Odd human female.
“Do you have water I may drink?”
As if he would refuse her such a necessity.
He slid his pack off his shoulder, rifling through it until he reached his waterskin. It was less than half full, but he was unconcerned. Their conditions for travel would soon vastly improve.
But she shook it with wary hands when he placed it carefully between them, frowning slightly as she did so. “There will not be enough for the both of us.” She fumbled with the stopper before taking a tiny sip, holding it back to him, even though the tightness of her fingers made clear how difficult an action it truly was for her.
“You may have your fill,” he assured her. “We do not allow your people to hold the only source of water in the Wastes.”
Her relief was palpable as she took another drink, though he was ratified that he did not have to remind her to drink slowly. He did not envy the thought of having to pry the skin away from her.
She panted slightly all the same when she pulled the opening away from her lips, wiping her hand against her mouth to catch any lingering liquid. “Thank you,” she said softly, her tone rather strange. Disbelieving perhaps? “I did not expect to find one so kind when I asked to come.”
He very nearly frowned at that, instead masking the offence with a drink of his own.
“Then why would you make such a plea? If you thought you would be so mistreated?”
She did not answer at first, instead tucking her hand securely into his belt once more, seeming to gather the words as he replaced his waterskin and pack as they slowly trailed after the others.
“Hope I suppose. That just maybe you’d be different from my people in that way.”
Rykkon did not know how to respond to that, so they continued on in silence. Her flesh wove its own story of confirmation that her words were true. She spoke rightly that abuses were no great mystery to her. But he knew little of comfort, only of the kind of soothing that comes with a balm and knowledgeable hands in the art of healing, and he could offer her neither until they reached his home. So he was gladdened when at last they reached the tunnels, and this time he did not resituate her scarf when next it fell, instead letting it settle about her neck, the coolness of the passages a welcome respite from the enduring heat.
And if it meant he was better able to see her face, to attempt to interpret her expressions, that could only further his determination to understand her properly.
There was a fresh bruise upon her cheek that he had not noticed before—more a reddened strip of flesh than the darker abrasions that covered her arms, but he was certain it would worsen.
Evidently she had not been permitted to leave without a last complaint from someone.
He would query further as to her treatment, of who had done such wrongs against her and why she did not end them for their harshness, but he would prefer to do so when they were fully alone. He could hear the subtle stamp of feet up ahead, and though their words would be concealed within the colonist’s tongue, now was not the time for tenderness.
She appeared confused when they began the rather steep descent, the sands eventually giving way to stone.
“Where are we? Are... are the Wastes really so short?”
Rykkon warred with himself. To answer would mean betraying the secrets of his kin, and negate the usefulness of the blindfold entirely. But... she was to be his mate. And however abhorrent that might seem to both of their respective leaders, it meant something to him.
The opening to the tunnels was beyond her knowledge now that she had missed any of the markers indicating its location.
He halted and turned, his fingers undoing the knot she had constructed behind her head, careful of the strands that even she had caught within its confines.
He had expected her to show some sign of relief, but as he watched her blink, watched her brow furrow in confusion, he belatedly realised that the blindfold was wholly unnecessary.
Apparently her people were not equipped with the eyesight necessary to navigate the tunnels without some sort of light source.
He silently acknowledged that he was not disappointed that this meant she would continue to walk close to him, her hand still tucked around his belt.
“We are beneath them,” he answered at last when he began walking again. He kept his voice low to control how far it carried, lest any undesirable ears acknowledge their presence—his kin or otherwise. “A much more pleasant temperature, yes?”
“Yes,” she agreed, her tone thoughtful—as if her mind had already begun to drift from their current whereabouts.
The tremnal had carved these tunnels with their very mouths, moving beneath the wastes as a water-snake might within a river. The bedrock was nothing to their powerful teeth, the sands merely an annoyance. Sightings of them were rare, and blind as they were, they were not overly dangerous. But still, it was necessary to be cautious.
“You are permitted to make enquiries of me,” he murmured. It troubled him to think of what her opinion of him must be—he who had accepted her offer of wife, but was fully a stranger to her all the same. Her hesitance suggested she feared his reprisal if she spoke too much, if she reminded him that she was there at all.
As if he could forget it.
And the others were now far enough ahead that talking did not seem so very risky. Not if their voices were low.
Prim did not immediately speak, and he did not press further, waiting patiently for her to decide which of her likely many questions was the most pressing.
Her selection surprised him.
“Do you have another wife at home? I did not think to ask.”
He very nearly halted in his next step, so surprised was he. “Do your people take multiple wives?”
Rykkon turned his head so he could watch her in the darkness, see her shoulders rise and fall in that same little gesture he had witnessed from her before. “Not exactly.”
He released a quick breath, trying not to grow frustrated by her lack of forthcoming information. “I do not understand,” he muttered, her hearing obviously better than her eyesight as she clarified for him.
