Chapter Text
The idea that a person's worth should be calculated by the amount of melanin in one's skin, the number of X chromosomes they possess, or the chemical makeup of their brain - this isn't novel. This idea is not even unique to humans since practically all social animals have been observed to exhibit a basic in-group out-group mentality.
Yet, what makes this idea almost laughable is that, in the end, we're all the same. This isn't meant to be some hippie kumbaya statement. It is only a scientific fact.
All living things, every single organism, are products of an improbable collision of chemical and physical properties. Properties that have been exposed to the exact right amount of energy at the exact right time. The survival of a hairless ape with blunted canines is as improbable and extraordinary as that of a bacterium. The existence of a son of krypton is as incredible and unusual as that of a mule.
By this logic, none should be considered more precious nor more valuable than any other. Nevertheless, as you may well know, what should be and what is seldom align. Maeve Riley, approaching the end of the seventh decade of her second life, knows this more than most.
To reiterate a previous statement, every living thing on earth requires energy. This is because energy is needed to catalyze all building reactions. And as far as energy goes, fire is one of the most potent, readily available energy sources on the third planet from the sun.
Fire's potent light and heat energy are why it's been utilized in nearly every summoning spell Maeve has cast in this lifetime. And though the fire is more significant and brighter than routine, this spell is no different. Since Macha Mong Ruad is the protector of the hearth and women, the bonfire in Maeve's den has been fed and stoked until it is more expansive than any that she's kindled before.
The flames tower over the four women, thrashing the sides of Maeve's subterranean cave. The smoke melds with the damp, salty sea and stagnant cave air to create a vile smog. Flowstone, dripping ivy, and moss appear to sway along with the flickering light, their shadows dancing on a backdrop of towering majestic grey and filemot stratified sedimentary rock.
These shadows don't dance alone. The shadows of the women the fire casts are far greater than their physical forms. This is fitting as these women have lived lives more remarkable than their physical forms.
A lifetime ago, Maeve can recollect watching her mother call forth spells in her den across an ocean. The druids would congregate in the cave, entering through its gaping jagged mouth hidden behind a waterfall, the misty Irish air filling their lungs.
Each druid would don flowing robes and crowns. They would sing and dance around the flame - calling forth ancient spirits. Individually, their voices were imperfect, but in the enchanted den, they made the most exquisite, spectral melodies she'd ever heard. Maeve would watch them in wide-eyed wonder, thinking they looked like beautiful untamed queens in staghead crowns and princesses with tiaras woven from herbs and flowers.
While the four women in Maeve's den are a far cry from her mother's druids in the old country, she can see the flames of longing intertwining the reflection of the bonfire. These women, each for a different reason, are as desperate as the old druid to see this spell work, and it's this desperation that is fanning the flames. It's their frantic energy that will fill the chasm their skepticism creates.
Saku Hasegawa and Carmela Bertinelli are both around the same age as Maeve and, like the druid, have borne witness to the horrors of their respective families over the decades. Those horrors weigh heavily on their shoulders. And as the weight has grown, they've shrunk and bent under it.
Rosa Santo, however, paints a different picture from the other three in the cave. She is young, hauntingly beautiful, and stands tall and proud. Rage simmers in her dark, almond eyes like the vermillion impatiens Maeve read in the young woman's cards. Blood red impatiens spoke of an impatience for bloodshed. Rosa Santo is thirsty for vengeance, which is why Maeve entrusted her with the most… delicate element needed to summon Macha Mong Ruad.
The princess of Gotham's cartel, Rosa, thrusts a crumpled, brown paper bag into Maeve's small and nimble hands. Inside, zipped up in a clear plastic sandwich bag, is a human testicle.
When Maeve nods in gratitude, Rosa shrugs and says, "My pleasure." And Maeve has no doubt she speaks the truth.
Whatever Gabriel Santo has inflicted on his daughter, the woman could not read from her cards. Still, it must have been horrible to make Rosa so anxious to destroy him.
Carmela and Saku have supplied the other minor components - the skull of a red fox and acorns fallen from an oak that has seen at least one century.
Setting aside the jaw of the fox skull, Maeve turns the top half upside down. Placing the testicle and the acorns inside, she uses the cranium as a makeshift bowl. Then, she sprinkles in some dried materials. It's mostly moss, but she adds some dried petals of black-eyed Susans, justice, and two shriveled fruits of bittersweet, truth.
These additions are for her. The one who wears the crown of bittersweet and holds the bouquet of black-eyed Susans. The one who will bear the burden of power.
When Maeve met the pathologist, she'd initially thought she was merely one seeking justice. Soon after she'd read her cards, when she'd visited with The Bat, Maeve started to dream of a different path for the young medical examiner.
In her dreams, a low, familiar voice spoke to Maeve of the inevitable. The voice told her of the fate of a woman trained in medicine. Her former teacher said to her that the woman's mortal body, the one who had traversed planes other than that of the living - she would be the one to receive the gifts of Macha. And once her body burned with the power of the red priestess, the woman would carry out the justice Maeve and countless women before her demanded.
At first, Maeve had thought perhaps this was a different woman. However, the night the pathologist was taken by Death, Maeve knew - the one who has traversed planes other than that of the living. The druid was so confident of the fate of the pathologist she traded the life of her only son for the doctor.
Maeve refused to regret this decision. As she ignited the foxes skull and chanted the Irish incantation, she thought of Shannon, Kayleigh, Fiona, Imogen, and Dierdra. Women slaughtered by Dr. Moon by the orders of her brother Sean. She thought of her missing niece Peyton, her long blonde hair, her smart mouth. Peyton had been sold off to marry the Sabatino heir as a peace offering and went missing two months ago.
If this worked, if Maeve could conjure a protector of women, it would be worth it. If Maeve could create an avenger for those who are used, abused, then forgotten in the shadows, she'd know why she'd been given her second life. If the druid pulled off creating a vindicator for those who've been dismembered in chop shops never to be found, for those whose murderers were never given a second glance - written off as whores and comares - she'd take the hand of Death willingly the next time she came for her.
The bitter smell of charred meat and burning hair emanating from the bowl transforms into something more liquid and metallic, like blood. The yellow-orange flame in the skull turns crimson. Maeve's raven lands on her shoulder as the woman continues to chant, her voice never faltering. The bird doesn't flinch or twitch as, without taking her eyes off the skull cradled in her hand, the woman plucks a single onyx feather from it.
When she tosses the burning skull and feather into the bonfire, the flame takes on a top-heavy ovoid shape, like an anatomical heart. It pulses several times - contracting and relaxing. Carmela and Saku glance at each other with wide eyes, but Rosa, like Maeve, remains transfixed, wholly focused on the bonfire.
All at once, the den goes completely black. The fire is extinguished so thoroughly, not even an ember is left smoldering. The only sounds are the distant crashing of waves against the cliffside and the fiddle playing from the pub above.
"Did it work?" Rosa's voice echoes about them in the darkness.
At the same time, Carmela asks, "What now?"
After several seconds, Maeve answers both questions with one anticlimactic but candid statement, "I have no idea."