I knew where to look. Each home was marked, whether by a loose stone or the trinkets hung up in the eaves. Each bore the brand of the family within.