Chapter Eighteen
The first thing Finn changed was his wardrobe.
He stood in his dressing room the morning after Darragh left him to his studying, staring at the clothes his mother had packed so carefully before his wedding.
The comfortable shirts and practical trousers hung alongside the formal court attire.
He pulled out a deep green velvet jacket with silver buttons.
The fabric felt heavy, restrictive. Perfect for a king consort.
He dressed completely. Jacket, waistcoat, cravat tied precisely the way Jericho had shown him. When Gordon arrived with the morning correspondence, he stopped short in the doorway.
“Your Grace?”
“Just reviewing the invitations,” Finn said, keeping his voice level and measured the way he’d been practicing. Not the rushed, enthusiastic tone that came naturally. No. He would be calm, controlled and refined.
Gordon nodded slowly. “Of course. I’ll leave them here for you.”
Finn spent the morning reviewing delegate files, committing names and faces to memory along with their political positions, family connections, and historical grievances.
When his hand cramped, he flexed it once and kept writing notes.
The old Finn would have taken a break, gone to find something to fix. The new Finn couldn’t afford breaks.
At lunch, Jericho arrived with more material to review.
“You look very proper,” Jericho said, eyebrows raised at Finn’s formal attire.
“Good.” Finn gestured to the chair across from him. “I need you to quiz me on the Westmarch delegation. All of them, not just the primary negotiators.”
They worked through lunch. Finn answered each question with careful precision, correcting himself when he made even small errors. By the time they finished, his throat was dry, and his head pounded, but he’d gotten every single answer right on the final run-through.
“That’s excellent,” Jericho said. “You’ve really got this down.”
“Not enough. There are multiple other delegations to master.” Finn pulled out another set of notes. “Tomorrow we start on the Eastern Reaches.”
“Finn, maybe you should…”
“I can’t afford maybe.” Finn met his brother’s eyes. “Forty percent of our export market, Jericho. Thousands of jobs. I need to be perfect.”
Jericho left looking troubled, but Finn pushed the worry aside. He had work to do.
/~/~/~/~/
Three days later, Finn walked through the east corridor when he noticed the window latch he’d mentally flagged weeks ago.
Still broken. His fingers itched to fix it - five minutes with a screwdriver, and it would be done.
He could feel the familiar satisfaction of solving a concrete problem with his own hands.
Instead, he pulled out the small notebook he now carried and made a note: East corridor, third window from landing. Latch mechanism failed. Assign to maintenance. He handed the note to Gordon that afternoon with specific instructions for proper assignment through channels.
Gordon looked at the note, then at Finn. “You could have just fixed it, Your Grace. I know you have the tools in your…”
“That’s not appropriate for someone in my position.” The words tasted wrong, but Finn kept his face neutral. “Please ensure it’s assigned to the proper tradesman.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The formal address, previously so uncomfortable, now felt like armor.
That evening, Mrs. Donnelly appeared at his office door to discuss the menu for an upcoming state dinner.
The old Finn would have deferred to her expertise immediately, relieved to have one less decision.
The new Finn reviewed each course, asked questions about preparation methods and presentation, and made three specific changes to ensure the menu reflected current diplomatic relationships between attending kingdoms.
Mrs. Donnelly approved each change without argument. “Very good, Your Grace. I’ll implement these immediately.”
After she left, Finn felt a grim satisfaction. See? This is what respect looks like. This is what competence looks like.
He ignored the hollow feeling in his chest.
/~/~/~/~/
The summit planning consumed him. Finn created schedules so detailed that they accounted for travel time between meeting rooms and the average length of formal greetings.
He developed contingency plans for weather disruptions, last-minute delegation changes, and potential conflicts between attending kingdoms. Every scenario had a protocol, every protocol had a backup.
Helena reviewed his work and nodded approvingly. “This is very thorough, Finn. Well done.”
“It needs to be perfect,” Finn said. “Is there anything I’ve missed?”
“Not that I can see. You’ve covered everything.”
