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Declan learns early in his life that secrets are a sign of love. He learns almost as early that they aren't one he's afforded.
He's eleven, he's just learned about how babies are made at school, and he's saying something about how horrible it must have been to give birth twice. (He's always known that Matthew wasn't born that way, but. well. He was, wasn't he? He was.)
“I didn’t give birth to you, silly,” Aurora says.
"You... didn't?" he asks, cautiously.
"Nope," Aurora chirps.
Declan lives with the knowledge for a few days before he asks his father. Niall Lynch cheerfully confirms that no, Aurora Lynch didn't give birth to him: it was a woman named Mor O Corra. Niall doesn't mention that Aurora was based on her, dreamed to be a perfectly docile, unaging copy of her- but, well. Declan was going to figure that one out for himself.
“Why did she give me up?” Declan asks. Mothers are supposed to want their children, aren't they? Why did she just let Niall take him away?
“She was hoping for a girl, you see. Runs a crime ring that's only for women.” his father says.
Then he shrugs, "she came up disappointed when you weren’t. Sent you home with me without much fuss.” Every hard truth of his life clobbered Declan right over the head.
Secrets were an act of love, and his parents kept no secrets from him.
Declan knew where that left him.
On the outs: the child of neither of them. Dauntless Declan kept around only to keep the others safe.
Declan is seventeen, following in his father’s footsteps with the family business. He knows every detail of their sordid past, and the dangers they deal with on a daily basis. Ronan and Matthew don’t even know about the magic, because Niall and Aurora love them. Declan knows everything because Niall and Aurora don't love him.
Declan is seventeen, and he knows everything that his brothers don’t, and now their dad is dead and Aurora is deep asleep. Declan is burdened with knowledge, and Ronan and Matthew are ignorant and safe.
Ignorant and loved .
Declan’s blood boils inside him, but he doesn’t change anything. He never tells Ronan and Matthew.
Of course he doesn’t. Secrets are a sign of love, and Declan. Well. He’s always loved his brothers. He’s not about to stop that now.
Declan keeps the secrets close to his chest, never revealing them without them being revealed first. Never showing hands that he doesn’t have to- except. Well. Sometimes to Jordan.
She makes herself a sweetmetal- imbued with all the joy of discovery and the magic of first love, each brushstroke on his face a bold testament to her artistry. It takes the breath from his lungs… but it’s not enough to keep both Jordan and Matthew alive.
And unfortunately, they can’t trust the dreamers to stay alive- and they need enough to keep both of them alive.
Declan considers his options. Jordan is the one who suggests consulting Boudicca again.
And, well. Declan has a phone number that’s been burning a hole in the contacts of his phones, found at the bottom of his father’s piles of business paperwork and receipts. He sighs. He calls. He gets a dial tone.
He sighs. He texts. He gets a response- a place and time to meet, right on the banks of the river.
It’s pitch black by the time they meet up, the light dancing around the kinks of Jordan’s hair like a halo.
“Do you think she’ll show?” Jordan asks gently.
“I have no idea,” Declan says. He’s not sure if he wants her to, to be honest. There’s something comforting in the ignorance- even if it’s self-inflicted and not done by someone else to protect him. Secrets are love, and love is secrets.
What good does dragging this into the light do him?
He spots a figure in the distance, and a woman walks into the light. Her graying blonde hair shines bright under the light, and the wrinkles in her face define all the areas where Aurora Lynch always seemed ageless.
There’s something so strange, seeing the fantasy his father made of his mother stripped bare, left only with the complicated, aging woman before him.
“Well,” Mor O Corra says, Irish accent thick on her tongue, “that’s certainly a Lynch.” Declan stares down the woman who birthed him, who he might have called “mother” in another life.
His breath hitches.
“The question is, are you mine?”
Jordan crosses her arms over her chest.
“We both know you wouldn’t have come if he weren’t,” Jordan says, eyes boring a hole into the older woman. Mor laughs, not the soft chime of a bell but something harsher- more like a snare drum.
“You have me there,” she says, letting her eyes settle on the son that she never knew.
Declan squirms under the weight of her stare.
“What brings you here?” she asks. Her eyes never move, and Declan shifts uncomfortably. The gaze feels so strong he might burst into flames on the spot.
“Sweetmetals,” he says. She grins- wide and harsh, like the edge of a knife.
“For that brother of yours?” she asks. Declan doesn’t let himself react, but the words hit like a punch to the gut. Who all knows?
“Did your blood brother dream all the fight out of that boy like your father dreamt all the fight out of me?” she asks. Declan feels anger flare- white hot.
“Do you have any or not?” Declan demands, nearly grinding his teeth to dust.
“Of course I do."
"Then show me," he says.
A slight grin. "Straight to the point." He nods harshly.
“Your father never knew what he had with you." Declan feels something settle in him, but not something he knows what to do with. It's a feeling he can't even name.
"That determination," she says, "I've been watching you. You have so much loyalty to people who barely care you exist." Then, he feels it- anger: at the lies, at the truth. At the fact that he can't tell which it is, and he's embarrassed either way. He clenches his teeth again, just to stop himself from saying anything.
He knows any words will be words he regrets.
