Oh Ye With Raven Hair

I: A Stranger Arrives

A wandering traveler arrives in town. He’s a magician, a merchant. He plays illusions and tricks, and he has a penchant for being a bit...flirtatious with the mistresses. A lady with raven hair catches his eye.

Maeve looks his way, this staunch merchant already weaseling his way into her interests. She may have been single, a large regret for her parents, but she had no interests in pursuing courtship with another. She had told herself she wasn’t that kind of woman.

And yet there was something about this mysterious stranger. That smirk of his, his eyeliner, his strange, mystical ways. They were aggravatingly endearing. He was unlike any other man she had ever seen in this village, and frankly, she couldn’t be more relieved.

All the men in this town were boring. They were one-trick ponies. She never had the chance to be dazzled by words because they were all the same—butchers, blacksmiths, fishermen, and farmers. She wanted someone who could sweep her off her feet and be as dramatic and theatrical as her sometimes.

At least, she thought. When a lady is single for a while, she starts to think maybe she should stay that way. Not that she thinks she’s unlovable, but maybe…there’s a reason for why she hadn’t been asked for her hand. She wasn’t one to go chasing men for some faraway dream.

She knew better than that. She scowls in her mind. Men, she spits, are not always so kind. She subconsciously traces a jagged line hidden under her arm sleeve, a mark she had been given by her father when he had realized she hadn’t accepted any marriage offers yet. She was only 19 then.

(“Is it wrong of me, Father, to choose the man I want to marry?)

She was never a particularly popular lady in her town. Everyone knew she preferred brains over brawn, and they had the misguided perception that she thought the men in this town were beneath her. She was peculiar to them in that regard.

She has always said no to that. Like the plentitude of fish in the sea, she knew which ones were her true family. 

Men weren’t some dreamy escape from the woes of daily life. They were chains to it. For a town in the mid-18th century, patriarchy still ran rampant.

Women’s rights? Absolutely laughable they were.

Well, enough about that. The man was now looking her way and she decided she would at least let him pique her interests. Even for a little while—even if it was temporary—he was far more interesting than her chores of wringing out the clothes from last night’s downpour. 

The man—what has his name?— pat his horse on the leg to beckon her to move forward, pulling his rickety mahogany carriage closer into town.

As well as…closer to her.

Their eyes meet, sliding into place like lock and key. 

“Have I caught your attention, M’lady?” His voice rings out into the quiet of the dusty clearing. 

Maeve turns around, absolutely sure he is talking to someone else. 

He chuckles, his voice slowly rolling across the air, like waves of the sea. “I’m talking to you, thy fair maiden.”

He slowly unmounts his horse and loosely ties the mare to a pole.

He approaches Maeve, his hat atop his head, his eyeliner shining under the light of the sun. 

He starts to sing.

“Raven hair 

Thou art so fair

Take me up for a dare

I can gift you a pretty mare

Nay, I’ll give you two a pair!

If you’ll have a second to spare 

I can play tricks of mind

To and fro, I’ll double time!

Illusions ‘fore your very eyes

Crystalline, as the sun does rise

They reflect on silver dimes

Have a bit of butter

And some cherry wine

Join me in the meadows

How about tonight?

As we’ll dance by candlelight 

And as I take a bow, hat in hand

I’ll give you my very best stand

Here’s my proposal

I’ll give it to-go!

Y’er the fairest maiden that I know.”

His eyes twinkle as the dwindling sun’s rays catch them, glinting like the faint flicker of a flame. They’re mischievous, probing into her soul. She can’t help but be intrigued, like a moth drawn to a flame.

Her heart was immediately caught by the wonderful lustrousness of his words. They were as bright and warm as the glittering sun. And his eyes—as mischievous as they were—they were also gentle. 

He was nothing like her father.

“What’s your name?” She asks, the entire clearing empty except for the two of them.

She knew her parents wanted her back soon, but she could care less right now.

She had more important priorities.

The man’s eyes crinkle with laughter, a mirthy smile scrawled across his face. 

“The name’s Damien, thy fair lady. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he takes her hand and kisses it.

She definitely would not admit that the kiss had made her heart flutter.

And she would most definitely not admit that she made a most undignified stifled squeak when she was caught off guard.

He laughs. It’s a pretty thing. It’s like the throaty warble of a nightingale. 

“Y’er a nice lass, M’lady. What’s a lassie like you doing out here all alone?” He asks, his face curious and attentive.

He has a perpetual smirk on his face, but it’s a kind thing.

She had never been given so much attention in her life.

She clears her throat. “Well…my parents actually want me to come home soon.”

