#magiclikefire

No More Wishing

Facing the roaring crowd now—that had all of its attention fixed on the fight— Áedán spotted the face he could pick out of any mob. A woman stood close enough to his brother to have come with him. With a curious quirk to his lips, Áedán dropped down the steps to the ring and nudged his way through the crowd toward them. Behind him, the boy had both arms up, blocking sharp little rabbit punches against his forearms that forced him back and back and back.

It was fight night. The dojo had been cleared, all equipment to the walls to make room for the fenced ring and the mob. The first bout of the night was always important because the master chose the combatants. Everything after that was challengers and their rivals and brawling until every student wore bruises and grins. But the first fight had ceremony. Especially when the master’s most proficient student and business partner was one of the chosen. Especially when the master stood by her at her edge of the large ring.

Liv eyed the grinning boy at the other side as he bounced from foot to foot. And then winked. Her usual confident ease had tensed into pursed lips. She actually looked a bit sick. Áedán pretended not to notice as he carefully wrapped her tiny hands.

“You’re not doin’ me any favors, old man.”

“I know no one wraps tight enough for you and you can’t do it yourself, so—”

She yanked her hand back. “Not the tape, fucker.” She jerked her head. “Why him.”

Áedán glanced over his shoulder, all innocence. “Why not him?”

Liv just leveled a glare up at him. She knew her teacher missed nothing. Couldn’t have missed the way the young arrogant fighter had been trailing her. The comments that had been made. The chaos that ensued when he’d dared touch her and she’d broken fingers. And still he didn’t give up. But she refused to give him the time of day. This was a confrontation she did not want. Didn’t want to touch the douche even if it was to drive her knee into his ribs.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” she said, emphatic.

Áedán’s eyebrows rose. “I won’t be involved in what’s to come.”

Liv sighed. “You know what I mean. I don’t need your intervention. I don’t need to ‘teach him a lesson’ or whatever’s in your head.”

Áedán seemed to think about that. Mulled it over as he reached down to lift her hand again. She let him, studying his face with a frown as he finished wrapping carefully. He didn’t speak until he had and Liv muttered thanks under her breath as she stretched her fingers.

"Do you know why I've always been a warrior?” he said, voice quiet. “Do you know why I'll never stop?”

She’d heard many reasons over their time together, but still Liv shook her head hesitantly.

“Because there will always be those who won't listen to words, Liv. And when they rise up, there has to be someone there. Someone else who doesn't use words.” He shook his head. “It’s not a lesson for him. It’s a lesson for you. It’s not me protecting you. It’s you protecting yourself.”

He straightened to his full height again, Liv watching him with an inscrutable frowning expression of speechlessness. Áedán took a step back, looking her over with pride.

“But if you’re in a listening mood, do something for the old man, will you?” He met her eyes, his own twinkling just a bit. “Do more than break his fingers this time.”

Liv still said nothing, but she nodded once, a shallow bow. Áedán nodded back, moving away from her and toward the center. The combatants came together and smacked the backs of their right hands before backing off again.

“No hair-pulling, no biting, no crying,” Áedán intoned with smooth practice. “Wins for submission or knockout. Do not continue fighting after either. I’m not your ref but I will intervene. Understood?”

“Yes, master,” they barked in unison, still focused on each other. As they should be. Áedán smiled, pride shining through.

“Good. Fight.”

His tone was casual to the point of boredom as he stepped between them, headed for the fence. As soon as he passed between them, the fight was officially begun. The young man smirked at Liv.

“How about if I win, you and I—”

With a half-feral growling cry, Liv took a running leap up off the ground, propelling herself high enough that the downward punch caught the pushy jerk at the top of his temple, smacking him straight to the ground despite being a good foot and a half taller.

Airn really couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to whatever had the rest of the tavern suddenly humming with interest. He couldn’t be bothered to do much of anything, really, except lean back in his seat and prop his feet up and let the rum wash away the bitter taste of salt and blood, numb aching muscle. Most fae didn’t know the true meaning of a hard day’s work. But when you enjoyed what you did, it couldn’t really be called work.

With his chair balanced perfectly on two legs—hovering toward one—and his head lolling back, he almost could’ve dozed off right there if not for the body that suddenly impacted his table with a loud and pained Oof of an exhale.

Before his chair had slammed fully back to the floor, Airn had a knife half-drawn, dark eyes sharp and alert despite the empty bottles around him. Wide blue eyes stared back at him, set in an unmistakably human face, though the creature fairly reeked of magic. Old magic. It was probably why the entire populace of the shitty little tavern had taken such an interest in him. And why one of them had thought it’d be funny to trip the poor clumsy thing.

The boy—man? age was a hard thing to judge in the short-lived—was quick to scramble off Airn’s table, quick to refocus his attention on the ones jeering at him or crooning for him to relax. He gave attention to neither it seemed, backing away further, putting himself against a wall and settling into an obvious combat stance. His fist glowed blue and the flames of it licked against his outline. Impressive for a human. Trifling by fae standards.

