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 a sluggish grace. The dirt road I trod, already jagged and worn, was cratered with deep puddles. I didn't bother avoiding them as I strode through the centre of Tirlagh, cold, damp, and thoroughly annoyed. My boots were soaked through anyway, and there was a dull satisfaction to be had 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 waited so long to call.

"Maeve."

I ignored the young man's voice and stamped in another pool of water. It sloshed up my leg in an icy wave, drenching the leg of 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 again."

"Aye. That's what happens when people wait until their boy's nearly dead before asking for help, Ronan," I growled, shaking out my wrists. Flames I hadn't noticed trailed behind my fingers, burnishing the mist around me orange-gold. At my command, they died away. Without them, the path seemed much darker; only the weak light of the sunrise allowed me vision.

My brother appeared by my side, running a hand over 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. Ronan reached for me, but seemed to think better of it and pulled back. That was good. His self-preservation was still intact. "A lot of the people in this town are scared of you, Maeve."

"I know. 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," Ronan sighed. "You're one of the aes sídhe, Maeve. Fear keeps people from reaching out. It will take time."

"Time?" I spun around—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, Ronan! Every time somebody catches an illness, I have done this. And I've never failed in helping. How much time do they need to learn that I am not going to curse them, or—or whatever it is they're so scared 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.

Ronan 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.

"Maeve," he said, "you threatened to burn down a house the last time you came to Tirlagh. People take that literally."

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. "I'm tempted to do it again. You heard the lass they sent—the child's on the brink. Fear is no excuse to let your boy die."

"I know, Maeve." Ronan's hand brushed against my shoulder. I shook it off and shot him a glare. "I know. All I ask is that you don't shout until their ears bleed. Or threaten more arson. It won't help."

"...Fine. I'll be nice," I growled. It didn't matter much: besides, the boy was in danger the longer we dawdled. I jolted back into motion, scanning the houses dotting either side of the street. They all had the same basic shape: walls of piled stones and mud, thatched roofs, shut, bare-faced doors. But this place wasn't all that large, and I knew where to look. Each house was marked, whether by a loose stone or a trinket hung up in the eaves. Each bore the brand of the family within.