“Run off then, lassie.” He laughs. “I’ll be here for a while. I’m not leaving, so don’t you worry.”

She blushes. “Alright then, you better still be here in the morning! You still have to give me that mare!” She chuckles and turns, her dress swishing across the dirt.

He waves goodbye with a flick of his hand. “Tada…I’ll see you tomorrow,” he spins and smirks, returning to his carriage.

II: Unexpected Beginnings

Maeve woke up not feeling exhausted for once in her life.

Every morning, she was normally greeted by her parents yelling.

Today was no different.

Except for the fact that she didn’t let it dampen her mood.

She’d get to see Damien again today.

A warm feeling filled her up, more energizing than a cup of coffee or any breakfast.

She quickly slipped out of bed and changed out of her nightwear.

Now wearing a modest beige dress, she climbed down the stairs from her bedroom to the living room where her parents were eating breakfast.

She announces, as she does up her hair, “I’m going out.”

She couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice.

Her mother raises an eyebrow. She shares a look with her husband. 

“This early?” Her mother asks.

“Without breakfast?” Her father grunts.

“I want to get an early start on my chores,” she says, looking them into their eyes.

“Really?” Her father laughs. “I’ve never seen you so eager to go out to do chores.”

“Well, I’m growing up,” she says, straightening her back.

“Well then,” her mother has a knowing smile on her face, “you better get on with it then. Those chores won’t do themselves.”

Maeve grins and rushes out the door.

Her father’s quizzical gaze still lingers on its wooden frame.

“What was that all about?” Her father, Darragh, asks.

Her mother, Aine, cryptically smiles, patting him on his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about it.”

Maeve’s gaze sweeps across the early risers in her village, sifting through to find Damien.

She eventually notices his carriage, parked by a tree.

She smiles widely and strolls over to it.

She finds him crouched on a log, carving some wood. He looks up, his smile immediately widening when he notices it’s the lady he saw the day before.

“Well hello there, M’lady,” he grins, tipping his hat.

He then takes it off and wipes his brow.

“I realize,” he says, “you asked me for my name, but I never got y’ers.”

His accent slips through and she finds it charming.

She blushes and says, “The name’s Maeve. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she copies his introduction.

His eyes dance with amusement as he notices her impression of him. “My my, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d have taken a fancy to me.”

Her breath catches. She pouts, her cheeks puffing with a light shade of red—cherry red, to be exact. “I do not!” She raises her nose and huffs theatrically.

He raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Sure.”

She scoffs. “Oh you’re insufferable.”

But the mockery doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s still grinning.

He lightly slaps her shoulder, smirking. “Aren’t you gonna give me a tour of your town?”

“You’re needy, aren’t you?” She snorts.

“Alright then, if the Trickster so desires,” she bows and gestures with her hand for him to follow.

He grins. “Well I am graced with the presence of my Maiden, aren’t I?”

She stops and looks back. “Oh, I’m your maiden?” She teases. “You haven’t even taken me on a date, mate.”

“And you haven’t given me the tour yet,” he shoots back, still smiling.

She suddenly stops. “Your wish is my command, Trickster,” she raises her head and grins, her eyes sparkling. 

He takes her hand and smiles. “If you say so, M’lady.”

She doesn’t move his hand away. 

She grips it, their fingers smoothly interlacing.

Maeve blushes lightly; Damien smiles wickedly.

Maeve starts to walk into the town square, showing him the bakeries, the restaurants, and the houses.

She doesn’t notice he’s not looking at the town. 

She walks past her house, not stopping. He notices she doesn’t make eye contact with a certain home.

He doesn’t mention it. He keeps looking at it and comes to a stop. She walks a bit further and then stops, realizing his hand isn’t in hers anymore.

She turns around and calls, “Damien?”

He doesn’t notice. He was just looking at the home, and then he looked back at her.

“That home,” he says, his hands in his pockets.

“What about it?” Maeve says, her voice turning slightly annoyed he’s mentioning it.

“It looks a lot like mine,” his voice is surprisingly soft.

She stops. She sighs. “It’s mine.”

His ears perk up and his head flicks up, his eyes meeting hers.

“It’s yours?” He says, his voice quiet.

“Yes,” she says, resigned, her shoulders drooping.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispers.

If it were any other person, she would have disagreed.

But it was the Trickster. It was Damien.

And despite his nickname, she knew he was being completely genuine.

III: Meeting

It had been a few days since Maeve had seen Damien. Her parents had been keeping her at home, the chores and proposals piling up.

She had been itching to meet Damien again, but her father had been keeping her away.

