She pulled back, immediately feeling the loss, but allowed her eyes to drink him in, tugging at the fabric that surrounded him, so dark a green that it was nearly black. He released a chuckle at her expense, turning instead to the door and shutting it, hesitating as he was confused by the same mechanisms as she was, but settling for the bolt. She did not care to see him so near a door, a flash of irrational fear insisting that he was going to disappear out into the night rather than remain with her. But she bit her lip and forced herself to calm, to allow him to shutter them away from the world and not react rashly.
“Here,” she insisted, pushing a chair near the fire and patting the back of it insistently. It was only belatedly that she realised his wings would have trouble with it, but a quick glance around the cottage informed her that there were no stools to be had. Of course not, for land-folk liked to ease back while they were seated, no wings to consider as they were crushed between body and a lattice of wood.
But Grimult did not seem to mind, removing his cloak and, shaking out his wings with a sigh. The feathers were pressed in strangely, and as he eased into the chair, spreading out his wings as comfortably as possible, she could see lines in the distortion, her fingers coming and touching gently. He would need her help to put all to rights, of that she was certain. “What made these?” she asked softly, afraid of the answer but wanting to know what had befallen him since they had parted.
He reached out a hand and snagged her wrist, not to keep her from touching as she had first assumed, but to urge her around, all the closer to him. He did not pull, but his eyes beseeched, and before she had even made the conscious decision to do so, she found herself nestled on his lap, his arms twined about her waist, his chin resting upon her shoulder as he simply held her. It was not the most comfortable position, but she would not have forsaken it for anything. Neither spoke for a long while, and Grimult’s shivering ceased as the fire did its work and pushed heat back into him. And, Penryn liked to think, that her own presence was a balm of its own.
“Straps,” he said suddenly, and she shifted to look at him. His dark eyes were watchful as they answered, but soft, and it took a great deal to keep from leaning forward to kiss him rather than listen for what he was trying to tell her.
“Straps,” she repeated, not certain of what he was telling her, and her confusion must have been obvious.
“To tie down my wings so they were less obvious,” he elaborated, and she watched as he gave them a little shake even now.
Her eyes widened as she imagined such a thing, his beautiful wings tied down into unnatural positions, contorted and doubtlessly painful as he tried to blend in with the land-dwellers.
For her sake.
To be close.
To find her.
“There is no need to cry,” he assured her, smoothing his thumb over her cheek. She had not realised she had begun again, and she nodded, words failing her. She did not want to move, but she needed to help him, needed to show him how much she appreciated his sacrifice.
For her.
His arms were reluctant to leave her, but he did not stop her from leaving her perch on his lap, and there was no mistaking the shiver that ran through him when her fingers met errant feathers, twisting delicately to put them back into proper position. Just as he had shown her, so reluctant to ask for her aid, so determined that it was inappropriate for one such as her to tend to him.
He made no such protest now as she worked, and a little of her tension eased as she smoothed and tweaked, until the evidence of the first band was no longer visible. “Have you eaten?” she belatedly thought to ask. She would gladly continue until all were put to rights, but she did not want to ignore other of his needs while tending to the most obvious.
“I was given a plate at your little party,” Grimult answered, and there was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice. It was striking to her, for something harsh when there had been nothing but tenderness between them so far, and she was glad of her position behind him so he could not see the momentary hurt.
“It was hardly mine,” she denied, keeping her own voice level, although sadness seeped into it of its own accord.
She did not know what more to say of the matter, the realisation slow in coming that Grimult would be equally confused by all that had transpired as he ever had been before. He would have no way to communicate with those he had come into contact with, had understood none of the words of the sages or even her, untrained in their speech. And why should he have been? He was never meant to interact with them, should never have witnessed any of it.
She released a sigh, and turned her attention to his wound. It looked angry and a little twisted. She frowned, unwilling to touch it in case it caused him pain, but wishing that the healer had been able to look at this rather than waste time with her wrist. “You flew over the Wall,” she commented rather than asked. “Before you had healed.” It would explain the state of his wound, angered by the movement it was not ready to support. “And tonight?”
He did not answer her, but he did not deny it either, and she felt strangely miserable at the thought. It was foolish and not without great risk with none to help if it should bleed too much or catch infection. But still, he had risked it, and had even done so again tonight to ensure he did not lose her to Edgard’s beast and steadily moving cart.
“I will have answers from you,” Grimult insisted instead. “Of what all of this meant. What it is for. But perhaps not tonight.”
It was Penryn’s turn to shiver, and she found herself nodding, although he was not in a place to see it.
“Not tonight,” she agreed, turning back to her work on his feathers.
And really, it hardly mattered. They had a little time, for him to heal, for them to heal.
Before they had to face the rest.
