Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Mister Wolf and the little warrior 4.2

Warnings: mentions of death

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The sun dyed the sea a glorious, bleeding red. Frothy waves lapped at the golden-white coastline and stretched out far and wide, further than the eye could see. The sky met the sea and blurred into an explosion of reds, purples and golds. So much light, it seemed to Callan like he could sail right off the sea and fall off the edge of the world, into the void of the sky.

Sea. It had always been here, and it always would. It had seen empires rise and fall. It had seen stars explode and fade, cradling their fiery dead bodies in its loving arms. It held the secrets of the universe, of death and birth. It was eternal and it was ever-present. It was chaotic and demanding, and at the same time, soothing as only a mother could be.

It was all Callan had ever known. All he ever would.

Over the years, it had watched Callan grow as well. It had seen him in the happiest of moments when he felt his heart would crack open from the love in it, and it had seen him at his lowest, when he felt like his strife would swallow him whole.

It had been here, when his father had passed so suddenly, and Callan had realised it was time to assume the throne, much sooner than he'd expected. He'd come here young and terrified to admit he had no idea how to rule a nation. Terrified of burning down centuries of progress, of letting down tens of thousands of people who depended on him. His head had been a buzz of words and faces and overwhelming duties, but he'd stepped onto the damp sand and suddenly... quiet.

His lungs had filled with salty air, his boots had sunken into the damp sand, and suddenly, nothing seemed too serious. How could it, in face of such a display of nature?

He'd whispered his concerns into the breeze and watched the sea take them away. Crashing waves had answered back that he was not alone. Countless of others before him had stood like him, at her skirts, begging for answers, wanting to lighten their weight. And mothersea had listened, as she always had. She'd had the answers he needed.

Beneath the sturdiness of the sand, upholding lands and Kings and men alike, nothing seemed quite too large or quite too steep. Callan's problems were a grain of sand. It was comforting to know that he was not alone, nor was he large enough to derail what the ocean had seen grow so large. He was, in the end, a speck of sand in the ocean. It had been enough for him to take a deep breath of briny air and carry on.

It was perhaps why he'd chosen to lay rest to Finnian here. Between the long grasses and frothy waves, surrounded by light and salt.
He too understood and loved the deep spiritual connection with the sea. He had understood it perhaps more than anyone.

"Finnian would have loved it."

He turned and caught a hint of a smile. Warped and slightly wet, but beautiful as ever. A salty breeze swept crimson curls aside, revealing wind-flushed cheeks and seaglass bright eyes.

"You don't think it was selfish?"

"No. It was what he wanted. And you didn't lie. Not really."

A shadow of a smile stretched on his lips. Minna and her rebellious nature. They were an odd, yet fitting pair. Callan was callous and willing to disregard norms if it was convenient for his plans. And Minna... well, she didn't care about rules, if discarding them was necessary in order to do good.

If you respect rules more than the livelihood of people, then you really don't care about being good, now do you? That was often what she said, before getting up to no good, in the name of good, ironically.

He descended from his horse and patted it, allowing it to roam freely. Minna was already halfway down from her mare when he came to her side, easily catching her and setting her on her feet. She smiled at him when he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Then, she linked their hands and tugged him along.