She was this close to running out. Aine could tell how agitated Maeve was. She sympathized with her.

When her father had left to go chop some wood, Aine pulled Maeve closer and whispered in her ears, “You can go see him.”

Maeve’s face burned red. “What do you mean?” She sputters.

She scoffs, “Oh you can’t fool a mother. I know you’re seeing that kind lad who came a few days ago.”

She stutters. “I am not—“

Her mother silences her with one raised eyebrow.

She coughs into her hand. “Ok. Maybe I’m seeing him. How did you know?”

“A mother always knows. You were more happy the day you ran out without breakfast than I’ve ever seen you,” Aine commented, her eyes softening. 

“Ok, maybe I’ve been unhappy lately.” Her face reddens, her voice turning dreamy. “But he’s fixed that.”

“I’m glad,” she smiles. “Now run along, I know he’s been waiting for you.”

“What about Father?” Maeve’s face contorts with worry.

“Don’t worry about him; I’ll deal with it,” Aine assures her.

“Thank you Mother!” She squeals and kisses her cheek, running out the door.

Back at their rendezvous spot, Maeve spots Damien oiling his carriage wheels.

She walks behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“Hi~” she says, her voice teasing.

He spins around. “Hey,” he grins. 

“It’s been a while,” he says.

“It has,” Maeve’s smile fades a bit.

“Hey,” he says concernedly, his gentle eyes watching hers, “don’t worry. It’s not your fault. I was just saying I missed you.”

“You missed me?” Her heart skips a beat.

“Of course,” he boops her nose.

She giggles, her cheeks turning pink. “I missed you too. I would’ve come if I wasn’t held hostage within my own home,” she mutters.

“What happened?” He asks, his eyes flick up to meet hers.

“My parents,” she looks away.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.

Her heart melts at how empathetic he is. 

“It’s not your fault,” she cups his cheek.

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks, his eyes searching hers.

“I’d rather not. Why don’t we just walk?” She offers.

“Sure,” he says, taking her hand like he did that day.

They walk silently, side by side, on the bumpy dirt road sitting in between the stalls and shops. 

Maeve is quieter than normal.

Damien speaks up. “So,” he says, looking up at the sky, “it’s pretty nice out today.”

Maeve makes a noncommittal sound of agreement.

Damien sighs. “I know something’s bothering you. And whatever it is is eating away at you. You’ll feel better if you tell me,” his voice is soft, eyes gently comforting hers with just one look.

She sighs. “Fine. If you promise not to judge me.”

“Never,” he whispers, his hand gripping hers tighter.

“My dad is…persistent, to say the least. I’m 22 and he wants to marry me off,” she says, her head turned, looking at a particular vendor with a soft gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“I know you are,” she looks back at him, smiling sadly. 

He takes her hand and squeezes it. “You have me now.”

“I do, I suppose,” she says, a faint smile on her lips.

“Forget about him,” he says. “Just stay with me, thy fair maiden.”

He smirks when he sees her face twist with laughter and familiarity when he uses that oh so cherished moniker.

She snorts, “We’re going back to that, now, are we?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it madam,” he snorts back.

“I guess I won’t,” she giggles, twirling around in her dress.

“Enough with all the moping,” she declares. “My mother is already on to us, so might as well act as romantic as we can,” she bats her eyelashes.

“An excuse to flirt with you? Why I’d never turn down something like that,” he chuckles and grins, tipping his hat. 

“Oh I can already tell you’re going to be the death of me, you devil, you,” she laughs, batting his face with her hand.

“Why must you wound me darling?” He mock pouts, circling her, resting his arm on her shoulder.

“Because you’re my overdramatic dear, darling,” she sardonically quips.

He laughs. “Oh, I see how it is. M’lady missed me, didn’t she?”

“I did not!” She retorts, turning her head away. 

“You did~” He teases, pecking a kiss on her cheek.

She blushes furiously. “How dare you?” She gasps, as flustered as she was shocked.

“You don’t just go out and kiss a lady willy-nilly,” she says breathlessly.

“It wasn’t even on the lips,” he chuckles mirthily.

If she wasn’t already red, this would’ve certainly done it. 

“Well, I, never—“

“You never what? Been kissed before?” He wiggles his eyebrows, lightly jabbing her ribs with his elbow. 

“You—“ she raises an accusing finger at him.

He puts his hands up and backs away, looking away innocently. “What?”

She looks away and laughs, flustered.

“You can’t just—“ she stutters, bewildered.

“You really are a Trickster,” she settles on a few seconds later.

His eyes light up. “Well I’m glad you think so,” and he pulls her in close, so they are pressed together.

