Chapter 17 #2
“They’re real.” Archie crossed the space between them in two strides and pulled out the chair with one hand, as if the calm of his movements might bleed into the room. “Sit. Please.”
“I’ve had the same dream every summer since—”
Malachi’s mouth stayed open, the rest of the words stranded somewhere behind his teeth.
“But…” Colour drained from his face. “They’re dreams.” His eyes were too wide, fixed on nothing as if the room was spinning and he was bracing for a fall.
Archie’s hands hovered, unsure where to land. Malachi swayed and he was ready to catch him if he fainted. Perhaps this had been a huge mistake—too much, too fast.
“No!” Malachi shoved Archie’s chest with both hands. Not hard—panicked. “They’re just—" He sucked in the air, ragged and loud. “They’re something I made up to make myself feel less shitty about what happened.”
“They’re real.” Archie was repeating himself. Over and over. Hoping Malachi would finally hear him. “They’re called Selkie.”
“How could they be real?” Malachi’s voice climbed.
“They’re fucking fishmen!” He paced a step, then another, then stopped as if he’d hit an invisible barrier.
His breathing skidded, shallow and fast. “Why didn’t you tell me?
” The words tumbled over one another now.
He pressed his palms to the counter again.
Panic held together by sheer stubbornness.
“Why’d you let me think I was crazy for all these years? ”
Silence had once felt like kindness, like leaving a wound untouched so it could heal. Now he could see it for what it was: abandonment dressed up as protection.
“I thought—" The explanation stuck in his throat. Archie moved closer but stopped short of touching Malachi, like he was approaching a skittish animal. “You were eleven. You’d just lost your brother. Please, please try to understand, I was trying to protect you.”
“I was traumatised!”
The anger flashed hot and fast—that sharp turn fear took when it had nowhere left to run. Malachi’s hands balled at his sides, knuckles blanching, his jaw locked so tight it looked painful.
“I’ve been dreaming about those things every summer for the past seven years.” The words were brittle. “I thought I’d made it up!”
Then something gave way. Malachi's shoulders dropped, as though the weight of his grief had come crashing down upon him all at once. “The guilt kills me every year.”
Archie’s breath caught. Guilt. The word lodged in his chest like shrapnel.
His mind betrayed him instantly—pouring over the tidal forecast in the Hideaway, telling himself he’d only be gone an hour, the empty space on the boat where he should’ve been sitting.
Guilt wasn’t Malachi’s to carry. It never had been.
“You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
“I fell asleep on the boat.” Malachi’s eyes filled with tears. He looked younger—too young to be carrying this much weight. “If I’d have been paying attention, I could’ve saved Rhys.” He dragged his sleeve across his face. “It’s my fault Rhys is dead.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Archie’s voice cracked. He swallowed hard, but it didn’t steady him. “It was never your job to save him.” Because it was his—and he hadn’t been there.
Malachi shifted his weight, brows knitting as though the words couldn’t quite find a place to settle. He stared past Archie, digging in, refusing to let go even if it eased the hurt.
“It broke my heart hearing you scream at night. Hearing you apologise in your sleep over and over.” Archie’s voice barely carried between them.
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his eyes from flooding.
“I wanted to tell you everything, but I didn’t think you were ready.
Once you know about the Otherworld, you never look at our world the same way again.
I didn’t want that for you.” His hands settled on Malachi’s shoulders.
“None of this is your fault. You don’t owe Rhys an apology. ”
Malachi went very still
“I was saying sorry to you.”
“To me?” Archie’s chest tightened. The idea clawed at him, painful and unbearable. “You never have to apologise to me for what happened to Rhys.”
“I saw it!” Malachi shook Archie’s hands off, the movement violent, desperate. “I relive it every year. And every year it gets worse!”
“Saw what?” Archie’s mind scrambled, searching memory after memory, finding nothing but water, screaming and Rhys’ name tearing itself raw from his throat. Nothing else. Nothing he could see.
“Your face!” Malachi sobbed, no longer fighting the tears.
“When you realised it was me you pulled out—not him!” His chest hitched hard.
He clutched himself as though trying to hold something in place.
“I see Rhys being dragged under by those things. It kills me that he died. It kills me that I couldn’t stop it.