“Good.” Finn pulled out another stack of papers. “I want to run through the seating arrangements again. Make sure there’s no possibility of inadvertent insults.”
They worked for another two hours. When Helena finally excused herself, Finn barely noticed.
He had moved on to reviewing the guest quarters assignments, cross-referencing political alliances and historical relationships to ensure no delegation was housed near their enemies or below their appropriate status.
Gordon brought him dinner on a tray. Finn ate mechanically, not tasting the food, his eyes on his notes.
“Your Grace, His Majesty asked if you’d join him for the meal.”
“Not this evening, I’m sorry. I’m working.” Finn didn’t look up from the seating chart. “Please give him my apologies.”
Gordon hesitated. “He’s...concerned about you.”
“Tell him the summit preparations are proceeding well. That should ease his concerns.”
The food went cold while Finn worked. Eventually, Gordon removed the tray, most of it untouched. Finn didn’t notice.
/~/~/~/~/
The letter from Trent arrived on a Thursday. The Thursday he was meant to be spending with Darragh to the point where they’d written it into their marriage contract for time together. Finn had forgotten entirely, so engrossed in his studying.
Finn,
Hope married life is treating you well. Mrs. Weatherby asks about you constantly, wants to know when you’re visiting.
The whole village misses having you around.
There’s a leak in the village hall roof that’s driving everyone mad - water’s getting into the storage room.
I tried to patch it, but you know I’m rubbish at roofing. Any chance you can come take a look?
How’s the castle? Fixed anything interesting lately?
Trent
Finn stared at the letter. The village hall roof. He could fix that in an afternoon. He knew exactly where the leak probably was - that corner had been weak since they’d rebuilt it three years ago. His hands practically ached to grab his tools and go.
But he couldn’t. He had briefings with three delegations’ advance teams next week. He had protocol reviews scheduled with Aldric. He had seating arrangements to finalize, menu approvals to complete and…
He picked up his pen.
Trent,
Summit preparations are proceeding well. All delegations have confirmed attendance, and preliminary schedules have been established. The castle staff is performing admirably under the additional workload.
I recommend hiring a professional roofer from the city for the village hall repairs. I can provide a referral if needed.
Finn
He sealed the letter and set it aside for Gordon to post before he could second-guess himself. The letter was professional, appropriate, and suitably distant - everything he was supposed to be.
The second letter came a week later, this time from Mrs. Weatherby herself. Her handwriting was shaky - she’d never been comfortable with writing - but the message was warm.
Dear Finn,
I’m having a birthday celebration next month and would love for you to attend. Nothing fancy, just cake and neighbors. I know you’re important now, but you’ll always be welcome at my table. Please come if you can.
With love,
Mrs. Weatherby
The old Finn would have written back immediately, promising to be there with a gift he’d made himself. The new Finn calculated the date against his summit preparation schedule and found a conflict.
He had Gordon arrange for an expensive gift basket to be sent - imported teas, fine chocolates, things Mrs. Weatherby would never buy for herself. He composed a formal note declining the invitation but wishing her well.
When Gordon left to arrange the delivery, Finn sat alone in his office and tried to remember what Mrs. Weatherby’s smile looked like when she laughed at one of his terrible jokes. The image wouldn’t come. All he could see were delegation rosters, seating charts, and protocols.
This is what it takes, he told himself. This is the price of not being an embarrassment.
/~/~/~/~/
Dinner with Darragh became another item on his schedule. Finn arrived precisely on time, dressed formally, prepared to discuss the day’s progress on summit preparations.
“The Northern Reaches delegation sent their final roster,” he reported, cutting into his roast chicken with mechanical precision.
“I’ve reviewed the backgrounds of all twelve attendees and cross-referenced their political positions with our current trade negotiations.
There are three potential areas of friction that we should prepare to address diplomatically. ”
Darragh set down his fork. “Finn.”
“I’ve also coordinated with Helena on the cultural requirements for their quarters. They have specific dietary restrictions and prefer rooms facing east for morning prayers. I’ve ensured…”
“Finn, stop.”