And simply because she had to, had to touch him, had to thank him, she leaned forward—mindful of his wound—and kissed his cheek, her arms hugging her to him from behind. “Thank you,” she murmured, perhaps to him. Perhaps a prayer.
“For what?” he asked, and she kissed him again.
As if he did not know. “For not listening to me. For being here.”
To thank him for loving her enough to risk it all.
But though the words were there, she dared not speak them. Not quite yet.
For now, this was enough.
Six
Penryn worked on Grim’s wings until she was not entirely certain she would be able to bend her fingers come morning. But she was nearly finished and if she just was able to continue, then there would be no more evidence of the horrid marks on his wings and maybe...
Maybe it would be thanks enough for all he had sacrificed.
But did he even understand what he had given up? Guilt hung over her, at the pure relief she felt at his presence, yet was so keenly aware of the family that awaited him.
“That is enough,” Grimult assured her, snagging her arm when she shifted to look and see and bringing her toward him. Fingers found hers, pressing and massaging, and she had to bite her lip to hold back the appreciative noise that threatened to escape at his attentions. He always knew how to help her, even if she was not brave enough to give it voice.
They had so much to talk about, and despite their earlier determination that all could wait until tomorrow, she could still feel the concerns bubbling up, threatening to broach subjects best left until later.
“Have you investigated whether there are provisions for tea?” he asked, rising from his seat after pressing a kiss to her knuckles, urging her to take his place in the chair.
Penryn sighed, shaking her head. Her intention was not to have him tend to such tasks—she had been prepared to learn all such things for herself, and a part of her thrilled at the idea of offering him something fixed by her own hand, in a home that was not quite hers, but close enough.
But perhaps he wished to reciprocate in some way for her care of his wings, and she could well understand that desire— to give,
rather than simply accept so many favours that the scales could never be evened.
“I was mostly concerned with how to be free of this dress with no one to help me with the fastenings,” she admitted, blushing when he looked back at her sharply before his eyes swept over the large room, halting when he spied the knife she had dropped upon hearing his knock. “The blade is dull,” she offered, whether it was an effort to soothe him or a complaint, she was not entirely certain.
He turned his back to her, and if she knew anything with relative confidence, it was that he did not like to look at her directly when she had inadvertently trespassed on his sense of modesty.
Was he imagining her undressed? She bit her lip, wondering at the strange feeling in her belly at such a thought. Her own embarrassment was there, but something else as well, something she could not quite name.
“I will assist you,” he said at last, bringing down a kettle from an iron hook hanging on the wall. There was a basin stationed in the counter, and to her great surprise, it had similar taps to the ones in her little bathing room at the Keep. She did not have the slightest idea how they might have fashioned such intricate pipe-work all the way in this solitary little place, but evidently they had done so, and she stood, eager to show Grimult how they worked.
If he was shocked by it, he gave no great indication, only stared and proffered the kettle to catch the stream filling it to the desired capacity before placing it on another hook on the hearth, a long arm swinging to settle over the flames. Penryn was slightly disappointed by his lack of reaction and turned the handle back to stop the flow. “I think the house we found had something similar,” she tried, watching him carefully. There was something odd in his silence, and she did not know where she had gone wrong. “But I suppose time made it so it could not work any longer.”
Grimult would not look at her, confirming her suspicion that something was wrong. “Grim,” she murmured, grabbing hold of his arm when he came back near her, pulling free two clay mugs and positioning them just so. “What did I say wrong?”
She did not want to quarrel, not on their first night—not ever. The times discord had been between them, her stomach hard churned in unhappiness, a tight coil in her chest insisting that she put things to rights with him as quickly as possible, regardless of how it must be accomplished.
“You did not,” he assured her. She could see something tense in his jaw, and she reached out to touch it, to soothe the hardening corners of him until he relaxed, could share freely with her and not keep things so tightly bound inside. She realised how hypocritical that was, as she was the one who had been forced to keep so many truths from him, for his protection or not.
“I did something,” she argued, her hand drifting from his face and settling on his chest. She took a deep breath, wondering if now would be a poor time for a kiss.
Likely it was, most especially since she did not know that it would be well received, and she did not think she could handle that particular rejection.
It was Grimult’s turn to sigh, and to her great relief, he brought her into his arms, pulling her tightly. She would happily stay there forever, she was certain. To be so enveloped, so safe, to finally feel as if she belonged somewhere...
All that time wondering. So much resentment and envy when she saw glimpses of affection when she was brought out for events, little more than a prop. Never to engage, never to experience.
All that fell away, when Grim was holding her.
“They are an advanced people,” Grimult confessed at last, although the admission was not what she expected. “More than I had thought possible. It worries me that theirs has grown where ours has not.”