His voice deepens. His eyes glow, fiery as the sun. “I’ve got a lot more tricks up my sleeve, darling,” he spins her around and dips her. 

Her breath caught, her mind paused, a breath of air is ripped out of her throat as she is dipped.

The sun backlit on his form, creating a silhouette and a shadow. He gives her a pearly grin. The light of the sun cascades and streams over him, yet he remains in perpetual darkness. “Oh you have no idea my dear.”

And as he pulls her back up suddenly, it’s as if the moment was purely a figment of her imagination.

She was quite frankly—stupefied.

IV: All Is Green In Shades of Grey (When the Tide Sweeps All My Darkness Away)

The waves crashed against the shoreline, beating hard on the sand.

The nice thing about her town was that it was a port city.

Fisherman Cove, it was called, the place she stood.

Damien was next to her, admiring the waves.

She always thought the ocean calm, yet it also had a turbulent side.

Her gaze drifts to Damien. ‘Yes, much like him,’ she thought. 

She chuckled at the very thought.

Yet she also had a soft side, one he didn’t show often.

It was concealed most of the time, to give way to his stage persona with that everlasting smirk of his. 

He turned to look at her, his face serene as he observed the ocean. “Sightseeing, I presume?” He asks.

“The question is, what sight do you think I’m seeing?” She smirks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she twirls a strand of her raven hair, “maybe the handsome man I see before me.”

He smirks. “You think I’m handsome?” He asks.

“I don’t know, you said it yourself,” Maeve hums nonchalantly, looking away.

His eyes light up. “What a joyous day! M’lady loves me after al!”

“Oh shush you,” she taps his nose with a finger. 

“Not listening, la-la-la! You said I’m handsome,” he laughs giddily.

“Oh Christ Almighty, what have I gotten myself into?” She shakes her head and laughs.

“No take-backsies!” He exclaims, ruffling her hair.

“Don’t touch me!” She slaps his hand and moves away.

The humourous air dissipates immediately. 

“Hey…I’m sorry…” his smile fades when he realizes she got triggered.

She moves backwards, flinching slightly. Her mind is flooded with memories of her father in his outbursts of rage.

His heart breaks when he sees how affected she becomes from a simple playful touch. 

“Hey,” his voice is soft, his eyes even softer.

She whimpers. Her hands jerk, her body closing into itself even more. 

“It’s alright,” he whispers, unbecoming of his suavely applied bravado.

His eyes never leave hers, and despite her paralyzing fear, she finds some comfort in them.

She slowly uncoils, inching ever so closely back towards him.

“Just breathe,” he says, his voice calm and quiet. He speaks slowly, as to not further startle Maeve.

Her breathing is shallow, twitching as she gets closer. She’s hesitant, unsure if she should even continue her advances.

“It’s alright,” he repeats, his voice like warm water lapping at the base of her skull when she used to go swimming.

It melded with the sounds of the ocean they were standing right next to.

She was close to relapsing, she was always close.

But…the water a few feet away from her made her anxious. If she had to step anywhere, it was either backwards with no end in sight, or forward, into Damien’s arms.

She took a step forward with trepidation. 

Her entire body shook as she fought against the impulses set deep within her by her father.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The memories of a drawn hand and blood flowing reverberated throughout her mind.

But she knew that no matter what happened next, Damien would never be like her father.

No; he would be so much better.

V: Where All My Dreams Come To Wake

She had stepped closer towards Damien that day.

She had fallen into his arms and broken down sobbing, blubbering as she recounted painful memories of her father’s markings and her own…self-soothing methods.

She would never tell him it was active, intentional harm.

He had held her, cradled her within his embrace, holding her tightly and promising to never let go.

His eyes were full of tears, but she hadn’t mentioned it.

Who knew the Trickster could be so sentimental?

But he was a peculiar thing, he was.

One moment he was her debonair, swashbuckling hero who would endlessly tease her.

And in another, he was like the soft plumage of a dove, nestling her in a warm hug.

He was dichotomous, and she didn’t know what to think about it.

There was so much about him that she didn’t know. 

His last name, where he came from (“he said his house looked like hers..”), among hundreds of other things she hadn’t explored yet.

She was sitting in her bedroom, late at night.

She couldn’t fall asleep.

The man was a mystery.

And yet it felt like she had known him all her life.

She stared at the ceiling, fidgeting with her hands.

“What if he doesn’t really like me and he’s just playing with my feelings? I can’t mean that much to him,” her self-deprecating side awakes through the thickness of the dark night and her sleep deprivation.

