(School has started so I won’t be as active, but anyways, I present to you part three, continuation of ‘The Letter!’)

The day that Cloeanne died was the quietest day in the history of the Hallings’ home. Uncle Finn wandered around aimlessly, still wearing the same clothes from the night she died and still feeling that horrible aching tug at his stomach. He could not bear to look at the girls. The tiny, innocent things who didn’t understand the weight of it all. It had taken nearly a day for Finn to come to terms with what had happened. She had died that morning, and the sun was beginning to set when Finn horrifyingly snapped to reality and realized he was the only adult left in the house to bury her. At that moment, he felt as if some giant, grotesque bird had sunk its talons into his chest and ripped it in two.

_He was all they had left_.

His hands slithered through his greasy, greying hair, locking around several tufts. He would’ve ripped them out, too, if it hadn’t been for him to suddenly see himself through Warrick’s eyes, watching him break down. Warrick would’ve dragged him up by the collar to his feet and barked at him for falling apart like this. Finn needed someone like that. But there was no one. He released his steel grip on his hair and let his hands drop languidly onto his knees as he bent over and cried.

That was why it was nearly midnight when he buried her in the pouring rain on the cliff over the ocean, the gray waves crashing onto the rocks morbidly below him. He scooped piles upon piles of the dirt, quickly turning to mud as he tossed it behind him. He took Cloeannne’s body, wrapped in many white sheets that, now soaked, clung translucently to her body and made her appear as a ghoul headed to its grave. He lowered her into the ground gently into the uneven grave his tremouring hands had created.

He couldn’t afford a casket, didn’t have the skills or patience to make one, or the camaraderie’s to find someone who would do it for free. People like Cloeanne could’ve found a casket if she wasn’t being lowered into the ground.

People naturally fell in love with Cloeanne. She had tried her best to be a farm wife, someone who could take care of her kids and her small business at the same time. People admired her determination when they saw her entering a blacksmith shop she had never dared to enter before looking for nails to repair her barn while holding the only currency she had in a small little worn sackcloth that had been patched over with multiple fabrics. People liked her resilience, her spunk, the way she pulled her sunkissed curls into a bun and rolled up her sleeves when she was ready for work. They liked bringing her gifts: apples, cookies, chairs, anything to keep the young lass whose husband was always away smiling. It made them feel warm inside to know that they could be supporting someone whose spouse was Captain War himself. But when they had heard that she was sick, again, they suddenly became aware that Cloeanne was a real person, that her girls were real, and that she was going to die.

But they didn’t know she was dead yet, did they? Finn couldn’t bear to be the one to lower his hat and tell the townsfolk the news. Townsfolk who would certainly ask, because Cloeanne was always an easy topic to bring up when chatting with a nervewreck like Finn.

_You work hard all your life, you’re the wife of a hero, you’re Tavan’s favorite, and then you’re buried like a dog. _

It was pitiful as Finn shoveled the mud back over Cloeann’es body, feeling the rain mixed with the vile mist from the ocean pound down on him in punches. He looked down, far down over the cliff , where the waves were swollen and dark. Cloeanne had always liked the view from here. It was a deadly drop, but it was a nice place to watch a sunset and say, I may not be rich, but at least I have this. Yes, Finn was not decent enough to find Cloeanne a casket, but he was decent enough to bury her in a spot she liked.

Finn patted down the dirt with the flat side of the shovel, trying to make it look presentable for when the girls asked, _Where’s Mama_?

He didn’t have a stone or anything on him to mark the grave, so he told himself that the next morning he would put in the effort to put together something. Yes, Warrick would’ve wanted that. But if Warrick had been here, the grave would’ve already been marked, wouldn’t it? Warrick would’ve found the strength, marched through the pounding rain, and with his determined hands created something beautiful out of nothing. Warrick was always a natural craftsman. He was the one who made the girl’s toys in time for GoldenTine. Stuffed animals out of potato sacks and buttons, with perfect little lashes and dimpled smiles, little ships crafted out of wood, and balls made from the bladder of a pig were just some examples of Warrick’s scrappy creativity.

But why was he thinking so small? Warrick was that way because he was a sailor. The captain of his own ship, someone who could keep a whole crew calm and under his control while his mind weaved through solutions.

Yes, Warrick would’ve found the strength to mark Cloeanne’s grave on this miserably grey, stormy night. But he was not Warrick, he was Finn. And Finn Hallings did not have his brother’s strength.

_~Congrats if you read the whole thing, you guys keep me going! _💕🫶_~_

_~Do you relate to Finn in any way? I know I do. We often compare ourselves to other’s best strengths, blindingly missing our own. But I know there’s that little something you love to do. Pursue it! Don’t deny your gift!~_

_~Part 4? Anything you’d change/love to see happen? I’m up for constructive criticism!~ _