He made to pull back, doubtlessly in pursuit of the tea he had wanted for them, but she was not quite ready to let him go, her hands knotting at the back of his tunic, keeping him there, if just for a little longer.
“They have a different way,” Penryn allowed. “But it does not mean it is better.”
His hand at the back of her head, smoothing and pressing gently, and she thought she might cry at the sweetness of it. “I did not say better,” he reminded her. “I said that it was advanced.” A pause, as if he was considering whether to share the rest of the thought with her. “Which makes me wonder what other areas they might have progressed in.”
She forced herself to raise her head, to look at him, to face where this was going.
“Weapons,” he finished at last, and Penryn frowned.
She should take a step back, should collect herself so that she could think of where to begin, how to explain, but parting felt like it might lead to unpleasantness between them, and she could not bear that. Not yet. There was so much mistrust already, when story and myth fell away and left only the reality, of a treaty that had become more legend than fact for many. But it was to her.
“Have you seen such things?” she asked him gently, feeling too worn to truly consider that she had been so utterly deceived, that the treaty she had signed would be breached so soon.
“No,” he admitted. “But they could. And we would not know, and then what?”
Penryn shook her head, sighing. “You have seen far more than was meant for you, and you lack the foundation to understand my purpose here.” She glanced at him and saw the tightening of his jaw, the flash of accusation that often accompanied her subtle—of often less than subtle—reminder that he did not possess the full history. “And you cannot be blamed for that,” she continued, trying to soothe, trying to assuage, keenly aware that her tone had slipped into the formality she had adopted during her time amongst the land-dwellers. It was not fair to him, and she could not blame him for his frustration.
Too long he had been kept in the dark, first by those in charge of his training.
And then, with a familiar guilt tugging at her belly, by her.
She took a deep breath, trying to master herself and the tangle of emotions, the push and pull of too many thoughts, too much instructions, too many feelings that had only begun to emerge so recently.
She did not want such things to taint what was between them, but clearly her determination was not enough to keep it from happening.
Her eyes drifted to the counter upon the cupboard, preferring to distract herself rather than face his questions quite yet. It was cowardly, she knew, but they had agreed on tomorrow, and she would try to hold to that while it was at all possible to do so. The lid was a secure one, but yielded with a little strength, revealing the dark, shrivelled leaves she sought. She pushed it toward Grimult and he accepted it, despite the rather stony expression on his face.
She was so weary.
Even now, she wanted out of this gown and into a simple shift and warm stockings, and to huddle beneath the bedclothes while she plotted what was to be done next.
But Grim was here and he was angry with her, and there was so much to say, and she did not wish to hurt him.
“I am well aware there is much I do not know,” Grimult cut in suddenly, sniffing at the leaves suspiciously. “That does not mean I am somehow lesser.”
Penryn blinked. “I would never think so,” she assured him, uncertain how he could possibly believe that of her. “And I will value hearing what you have experienced since we...” Even now, the memory was like a lance through her, and how could that be, when he stood here with her? “Parted,” she forced herself to finish, her eyes drifting to the floor between them. When she left him. For work that needed doing, and even now she could not regret, but there was no denying that she had been the one to scurry through the door, to shut it behind her, all in her efforts to spare him the choice, to spare him the pain of walking away from her and leaving her behind.
Another breath, and she raised her eyes to look at him. “But it does mean that you might not know how to interpret all you have seen.” She did not want to argue about this, and she found her good hand reaching for the end of her hair, tugging firmly as she turned to pace. He had found a pot for the tea, putting in slightly more than
was necessary, but she hardly knew about such things. “Which I would like to help you to do, truly.” Another breath, even shakier than the last. “But there is so much we have to discuss and I hardly know where to begin, most especially when we need to plan our going back and—”
Grimult turned to her, a strange expression on his face. “There is no going back.”
Penryn stared at him, startled by the firmness of his tone.
He turned from her, occupying himself with checking the state of the water in the kettle, seemingly disappointed when it was not quite hot enough. “I knew that when I crossed. There is no returning for you, so there cannot be for me.”
Her hand dropped from her hair as she regarded him. “You... you had intended to stay here? With me?”
For always?
Grimult gave a shrug, but he would not look at her. “I was chosen as your guardian,” he reminded her. “I hardly think that ends when you cross a mere wall.”
She bit at her lip, trying not to cry, for he had seen far too many of her tears already. Surely she was spent by now and this was merely a welling of gratitude, of being chosen.
But her heart ached all the same, for the family he had left behind. “Your parents,” she managed to get out from a tight throat that threatened to choke her if she was not careful. “Your sisters.”
She could see the pain in him, the tensing of his shoulders, the tightly closed lids. “They have each other,” he justified. “Who did you have?”
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