The summer humidity clung to her body, keeping up the illusion that she was merely hot under all these layers, and was most certainly not having any night sweats at all.

Nope, none at all.

She shakes her head. Best not awaken her demons. She wouldn’t be sleeping much regardless.

She turned on her side, sighing, as her half-lidded eyes slowly closed even further.

Thump!

She awakens, her heart beating fast.

“What was that sound?” Her paranoid mind questions.

She turns her head and hears another dull thump on the glass pane of her window.

Her bleary eyes catch the blurry form of a person perched on the rim of her window.

Her heart stops.

“An intruder,” her mind panics. “Should I get Father?”

But as her eyes regain focus on the strange figure, she sees a distinctly shaped hat and realizes it’s Damien.

She lets out a breath.

She goes over and quickly unlocks the window. “What are you doing here?” she hisses quietly.

“I wanted to see you,” he says, pouting.

But the disheveled state of his hair and merchant outfit informed her something else was the case.

“Couldn’t sleep?” She asks, suppressing a yawn.

He looks away and scratches his neck, embarrassed. “Yeah,” he sighs, closing his eyes. 

“No worries. I can’t sleep either,” she says softly, placing her hand on his shoulder.

“Guess we’ll be sleep-deprived together then,” he chuckles, and then yawns.

“I guess we will,” she laughs lightly. 

“It’s cold outside,” he shivers, looking back out the window.

“Come inside. You’ll get cold,” Maeve tells him, helping him down from the window.

“If M’lady says so,” he laughs and lets her help him.

He jumps down from the window frame and lands on the wooden floor with a thud.

It’s muffled by the fur rug she has splayed on her hardwood floor, but it’s still audible.

She hears a grunt from her father two rooms down.

She stiffens. She looks at Damien worriedly.

“Stay quiet!” She hisses, pulling on his ear. 

“Ok, ok!” He whispers.

She pulls him closer on the rug, so as to mask the sound of his footsteps.

He takes his shoes off and Maeve leads him to her bed, the both of them sitting down, their legs dangling off the edge.

“Before you get caught, tell me the real reason you’re here. I don’t deny you must be tired, but I think there’s something else to it to have you come all the way over here,” she says.

He sighs. He looks away and rubs his arm. He closes his eyes and opens them again. “I missed you. I was closing up my wagon and I remembered your house. I…couldn’t fall asleep and…your house reminded me of my home before..” his gaze darkened, “things fell apart.”

Maeve is silent. “I’m sorry,” she says, after a lapse in speaking.

“It’s ok,” he says with a forced smile.

“It’s not. But I’m so glad you could trust me and tell me this.” She leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

Damien’s breathing catches, afraid that if he lets it out, the moment would shatter.

He whispers, a rim of tears forming in his eyes, “I’m so glad I could trust you.”

She smiles. “I’m so glad you could.”

VI: Restless Days And Nights To Come (Or: Where Our Sanity Comes Undone)

Damien lay next to Maeve, sound asleep.

He was hidden under the covers, in case they overslept and her parents decided to check in on her when dawn came.

Which would be in a few hours because it was already 2 AM and she couldn’t fall asleep.

She was terrified her parents would find Damien next to her.

Her mother probably wouldn’t care, but her father…

She didn’t want to think about it.

Her hands rested on her scar, tracing it gently.

Each stroke made her flinch, reminders of the consequences of going against family will.

But all her worries disappeared as she fell asleep from exhaustion.

Shuffle.

She wakes up, groggy.

“What is it?” She croaks, turning to Damien.

His eyes are wide open, his body propped up on the bed. He’s panting and he’s tense.

“What’s wrong?” Maeve asks him, inching closer.

He flinches. “I’m fine,” he says, still panting. 

He tries to keep up his devilish facade, his indomitable, carefree mask of bravery and stolidness. 

But no. He was still human, with human emotions. Try as he might, he could not deny his body’s responses to trauma. 

“You’re not fine,” she says sternly, her caring eyes inspecting his.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” It was no longer a suggestion.

He looks away, his body trembling. He exhales. “Memories.”

Maeve had to flinch to that as well. 

“I understand,” she closes her eyes and softly exhales.

As she reopens them, she gently places her hand on his arm. He doesn’t protest or remove it, but she sees the flinch.

“It’s ok.” She tells him. 

“It’s really not.”

She turns quiet.

He inhales. “The reason I said your house looks like mine is because I also lived in a town like yours. I also thought it boring. No one was like me. Everyone hated me,” he laughs. “I was the dramatic kid. The boy with emotions. The freak. So I bottled them up. I became a travelling merchant and magician, vowing to never let anyone see that side of me again. Because who could love a broken boy like that?” He says quietly, more to himself than anything.

