Chapter 18 #3
He reaches for a washcloth. Finn starts on my upper back, washing in gentle circles until each area tingles.
He works over my arms and hands, then down my legs, lingering at my feet.
His hands seem to memorize my shape, tracing it over and over.
Every touch aches. He takes his time, following the lines of my figure. Never quite slipping where I want him.
When he finishes washing me, it’s my turn.
I copy his movements with a sort of quiet reverence: just appreciating his form.
Finn’s hard-muscled body is a weapon of its own.
I can see the hours in the sword yard outlined with every vein and fiber.
Thick silence has overcome us. I’m wholly occupied with my work—every part of me blazing.
Finn hangs his head, letting the hot water drip down his hair as I wash over the swell of his chest and the arc of his shoulders.
After we’ve finished, I change into a nightdress, and Finn rummages in the closet until he procures a clean pair of trousers, which are only slightly too small. Then we crawl together under the blankets.
My body finds his, and I curl into him.
He’s deliciously warm. Muscled arms wrap around me, and Finn pulls me flush against him. I can’t restrain my hands from creeping up to trace his chest…then his shoulders…then the hard lines of his stomach. All the parts I’ve woven back together. His fragile shell of skin.
It strikes me, as we lie in the darkness, that it’s frightening how much I care about his well-being.
The thought of harm befalling him makes me physically ill.
I’ve been battling an outright obsession with him from the moment I dragged him back to the cottage.
I’m no better than his sycophants, making him my sun.
It’s quiet. Then Finn asks abruptly, in a soft voice: “Do you think I’m a bad person?”
I’m so taken aback by the question, I just lie there breathing for a while. His body is tense, awaiting my answer.
“I think we’re only as good as our next choice,” I finally say thickly. “That’s what my mother would say.”
I’m thinking of the raiders he fought, the prisoner at the feast, the fyrehound. It will take time to comb through the knots of conflicting experiences.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Of course.”
“You said that you’ll be accepting if your father chooses Sebastian. But if he doesn’t, why would you want to be king?”
His thumb idly traces the back of my neck. After a long silence, he says quietly, “You know, I’m not sure anyone’s ever asked me that.”
“Never?” I swallow.
“I would assume it’s self-explanatory.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Tell me more.” His voice is tight.
I blow a puff of hot air. “Well, the responsibility, for one. Your life isn’t just your own. And I imagine people are always watching and judging you. I wouldn’t want that type of scrutiny.”
“You wouldn’t be scrutinized,” Finn says softly. “You’d be an excellent queen.”
With those words, the energy in the room hitches. Does he know how those words sound? Is he just being hypothetical—stating that I have the personality traits that would suit a ruler? Or is it more? Is he implying that I’d be an excellent queen with him?
I quickly dismiss this thought as preposterous and let out a nervous laugh to mask the pause.
“You’d be a great king,” I tell him.
He smiles. “You’re more generous than I deserve.”
“It’s the truth.”
I close my eyes, suddenly very sleepy. With deep breaths, my pulse slows, synchronizing with his.
Finn is the first to drift off. His muscles twitch as sleep finds him, little spasms in his fingers and core. But he doesn’t let go. It’s hard to conceive of how recently he was a stranger. Now my feelings for him nearly overwhelm me.
Why? I send the thought toward Elowyn, a desperate prayer. What is the point of this tidal wave of affection? And why can’t I shove it back down?
Do I just want to feel chosen? Is it the possibility of the palace, the glamour and luxury, the lighthearted life that I could pretend to enjoy?
No. I shove those thoughts aside. I care for Finn in spite of his world, not because of it.
If anything, I long to do what he did for me—to steal him away from his cage and show him just how narrow those borders are.
He would be someone else in a different environment.
He’d be the boy I met in the cottage again.
I want him far away from his parents and Damien and the sycophants.
I want to show him everything that’s wrong about his world.
I want to walk with him into the light, to protect and cherish him, and to learn to rely on him.
I want everything with Finn. I care about his happiness, maybe more than my own.
And as I consider that thought, the truth finally transmutes into understanding, and twin realizations swell within me, unstoppable as the tide.
I am falling in love with Finn.
And losing him is going to break me.
We have no future in this world. My rational mind has accepted that. I can’t ignore the conflicting duties of our birthrights, and all the years of vicious history between us. He will always be Verdin’s descendant. I will always have magic. We are destined to inherit opposing sides of this war.
But I can’t stop myself from dreaming, even now. And I can’t deny what’s threatening to burst out of my chest: the affection, the empathy, the burning desire to ensure his well-being.
I love him. Gods help me, I love him.
And I’m going to have to let him go.
With my head against his chest, I listen to the steady thrumming of his heart.
It beats loudly against my ear, a reminder of his fragile human existence.
Aging slows for Elves in their twenties.
I have a few more years before Finn’s mortal body will start wearing down at a faster rate.
Time will betray us, as blood already has.
In all my life, Finn will never be replaced. I could live for centuries and never match what he represents to me: my bridge to the world, my rescuer, the catalyst to my freedom. He’ll have a piece of my heart forever.
That’s when it pours over me like a bucket of ice water overhead.
I know the answer to the riddle.
It’s blood.