“My father, for example. He was married to my mother but he... dallied with many other women. Took care of them, when he was able.” This last bit lacked the deadened tone she had adopted, an undercurrent of bitterness that was unmistakable. “Is it the same for your kind?”
Rykkon began to shake his head in denial, then recalled the gesture was fruitless as she could not see it. “No. We are... a possessive people. I cannot begin to imagine the kin-fighting that would begin if we practised such customs.” She sighed quietly, and he looked at her, trying to ascertain her meaning. “Does that gladden you or prove a disappointment?”
She did not immediately answer, and he wondered when he would begin to receive her initial thought rather than her carefully worded answers. This was not her second tongue, where each phrase must be carefully chosen for meaning and clarity.
“I suppose if you had another wife, I would at least be able to ask her how she is treated. I would appreciate knowing what to expect in that regard. But I have seen how unhappy the women in my father’s life can be, so over all I would say... I am glad that your people are not like mine. Not in that.”
They walked in silence for a while, Rykkon struggling to find adequate words to relate his feelings. It was ridiculous to feel hurt that she should question his treatment of her—that she should expect the same abuses she had suffered in her own camp. But it was unfair to expect differently, not when they were likely raised to believe the Arterians were a fearsome and brutish race, incapable of compassion.
Which was partially true and glaringly false in equal measure. Did the colonists not live in Mercy? Were they not given food fairly and at equal intervals?
Yet he would not deny that the humans had also been killed by his people’s hands. Order must be maintained, as well as proper respect shown—another uprising would not be tolerated.
; “Even if there was a female in my dwelling, you would not have been able to ask her anything,” he said at last—a safer subject while he wrestled with the offence she surely did not intend to bestow.
He glanced behind him and noted that her lips were pursed and her brow furrowed. “Are your women not permitted to speak?”
Rykkon closed his eyes for a moment in a bid for patience. The view she held of him, of his kind, was a sorry one indeed, and it was a wonder she had asked to come with him at all if she was capable of construing such a grim reality from his answers to her questions.
“They may make as many vocalisations as they wish,” he assured her, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “But none other in my village can speak your tongue. That is what I was trying to relate.”
“Oh.” She frowned, her head tilting to the side as she rubbed his belt between her thumb and forefinger, continuing to trudge obediently behind him. “Why can you?”
He stiffened. It was a logical question to follow, but one he was unprepared to answer. Not now. Not yet. Not when there were people about and she already thought so little of him.
She must have felt his tension for she fell back a bit, her own shoulders hunching a little as if she expected a blow to follow his displeasure, though she offered no apologies, no attempted platitudes—not that he would have accepted either in any case. There was no wrong in the asking, only in his unwillingness to speak of it, and he did not like to see her reaction—such a visceral and learned response from what she must have endured.
“Why did you not kill your abusers?”
She startled at his question, her eyes searching for his in the dark. She never released his belt, obviously believing that a landed blow was preferable to being abandoned in the tunnels.
“How do you know about that?”
Rykkon grunted. “Was it any great secret? If it was, you hid it badly.” His finger went to where her previous tunic had been torn, and the bruise had been clearly displayed. He touched it only lightly, but still she winced. “I am a healer,” he assured her, a promise for the care she would receive when they reached his home. “I would be a poor one indeed if I did not notice.”
She nodded at that, her lips a firm line as she seemed to be considering her response to him. He waited, aware of how his brethren continued on ahead, of how Kondarr would chastise them both for their slowness if they should reach the village in so tardy a manner.
Yet in that moment, he could not bring himself to care.
“My people are not very generous with murderers.”
Rykkon shook his head and growled low in his throat. “A stupid people, then, to confuse defence with shameful murder.”
Prim smiled then, a soft thing, barely a lift to the corners of her mouth, but a smile all the same. It diminished some of her pained expression, made her almost... pretty.
It was a strange observation to make when discussing such things, but an honest one.
“I will not argue with you there.”
Rykkon grunted absently. “Good, for you would lose.”
Her smile grew, and the darkness meant she could not be embarrassed by the intensity of his stare. Perhaps a bit more than pretty, despite her chapped and bruised skin. That would mend soon, regardless, with the proper care and attention she was soon to receive.
But only if they kept moving.
“Do you care for your wives then?” she asked quietly when they began walking once more.
Rykkon made a low hum in the back of his throat, considering. He was not privy to many of the private matters between the mates of his village, but he understood the general tenor of their wellbeing.
And why he was not permitted to have a wife to call his own.
“Not all are from... love.” That he knew. Mincel had only taken Kondarr to be her husband after her own had perished the previous winter. She needed his protection and his provision, and though she already had young, she was still an attractive mate—he could well understand Kondarr’s willingness.
