Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
FINLAY
Dribblets of disturbed salt water kick up from below and kiss Finlay’s cheek.
He stands at the back of the modest ship, leaning against the railing of the quarter deck. His eyes remain attached to the rudder; his thoughts remain attached to the missive he just received from Cahlmon through the Ever-Know Quill.
Good work, Captain Fjolla.
Though I began to have my doubts about your ability to locate the girl given how long it took, I now have faith I made the right choice when entrusting you with this mission.
Send your next correspondence only once you have found her and are settled away from the Wastelands. We will form a rendezvous point from there, where the girl can be discreetly transported to a holding room beneath Bathara while we form our next steps.
As a word of caution, do not mention this to anyone else. Not even Josiah.
Until we pen again.
Cahlmon Orius
Finlay sighs.
He has done everything asked of him. He has fulfilled his duties as a Great House Heir.
Has acted in accordance with his expectations as a captain at Bathara.
He even just received the smallest glimmer of hope that his father might finally be willing to accept him as his son once more.
He has done everything he is supposed to.
Is on the exact path his mind was set to walk, finally on the cusp of grasping everything he’s been working for since his mother’s passing.
So why does he feel so terrible?
Behind him, Finlay hears the wooden planks creak and groan beneath booted feet.
Draven steps up to the deck’s railing, bracing his elbows and leaning forward in a position mirroring Finlay’s own.
He stares out over the endless stretch of the glittering blue water composing Glass Water Bay, the final obstacle between them and the Arid Wastelands.
“You’ve been distant.”
Finlay huffs weakly. “You’ve been distracted.”
Draven turns to look at him. “And you’re deflecting.”
Guilt weighs heavily on Finlay’s chest. Is he really going to betray Draven’s trust again?
Though to Finlay the situation is incredibly different from how it was the day he broke his blood oath to his brother—being bound by duty, honor, and true obligation—it would still be breaking his trust once more all the same.
Trust Draven had not given back to Finlay easily.
They went years—nearly a decade, even—without speaking.
They were the darkest years of Finlay’s life, being without him and Kiran. Which was really saying something, when he stops to consider all the heartbreak predating those years.
Finlay’s shoulders sag beneath the weight of all his wrong choices—of all the priorities he is beginning to wonder have been misplaced.
He lowers his chin to his stacked arms, and his unbound hair flaps freely against the wind.
Finlay battles all the many branching decisions before him.
Should he tell Draven the truth of Bathara’s council’s plans?
That they would have him betray Draven and Lyra both, wanting her for their own reasons.
Perhaps they want to present her to the Tani themselves.
Perhaps they wish to keep her as their own weapon.
Perhaps they just want to understand; perhaps they fear what understanding might bring.
What if they run tests on her? It’s not unheard of for those in the sciences to study enigmatic lakt?. Draven himself would probably have been subjected to such tests if his surname hadn’t been Dalmar.
Finlay glances at Draven sidelong. He notices.
“You can tell me what’s been bothering you, Finlay. I won’t be angry with you.”
Not likely.
Yet the opening entices Finlay more to come clean of the truth.
To tell Draven everything. Perhaps he already knows—or at least suspects—Finlay is on orders.
He’s sure Draven’s already questioned Finlay’s intentions for being with them during this mission instead of attending to his usual duties at Bathara—the decision Finlay normally would make.
He’s weighing his choices when Draven speaks again.
“It’s about Rhea, isn’t it?” He turns from the railing to square his shoulders to Finlay, leaning only one arm against the rounded wood.
“I noticed the shift between you two during the ball. Noticed the stolen glances and the way you mindlessly gravitated toward her. Then the falling out. You two were at each other’s throats even more than usual when we were securing passage in Halfin.
I especially can’t help but notice the way you two have been on opposite sides of the ship ever since disembarking from the docks. ”
Ah, so that is what Draven wants to talk about.
His brother, always so perceptive. Only this time his observations are only half right, his scope sighted on the wrong target, his aim—though true—veering to the harmless animal on his left when really it should have aimed for the predator to his right.
