Love Knows No Borders

AUTHOR'S NOTE AND A WARNING TO READERS: An incestous love story between brother and sister, set in a fictional but historically inspired time. The relationship between the two characters is the focal point of the story, and I reckon that readers who care little for the surrounding elements and world-building will still enjoy their romantic union. A dramatic tale where everything is at stake, even life itself.

It is a work of fiction, and all of the characters in the story are above the age of eighteen.

All of my work - including this one - is copyrighted. © Devinter.

--- LOVE KNOWS NO BORDERS ---

The emerald landscape - every hill, every tree, every thornbush - lay in utter stillness with the exception of the quiet breeze that caressed the luscious foliage. Maeve's tears, without a sound, trailed down her face and watered the earth below. "Please, can't you stay?" Her words were whispered, and she had uttered them a thousand times before already - in the jaws of her nightmares, threatening to swallow her whole. Daybreak was looming; Soon, the land would be awash in the amber light of morning.

Her brother - ever stoic - pulled her into his arms and placed a gentle kiss upon her forehead. She felt so small in his embrace, yet unquestionably safe. But the pain of his upcoming departure seared every cell in her body as if molten fire coursed through her veins; the ache was insurmountable. "I cannot," Cillian spoke, and to her great surprise, his voice was thick with emotion and wavering with unspoken anguish. His thin leather armour creaked as he ran his fingertips down her back, through hair like spun silk, golden and radiant.

Maeve stepped away from him, hands trembling as she fumbled with the pins that kept her locks at bay. "Don't leave me." She paused and swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand her ground and stare directly into his eyes, green as the isles they both called home. How quickly time had passed. Before her stood not a boy, but a man - broad-chested and tall - grown to the shape and stature of his father before him. It seemed only a few summers before, they had raced each other through these very fields, carefree and full of laughter. How small he had been then, younger than her by a full year. And now he was to die in the name of a lord he had never even laid eyes upon? Fight in a war against people they had once known as friends? "Please, I can't bear it."

Cillian sighed, his expression pained. "It is not my decision to make. You know that if I stay, they'll call me a deserter and hang me for treason. What will become of you then?" He reached up to wipe her tears away, but stopped short when she flinched, as if at any moment she might shatter beneath him. The hurt plain in her watery gaze, she stared at him, and for a long time neither of them spoke.

"Please stay," Maeve said, voice quiet yet firm, a hint of desperation lacing her words. "Run away with me. We can leave the isles and find a place where no one knows our names." The agony in her tone was clear, as if she knew that her attempt to dissuade him were hopeless. A man of the viridian isles stood and fought, no matter the odds, until death took them into the earth's arms. And though Cillian loved his sister more than life itself, she knew he could not betray his kin. "What will become of me when you leave? I have no one left."

Cillian's eyes shimmered. "You are beautiful as the evening star, dear sister. You will find a man to wed, and-"

"No," she interrupted him, her words full of conviction. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, willing the strength she needed to say what must be spoken next. The words that she had never once dared to summon forth into reality, fearing the consequences such thoughts might bring. The only man for her was Cillian. Her brother, whom she adored more than life itself. Who held her hand on nights when the sky opened up in thunderous wrath, and whose smile was the only thing capable of taking her sorrow away. Whom she would mourn forever, if he perished on the battlefield.

Maeve opened her eyes, fixed her gaze on him once more, and uttered the words that would change their destiny forevermore. "The only man that I would marry is you."

And she saw it - Cillian's face wracked with confusion. The man who made her heart soar and fall apart at the same time, for once toppled over by her words. "I.." he began, but Maeve's lips quivered, and as a fresh wave of tears fell from her eyes - one after another until they left clear trails down her cheeks - he stopped himself from saying what he had first intended. That such love was not meant for brother and sister. That it would bring ruin to them both if he dared return her affection. The Gods themselves would disapprove of such a union.

A quiet moment. Tranquil. Serene. Broken by the booming voice of Sir Oisin, Cillian's commander - yelling from yonder hill that it was time for the men to gather their belongings and head towards the ships. The falling axe of reality. Time was up.