“You’re not broken,” she says, pressing her body closer to his.

“I find that hard to believe.” He rolls up his sleeve and it’s laden with scars.

She flinches. Her mouth hangs open. 

So many scars.

Some were thin, some were long. Some were wide, others narrow.

They looked just like hers.

She rolled up her sleeve, home to the scar her father gave her as well as others she…contributed.

His jaw was agape. He swallowed. 

He knew of the one scar, but to know she had even more was…overwhelming.

“You—“ He starts, but doesn't get to finish.

“Yes.” She says, looking away, ashamed. 

He draws in his arms closer, inhaling slowly.

She lets out an exhale, wrapping her arms around her, not bothering to put the sleeves back up.

His arms are also bare to the naked eyes as well, able to see every line that stretched across his pale skin.

“Why?” He asks, his voice pained.

She flinches and snaps, “Because I had to. Because of my father. …and other insecurities. 

“I understand,” his tone softening, “but…you didn’t have to inflict further harm upon yourself.”

“I had to,” she mutters, gripping her arm. “I’m not good enough,” she looks away.

“You are,” he says suddenly, his eyes flicking up to meet hers, holding her arm, gently prying her claw-gripped hand off her arm. 

“It’s ok,” he soothes her, his voice like the calm hissing spray of ocean waves whispering in her ears, rubbing her arm slowly. 

“I could say the same for you,” she says, looking back up into his eyes.

Green eyes meet hazel. 

He sighs. He looks away. His voice is soft, a hint of regret in it. “I know.”

“Why is it so hard for us?” Maeve muses, half-bitterly, half-sincerely. 

“Maybe because we refuse to accept our emotions,” He chuckles, tinged with self-deprecation and sadness. 

“Maybe,” she laughs. 

“We need to sleep,” Maeve yawns. 

“We do,” he drawls sleepily.

Maeve elbows him. “Get some sleep you daft idiot,” she laughs, but not unkindly.

“Good night mhuirnín,” He mumbles and falls asleep.

“Good night, mi bhuachaill.”

VII: Of Divinations and Magic Sheep 

(Damien 3rd POV Chap)

[Damien is sleeping, dreaming]

It was odd for a man to be a wandering merchant or magician in his little fishermen's town.

That was the perks of salesmanship.

He sold hopes and dreams.

Because his hopes of having a loving family were shattered. 

He never wanted another child to go through what he did when he grew up.

Never again.

So he took up the mantle of being resident counselor in a way, his tricks and illusions almost a product of comfort, both for him and his consumers. 

He thought them family, he did. His only supporters.

His gaze drifted over to Maeve. He was dreaming, but she was still next to him, the two of them sleeping together in bed in the waking world.

And now he had Maeve. He wouldn’t be so lonely anymore, trudging along dusty paths for months on end, in search of towns that would accept him.

Even now he was still an outcast.

But with her….he felt like he belonged. 

He turned on his side and smiled at Maeve in his dream, feeling at peace. 

He was incredibly lucky. He didn’t just have her in his dreams; he would see her when he awoke. 

He sighed contentedly. Slowly, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Maeve was worried.

It was a quarter to seven, and her parents were sure to wake her soon.

She needed to hide Damien fast, or find a way for him to escape without being noticed. 

But even if he escaped from the window, the same way he came in, he was sure to be noticed.

She turns her head to look at Damien. His sleeping form rises and falls with every breath, like the pale sliver of moon that crests the sky with its dim light, causing ripples within the navy blanket adorned with stars.

She lightly nudges him, trying to wake him gently before he’s discovered.

He mumbles, groaning, turning on his side.

“Damien,” she whispers, “you have to get up.”

He groans, half-asleep, “just five more minutes, luv.”

“You won’t be alive in five more minutes, darling,” she emphasizes, pushing him a bit more urgently.

That wakes him up. He opens his eyes, groggily speaking, “Well that’s reason to be awake, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” she says flatly.

“Ok, I’m up,” he stretches, propping himself up.

“You’re going to hide in my closet until my parents leave. Once the coast is clear, you can leave through the window. I’ll see you in a few hours,” she instructs him.

“Ok,” he nods his head, looking into her eyes intently. 

She leads him to the closet, closing the doors behind him. 

She heads back to her bed, laying down and adjusting the covers so it looks like only one person was sleeping there.

She lights a candle to mask Damien’s scent and wafts the odor around the room. It smelled of lavender. 

