It wasn’t Theo’s fault that he was curious. Wyn would be curious, too, if a naked woman engulfed in flame appeared on the deck of his boat and turned into a dragon. He pulled back some of his frustrations and centered himself.
“A beithir is a Scottish, snake-like creature. You could call her a dragon or a serpent. But Niamh in particular is very proud of who she is, of Scotland, where she came from,” Wyn trailed offslowly. “You'd do well to call her a beithir in her presence. One too many Englishmen called her a dragon in 1689.”
Theo cocked his head to the side, thinking through his limited knowledge of lexicology.
“I didn't think 'dragon' was an English word.”
“It's not,” Wyn grunted, “but as I said, one too many Englishmen used it to describe her because they couldn't pronounce or couldn't learnbeithir. Now, can I finish my story?” Wyn took another swig from the bottle.
Theo flushed, looking properly chastised, and guilt settled in Wyn's stomach. None of this was Theo's fault. He didn't apologize, but he poured him a glass of the dark liquor, which was better than an apology in Wyn's world, anyway.
Theo happily grabbed the glass and motioned for Wyn to continue.
“Niamh is a beithir. She has a lot of similar characteristics to dragons, except she also exhibits a little bit of control over lightning and thunder.”
Theo let out a low, impressed whistle.
“I agree.” Wyn held up his glass in mock salute.
“I get the feeling Niamh doesn't come around other magical folk too much.”
“Ha,” Wyn snorted. “You could say that. Calum knows Niamh, and he knows she's alive. That's about it. She doesn't spend much time on the mainland.”
“Where does she spend her time?” Theo pushed, an endless array of questions. Every day since reuniting with his brother, he had turned into an endless array of questions, and the sudden appearance of a new magical species wasn't curtailing his eagerness in the slightest.
“Damned if I know.” Wyn's countenance darkened again, taking a particularly long pull from the bottle. There wassomething personal in his tone, as if, once upon a time, he was privy to Niamh's whereabouts.
Silence settled over the room, and Theo waited, hoping Wyn would offer more context without being explicitly asked. Wyn stared into the fireplace, his eyes lost in the dancing flames and the shadows they cast around his feet. His face softened; his brow furrowed, and his mouth pulled into a tight line. Without warning, Wyn started to hum, murmuring a tune under his breath.
Theo wasn't sure Wyn was even aware he was doing it. He strained to hear it, even with sharp fae sentences, but the quiet, muffled notes were sad and wanting. The atmosphere in the room shifted to one of ache and desperation, and it might have been all in Theo's head, but he swore the fire started dancing in tune with Wyn's melody.
He stopped, as subtly as he started, the last note trailing off into silence.
“She owed me a favor,” Wyn said, defeated.
It was Theo's turn to feel guilty, wondering how long Wyn had been hanging onto that opportunity.
“Thank you,” Theo whispered. He swallowed thickly, once again amazed by the lengths his new friends were willing to go for him. “I don't know how long you’ve been holding onto that?—”
“A thousand years? A hundred years? Give or take,” Wyn interrupted, still looking straight ahead at the mantle. “There's no calling a beithir. You can't text her or even write a letter. But, if you're lucky, they might take pity on you.”
A small, nostalgic smile appeared on Wyn's face. “A beautiful, terrifying beithir could see a sailor, a young prince dangerously out of his depth. Dare I say, she was charmed by him, if only the slightest bit. She gives you a bit of incense that, when lit, could summon her from anywhere in the world.”
Theo rubbed his hands together. The longing in Wyn's voice was suddenly palpable; it emerged from him with a strength born of years of wanting. When Wyn spoke again, his voice cracked, and Theo turned away and pretended to ignore the tears in his eyes.
“You think it's because she loves you,” Wyn scoffed, “but that would be too much to hope for. More than a foolish, arrogant thing like you deserves. No. She thinks you talk too much and have too much confidence for your own good. She only does it so your life isn't on her conscience. It's a pity, is all it is.” Wyn sank back in his chair, the empty liquor bottle falling over on the table.
Theo cleared his throat, debating on whether he should reach across the table and comfort Wyn.
“I don't know.” He shrugged, out of his depth. “That sounds like love to me.”
Wyn said nothing for a few long, agonizing minutes before letting out a derisive noise.
“That's naive, boy.” He cleared his throat, his voice raspy. “Even for you.” Wyn forced himself to his feet, stumbling with the influence of the liquor, and started ascending the stairs toward the deck.
“Might as well pray to your gods or sharpen your blade, whatever you do before a battle,” Wyn called back down to Theo. “The boat will follow Niamh's direction. By dawn, you’d better hope the three of us can take on a god.”
Wyn's heavy footsteps on deck faded slowly, leaving Theo to think about his pre-battle ritual. He didn't have any, but this was as good a time as any to start. Before returning to his cabin, he picked up the bottles and the glasses, tidying the study before slipping away. Wyn's character had shifted so suddenly and so violently from the brash, loud elf Theo had met.
