Chapter 7
Rainse
She was still sleeping when I woke at the first light of dawn.
Earth had the best sunrises. On Finfolkaheem, they were milky and washed out, while here the colours were bright and beautiful.
I sat in the sand next to the burned out fire and watched the sun rise while listening to the soft sound of Verity's breathing.
She stirred in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
The sound went through me like a current.
My greenskin twitched along my shoulders and ribs, reading the rhythm of her breath, mapping it against the pulse of the sea.
The bond hummed quietly, a reminder that she was mine, even if she didn’t know it yet.
I told myself it was enough just to watch her. To make sure she was safe. To breathe in a world where she existed.
When I couldn’t stand the stillness any longer, I rose and walked down to the water. The surf curled around my feet, warm from the sun. Small silver fish darted through the shallows, unbothered by my presence. I caught two in quick succession and laid them on a flat rock to clean later.
Every movement felt purposeful. Controlled. Because if I stopped moving, I’d start thinking—about the brothers I’d left behind, the lies I’d built, the future that could crumble with one human word.
I gathered driftwood and kindling, coaxing a new flame from the embers of the night’s fire. By the time the first crackle filled the silence, she was awake.
“You’re up early,” she murmured, her voice rough with sleep. She pushed herself up on one elbow, blinking against the light. The borrowed shirt hung loose on her frame, one shoulder bare. My throat went tight.
“The sea doesn’t sleep,” I said, crouching to tend the fire. “And neither do I, for long.”
She smiled faintly. “You sound like a proverb.”
“Finfolk sayings,” I admitted. “My people like to make everything sound wise.”
“And are they?” she asked.
“Sometimes.” I glanced at her ribs, noting the way she winced as she straightened. “You should rest. The bruising hasn’t faded.”
“It’s fine,” she said, brushing it off, though her breath hitched slightly. “I need to move around. My muscles are stiff.”
I stood and offered her my hand. She hesitated before taking it, her fingers small and warm against mine. The contact sent another pulse through the bond, sharp enough to make me release her too soon.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, misreading my reaction. “Did I—hurt you?”
“No.” My voice came out lower than intended. “You could never hurt me.”
Her gaze flicked up, curious but cautious. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“Only if it’s a lie.”
Silence stretched between us, filled with the steady sigh of the waves. I turned back to the fire before I said something even more foolish.
“I’ll make breakfast,” I said. “Stay here. The sand’s softest by the rocks.”
She nodded, still watching me as I waded into the water again.
The sea was cool and welcoming. If I hadn't been hungry, I would have liked to go for a long dive.
My greenskin brushed against the current, tasting it.
Something about the pattern felt strange—an odd static under the surface, too erratic to be wind or an oncoming storm.
A warning.
The sea was changing.
I looked back once. Verity had her face tilted toward the sun, eyes closed, trusting me completely. The bond thrummed louder, possessive and fierce.
“Don’t stray too far,” I whispered to the wind. “Not today.”
I caught a few more fish, eating one raw in the water so she wouldn't see just how different I was from her. I could eat cooked fish, of course, but it would never taste as good as freshly caught and raw.
By the time the fish were cooked, the smell had drawn her closer to the fire. She moved carefully, still favouring her ribs, one hand pressed against her side.
“Smells good,” she said, settling cross-legged in the sand. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“It isn’t cooking,” I replied. “Just heating.”
“Still counts.” She smiled faintly, and for a heartbeat, the world stopped turning. Her smile wasn’t bright or careless like my brothers’ mates’. It was small and quiet, like sunlight through deep water.
I handed her a piece of fish wrapped in a broad leaf. She accepted it, sniffed, then took a bite. “Salty,” she said through a mouthful. “But in a good way.”
“Salt is life.” I sat opposite her, the fire between us. “We are made of the same sea.”
“That’s poetic,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “Do all your people talk like that?”
“Only when we forget how to be practical.”