She quickly blows it out as she hears footsteps approaching. They would surely suspect her being awake if there was a still-burning candle in a supposedly asleep Maeve’s room. 

She holds her breath and closes her eyes, trying to feign sleep. She pulls the covers over her head.

The footsteps grow louder, appearing behind her door.

The door creaks, and the thud of feet echoes against the wooden floor, muffled by her fur rug. 

“Maeve.” The voice is gruff and deep, monotone and clipped.

It isn’t the kind voice of her mother.

She steels herself to not flinch.

“Wake up,” it commands.

She forces herself to obey, slowly stretching and doing her wake up routine as convincingly as possible.

She tries not to be too chipper as she attempts to keep all attention on her, and divert as much of it as possible away from the closet where Damien stood.

“Hello Father,” she greets him neutrally.

He nods his head. “Your mum will have breakfast ready soon. Come down once we call you.”

She nods, saying, “I will.”

He turns and leaves, the sounds of his heavy footsteps slowly fading into the distance.

Once he’s out of earshot, Maeve quietly calls out, “You can come out now.”

Ever so carefully, Damien creeps out of the closet, and tiptoes over to his beloved, sitting on the bed beside her.

He’s shaking.

“Hey, hey,” she says concernedly, gripping his shoulders and hugging him. “What’s wrong?”

His mouth clamps shut and he’s unable to form words, but his body trembles.

He’s afraid.

And she realizes he doesn’t want to admit it.

“My father is scary, isn’t he?” She says softly, placing her hand on his chest.

He flinches and looks away. He chuckles painfully.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice scratchy, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh.

“He reminds me of my own.”

You could almost hear the sound of Maeve’s crystalline heart shattering into a thousand shards.

“He does not!” She says defiantly, almost in shock. 

He doesn’t take offense. “He does.”

“You can’t mean that,” she says, her eyes wide.

“So he…so he also….hurt you like he does us?” She asks, each word like a painful briar lodged in her tongue as she speaks.

He grimaces and looks away. “Yeah. You saw the scars.”

“And you saw mine.”

“And some of them are my own,” they both say at the same time.

Silence lingers.

“What once was ours has turned to scars, like bitter stars, far up high. Once wonderment has spun, a rope that masks and fast-ens to masts, in fleeting ships that drift on by. A world ablaze in gold and glory, ever so gory, in spins of tales, from mistresses down below, stories old as misted dales. Far entrenched in mystery and fantasy, tangled in weeping wails. There’s heaps of sorrow in this world, love, and that isn’t bound to ever go away. But the one constant that remains in our hearts is the love that keeps it beating today. So far as I may go or be, as far as the mind can see, may you always be here with me.”

“My mother used to write poems,” he says, a half-smile on his face.

“Each night, she’d tuck me into bed, and we’d continue writing one together.”

His smile fades. “This is the last one we wrote. It–It was incomplete, so I gave it an ending,” he stares at the floor, tears welling up in his eyes, his voice shaking.

Maeve is speechless. “It’s beautiful,” she says, her own eyes shining tearily as well.

Damien remains somewhat silent, lost in reminiscing.

His voice is choked, thick with emotion. He swallows it, trying to regain composure. He wipes his eyes coolly, trying to not draw attention to it.

He clears his throat, “Well, ahem, I should probably take my leave. Lest your father return at such an inopportune time for the both of us.” 

He gathers his satchel and his hat, placing it atop his head, escaping through from whence he came.

VIII: Longings

A few hours later, Maeve manages to escape from her home again, briskly walking over to their rendezvous point.

She found him sat atop that same old log, playing the wooden flute he carved earlier for a few children.

Maeve was taken aback by this wondrous melody; she had no idea he could play the flute.

Her head swayed like the breeze of the wind was carrying it, but instead, it was his wonderful playing.

The children clapped and cheered, his eyes crinkling with amusement and a slight hint of pride.

He always felt happy when someone made him feel like he belonged.

He locks eyes with Maeve, his eyes suddenly softening.

Slowly, his chipper woodsman tune transforms into a slow, drawn-out set of notes, methodical and deliberate.

She knew this was for her.

Her heart had damn near exploded.

She was entranced, her eyes following his every movement, as his slender form maneuvered around the tune, whistling through the flute.

The children were slowly retrieved by their parents, smiling politely at Damien.

They didn’t completely trust him, yet this was a far more well-received welcome than most other villages he had received in the past.

This felt like home.

Once the children had left, Maeve approached Damien, sitting down on the log next to him.

