22. Colliding Tides #2
He falls quiet for a moment, his grin fading into something softer, more genuine.
Callan exhales, glancing toward me before speaking, his voice steady.
“Aye, we’re family. But it’s more than that, Triona.
Ye’ve got this way of makin’ folk feel like they matter—like they belong.
Casey and I… we’d be lost without ye, truly.
Ye keep us steady—keep us whole. It’s no small thing what ye give us. ”
Bran nods, his voice quieter but firm. “He’s right. You’ve got a way of holding people together, even when they don’t know they need it. You’re something to come back to—you feel like home, in a way.”
Casey chimes in next, nudging me lightly with his elbow. “Aye, even when we’re bein’ right impossible, you never give up on us. No matter how much we bicker, ye’d stay by us if the entire world turned its back.”
Finn, who has been listening silently, finally speaks, his tone filled with certainty. “It’s why we stand with ye, Triona. At all costs.”
Their words settle around me, warm and solid, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. I just let myself hold on to the feeling, letting it root itself deep within me.
A lump forms in my throat as warmth spreads through my chest. I blink rapidly, feeling the sting of unshed tears.
“Thank you… all of you,” I say softly, my voice trembling just enough for them to notice.
A half-laugh escapes me as I swipe a hand across my eyes.
“Now stop before I start crying like a bairn.”
Casey takes my hand in his and squeezes, his own rare softness showing. “Whatever happens, wherever life takes us, ye’ll always have a place with us. Never doubt that.”
Before I can respond, Callan’s voice cuts through the moment. “Careful, Triona. If Casey gets any softer, we’ll need to pack him in straw so he doesn’t fall apart.”
Casey groans, his sincerity breaking. “Ach, Callan, can you not let a man have a moment? ”
“Oh, aye, have yer moment. Jus dinnae ask us to call ye Saint Casey anytime soon.” Callan quips.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Don’t worry, I’d never let it go that far.”
Casey rolls his eyes. “And now the two of you have me thinkin’ I should’ve been an only child.”
The sound of our combined laughter fills the space, but then we sit in comfortable silence. Bran clears his throat, breaking the quiet. “All right, now that we’ve all had our sentimental moment, back to the book. We can all agree that Mary Shelley’s got a mighty unusual way with words, aye?”
I chuckle, tilting my head in curiosity. “How do you figure?”
Bran leans forward, his voice thoughtful. “Doc thinks he can play God, so he builds himself a monster and then blames it for everything wrong. The real villain isn’t the creature—it’s him. He’s less human than the monster itself.”
I nod, considering his perspective. “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s about what it means to be human. To long for connection, for belonging. The creature’s desolation—that’s the real tragedy.”
Finn tilts his head, letting my words sink in. “Aye, desolation. It’s not just loneliness—it’s something deeper. A hollow that makes a person take what they want without carin’ for others.”
“Unmonitored power’s a dangerous beast. We’ve seen the destruction it brings,” I say, then glance around at them, my voice softening. “We know it all too well.”
Casey looks at me with an expression that conveys understanding—to pain lived and felt. “‘ Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. ’” He adds, with a deep mocking tone, quoting the book word for word.
I set my eyes upward, watching the stars flicker faintly against a velvet black. “They say power corrupts,” I murmur, “but I don’t believe that—not entirely. Power doesn’t change someone. It unveils them. Shows who they’ve been all along, buried beneath the quiet.”
Casey lets out a bitter laugh. “We’ve faced the worst of unchecked power—our land, our kin, our culture taken from us by those who saw us as nothin’.”
As the impact of Casey’s words settle, Callan cuts in, low and resolute.
“And that’s why we fight,” he mutters. Then he turns, his eyes locking onto mine, and there’s a fire in them, something fierce and unyielding. “One day, they’ll reap what they’ve sown. ”
Words hang heavy in the air surrounding us, as promises etch themselves into the silence.
Callan glances ahead, then shifts his posture. I can tell that his body is just as tense as my own. “We should probably rest for the night,” he says.
Casey stretches with a sigh. With a laugh, he starts, “I cannae believe a woman—” he cuts himself off, all too aware of the blunder he was about to make.
“Casey Sinclair, why do I feel as if you were about to say something senseless?”