She laughed softly, and something warm bloomed in my chest. I hadn’t realised how much I missed laughter.
“So,” she said after a moment, “what do Finfolk do when they’re not saving stranded humans or making over-salted fish?”
“We swim. We work. We fight. Sometimes we sing.”
“Sing?”
“Not with words. With resonance.” I gestured to the faint green tendrils that curled along my ribs. “The greenskin carries sound through water. When enough of us sing together, the ocean vibrates.”
She looked fascinated. “That’s… beautiful. Like whale song.”
“Whales borrowed it from us,” I said, only half teasing.
“Of course they did,” she said dryly, but her lips curved. “I study them, you know. Marine mammals. Mostly orcas, but I’ve worked with minkes too. I was in the field for data collection when the accident happened.”
“The accident.” The word felt too small for what had nearly taken her from me.
“Our boat got hit. By a whale.” She paused, her voice quieter now. “A humpback. I saw its fluke just before it struck. It shouldn’t have behaved like that — they’re not aggressive. We weren’t even close enough to startle it.”
I stayed silent. I was unsure what exactly a whale was, but I could imagine it was one of the great, gentle creatures that sometimes sang to us across the depths. They were not violent by nature. But the oceans of this planet held more secrets than the humans realised.
“It felt deliberate,” she added softly. “Like it wanted us gone.”
“Maybe it did,” I said. “The sea has its own rules.”
“Yeah,” she said, giving a tired smile. “I’m starting to learn that.”
"Why were you on that boat in the first place? I have found humans will stay on land for most of their lives."
"Not all humans. I am a marine biologist. I study life in the oceans.
It would be hard to do that without going out, collecting samples, observing nature, discovering the genius solutions nature has developed to problems we don't even know about yet.
I go on at least one big expedition each year.
This one was supposed to last two months.
But now... You said Jammie... James is safe.
But what about Hugo? Did you see a third person in the water when you found the two of us? "
I tried to think back to that moment I'd first sensed them from far away. "I don't believe I did. Maybe he had already been rescued by the time I got there?"
She seemed so tense that I wanted to reach out and draw her close. But I resisted the urge. She wasn't ready. Not yet.
"I hope so," she muttered. "It's strange. Twenty-four hours ago, I was climbing into the RIB to look for whales. Now I’m sitting on a beach in borrowed clothes, eating alien fish.”
“Alien fish?”
“You caught it. You cooked it. That makes it alien by association.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. “Then you are alien now too. You have eaten alien fish.”
“Oh no,” she said, mock horror in her voice. “Is that how it works? Some kind of ritual?”
“Perhaps,” I said lightly. “Too late to undo it now.”
Her laughter broke the tension that had been coiling between us since dawn. I wanted to hold on to that sound, keep it safe.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said after a pause. “You’re quieter. Kinder. I thought…”
“You thought monsters from the deep would have sharper teeth?”
“Something like that,” she admitted. “But you don’t seem like someone who enjoys scaring people.”
“I used to,” I said honestly. “When I was younger. Before I learned what fear does to the world.”
She studied me for a moment, her eyes thoughtful. “You’ve seen a lot, haven’t you?”
“Enough to know that peace is rare. And fragile.”
Her expression softened. “You sound like someone who’s lost it before.”
“Many times.” I looked out at the sea. “But perhaps it is returning.”
She didn’t answer, but her gaze lingered on me a little longer than before. The morning light made her eyes the colour of shallow water—green, gold, alive. I had to look away first.
The bond hummed quietly beneath my skin, patient but insistent. I wondered if she could feel it too, that slow, tidal pull drawing us closer with every breath.
When she'd finished her fish, she got to her feet. She repressed a groan of pain, but it was too late, I had heard it.
"You should rest," I said gently.
"I have rested enough. I want to see what kind of island I am stranded on."
I jumped to my feet. "Let me give you the grand tour."
She arched an eyebrow. “Grand, huh? I’ve seen bigger sandbanks.”
