[This post is from Thom’s point of view.]
Thom’s stomach dropped right through the floor to a spot about seven or eight feet below where he was sitting, staring at Kellin in stunned silence.
Atlantis. Fucking Atlantis.
It all comes back to that mess, doesn’t it?
The thought sent shivers down his spine, in part because the source was one he tried not to hint about, tried to leave in the darkened recesses and corners of his mind. The memories of Finn’s life were something to be used when it suited him—he didn’t want to end up in a situation where they controlled him, or bled too much, leaving him in a state where he couldn’t know for sure where Finn ended and Thom began. It didn’t matter that it was the same soul, separated by thousands of years. He was Thom and Finn was Finn and the Fianna’s chieftain had died a long time ago.
Marin moved toward Kellin, the baby still cradled in one arm as she hugged her longtime friend tightly. Thom’s fingers fisted in the blankets as he watched them, his jaw growing tight.
He could see the explosion from the shore, could feel the shockwaves it sent through the very fabric of the world, shaking him down to his marrow. He could taste the bile rising in his throat, the feeling of his very heart being ripped from his chest—he hadn’t known if she was there or not, if she’d escaped or not, if she was on her way home or not. He knew that the pathway could have led her there, but—
“Stop,” he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Thom?”
He flinched. Marin had heard him. “It’s okay,” he rasped. “Just—trying to keep my head in order.”
“It doesn’t look okay,” Marin said, taking Kellin by the hand and tugging her over toward the bed, toward the chair she’d left sitting next to it—probably where she’d been keeping vigil prior to Kellin’s arrival.
“Your face is the color of ashes, Thom,” Kellin said quietly, moving the book Marin had left on the chair and setting it on their dresser as she sat down. “What is it?”
He shook his head mutely. Marin sat down on the bed with him, drawing her knees up. Thom found he couldn’t look at her, so he stared at their son instead, reaching a shaking hand to brush his fingers over the boy’s fine dark hair.
“It’s nothing,” he whispered. “I promise.”
“No lies, Thom,” Marin whispered back, leaning in to kiss him gently. “Only when they’re necessary. Is this one necessary?”
He squeezed his eyes shut and said nothing. His throat was too tight to speak.
Is it?
He didn’t have an answer.