The look on his face is one of a guilty man. “I might’ve been about to say something senseless.”
“Possibly about, oh I don’t know, the gender of the novelist?” I cross my arms, awaiting his confession.
“Oh, what was that Callan? Did you need something?” Casey gestures towards Callan’s position near the deck’s railing and darts off.
Bran snorts, shaking his head as he watches Casey flee. “Aye, run while you can, Sinclair. That tongue of yours will be the death of you one day.”
With a chuckle, he pushes himself up. “Ah, might as well see what trouble they’re getting into. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or do,” he adds with a smirk.
Finn shoots him a look, unimpressed.
Bran just grins and winks before striding off to join Callan and Casey.
The boat rocks gently, the sounds of the night settling around me. My thoughts drift, tangled in the conversation’s weight, in the meaning of the stories we tell.
I don’t hear Finn move until he’s beside me. He lowers himself onto the bench, his presence steady and quiet. After a beat, he speaks. “Not headin’ to bed?”
I shake my head, exhaling softly. “Too restless.”
He hums in understanding. “Aye… me too.”
There’s nothing more to say. He just stays sitting with me as the boat sways beneath us.
The silence between us isn’t heavy—it’s comfortable, as it often is with him.
I feel my body slowly relax, exhaustion settling in despite my earlier words.
My head tilts, finding its way to rest against his shoulder.
In my sleepy haze, I feel Finn shift slightly before his arm comes around me, steady and warm.
Instinctively, I nuzzle into him, seeking the quiet comfort he offers.
A breath later, his head rests atop mine.
The night stretches on, and in the gentle lull of the waves, my eyes drift closed.
Finn Saturday, 24 May 1823 Fourteenth Day Out at Sea
Moonlight cuts across the deck, silvering the ropes and casting long shadows against the masts.
The distant sound of waves slapping against the hull is the only rhythm, save for the occasional creak of wood as the ship shifts.
I lean against the railing, staring out at the black expanse of water, but my thoughts are far from the sea.
“Why do you call her that?” Bran’s voice cuts through the quiet, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Call who what?”
He smirks, one brow cocked, and leans back on his elbows. “You call Triona ‘ Little Doe .’ Why?”
The memory sits heavy in my chest, not something I share lightly. It’s always been a story I held close—one I never spoke aloud because the weight of it belonged to me alone. But now, after Triona’s revelation, the truth twists through the edges of that moment, poisoning it.
I exhale sharply, gripping the railing a little tighter. “I’ve been calling her that from the first day I came to the Sinclairs’ home.”
Bran’s eyebrows lift, but he stays quiet.
“I’d barely arrived when the family was in uproar,” I begin, my voice low. “Triona was missin’. They said she’d gone off to play but never came back.”
Bran’s smirk fades, his gaze sharpening. “What happened? ”
I rub a hand over my face, the weight of that day pressing against me. “I didnae ken the land, or anyone, but something in me screamed at me—demanded I find her. So, I entered the forest, and the moment I did…” I pause, my throat tightening. “I saw a flash of movement.”
“A flash of movement?” Bran echoes, leaning in closer now.
I nod. “It was a massive white stag. Bigger than any I’d ever seen. It stood there, starin’ at me, steady and knowing. Then it turned and started movin’ deeper into the trees.”
“You followed it.” Bran’s voice a statement, rather than a question.
“I didnae ken why, but I felt as if I had to.” My tone softens, reverence creeping in as I recall the memory. “Something in me said to follow it. Every twist, every turn, I stayed on its trail. And sure enough… it led me straight to her.”
Bran’s breath catches. “Where was she?”
“She was in a clearin’. Badly injured—scrapes, bruises, a nasty gash on her head. She looked so small lyin’ there.” My voice wavers, but I push through it. “But when I knelt beside her, she opened her eyes. And in that moment… the most beautiful set of green, doe-like eyes stared back at me.”
Bran exhales slowly, his voice soft with understanding. “ Little Doe .”
I nod, a faint, bittersweet smile pulling at my lips. “Aye. She’s been that to me ever since.”
For a moment, I hesitate. The memory sits heavy in my chest, not something I share lightly. Finally, I sigh and lean heavier into the rail. “She told me something at the inn about that day that she’d forgotten. And then a truth that wretched bitch Colina confessed.”