As Cillian stepped away, his green eyes never broke contact with hers; and for just one second - that fleeting second before he turned his head - she saw it. A look worth a lifetime of words. Without question. Her younger brother, forced by fate to become a warrior; He loved her too.

And then he left. Falling to her knees, Maeve knew without question that he would never return.

--- 2 ---

The vessel, a behemoth of the blue sea, carried two hundred soldiers and a crew of nearly a quarter of that number. It was flanked on either side by several more warships hoisting the same banner; the graceful deer clad in a barding of trefoil patterns. Like fish in a schooling formation, they made their way south through choppy seas, the salt-heavy wind tousling each man's hair, stinging his eyes. Each young lad seemed to wear a mask of either worry, regret, fear, or sea-sickness. Not one looked like himself; every face contorted with tension, sweat beading upon foreheads. By sunrise in the morrow, they would make landfall - and meet their enemy.

Cillian only recognized a handful of the other men. The son of the miller back home. The younger brother of his friend Bain, whom he had shared stories and laughter with on countless nights. But they were all disposable. Men without riches, without land. Second sons of commoners; neither trained for battle nor standing to gain anything from the war. They were sacrifices, born of necessity. A resource - as expendable as they come. If Cillian's father had still been with them, then he would have been allowed to remain, as he was firstborn to the once gallant Sir Kieran, a seasoned warrior who died fighting alongside their lord before the sun set upon his fortieth summer. But with him gone, Cillian was eligible for conscription, required to bleed for his homeland, for he was unwed with no children of his own.

Their vessel dipped in the turbulent waves as it swayed with the rolling sea, and Cillian watched as men from his home village lost what little copper they had in their pouches to seasoned sailors, playing at dice for higher stakes than they could possibly afford. It puzzled him for only the briefest of moments until the morbid realization set in; the men did not care because they did not expect to survive the week. A melancholy brought on by fate - though there was no use in mourning it. Soon these very ships would ferry the corpses of fallen kinsmen back to the viridian isles to be buried upon home soil - and those men would be considered the lucky ones, as most would be left behind to litter the fields and feed the carrion birds.

"Hungry?" asked a rotund man with ruddy cheeks who held out a basket lined with waxed cloth. A part of the ship's crew, Cillian deducted, based on the garbs he was wearing. The uniform of the soldiers and the sailors were similar in many ways, with identical colours and comparable patterns adorning both groups. But the sailors wore a patch on their breasts and doublets in more luxurious fabric, while the soldiers wore leather over their linen.

The smell of mutton reached Cillian's nostrils, and he felt his mouth water instantly. With nothing to occupy his mind but the bitter thoughts of what awaited him and the other misplaced men beyond the horizon, the food proved a welcome distraction - so he thanked the man sincerely, and grabbed a portion. Cillian tore into the meal like a starved wolf, yet savouring every bite.

"Unlike the others, you actually look the part," the man commented, and as Cillian raised his brow, the portly man continued. "Most of these men are scrawny, or so stricken by fear that they can't seem to figure out which end of the sword to stick someone with." The sailor looked around himself suspiciously, then placed down another portion of food in Cillian's other hand, and winked. "The name's Colm. You make sure to survive out there, my new friend. Earn glory in battle and perhaps one day there'll be songs made about your courageous deeds!" And then he bowed before walking away.

Pondering the man's words, Cillian took a careful look at the other men around the ship's deck. Indeed, far too few of them seemed like fighters, though it wasn't like the young man was the only one who stood tall and muscular. He imagined that Colm was merely trying to make him feel better about his chances of survival compared to the rest, but truth was that he would likely die on the battlefield just as quickly as the others, unlikely to spill a single drop of blood from an enemy with his blade. At least his father had given him lessons in the art of combat when he had been younger - though he assumed that there was a vast difference between duelling someone one-on-one and being in the middle of a melee, with clashing steel ringing all around. He could only hope that the enemy forces were equally inexperienced.