Finn looked up from his plate. “Is there a problem with the arrangements?”
“You sound like Aldric.” Darragh’s voice was gentle, but his eyes were worried. “I can’t even remember the last time you told me about something other than summit logistics.”
“The summit is important.”
“I know it’s important. But you’re important too.” Darragh reached across the table. “I miss you.”
Finn looked at Darragh’s outstretched hand. He wanted to take it, wanted to let himself fall into the easy warmth they’d had before everything got complicated. But that warmth had led to diplomatic disasters and economic threats.
“Is it bad that I sound like Aldric?” The question came out more quietly than he’d intended. “Aldric is respected. Everyone listens to him. The council takes him seriously.”
“Aldric is my adviser, not my husband.”
“No, you married someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Finn pulled his hand back, picked up his fork again. “I’m fixing that.”
The silence stretched. Finn focused on his plate, cutting his chicken into precise pieces even though his appetite had vanished entirely.
“I didn’t marry you because you knew everything,” Darragh said finally. “I married you because you were real.”
“Real doesn’t feed people when trade agreements collapse.” Finn heard his own words echo from weeks ago, still just as true. “I need to be competent, Darragh. Not just real.”
Darragh looked like he wanted to argue, but what could he say? Finn was right. They both knew it.
They finished dinner in near silence.
/~/~/~/~/
That night, Finn spread his papers across the bed while Darragh read beside him. The familiar comfort of their evening routine felt strange now, performative. Darragh turned pages in his book, but Finn noticed he wasn’t actually reading - his eyes didn’t move across the lines.
“Finn.” Darragh’s hand settled on his shoulder, warm through the silk of his nightshirt. “Come to bed properly.”
Finn’s body responded immediately to the touch, the promise in Darragh’s voice. He wanted to. He wanted to forget about delegations and protocols for just a short while, and be close to his husband.
But he had six more delegate files to review. And the preliminary schedule needed adjustments based on the Northern Reaches’ prayer requirements. And…
“I’m sorry.” He shifted away from Darragh’s touch carefully, keeping his tone apologetic. “I need to review these files again. There’s a conflict between the Westmarch delegation schedule and the Eastern Reaches arrival time that I need to resolve.”
“It’s eleven at night.”
“I know. I’ll be quick.” Finn returned his attention to the papers, fighting against the ache in his chest. “You can go to sleep. I’ll turn the lamp down.”
He felt rather than saw Darragh’s withdrawal. The mattress shifted as Darragh rolled onto his side, facing away.
Finn worked until the words blurred on the page. His eyes burned. His head pounded. His hand cramped around the pen.
Just a few more minutes. Just finish this section.
/~/~/~/~/
Darragh woke around three in the morning. Finn was slumped over his papers, pen still clutched in his hand, breathing deep and even in exhausted sleep. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his hair was a mess.
Darragh eased the pen from Finn’s grip and set it aside.
He carefully gathered the papers and stacked them on the nightstand.
Finn didn’t stir. He pulled a blanket over Finn’s shoulders, tucking it around him gently.
In sleep, the tension finally left Finn’s face.
He looked younger, softer. More like the man Darragh had married.
Darragh settled back against his pillows, watching his husband sleep. Finn was right there, close enough to touch, but somehow more distant than when Finn had gone home to Winrone.
I did this, Darragh thought. I married him, knowing he wasn’t trained for this. I brought him into this life, and now he’s tearing himself apart trying to fit in.
But what was the alternative? Tell Finn to stop trying so hard when the Northern Collective was waiting for any excuse to break their agreement? Ask Finn to just be himself when that might cost thousands of people their livelihoods?
He looked at the stack of papers on the nightstand, at the detailed schedules and carefully crafted protocols. All of it was evidence of Finn’s desperate attempt to transform into someone worthy of his position – worthy of Darragh.
And yet, all Darragh saw was the evidence that he was losing his husband one formal dinner, one declined visit home, one sleepless night at a time.
And he had no idea how to stop it without jeopardizing everything they’d both sacrificed so much to protect.