Airn watched, head canting by a fractional degree. It wasn’t as though he’d never seen his kin—and he used the word derisively for this lot—fight over a prize before. Still, something kept him from going back to dozing in the warm dry air of the little backwater inn. He lifted a hand to the side, fingers uncurling for the bottle that flew obligingly to his palm. He tugged the cork free with his teeth and took another long pull. 

The first fae to come close enough to the glowing human received a fist in its face, driven faster and harder than a human should’ve been able to move. Unfortunately for the boy, that just made the rest even more interested. Rather more fortunately, that included Airn. The human kept the mob at bay with little snaps of blue fire, but he certainly wasn’t going anywhere soon.

By then Airn had decided that the situation could be made more interesting. His chair tipped back onto two legs again, though this time his boots shifted on the tabletop. It was a blur of movement even by fae standards. By Fomorian standards it was a little sloppy, but he could be forgiven for it given the amount of spiced rum warming his limbs.

The heavy table soared through the air like a flung mug. And as inciting incidents went for bar brawls, tables were more common than smaller items. Bolting them down didn’t help when someone got angry enough or drunk enough.

The chunk of wood and metal hit some poor unseelie wretch in the jaw, smashing his head into the opposite wall. Before the room could fully absorb this fact, Airn had stood up between the glowing human and the crowd. Only his dagger was drawn—despite the heavy cutlass hanging obvious in its sheath—and he held it low and casual at his thigh, rum still cradled with more priority in his other hand. He took a drink as he stared them down, lips curling slightly. The insult was obvious. He could flay them all without much trouble.

“Fomoire,” one feminine antlered creature murmured at the back, probably thinking itself wise.

The others whispered amongst themselves, seeming to weigh the potential for entertainment against the likelihood of being gutted. Or worse: clapped in iron and sold to pay for the dark-eyed pirate's next drink. A scaled genderless thing shifted bravely at the front of the group, pointing to the human Airn could feel almost literally buzzing behind him.

“Is it yoursssssss?”

Airn laughed once, sharp, a bark. Hah. Then it descended into a richer, more mellifluous sound as the idea really fully struck him in all its hilarity. His head tipped back and his shoulders followed, lean form made even more fluid with the spiced drink inside him. He lifted the bottle to his lips again, gesturing flippantly with the knife.

“No, of course not.”

The human was obviously unclaimed, though that could change rather quickly. Especially given that he was quite a bit more useful than the average pretty prize.

“Whoever lost this one deserved to lose him, obviously,” Airn went on with a half a shrug. A few nodded in agreement. Then suddenly the pirate’s voice went darker, though lost none of its camaraderie. “Or, quite possibly, there’s more to him than meets the eye. As we speak, some Seelie princeling could be lying in a rare-traveled back alley…burnt to a crisp. Melted into the ground because he wasn't fast enough. Because he prodded too much. Maybe this isn’t your average human. Maybe he’s just waiting for an excuse. Maybe he could destroy this whole little shack and every little smudge inside it.”

The silence was heavy and thick. Silence that could only come from a room full of beings that were capable of inhuman levels of stealth. Only the glowing boy’s breaths made any sort of impact, though they were surprisingly long and calm for his situation.

An ogre spat on the floor at Airn’s feet and declared: “Troll shit.”

The Fomorian sighed. “Ah, well, worth a try.”

Like that was a signal, the room exploded out of sepulcher quiet and into violence given form. Airn smashed his still half-filled bottle off into a winged creature’s face before it had a chance to finish its lunge and sink talons into suntanned features. With only a brief mental pause to lament the drink splattered all down his arm, Airn pivoted to meet the thundering ogre with his knife up under its ribcage, breaking rib after rib as he split open its gut and chest cavity.

Crack crack crack.

The beast roared as it went down and Airn kicked it away, knife flipping over lithe fingers to set back against his forearm, clashing with an overhanded sabre blow. Holding the parry, Airn punched low, aiming for vulnerable innards, and then brought his knee up hard when the fighter doubled over in pain. Crack.

Only when a fae went howling past Airn's peripheral, knocked through the air in a flash of brilliant cobalt, did the captain consider the possibility that the interesting human would actually be a help in the fight. When the fae glanced over, the man merely shrugged one shoulder with a half-wince, as if to say Well, we’re in it now. Airn couldn’t help but grin, a surprised sort of chuckle escaping. 

It switched to a warning wince faster than most things could blink, but not fast enough to stop another fae tackling the human straight to the floor. Airn hopped up onto a table as it toppled, pushing off to kick against a hulking brawler and change his direction, landing with his arm locked round the fae’s neck, slinging him off the human with a fully impossible, fuck-you-physics, midair-momentum-changing throw. It landed him on one knee and he glanced first at the panting human and then at the brawl which had taken on a life of its own. As these things often did. The entire room had forgotten why they started pummeling each other in the first place. With a sigh, Airn stood. And here he’d been hoping for more of an event. He extended a hand to the boy, hauling him up without effort.

“What’s your name, human?”