Not long after Cillian had devoured his meal, Sir Oisin - clad in adorned armour and a stern expression - approached him from across the ship's deck, moving with determined steps. He wore an elegant green cloak that trailed behind him as he walked, and the sword at his hip had a golden pommel that shone in the setting sunlight. "Cillian of Ibher?" he called out, and at hearing his name, he snapped to attention and stood with his back straight and his right hand upon his heart.

"Yes, sir?" he answered without hesitation.

Sir Oisin's expression was unreadable. "Your brother wishes to see you below deck, in the lowest sleeping quarters. Seems to be sea-sick. Tell him that if he hurls down there he'll have to clean it up himself, will you?"

Confused but not daring to question the order, Cillian nodded and headed below deck, the wood creaking as the ship rocked over tempestuous waves, and he walked down multiple flights of stairs until coming across a narrow hallway. There, on the leftmost side of the lower level - illuminated only by the faintest light seeping through the slats of the cannon maw above them - lay a figure sprawled upon the floor, shivering under a thick blanket, his arms hugging his knees tightly in obvious agony. Cillian approached him slowly.

"Did you call for me?" Cillian asked the man cautiously. "Are you hungry?" When there came no response from the heap of fabric at his feet, he crouched down to get closer, and suddenly the blanket was thrown over his head - the small creature that had been hiding underneath immediately burrowing his face into Cillian's shoulder as if it sought shelter from the horrors of the world. Just as he was about to protest, he caught the scent. Foxglove and eyebright, paired with her natural fragrance. And some sort of citrus. "Maeve!? What in the Gods' names are you doing here? Are you out of your mind!?"

"Sshh!" she hissed. "If they catch me here, I'll get thrown overboard. Keep quiet until we can make our escape!" She relaxed slightly against him, wrapping herself around his neck and holding tight like a baby possum to its mother. "I am not letting you die," she spoke into his skin, determined. "I won't allow it, and I will never let you go."

The blood drained from Cillian's face at her words. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, unrelenting in its volume, growing louder each passing moment. Maeve! What a stupid, foolhardy, impetuous, warm, beloved, adorable sister she was. Never did she cease to surprise him, even in dire straits. His thoughts ran wild, trying to imagine the way her brain had formed such an absurd plan - sneaking onto a vessel full of those bound for battle? Even if they'd manage to escape, they would be in a foreign land full of men that considered them the enemy, more than happy to cut them in twain. And remaining on the vessel somehow would not be an option, as the commander's right hand possessed a long parchment with all the names of the soldiers aboard - and if anyone was missing from that list, the ship would undoubtedly get searched until they were found. This was not the first battle of the senseless war, and there had been far too many fools attempting to flee from their duty already to count. They were more than prepared to handle deserters.

Just as he was about to speak, voices could be heard from down the hallway - and Maeve pulled him deeper into the shadows of their small hiding spot, the thick wool blanket covering them both completely even as they laid down upon the floor together, the small lass directly on top of her muscular brother. She was so tiny compared to him, it was hard to imagine that she was the older one, and that they had the same parents - if not for their near-identical eyes and similar facial features. Her golden hair tickled his nose with every exhale, and even though he seemed to be carved of granite, his arms wrapped around her in the most gentle of ways, protecting her from the evils of the world. Even as the sounds of boots - two pairs, if Cillian had to guess - drew closer, the tiny woman dared herself to place a gentle kiss upon his neck, letting it linger there with clearly marked intent.

"Would you just give up already?" Cillian heard one of the sailors ask his companion in a harsh tone that bordered on anger. "I tell ye, stealing from soldiers about to meet their end is wicked enough to get ye cursed for all eternity."

A scoff could be heard. "What good is coins in the pockets of the dead?" the other man objected loudly, then lowered his voice so as not to be heard from further away. "They're sure t'die. And I need to care for me family back home, y'know? I got four little uns ta feed."

Their accents being so thick made it clear they were from much further up north than Cillian and Maeve, around Loch Ullan if he had to guess. Despite how poor most people were around those parts, they seemed to have constructed a fortress every couple of miles, every bit as sturdy as those of the southern nobles. Stone upon stone; Fitted perfectly together, forming solid walls with interconnecting passageways - and Cillian suddenly had the thought that if the war was fought on home soil, their chances of winning would have been far greater.

