I don’t know how to process this.
The only father figure I’ve ever had is dying. And it’s a strange, gutting thing—building a funeral pyre for a man who’s still breathing. Still alive. Still joking, even.
I keep my hands busy, stacking wood, branch after branch, letting the labor dull my mind. Wolves come and go from the cabin just a few meters away, filing in to say their goodbyes, and I stay out here—alone—constructing the place where his body will burn.
The final resting place.
Because apparently, that responsibility falls on the closest male relative.
And I’ll be damned if Alric touches a single log of this pyre.
He tried. Brought his own pre-cut wood on a ceremonial cart, like it was a political show. A group of wolves carried it up the path with all the grace of a funeral parade. Lenora destroyed it the second she saw it.
She kicked it over, cracked the frame, spat on the logs.
"Eamon Maen has a son," she said coldly. Then she dumped a bucket of water on the remains and walked back inside.
They didn’t argue. Maybe because they knew she was right.
Eamon Maen has a son.
And apparently... that son is me.
I add another thick branch to the structure, hands numb and splintered, and I can’t stop thinking—
I’ve never been a son. Not to anyone.
What an odd way to look at death.
I keep working, arms scratched and sore, sweat clinging to my back as I wedge another branch beneath the structure. Wolf after wolf passes by—some with solemn nods, otgers openly sobbing each stepping into the cabin for their moment with Eamon, then stepping out changed. Lighter. Or heavier. It’s hard to tell.
"Because death isn’t final," a soft voice says behind me. "It’s just the next stop. And for my father, it’s a much-needed relief. He gets to be with his mate again."
I turn. Lenora stands a few feet away, arms folded, gaze locked on the half-finished pyre like she can already see her father lying on it.
"How’s it going?" she asks, quiet.
"Did you just read my mind?" I mutter.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," she replies, stepping closer to inspect my handiwork.
She tilts her head. "Interesting structure."
I groan. "You should’ve let me use Alric’s."
Her grin is instant. "Please. That thing looked like it belonged at a pageant, not a farewell rite."
She squats beside the pyre, brushing her hand along the lower stack. "Besides," she adds, standing again, "yours looks like it can catch fire. And hold a body. Which is, you know, all that matters."
I brace the top beam, trying to even it out, when the entire damn thing creaks—and crumbles.
Branches tumble in a dry, splintered heap. I sigh heavily. Lenora muffles a laugh with the back of her hand.
"You’re distracting me," I grumble. "Go away before I build this thing upside down."
She steps close instead and presses a gentle kiss to my cheek. "You’re doing fine," she whispers, then turns to leave.
"Eamon, don’t," I say, heart leaping to my throat as he steps onto the pyre I’ve barely finished stacking.
But he doesn’t listen.
He lies down like it’s just a bed, lacing his fingers over his chest with a sigh of contentment. The human equivalent of someone hopping into a coffin just to see how it fits. Morbid.
"You’ve actually done a good job," he says, eyes scanning the sky above him like he’s imagining the flames already.
"Yeah," I mutter, voice rough. "Now get off. Please."
He chuckles, that deep, familiar sound rumbling in his chest, and sits up with ease. Then, to my utter disbelief, he jumps down in a clean hop.
For a dying man, he moves like someone with decades left to burn.
And I can’t hold it in. "I’m not ready."
Eamon meets my eyes. There’s something in his gaze—soft, steady, knowing. He gives me a small smile.
"You are," he says gently.
"I’m not." It comes out cracked, like my throat is made of glass.
"It’s time, Cameron."
"No, don’t—" My voice chokes on the rest. I blink. The sky blurs, and it takes me a second to realize why.
I Cameron Anderson do not cry. Ever.
Here I am, blinking like an idiot because something hot and traitorous is prickling at the corners of my eyes. One second longer and they’ll fall. I’m losing the battle.
Eamon opens his arms. No words. Just an invitation.
Anxious. Ungrounded. Shaken.
I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never done this.
But his voice comes again, gentle—like a nudge from the universe I didn’t ask for.
Straight into his arms.
They wrap around me immediately—solid, warm, grounding. Everything I imagined they’d feel like. Everything I never thought I’d get.
This man, who somehow became mine.
And it hits me, all at once:
How cruel life is. So, so cruel.
Why give me something so precious—so needed—just to take it away?
I grip his shirt tighter, holding on like that will make this moment permanent.
"This is so embarrassing," I mutter against his shoulder, voice thick.
"What, because big strong men don’t cry?" he says with a laugh, patting my back like I’m still just a boy.
He pulls away, and there’s something oddly steady in the way he looks at me—like he’s already made peace with everything, like he’s already said his goodbyes in his heart and is just waiting for me to catch up.
"Let’s go for a run," he says, like it’s nothing. "I think I have one final shift in me. Why not spend it with my son? Ready for one last lesson?"
I shake my head slightly, throat tight. "I don’t know... I can’t really—"
"Let’s go. Come on." He throws an arm around my shoulders like we’ve done this a thousand times before, guiding me toward the woods as if it’s just another training session. As if he isn’t saying goodbye.
Then, without hesitation, he starts undressing.
"I like women," I mutter, because sarcasm is safer than grief.
He snorts. "Relax. You’re not my type."
His shirt hits the forest floor, then his pants, boots—he’s still a wall of muscle, full of life and strength, and I hate how death dares to touch someone so alive.
"Shift, Cameron," he says, voice firm.
I hesitate—then shift. My clothes shred.
He chuckles. "That’s why I undressed."