5. The Weight of the Unwritten #2
Perhaps it’s the distance that’s fuelled this deeper yearning—a longing for the familial closeness I’ll feel at the Sinclair’s home.
It was the first place I ever truly felt loved, where I understood what it meant to be part of something bigger than myself.
But that love is also what makes these feelings harder to bear.
If I were to act on my urges, I’d have far more to lose than I ever thought possible.
Yet, I fear that the moment I lay eyes on her again, this fragile delusion will crumble. This burgeoning desire I’ve buried will rise, threatening to drag me under a tide of emotions I'm failing to navigate.
Before the thought can spiral further, Bran’s voice cuts through the haze, snapping me back. “Mac, you’ve got that brooding look again. You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor if you keep at it.”
“I ought to tie you to a post and take sail without you,” I say, with an even tone, as if I’m casually discussing mundane topics such as the weather.
Bran laughs and disregards the statement entirely, saying, “You know you’d find little joy in the world around without me. We’re pariahs of society, after all. We band together for a damned good reason.”
“Nae,” I say, shaking my head in disagreement, “dinnae group me in with you. I’m not a rake—movin’ around from bed to bed.”
“Impossible not to move around here ,” he snaps. “There’s fuck all to do while we’ve been sitting around with our cocks practically in hand, day in and day out for weeks. You’d know if you did anything other than mope around in the sleeping quarters.”
“I’ve not been mopin’ around. I just like my bits where they’re at. No chance of having anything festerin’ down there if I’m not in one bed and into the other while the sheets are still sweat-slicked.”
He scoffs, showing a dismissive curl of his lips that hints at the bemusement he feels toward the observation. An over-exaggeration it might be, but only in the slightest.
Bran leans casually against the doorframe, his eyes glinting with mischief as he flashes that knowing grin.
It’s not just his words that carry weight—he wields his charm and easy confidence like a weapon, effortlessly turning the focus of every room toward himself.
Whether by design or mere happenstance, he navigates his world with a confidence that suggests he is not only conscious of his allure, but also adept at wielding it to his advantage.
“You’ve no clue what you’re missing. You know what they say…
if you neglect it too long, it’ll fall off or turn to stone.
” Bran’s voice carries a teasing lilt, and he clutches his chest dramatically, staggering back as if struck by a divine epiphany.
“Wait… is that the problem? Has it turned to stone? Does it not work anymore ? ”
“It works just fine, you bloody weasel!” I snap, irritation getting the better of me. “I have used it just recent—” I cut myself off abruptly, cursing inwardly, jaw ticking as I realise he’s merely coaxing me.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he drawls, that maddeningly smug grin spreading across his face.
His countenance, steeped in insolent arrogance that practically begs to be struck, infuriates me.
“Have you ever considered properly courtin’ one of these women?” I challenge. “Maybe then ye’d spend less time up my arse, wonderin’ what I’m up to behind closed doors.”
His face scrunches as he shakes his head with exaggerated bewilderment. “Why should I? I’ve no plans to settle here,” he finishes, gesturing dismissively toward the outside world with a flick of his wrist.
“Seems an awfully lonely life,” I retort, watching as his playful facade falters for just a breath.
A faint shadow passes over his face, softening the sharp edges of his usual grin.
For a moment, the armour he wears so casually slips, revealing something raw beneath—something he’ll never admit aloud.
Bran shifts his weight, and with a shrug that feels more practiced than genuine, he straightens.
“Just having a bit of fun,” he says, his voice lightening again, almost forcefully.
“We’re young, and we’ve the endurance of a pack of wolves.
Besides, Portuguese women love an American accent. And the way they call out to me as I—”
“Stop bein’ screwy,” I interject quickly, rolling my eyes. “And shut yer mouth before I boak. Ye’re far too comfortable around me. I’ve never met someone as absurdly divulgin’ as you.”
“Fine, fine!” He laughs, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “But admit it, you’ll miss me every second of every day. My absence is going to tear you apart, Mac.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Aye, it’ll be heartbreakin’… for no more than five minutes.”
With a quick motion, I grab my satchel and head for the wagon waiting outside. The thought of returning to Castle Connemara stirs something restless in me, a mix of excitement and unease. The weight of Callan’s letter lingers, its promises of home and reunion heavy in my mind.
“Not quite time to leave yet,” Bran calls, catching up to me. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t we grab a quick drink? ”
I nod in agreement. “A dram, then. But no nonsense, Mums. I leave today, with or without you.” Not a chance in hell I miss leaving.
He squeezes my shoulder, his grin as persistent as ever. “You won’t rid yourself of me that easily. Besides, I hold my liquor far better than you.”
I arch an eyebrow disapprovingly. “I’m a Scot ; we’ve boundless alcohol tolerance.”
Bran snorts. “Do you forget my very Scottish roots?”
“Aye,” I reply, smirking. “You act every bit an American. I’ve seen how well you hold a bevvy. Loose lips practically gobbin' off to anyone who will listen.”
He scoffs, half-offended. “Loose-lipped in a fun way. Not in the ‘ pour-my-soul-out ’ sort of way.”
I chuckle, nudging his shoulder as we walk.
For all his bravado, Bran’s presence eases the weight I carry. His teasing and constant chatter keep the darker corners of my mind at bay. Over the past three years, his lightness proved indispensable—a sharp contrast to my solitude and silence.
Three years of detachment, knowing full well—though unspoken—that I was chosen because I’m dispensable. Bran, with his relentless pestering, kept me anchored to the truth: being expendable doesn’t strip away worth. He drives me mad, but I’d never truly wish him gone.
“In all seriousness, I can’t wait to meet her,” Bran says suddenly, as if the thought had been simmering since our earlier conversation and only now spilled over.
“Who?” I ask, though I know who he’s referring to.
“The one from back home who probably keeps all of you in line.”
He speaks with more truth than he knows.
I glance at him, shaking my head. “And here I thought you didnae read my letters?” The smile tugging at the corner of my mouth betraying my attempt at annoyance.
There is sincerity in his voice when he speaks. “I’m simply saying… she must be worth meeting for her to be cared for so well… and for her to keep a smile on your face from across the sea.”
I don’t respond, and Bran doesn’t push the issue further. With each passing moment, anticipation settles in—home awaits, and I hope she’ll forgive my prolonged silence.
Even though I don’t speak this truth aloud, it lingers in every quiet moment—a presence I could never escape.
She’s worth everything and more.