And it kills me every year when I see your disappointed face! ”
Archie’s vision narrowed. The kitchen walls closed in on him. His collar tightened like a noose around his neck. Disappointed. His legs buckled, He caught the back of the chair, fingers digging into the wood. “That’s what you think you saw?” He swallowed hard. “You thought I was disappointed?”
Malachi nodded, wiping his face with his pyjama sleeve.
“I wasn’t disappointed!” The words ripped out of him, raw and uncontrolled. “I was relieved.”
He shoved the chair aside, sending it crashing into the table before it clattered onto the floor. The noise echoed through the kitchen.
“I pulled you out of the water, and all I felt was relief.” His chest burned.
The air wouldn’t sit right in his lungs.
“For a split second, I forgot your brother was still under the water with those fucking things. All I could think about was how glad I was that you were alive.” His voice broke.
He dragged a hand across his face, but it was useless.
Wet tracked down his cheek anyway. “And that kills me. Every fucking day. Rhys was terrified and drowning and I—”
The sentence collapsed in on itself. He shook his head once, hard, like he could dislodge the memory. “You think you saw disappointment? You saw a father realise he’d left one child behind.”
He reached out to Malachi, needing contact more than oxygen, needing to prove somehow that he hadn’t lost him too.
Malachi stepped back. The counter stopped him with a dull knock.
The space between them opened up again—seven years wide—and the weight of it finally crushed what was left of Archie’s restraint. His shoulders sagged. His hands dropped uselessly to his sides.
“Tonight, I felt the same relief.” He sank down onto the edge of the table.
“And then the guilt of not being able to save Rhys came flooding back just as fast.” He scrubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hand.
“I feel like everyone I love dies. I live in constant fear that I will lose you too, and I can’t bear it. ”
The words barely left him before Malachi was there. Arms slammed around him, sudden and fierce. Malachi clung to him like he might disappear if he let go.
For a heartbeat, Archie just stood there, stunned. Then his arms came up, wrapped tight around his son’s shoulders, pulling him in until there was no space left at all. His hand pressed into Malachi’s back, anchoring him, counting the rise and fall of his breathing like proof of life.
They stayed that way. No words. No apologies. Just the sound of breathing slowly syncing—seven years finally shared instead of borne alone. If it were up to Archie, he would never loosen his grip. Not now. Not ever.
“Dad?”
Malachi’s voice was muffled against Archie's shirt.
Archie tightened his hold instead of loosening it, chin pressed into Malachi’s hair as though it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“The crossbow?”
Archie exhaled slowly. “No.” His hand slid up, fingers spreading over the back of Malachi’s head, steady and sure. “And if you ever think of touching it, I’ll shoot you myself.”
Malachi let out a weak huff that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a breath breaking “But—"
“No.” Archie pulled back just far enough to catch Malachi’s face between his hands. His thumbs brushed under his eyes, rough and clumsy. He kissed Malachi’s forehead.
Malachi twisted away with a snort, scrubbing his sleeve over his face. “You’re disgusting.”
Archie’s mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile he’d managed all night.
“Isn’t this cosy?”
Ina filled the doorway, arms folded, eyebrows already climbing. Her gaze swept the rooming in a heartbeat—the overturned chair, the damp footprints, the heap of soaked clothes by the laundry door.
“They came?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Ina crossed the kitchen and took Malachi by the chin, already cataloguing damage.
“This?” She brushed the scrape on his cheek with her thumb. “And this?” Her hand slid to his neck, catching on the shallow cut there.
Before Malach could protest, she pulled him into her arms. He stiffened, then melted into it.
“If I’d thought for one second the Selkie would dare come back here, I’d never have gone to Tilly's and left you here.” She released him and turned to Archie. “I would’ve put her to sleep in the spare room.”
“Bloody whiskey.” Archie let out a breath and sank into his chair. He rubbed his face with his hand, then nudged Malachi’s chair with his foot. Not a command. An invitation.
Malachi hesitated, then sat. Colour crept back into his face.
Ina was already moving again. She reached into the cupboard and lifted three mugs, stacked in one hand.
The kettle clicked on. Steam began to build.
She hooked the bottom cupboard open with her foot.
Plastic takeaway containers surged forward.
She swore under her breath and pinned the lot back with her knee. “There’s biscuits in here somewhere.”
Archie watched her for a second longer than necessary—the noise, the motion, and the normality slotting itself back into place. The house was still standing. So were they. For now, that was enough.