Page 75 of Ocean of Ink
“We could ask him to elaborate, but I wouldn’t expect much in return,” Castien said dryly.
Westover reveled in his unconventional methods. Castien couldn’t deny they produced results, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed the process.
“Very well, I suppose we’ll keep thinking.” Wren tucked the hair on the right side of her face behind her ear, revealing the cluster of pearls and sapphires decorating it. “But it is not false modesty when I doubt my Gift's ability to aid in this situation. The Tides were not generous with their blessing.”
The way she spoke the wordblessingmade Castien recall how she deemed her true Gift a Curse. He had wrestled with his Gift since it came to fruition at five years of age. While his father rejoiced, Castien had to grow used to his constant companion. Every parent who dips their child in the Tides on their third day of life waits for the day that their Gift will manifest. And every child feels that anticipation hanging over them like a heavy cloak.
When it finally makes itself known, there is either celebration or a quiet disappointment. It’s not something the child can control, but it was treated that way at times. Especially if the Gift took too long to appear. No one had been recorded toreceive their Gift past the age of thirteen, but sometimes the manifestation waited until right before the cutoff. Parents often bragged about their children’s Gifts, even though they were given at random and had nothing to do with bloodline.
Castien’s Gift was touted over the whole kingdom. He was praised by diplomats and commanders across the Seven Havens. Adults sought his advice as though he were equal to or above them. His mother praised him over tea, and his father made use of the Gift as often as he could. His whole life, since the day his Gift came to be, was dedicated to sharpening the blessing that had been bestowed upon him. Never did he have the luxury of complaining about how it kept him up at night or deprived him of things he used to enjoy, like poetry. He watched Wren write in her journal, her brow furrowed in concentration. What would it have been like, he wondered, if he had kept his Gift secret the way she did? Pretended he was good at something else? He shook his head. It was foolish to consider such things. This was his life. His destiny. He would walk it out as intended.
“Do you ever think that sometimes we give the Tides too much credit?” Wren asked, drawing Castien out of his reverie.
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes I wonder if everyone is truly Gifted or if some people are simply good at certain things because of passion and practice,” she said with a shrug. “The sages wrote that the Tides are a reckless pool of magic with no design or will. Why should we credit the waters with every talent someone possesses?”
Wren’s theory would have more credence if not for the fact that her Gift was sensing emotions. That was hardly a talent. The same could be said of Castien’s Gift.
“I can see how some Gifts could be garnered with diligent study or constant repetition, but there are many like mine that cannot be explained in such a way. Nonetheless, what harm is there in calling the ability to sew fast or cook well a Gift?”
Wren flipped a page in her journal and leaned forward to dip her quill. Castien noted the ink was indigo today.
“I don’t know, I suppose it’s upsetting sometimes to think that our Gifts are seen as character traits.” She looked up, her blue eyes burning bright. “Do you not wish to be seen as more than a strategist? Is Finn not more than his charm?”
Castien saw to the heart of her question. Wren was a woman who had gone through great pain at an early age, and that pain coincided with the endowment of her Gift. Castien had read her lamentations. He knew the grief she carried with her. The darkness that told her all she would ever be is what was done to her, and what she was given as a punishment.
“Others may perceive me however they please,” Castien told her while holding her gaze. “It is not the public who defines me, but rather myself. My Gift is a part of me, but it is not all of me,” Castien said the words for Wren’s sake, though he wasn’t quite sure if he fully believed them.
What was he, if not a tool to be used? He had spent the last sixteen years carving out everything that didn’t aid his Gift. Castien feared he would be reduced to nothing if it were ever taken away.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Wren murmured. “But I must admit it is difficult to see things that way.”
“That’s understandable, given the society we live in. With practice, though, I’m confident in our ability to reframe the stubborn mindset.”
Wren’s answering smile was faint.
“Our? I thought you said you don’t care what society thinks of you?”
Castien shrugged. “I’ll confess to being a work in progress if you will.”
Wren’s gaze flicked down to their journals, then back to his face.
“You are fond of bargains.”
A secret for a secret?
Castien reached into his bag and pulled out his letter. Though he wondered if he made a mistake with what he wrote–his Gift certainly thought so–he held it out anyway.
“I am, but do not fear, for I am true to my word.”
Her soft smile grew ever so slightly. She took the letter from him.
“I hope that you are.”
Year 822, Week 37, Adira
My dearest Wren,