Finlay takes it as his sign to drop the matters of Cahlmon, Bathara, and what he will do once they find Lyra from his mind. Instead, he indulges Draven in this line of conversation.
“And what is it you’re implying with what you think you’ve noticed?”
Draven huffs a laugh. “Don’t play dumb with me, Fin. I know what I saw.”
Finlay shrugs. “And I am merely asking you to state those observations more clearly.”
“Alright. I saw you pining for her in a way I’ve never seen from you before.
I saw you gaze at her with longing in your eyes.
I saw the way you moved to her. Saw the way your fingers twitched when they were near her.
And then I saw the guilt in your eyes when you avoided her.
I saw the panic in your muscles as they tensed when you two stood just inside the same room together.
I saw it all, Fin. Or would you like me to go on? ”
Finlay, unsure of how to respond—his defensive nature already threatening to claw up his throat—merely keeps his eyes locked on the crystal water in front of them.
“So what?” he asks instead. “What does any of that matter? I still hate her, and she hates me.” He does not like the new pang those words conjure in his chest.
“I hate to tell you this, but one doesn’t look at a person they hate with the same type of expression you use when looking at Rhea.”
Finlay scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Draven lifts his exposed palms. “All I’ve done is point out the way you look at her.”
Finlay remains silent, instead letting the sounds of the waves crashing into themselves fill the space between them. Eventually, he sighs. “Can I ask you something?”
He notices the small twitch in Draven’s brow. “Of course. You can always ask me anything.”
“Given your father and all that he’s made you do—the ways he’s tried to shape you—how did you not royally fuck everything up with Lyra?”
Flashes of the hurt brimming in Rhea’s eyes swim in Finlay’s mind.
You, Rhea Brooksley, are nothing more than a commoner made into House Dalmar’s charity case.
Why had he said that? Why, whenever his father is near, does Finlay always revert to such cruel behavior?
Draven snorts a laugh. “What? Am I truly such a brooding bastard that you had such little faith in me?”
Finlay chuckles, shaking his head. He can’t help but notice there is a distinct sadness echoing in the sound. “If I had little faith in anything, brother, it would be regarding your blatant lack of charm and manners.”
Draven’s smile broadens before his expression sobers.
“It is because I was fortunate enough to have people around me who wanted to mold me into something better than my father. It is because I had an exquisite mother. Because I was blessed to know Atlas Brooksley, who both showed me and told me what love truly is. What it should be.” His voice softens.
“Plus, where I am rough, Lyra is soft. Where I am unkind, she offers kindness. In return, where she closes herself off to the world, I open her up. Where she lacks desire to feel, I remind her of the reasons to. It helps make things easier because we just…work, she and I. And being with her… it’s like waking up to a world of color after only seeing muted tones.
” He huffs a soft laugh, glancing down at his palms. “The world is more beautiful to me when it’s painted in lilac. ”
Different emotions grip Finlay’s heart. Guilt. A tinge of jealousy. Happiness for his brother.
“I’ll never understand how you did it,” he murmurs. “How you managed to carry the weight of all your burdens and still find yourself something as fragile as love.”
Draven’s mouth quivers as it plays with the makings of a smile. “Neither will I.” A sigh. “Though we will see if I can keep it, given all I have left to do. All the many failures I will undoubtedly spend my lifetime trying to make up for.”
Finlay understands entirely.
A long stretch of comfortable silence passes between him and his brother as they overlook the water.
A golden sun descends beyond the horizon, painting the sky and sea in a kaleidoscope of pastels.
As they watch the waves, Finlay supposes he and Draven are lost at their very own seas, drowning in their own ways.
Once all the color has nearly bled from the sky, Draven speaks again. “You will never deserve her, you know.” His eyes remain forward, his voice soft.
Finlay nods. “I know.”
From the corner of his eye, he catches the small curve of Draven’s mouth. “As long as you know, then there’s no reason you can’t try to be someone who is deserving.”
A quiet melancholy floats through Finlay. “I could spend the rest of my life trying, and it still wouldn’t be enough. She deserves far better than I could ever offer her.” A pause. “I will never deserve the affections of someone like Rhea Brooksley. Never.”