Damien starts singing, his voice a throaty warble, “My fair maiden, y’er a pretty lass, in times like these once scourge has come to pass. As sweet as cherry pie. Your hair like the wisps of dandelions. Eternal glittering flame. For your glow is like the shine of stars, once the moon has awakened. The night comes, descending on the sky. Past sunsets and rising suns. Your bloom is imminent, like each crest of a tulip petal peaking high.”

“Is mine bloom imminent?” Maeve asks cheekily.

He responds, grinning, “Dost thou think me a liar?”

“Never!” She exclaims, placing her hand on her heart, as if the very notion were preposterous.

“Then thou dost bloom most stunningly,” he affirms, crooning.

“Quite so, hm?” She inquires, a coy smile poised on her lips.

“Of course madam, for you will always be my rose,” he smiles, his eyes shining like the morning sun.

Hers twinkled like a dazzling sunset, the hazel a combination of every hue. “I’m your rose?” She repeats, smirking.

“Thou art mine rose,” he kisses her hand.

“Very forward of you darling,” she smirks, preening.

“I only live to serve,” he purrs, resting his arm around her shoulder.

“Quite a romantic gesture, I’d say,” she hums, pecking his cheek.

“Perfect for us, is what I’d say,” he says, his accent slipping through.

“Careful darling, we’re out in the open. I don’t think I can control what I want to do to you,” she smirks, her voice lowering in volume and pitch.

“Oh please,” he smirks. “Your lonesome couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Who said anything about hurting?” She grins, pushing his chest down to the log.

“You’re not the only one with tricks up your sleeve.” 

XI: For All We Are Is Skin and Bones (In A Body We’re Bound to Disown)

Maeve strolls into Damien’s carriage, bringing him some rhubarb pie she baked.

Her eyes lay on a disheveled Damien, all hunched up on his little corner bed, staring solemnly at the floor. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Maeve asks concernedly, her lips pursed. Her eyes shine with concern, looking deep into his. 

Damien says solemnly, his eyes like grim pools of dark storms, “Dost thou truly want a scoundrel like me? A most wretched, detestable thing? I imagine I’m not very sweet to taste.”

“Of course I do!” She insists, holding his chin. “Where is this coming from, love?”

“What dost thou want? What dost thou see in me? I’m an outsider, a loner. A rose by no other name should smell as sweet as the fairest maiden granting my eyes such a treat.”

Her cheeks tinge with a pale pink, looking mildly embarrassed.

“That’s besides the point, darling. What hath gotten you so forlorn?”

“Memories,” his eyes shine with sadness.

“Memories,” she repeats, as if to confirm. 

“Memories,” she nods absentmindedly, mulling over it.

“Why now?” She inquires.

“Because I’m surprised you decided to stick around.”

She’s taken aback, stepping backwards a little. “For whatever reason?”

“Because all I’ve ever been known of is as a cheat and a scoundrel. A flirt, a trickster. A most unwanted thing,” he says, dragging his heel through the wooden floor, his eyes sunken.

“Well you aren’t that ghastly to me,” she tips his chin up to meet her eyes.

She hands him a slice. “Here, cheer up, love.”

“I don’t deserve this,” he turns away.

“You do,” she says firmly. She places the slice onto a cloth and hands him a fork.

“If you don’t feel like having it now, you will have it later.” She puts it to the side, wrapping it up neatly. 

“Now, tell me your woes. I promise I shan’t not belittle you for them,” Maeve assuages, placing her hand on his arm. 

“Of all the men in this country, you decided to entertain me?” He says, his eyes looking at her with utter disbelief, almost an accusatory sense of hurt.

“What is wrong with a man like you that hath made you believe you are so scorned?” She questions, probing.

“Because my parents told me they didn’t love me!” He screams, the truth finally out.

Heave in, and out.

He panted, his eyes bulging wide from shock and emotional exertion.

“Damien—“

“Don’t,” his voice is jagged, clipped, harsh.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice quiet. 

She removes her hand, but even that small movement makes him flinch.

He pants, his breathing shrill and shallow. “I thought...I thought you’d never find out.”

After a pause, he continues, “but now you know.”

“Your parents said they don’t love you?” She whispers.

“Yes,” he snaps. “And it hurts every time I hear it 10 years later.”

She retracts. “I’m sorry,” wincing.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. 

“I set your trauma off, it is my fault,” she apologizes.

“It’s not my fault I’m broken,” he says quietly.

“You are not!” She says indignantly. 

“It’s not your fault my parents didn’t love me,” he snaps, his eyes filled with tears.

“Cmere,” Maeve says, wrapping her arm around his neck, pressing her body with his. 

She kisses his cheek. “It’s alright.” She wipes his tears away.