Jordan is looking over to Mor with anger in her eyes. She sends him a glance. Should I do something? it asks. Declan shakes his head no.
Mor O Corra assumes that she's shaking her head no at her.
“Don't kid yourself. I know they never treated you like one of them." His breath hitches. He's known this woman ten minutes, how could she already know which bloody scabs to rip at to make him bleed?
"I’d take you home right now, if you wanted,” she tells him. Her eyes are serious, full of fire and something fierce. Maybe she doesn’t love him- but she’s willing to care, if only for a moment.
Declan bites his lip.
If this offer had come any time earlier. Well. Declan might have taken it. He desperately wanted to escape his house of dreamers and dreams where he felt he would never, ever fit. A house of secrecy and lies all meant to protect everyone but him.
But what would be the point of that now?
His brothers might not love him… but Jordan? Jordan… might. At least what he feels for her isn’t one-sided.
And with the one-sided love… at least it’s fierce? Protective. His brothers may not love him back, but he will love them until his lungs give out. Keep them safe until there’s nothing else to do.
“I can’t." Declan says. She doesn't look convinced, so he adds, "Someone has to keep my brothers safe.” Mor o Corra smirks at that.
“How maternal,” she says, “you might even have a spot in Boudicca if you keep that up.” He feels his face flush at that- something angry and flattered and frustrated. He tries to push all the feelings away.
“Are you going to help us or not?” he demands.
“I suppose,” she says. Mor O Corra reaches her gloved hand into her coat pocket. She pulls out a slender, golden chain with a single ruby, starkly colored against the black of her gloves.
She holds it out. Declan doesn’t move to take it. He isn’t about to touch it with his skin if she isn’t.
She grins. “Cautious, aren’t we?”
“I was raised in a house full of dreams,” he says, “you never know what items might bite.” Her lips curl into a tight, predatory smile. She peels off a single glove, and slides it into her pocket. Then, she holds the necklace in her bare hand and dangles it out in front of him.
“Trust me?” she asks. Declan doesn't answer, because that answer would be "no". Still, he reaches out and then grabs it quickly. He cautiously curls the necklace around in his palm, gently setting the ruby at the top like the crucifix on a rosary.
His good catholic upbringing wouldn’t allow anything less.
Then, he clutches it in his hand, tightly- making sure that it can’t escape his grasp. Mor O Corra assesses him, drinking in every bit of the son she never knew.
“I should have kept you,” she decides. It’s not warm- not loving. It’s a strict assessment of an asset that she let slip through her fingers. Declan might not be a dreamer, but he’s loyal to the point of destruction. Efficient to the point of fault. Maybe there’s something worthwhile to him after all.
He feels sickness settle in his stomach, guilt and embarrassment and longing all wrapped up into one. He feels his cheeks flush, and looks away. He can’t meet that woman’s eyes after hearing something like that.
He’s still not sure how to process it. Jordan’s fingers curl over his bicep, gently squeezing.
“Let’s go,” she murmurs. There’s a look on her face- soft, pitying. He jerks for a moment, almost bursting out of her grasp. But she holds a little tighter. He doesn’t quite squirm out.
“Why?” he asks.
“We have what we need,” she says firmly. Declan bites his lip.
“But she’s-” He looks over to the woman who brought him into the world, who could have used him just as surely as his father did- but never got the chance. There’s part of him that wants to give that chance to her, just so he gets a scar to match.
Jordan turns him gently, her other hand meeting his other bicep. She digs the pads of her fingers softly into his arms. Their eyes meet, Declan gazing right into the deep brown of her irises. His breath hitches in his throat, the magic of their something catching him off guard.
Mor O Corra clears her throat. Oh yes, she is still there. He doesn’t even care. Neither of them pay her a second thought.
“That will just hurt you,” Jordan says, so softly he can barely hear it. Like if she speaks up, she might shatter him. Declan’s never once been treated like something that could break (something that’s worth protecting from a break). He feels a longing curl in his stomach.
Someone wants to keep knowledge from him, knowledge that will only cause him pain.
Is this what it feels like to be loved?
“Alright,” Declan says, voice barely audible, “let’s go home?” It’s unassuming, unobtrusive. Jordan smiles right back at him. She lets go of his arms, and turns back to Mor O Corra. Jordan just nods at her. Declan thinks it’s because she couldn’t say something neutral.
He feels like skipping down the shoreline. But he doesn’t. He never does things that would make him feel giddy.
Mor O Corra meets his eyes. "So that’s it?" she asks, "You get your sweetmetal and leave to be some dream’s boytoy?” Declan takes a deep breath. There’s nothing he can say that will change this woman’s mind.
“Thank you,” Declan says, voice only cracking a little, “and goodbye.” Then, he starts walking away. He holds out the hand that isn’t holding the necklace, and Jordan takes it. She squeezes firmly, but not tightly. Just enough to let him know that she’s there, that he’s safe. That he doesn’t have to hold the weight of the world’s secrets alone.
Declan does not swoon.
He doesn’t.
He just lets himself lean on the person who can hold the weight of the world with him. An equal, a partner. And after a life of holding it all together by himself, that does make him go a little weak in the knees. And that's okay. Jordan's there to help hold him up.