Cillian and Maeve held their breath as the two men rummaged through the personal belongings of one or more of the soldiers. One of them kept complaining the entire time, but still seemed to be assisting his comrade in collecting whatever valuables they could find before tossing everything into a satchel. Their voices were so close, Cillian swore they might discover their hiding spot at any second, but thankfully they appeared to have no interest in investigating the cots and beddings set along the wall. Within about a minute, they had found enough coinage to retreat back up above deck, knowing that the cost of getting caught thieving was death.

Once their footsteps receded into the distance, Maeve breathed out slowly. She lifted the blanket just enough so that the two siblings could look at each other in the dark. Obvious concern still clearly written across Cillian's brow, his eyes nonetheless gleamed with mirth - and he raised one of his arms to stroke the woman's cheek affectionately. "This is reckless, even for you."

"Yes," the older - but significantly smaller - of the two admitted. "But I belong by your side, in this life and the next." A pause. "Speaking of reckless.." Her heart-shaped lips were upon her brother's in the next moment - and for the first time ever, the two siblings kissed like lovers would. It was a careful one, Maeve cautious that Cillian might reject her until he'd come to terms with what had been denied them until now. But when their lips parted again - and they looked upon each other in the dark room down on the orlop deck - it was as if they were struck by a spell. With a wanton moan, she kissed him again; this time more forcefully, her tongue slipping between his lips and engaging with his own, hands clasping around his face to keep it steady. To feel his skin on her fingertips. His own fingers tangled in her long sun-bleached hair, and for a second they both forgot their surroundings entirely.

"I have never wanted anything so badly as I want you," she said as she pressed her forehead against his. Cillian was still struggling to come to terms with the entire situation, and she could tell, so she continued. "But I didn't come here so that we could meet our end together after sharing a passionate moment. We're going to escape. Which means I am going to need a disguise." With those words, she gave Cillian an affectionate peck on the cheek before moving away from him slightly, her slender fingers grasping the edges of his linen shirt. She inspected it closely. "I need a soldier's uniform. One that covers as much skin as possible, but not too tight so that my curves are shown, and positively with a hood. Anything that makes it easier to hide my feminine features."

Cillian considered her words carefully. The 200 men under Sir Oisin's command had been collected from around the isles like cabbage ripe for harvest, with great haste and little planning involved. It had all been done over the course of less than a week, as quick deployment of more men was what the Lords hoped would turn the tides of war back into their favour. Most of them were therefore likely to be nameless faces to the commander, and so perhaps Maeve could blend in if she simply managed to look boyish enough. However, one proper look at her face and it was abundantly clear that she was anything but. Maeve's beauty could not be measured, and her ample bottom and short stature were not going to help with selling the illusion.

"I'm not sure that's going to work, sweet sister," he admitted, looking troubled. "But I cannot think of a better plan. So I'll go find you something," Cillian promised as he rose to his feet. "You stay here, and don't make a sound. How did you manage to get on board in the first place?"

The sheepish grin on her face was adorable. "Snuck into a crate full of lemons."

Cillian sighed. "How fitting."

--- 3 ---

"He's still sick, huh? He better be ready to fight once tomorrow comes," Art commented from across the room where he sat with several other soldiers - drinking what might be their last ale in their lifetime. Several others were asleep already, and the hour was late - but Cillian sat on the side of a cot which hid Maeve underneath her thick wool blanket, now dressed as another soldier, though her pillowy lips and luscious form could not be truly hidden no matter how hard she tried. So she remained under the blanket, pretending to be sick, while listening to her brother talk with the men.

"Leave him alone" Cillian replied sternly. "It's his first time on a ship of this size, and his stomach's in a knot over the grim fate that will meet us tomorrow. I'm surprised you lot are so relaxed."

Art scoffed, his bushy eyebrows drawn together. "What use is it to worry? Either we live, or we die. The Gods will decide." He emptied his tankard and tossed it aside onto the floor, then gave Cillian a sharp look. "But you're not fooling me, lad."