The man panted, doubling over with hands on his thighs to catch his breath. “What’s yours?”

Airn grinned, then laughed hard, but gave an acquiescing nod. “Airn.”

“Gorm.”

“Funny thing, Gorm. You seem to owe me your life.”

The wary look in blue eyes told Airn all he needed to know. This one had been among them long enough to know the way things worked. Had he really survived on his own? Through his own wits and magicks? Or had some fool brought him here only to abandon him?

“I did help, if you remember,” Gorm pointed out, wary and calm.

Airn arched an eyebrow, ducking a yowling goblin smoothly and somehow coming back up with an empty mug and an intact pitcher. “Do you count your life equal to one barfight? Because that’s all this was to me.” He poured a drink and handed off the mug just in time to catch another out of the air inches before it would’ve struck the human’s skull. He filled that one as well. “I was always going to walk out of this room unharmed. Can you say the same?”

He tossed the pitcher over his shoulder and it thonk’d off a faun’s horned head, knocking it out cold. Without reacting in the slightest, the pirate captain tapped his mug against the one held limply in the human’s hand and grinned.

They didn’t run up flags decorated in bones or fire warning shots. They didn’t hesitate or wait for cover of night. They simply hounded down their prey like a sleek wolf racing across the choppy sea, slicing through waves like hot wire through meat. That was all the sign needed for any ship to understand:

The Fomoire were coming.

Most surrendered immediately in hopes of mercy. Some fled. A few fought. And occasionally one pulled her powder stores and scuttled herself before the scent of iron grew too strong. But a Fomorian vessel always caught her prey. She ran them down, tired them out, bit into their flanks until they bled and slowed and closed their eyes against death.

The Tempest struck broadside of the merchant ship, and when splinters flew they weren’t from her deck. Her captain was the first atop the rail, a cutlass in one hand and a rapier in the other, wearing a grin like death itself. The few warriors on the merchant ship’s deck took a unanimous step back, weapons shaking in their hands.

His head canted once, sharply, a smirk growing. “All your worldly possessions, I should think.”

As if they had the option.

Before a mouth could open—to scream or bargain—the horde came up over the rail, surging around their captain like the sea splitting for the prow of a galleon. Just as fearsome and twice as loud. Blades dropped to the deck. Those that could, took flight. And some of those that couldn’t dove over the side anyway. The rest fought because they suddenly realized the value of their lives.

The captain stood atop the railing until the last man leapt across the gap. Balanced against the dip and sway like he stood on solid earth, he seemed to be waiting, watching the violence with a smile, as a parent observed a playing child. A swell took the Tempest higher than her crippled prey, and he moved with it, dropping down to the now-lower deck with one step. It was as if the sea herself were his ally, the survivors would later whisper.

He moved with less ferocity than his crew, sauntering through the chaos, dipping around stray blades, occasionally running a sailor through on his stroll across the screaming deck. He found his target soon enough, impressed at least that the captain of this fine vessel looked to have earned his command. The fae was old and grizzled, but fighting well. And he hardly showed a shred of fear when he caught sight of the dark-eyed corsair striding toward him.

Their blades met first, cutlass against backsword, then dagger against rapier. Slash, clang, stab, slash, swipe. It became a dance almost immediately and the pirate’s grin showed how often he got a real proper duel from his targets. They said nothing, exchanged no barbs or taunts. The merchant fought for his life and the pirate fought for pleasure and their weapons held the debate.

But eventually the fluidly graceful captain grew bored and his opponent grew tired and the former tripped the latter to the ground. With the rapier's point under his chin, the merchant called surrender and the conversation was over. Swords were sheathed and the loser received a hand up from the winner. Also a patronizing pat on the cheek and a laugh.

Rules of honor were much more like guidelines among fae, to say nothing of the Fomoire. It said much of what the victor thought of the conquered that he turned his back on the fuming old captain. The poisoned knife was drawn silent and quick, but noted easily enough. The cutlass rang back out to meet it, halt it, knock it aside. But before the killing blow could fall, a blast of blue energy struck the underhanded bastard, lighting him up as though he’d been foolish enough to hold onto metal in a storm. His muscles locked tight, fingers curled in unnatural forms, head snapping back as he screamed and jerked down to the deck, burning with focused fire.

Airn slowly lowered his cutlass as he watched the man die, then glanced across the suddenly silent space. Stunned pirates and survivors alike turned as well, staring at the human who stood near the helm, his hand still glowing brightly from the charged missile.

The captain smirked slowly and touched his forelock and the fire-headed mage nodded back, smiling in spite of himself. In spite of his attestation that piracy was not a profession he aspired to. In spite of the crew's derisive treatment of their non-Fomoire crewman.

"Hey, Miranda, I'm trying to text you, but my damn---oh. Hello?," she said, seeing it wasn't Miranda moving back and forth behind the counter, but someone else. Someone with hair to envy after and someone she remembered fondly from Adrian's shop. "Is...that you, Ciaran? Are you now a serial filler in or something? How you been?"