Bran lifts a brow, but he stays quiet.
“She told me she was the reason she was in the woods that day.” I run a hand over my face, the weight of the revelation pressing into me all over again. “Colina led her out there, hit her over the head with a rock. She meant to leave her lyin’ there.”
Bran’s smirk vanishes. He stands straighter, his gaze sharpening. “What?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Triona said she only remembered it recently, but she gives me the credit for saving her life.” My voice drops, tightening with something I don’t want to name. “She told me that if I hadnae found her, she might never have made it back.”
Bran exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. ”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The sea stretches endlessly before us, dark and unknown, much like the past I can’t seem to let go of.
I can feel Bran studying me, and when I turn to look at him, a slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. “Sounds like she thought that was quite the romantic notion, Finn.”
I shoot him a flat look. “It’s not like that.”
Bran raises his hands in mock surrender. “Aye, sure. Just a young lad following a mystical stag to rescue a lass, giving her a secret name and keeping it close to his heart for years. Definitely not romantic.”
I shake my head, but Bran just grins wider.
“Doesn’t that make you want to tell her the truth of your feelings?” he presses.
I tense, my gaze snapping to his.
Bran stares at me for a long moment, his sharp gaze studying me. Then his grin breaks through. “You’re ferociously hopeless, you know that, right?”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t bother arguing.
He goes quiet again, his grin fading into something more thoughtful. “She doesn’t know about the tattoo you’ve got on your body? Doesn’t know why you’ve got that, I presume.”
My shoulders tense, but I don’t look up. “No,” I admit quietly.
There’s something closer to concern in his tone when he speaks again. “You’ve been carrying this for years, and when the moment to tell her everything surfaces, you don’t?”
I glance at him; the moonlight casting shadows across his face. “It’s not something I can just tell her. What am I supposed to say?”
Bran raises an eyebrow, and I see the sly grin creeping in.
“You could start with,” he says, clearing his throat.
Then, in the worst attempt at a Scottish accent I’ve ever heard, he mimics, “Oi, Triona, did ye ken ye’ve been hauntin’ me since the day I met ye?
Oh, and by the way, I’ve got yer spirit guide tattooed on me body. ”
I stare at him, completely unimpressed. “That was atrocious—a crime against accents. Ye’ve been around me for how long, and that was the best you came up with?”
Bran grins, completely undeterred. “Well, it could use a wee bit of refinement. Maybe if you spent more time baring your soul to me, I’d get it just right.
So go on, Finn, pour out your heart. Tell me all your deepest, most tragic thoughts.
Hell, cry if you want to add flair. You’d be doing me a great service in the name of accuracy. ”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re a tragic mess. It’s a miracle you’ve kept it bottled up this long without expelling it out into a soppy confession.”
I shake my head, trying to ignore the way his words hit too close to home. “It’s not like that.”
Bran raises a brow. “Aye, sure. That’s why you look like you might vomit every time she so much as breathes in your direction.”
I shoot him a glare. “Go to hell.”
He throws his hands up. “Fine, I’ll pack my bags and call a ferry to come whisk me away.”
Despite myself, I huff a small laugh. But Bran’s expression sobers slightly as he leans back against the railing.
There’s something deeper in his gaze, like he knows everything in my heart. “You’re just too stubborn to admit the truth to yourself.” He grows serious. “I think you’re scared, and it’s okay to be, but fear is a lousy compass.”
His voice is quieter now, all teasing gone. “You can’t just carry this forever. One day, you’ll have to tell her.”
My only response is a quiet, almost broken, “To what end, Bran?”
Bran watches me carefully. “You tell me.”
“She deserves more than what I can give.”
He shakes his head, a quiet scoff escaping him. “And yet, you’re the only one she looks for when the world starts falling apart.”
He lingers just long enough for his words to take root, settling in the quiet between us. Then, with a heavy exhale, he steps back. The boards creak beneath his retreat, each step fading into the hush of the night, until only the rhythm of the waves remains.
My fingers curl tighter around the railing, my gaze fixed on the dark expanse ahead, where unspoken words sink beneath the endless tide.