“So you understand practical arrangements then,” Prim noted, the notion seeming to please her. He wondered why it should do so—did she not hope for a more affectionate mating? He did not know what he wished for. The concept of him with a female was still a strange one after knowing with such certainty that it would never be permitted. Yet here she was, of her own accord, and he could not deny that the idea of some measure of... good will between them was not undesirable.
There was a question that burned upon his tongue, but he forced himself to remain silent on that particular subject until they were well and truly alone, instead quickening his pace as much as he dared given her lack of sight.
They stopped twice more for water, Prim taking it a little less hesitantly each time, though she still gave it a rather dubious shake whenever he handed it to her. But she did not question him again, and he wondered if it was from trust in his word that there would be water yet to be had, or she was simply too afraid of his reaction to enquire further.
He hoped for the former, though begrudgingly acknowledged the very real possibility of the latter.
When at last they came to the pools, Kondarr and his party were already filling their waterskins, a few rubbing at their blades with cloths, evidently wishing to show some pretence of productivity when in truth they simply rested.
“What did I tell you about falling behind?”
Rykkon led Prim to the pool’s edge, disengaging her hand from his belt and easing her down to sit while he filled his own pouch. Before he did so, however, he took her hand up once more and brought it to skim the water’s surface. She resisted at first, but only a little, and she stilled completely when she felt the cave-cooled water beneath her fingertips. “You weren’t lying.” She said at last, and he tampered down the ire that rose at her suggestion that he would.
“No,” he confirmed. “Would you care for more?”
She accepted the waterskin with eager fingers, and he hoped he had not left her too parched all this time. It would not do to sicken his new mate on their first day together.
“Well?” Kondarr stated again, this time moving forward. “And where is her blindfold?!”
Rykkon stood, Prim carefully shielded behind his legs. “She cannot see anything—her eyes are inferior. It was unnecessary.”
Kondarr gave him a shove to the side, and the moment he took to recover was enough to allow his commander to wave his hand around in front of Prim’s face—far closer than he thought she ordinarily would have allowed, one pass managing to catch at the tip of her nose rather harshly.
She was not stupid. She must have known he was there before her nose was assaulted. The commotion and the jostling she had received when Rykkon moved was certainly enough to alert her to the impending invasion, and Rykkon saw the way she forced herself to stillness, even as her eyes were wide and clearly afraid at what else was to come.
It must be a terrifying thing, to be lost in the dark. She would know that the water was before her, its depth and width an unknown, but very real danger. And should she succeed and manage to escape Kondarr’s attention, she would simply be lost in a labyrinth of ever changing tunnels.
Rykkon shoved Kondarr away, and the other male landed partly in the water while Rykkon stooped to take Prim’s hand within his own. Reassuring, gentle. At least, he hoped it to be. But belatedly he realised she had no idea who had suddenly grabbed her, and he leaned closer to whisper, “It is only me,” before he returned his attention to his commander. “You do not touch another man’s mate,” he hissed. “Even you should know that.”
Kondarr glared at them both as he righted himself. “She’s not a proper mate, and you know it well.”
Rykkon frowned before he carefully quieted his expression. “Nor will I be. I doubt you would argue that either.”
Kondarr grunted in agreement.
“All of you, on your feet. It is time we get home.”
The order clearly included them both, but Rykkon was m
ore concerned for Prim than in following a command. He crouched down in front of her, his hand coming to press along the delicate slope of her nose, looking for any sign of great injury. There was no blood, though there was a slight bump in her otherwise smooth brow and nose.
“Does it hurt?” he asked at last, needing to know if it was a new grievance or a remnant of past wrongs.
She shook her head, pushing at her eyes with her unoccupied palm—brushing away tears? “I am fine,” she replied steadily. An obvious falsehood.
“He would like us to continue so we are home before second nightfall. Can you manage?”
Using his hand as support, she found her footing and rose. “I am fine,” she repeated. He eyed her doubtfully. She shivered slightly and he realised that the dampness of the caves had gone from blessed relief to an unpleasant chill, though she had said nothing of her discomfort.
He rifled through his pack and produced a length of cloth, wrapping it about her shoulders as best he could until she finally seemed to understand that it was for her and tied it herself.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her head slightly bent—hiding from him. Was she uncomfortable to accept something of his?
The thought did not settle well with him. She was his mate, soon to be his wife, and he would do well by her.
Someday he would see that she believed that.
But now was not the time to press her. It was too public, the eyes of his brethren watching their interaction carefully, and his own embarrassment heightened to be faced with such scrutiny.
“You will tell me if you require a rest.” He made it sound more like an order than he probably should have, but she did not seem willing to vocalise her needs. Not to him anyway. Or perhaps not where the others could hear?
He hoped she would be more open when at last they were tucked away in his hut. He wanted to see that phantom smile once more upon her lips—wanted to know what it looked like when she laughed at something clever he had said.
But instead fingers found his belt, twisting and wrapping until evidently she felt properly secured so as to not easily be left behind, and they trudged along after his kin.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 3