Chapter 7

For probably the first time in his life, Morgan was making his brother happy. It was a welcome but very weird feeling.

“You’ve been very dedicated to your training lately,” Brevaer said a week after Morgan named his hidden, human friend. “Mielin tells me you’ve been requesting more food too.” He plucked a yam patty up off the plate and waggled it before taking a bite.

“Ah …” Morgan felt his face heat. He should have guessed that the old woman would give him up. Mielin, who along with her daughters cooked meals for many of the single Agnarra in exchange for help maintaining her household and bringing her the best catches from the sea, was also the biggest gossip in the whole village. “Yes, I’ve been hungrier lately.”

“That’s all the running you’re doing.” Brevaer nodded approvingly. “Even your basic battle forms are improving.”

Morgan gave his brother a real smile at that. “Thank you.”

“It won’t be long before you can move up into the more advanced exercises.”

“Let’s not be too hasty!” Morgan held his hands out. “I’m still working on my endurance! I can’t even make it around the island yet without wanting to throw up!”

“Oh? That’s still better than how you used to get winded after a hundred feet. Why don’t you show me.” Brevaer got up from the floor and brushed his kilt free of crumbs.

“Um …” The truth was, while Morgan was actually running better—for a distance at least as far as the beach where Auban was hiding out—he hadn’t gone beyond that yet. The glint in his brother’s eyes made it clear that he wasn’t going to let Morgan get out of this, though. “Sure, let’s do that. But, ah, let’s bring Garen too!”

Brevaer cocked his head. “All right, but why?”

Because then you’ll have someone to focus on other than me.“Oh, you know, I need someone who will run with me instead of darting ahead,” he joked.

Brevaer frowned. “I can pace you, Morgan.”

“Yes, but you won’t want to.”

“I …” Morgan was startled to see his brother at a loss for words. “I’m not doing this because I want to see you fail at something,” Brevaer said after a moment. He looked uncomfortable—which made sense, given how desperately his older brother usually tried to avoid talking about his feelings. Or to Morgan in general if he wasn’t shouting orders at him. “I’m proud of the effort you’ve been putting in. I know that fighting doesn’t come as … as naturally to you as it does to some others. I want to acknowledge that, and, well … spend some time with you, I suppose.”

“You do?” Morgan was dumbfounded. He couldn’t remember the last time Brevaer had spent time with him like that outside of sharing a meal.

“Yes.” Brevaer shook his head. “I know I’ve been a poor brother to you in many ways. I ask a great deal of you, and it’s hard for me to see sometimes that you’re trying when you don’t … do things as quickly as I expect.”

Because you expect me to be as perfect as you are,Morgan thought bitterly. Brevaer seemed to catch on.

“And that’s wrong of me,” he continued. “Before humans drove us from our island and we had to come here, someone like you—Morgan, you would have been celebrated by our people. By our parents.”

Morgan felt tears well up in his eyes. “Really?” he asked—squeaked, more like, his voice suspiciously tight.

“Even I can tell that you’re a gifted artist.” He gestured to the walls of their home, which were covered in charcoal drawings and wood carvings. “I know you don’t remember it, but our island was a place of incredible beauty.” Brevaer’s eyes went distant, focusing on something only he could see. “Every home was a work of art, and our public places were tended to by our gardeners and artisans to create the most magnificent blends of nature and necessity. Walls made from living trees, benches shaped from rock or coral, everything so bright and green and colorful … it was like living in a dream.”

Morgan had never heard his brother wax poetic like this about the past before. He tended to focus on the terrible things that had happened, which were, admittedly, very terrible. It was important to remember those things, but Morgan also couldn’t help but wonder at the fond expression on Brevaer’s face as he remembered the good things as well. What sort of man would you be if the world hadn’t hurt you so much?

“Artisans were valued there. I always knew I would be a warrior, like our parents, but our mother’s sister … she was a great sculptor.”

“What was her name?” Morgan asked, rapt with this new information.

Brevaer smiled. “She was called Morgana.”

Morgana.He was named for her, named for an aunt he couldn’t remember meeting but with whom he shared so much.

Brevaer chucked the bottom of his chin. “Better close that before you catch flies.”

“Brev!” Morgan swatted his hand away. “Can you, um, can you tell me more about her?”

“I don’t remember much,” he admitted. “I was too busy playing with other children and practicing my forms to sit still and watch her work, but I remember that when we were born, she carved portraits of us in the bark of the family tree outside our home. As the tree grew, so would our portraits, supposedly mirroring us into adulthood.”

“Wow.” Morgan was terribly impressed. “Did it actually work?”

“Well, I don’t know who did our mother’s portrait, but I personally thought it looked nothing like her,” Brevaer said with a shrug. “But mine was looking very like me by the time I was twelve. And yours … you were just a little child then, but it might have grown to look very like you as well.” Some of the light went out of his eyes. “We’ll never know, of course. The humans burned the tree at the same time they burned our home. Hundreds of years, dozens of faces from our family’s past—gone.”

This time, Morgan wasn’t able to fight back the tears. “I wish I could remember it,” he said, clenching his hands uselessly in his lap. “I wish I could remember any of it. All I get are visions of fire and darkness. I can’t even remember our parents’ faces.” He pounded a fist against the floor, hating the helplessness that swamped him.

“Hey, no.” Brevaer knelt down in front of him and took his hand, cradling it between his two much larger ones. For a moment, Morgan felt like a kid again, safe in the presence of someone who he knew would take care of him. “It’s not your fault that you can’t remember. Everything that happened was so difficult, and you were so young … I would be more surprised if you could remember anything of our parents, especially since I never talked to you about them. I just couldn’t when you were young.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s not your fault either,” Morgan said. “You had to be responsible for a child ten years younger than you when you were still a child yourself.”

“And I did my best,” Brevaer agreed. “But I’ve always known my best was never enough for you.” He sighed. “I was so relieved at first when you and Garen became close friends because I thought it meant Rozyne would step in and be a parent to you as well. I could see so clearly that you needed more, but … she wasn’t the one to give it to you.”

“No,” Morgan agreed. “I think Garen has had a harder time of things than I have, and he’s technically still got both of his parents. They’re just …”

“Not ideal,” Brevaer said diplomatically.

Morgan snorted. “If you call a mother who never stops criticizing him and a father who never looks at him ‘not ideal,’ then sure.”

“But he has you. You’re worth more than you think, Morgan, trust me.”

Morgan wasn’t entirely sure he could believe his brother’s words. Brevaer almost never looked back, but this wasn’t the first time he’d apologized to Morgan for being a less-than-ideal guardian to him. His remorse didn’t seem to last long—probably next week, he’d be looking down on Morgan’s paintings again or mocking him for losing his grip on his staff. But for now … for now, it was nice to have his brother really feel like a brother instead of someone who was just here to judge him.

“You can pace me,” he said at last, “but we should still invite Garen along, I think.”

“Give him some space from his parents, huh?”

“Yes.” Also, give him a chance to impress you one-on-one instead of admiring you from afar. Morgan might not get why his best friend had fallen for his brother, but he wanted to help Garen along as much as he could, and honestly, being adored by someone he wasn’t related to could only help Brevaer’s mood.

“All right. I’ll go get him.” Brevaer got back on his feet and headed out the door of their hut. Morgan watched him go with a pang, a little sad their conversation had come to an end. It had been … quite nice, actually. Nicer than he could remember his brother being for a long time now.

And maybe things would stay nice for a while, as long as Morgan kept him from going down to the rocky beach and finding Auban.

That wouldn’t be nice at all.