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The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
(W. B. Yeats)
Mick waits. He's gotten good at waiting; there's nothing else for him to do these days.
He leaves little hints around the ship. Somethin' he picked up from Len: the power of subtle suggestion. Put a few books on Ireland in the library for Nate to find; have some Celtic armor and weaponry in the armory for Sara to look at; that kinda thing. Mick Rory can, if need be, fly under the radar.
When the team decides to take a break, Nate suggests Ireland. "It's beautiful," he argues, "and the history there is so rich. I can give you guys a tour!"
Mick puts on his best criminal drawl: "That's the place with all the beer, right? And those―" he puts his hand in front of him and wiggles it. "―little guys? Leprechauns?"
He feels the team's opinion of him plummet. Funny―he didn't think they could go any lower.
Nate huffs. "Not just that. I'm talking old castles and stuff! Come on, it's been forever since I've experienced history without a target on my back. You guys have to feel the same."
The team looks at each other.
"I'm game," Sara says.
Rip inclines his head. "Why not?"
The hole in Mick's chest constricts with something like hope.
They go to a festival that's unwittingly in the High Reign. Mick pretends to get drunk and wander off. The others won't worry about him for a long while yet, not even Amaya; she's off with Nate.
There is a forest close by. Mick reaches into his jacket and goes in.
On the first branch of the first tree he passes, he hangs a gold thread. On the third branch of the third tree he passes, he does the same. So on and so forth, until he reaches a clearing and stops.
And waits.
He blinks slowly.
His feet are moving. One-two-three, one-two-three. His arm is around a warm waist, other hand clasped with graceful, clawed fingers.
Leonard Snart's eyes gleam silver. "You have come a long way," he says through plush lips, city drawl softened into something more refined.
Mick takes a step back, leading them towards the center of the clearing. He knows where the creature will lead him if they return to the trees.
Snart's eyes spark mischievously. "You also come with a strong will. What is it you are so desperate to obtain that you seek us out?"
Music dances at the edges of Mick's vision. It lilts into songs in his mother's voice. He can even hear his brothers and sisters.
But the emptiness in him is greater.
"My partner," Mick says.
"Ah," Snart murmurs, pulling out to twirl into Mick, back to his chest. "I see. Time is no longer your friend, is it?"
"Enemy of my enemy," Mick replies.
Snart chuckles. Mick shakes himself free of it and spins them back into their original formation. "That is true," Snart says, "Time is no friend of ours either. But that does not mean we enjoy defying its laws. There is a truce between us. Agree to disagree."
He sinks into a dip and leans close. Mick can smell pomegranate and dew drops on his breath. "Your price will be steep."
"Name it."
Snart's lips curl. Mick lifts him back to his feet. "Your dearest partner is not just gone. I sense pieces of him scattered in Time's greedy clutches. Time does so adore him. Putting him back together will not be an easy task. Just how precious is he to you?"
Mick says, "Name your price."
"Ah, a clever one." Snart pulls away, holding Mick's hands. He starts a minuet, fluid and precise. "Very well. I will say that I am not incapable of returning him to you. Let me think a moment."
The music fills the silence he leaves. Mick takes a deep breath and steels himself. He did not come this far to get sucked in now. If Lenny's really in pieces, then he's suffering, and if he's suffering, it's damn well Mick Rory's job to get him out. That's how it's always been, that's how it'll always be.
He thinks of juvie. Of the runt who sneaked a lighter to him. Of sharing a cookie, even though Len hoarded sweets like a dragon. Of a skinny little thing talking about cracking safes and picking pockets like a childhood dream.
The Sidhe laughs, lovely and bright. "Strong-willed indeed. Your love is strong, I will allow. Alright, Wanderer. I shall give you what you seek, but first you must give me..."
The creature's head tilts.
"Your flame."
Mick stiffens on instinct. "What?"
"Your flame," Snart repeats, delighted, "I want it. The way you adore it, the way it adores you. The way it fuels your passion, your violence. If you trade this, I shall give you your partner."
Micks swallows. "That's it, huh?"
"That's it."
The human looks at Snart's chest. An amulet of moonbeams hangs over the Sidhe's appropriated form, star-shaped and twinkling. It almost looks like a snowflake.
"You will put him together," Mick says, "properly, meaning sane and whole, the one who gave me his ring before the Oculus."
Snart twitches in annoyance. "A man of words, I see. Well. If I must, yes."
"Where will you put him?"
Snart sighs. "Where do you want him?"
Mick thinks about it. "By my captain's ship. The one that is here, in this time."
"Hm. Easily done. And in return...?"
Mick pictures Lenny's face. "My fire."
Hissing chuckles around the clearing, unseen. Before him, Snart grins with far too many teeth.
"So it will be, Wanderer."
Their dance ends with a kiss. Mick wakes at dawn.
He feels cold.
"What did you do?"
Mick loses his breath. "Leonard."
Len clenches his teeth. "What did you do, Mick?"
"Where's the team?"
"Kinda hard to know that when I just showed up here."
Mick hugs him. Solid. Warm. Beating heart.
"Mick―"
"Hold on a damn second, Snart," Mick growls. "Just―just hold on."
Mint aftershave. Metal. That ozone cold from his gun. Mick buries his nose in Len's shoulder and takes a long drag.
"You're freezing," Len says. "What happened?"
"Doesn't matter," Mick mumbles.
Len pushes him back. "Yes it does. What did you do?"
Mick shrugs. His muscles feel heavier. "What I had to."
His fingers move on their own. His body knows better than his mind where the mark is. This one's right over his heart: a knotted circle of gold, filled in the center with a gleaming crescent moon.
Len's not stupid. He knows what it is.
"Mick," the word seems to punch out of him, "Mick, no. What did you give up?"
"My flame," Mick replies.
"What? How could you―"
"It was easy, really. Everything looks a little more boring, that's all."
"You'll waste away without it!" Len snaps, "Do you have any idea what a flame really means? It's not just your love of fire, Mick!"
"I know."
"And you're a pyromaniac." Len looks like he's getting broken all over again. "You might 's well've given up your soul."
Mick smirks. It's dull on his face. "Nah. I gotta plan."
"To what, steal your flame back from a Sidh―"
Len blinks.
Mick grins. It looks―wrong. "We're thieves, ain't we? And if we get ridda the Sidhe who gave you back..."
"They can't undo the magic," Len murmurs, "and it ain't like their buddies'll care. Probably bag on 'em for lettin' their guard down."
"Uh-huh. I've been readin' up on stuff. I got some ideas."
Instead of ridicule, Len looks relieved. "Mick. You brilliant bastard."
Mick nods behind him. "Team's probably hungover. Wanna go give 'em a surprise?"
"We'll have to tell 'em, you know. We need back up."
"Planned on that."
Len smiles. "'Course you did." He starts walking. "Let's go. Partner."
Mick follows. He feels a little warmer.