“You haven’t seen this one.” I swept an arm toward the copse of trees, trying not to smile. “Behold—the most popular attraction of the island: the famous coconut tree.”
She followed me, limping only a little, her hand pressed to her side. “Wow,” she said gravely. “Such majesty. Truly the eighth wonder of the world.”
“Visitors come from all corners of the ocean to admire it,” I said. “It’s rumoured to have survived at least five storms and three very persistent crabs.”
That earned a laugh. The sound filled the quiet like birdsong, bright and unexpected. I wanted her to laugh again, and again, until I got used to the sound - although deep inside I knew that I would never get used to it, always appreciate it.
“And over here,” I continued, pointing to a scatter of tide pools between the rocks, “we have our state-of-the-art aquarium. Entry is free. Please don’t touch the residents—they bite.”
She crouched to peer into one of the pools. A small crab scuttled sideways, unimpressed. “So no souvenir shells?”
“Only if you can outwit the locals,” I said. “They guard their treasures fiercely.”
"Where is the gift shop?"
"Currently closed for renovations. As is the on-site restaurant."
She glanced over her shoulder, grinning. “Do you ever give normal tours, or is this a Finfolk thing?”
“Normal is overrated.” I stopped beside the darker rocks on the far side of the island. “And here we have the prestigious Cliff of Contemplation. Perfect for brooding or dramatic monologues.”
“You’re surprisingly funny for someone who barely smiles,” she said, studying me.
“I smile when it’s worth it.”
“Am I worth it?”
The question hit harder than she meant it to. I managed a faint smile. “You are the first guest to appreciate my humour. That counts for something.”
“High praise.” She eased herself down on a smooth rock and looked out at the endless water. “You know, for a place this small, it’s not half bad.”
“It has everything you need,” I said quietly. “Food. Shelter. Safety.”
“And company,” she added.
The words settled between us like the hush after a wave breaks. My greenskin rippled, sensing the shift in the air. For once, I didn’t try to hide it.
“Yes,” I said softly. “And company.”
She smiled, turning her face toward the wind. “So, what do you call this paradise?”
“I haven’t named it.”
“You should,” she said. “If you live somewhere long enough, it deserves a name.”
“Then you name it,” I said.
She thought for a moment, the corners of her mouth twitching. “How about… Coconutopia?”
I blinked. “That sounds like a disease.”
She laughed again—louder this time—and I decided I could live with that sound for the rest of my life.
“All right then,” she said once her laughter subsided. “You pick a name.”
“Me?” I pretended to think deeply. “How about… Shell Island?”
“Too obvious.”
“Fish Rock?”
“Uninspired.”
“Storm Refuge?”
“Dramatic.”
I rubbed my chin. “Kelp Haven?”
She gave me a flat look. “You just named it after your body.”
“It’s a feature, not a theme,” I protested.
She snorted. “You really need to work on your marketing.”
“Fine.” I pointed toward the sea, where the sunlight scattered in shards across the surface. “Sunwater Isle.”
Her expression softened. “That’s… actually beautiful.”
“You approve?”
“I do.” She looked out over the water again, smiling faintly. “It fits. It feels like a pause between worlds. Somewhere that isn’t quite one thing or the other.”
“A pause,” I echoed. “Yes. That’s what this place is.”
She tilted her head. “Do you have a word for that? In your language?”
I hesitated. “There’s a Finfolk term—vairu’ath. It means a quiet space between currents.”
“Vairu’ath,” she repeated slowly, shaping the sounds carefully. “I like that better than Coconutopia.”
“So do I.”
The sea breeze lifted her hair, scattering a few strands across her face. She brushed them away absently, still gazing at the horizon. “Well then, vairu’ath it is. Our island.”
“Our island,” I murmured. The bond pulsed quietly in agreement, a heartbeat beneath my skin. I felt it echo in the water, carrying her name out into the waves. For the first time since I’d left my brothers, the ocean around me felt like home.