His dwelling could not appear quickly enough.
3. Bruised
He should have expected the stares when they returned to the village. The young noticed first, as they often did, little eyes typically unbusied by too much work to be contained in a single rotation. So they would notice, and little feet would take them to their mothers, little hands tugging until she had noticed too, and word spread quickly that the traders had returned, this time with an addition to their numbers.
Prim had been gladdened when they emerged from the tunnels, though she had winced greatly when the light from the first setting sun nearly blinded her. He had offered to cover her eyes with the cloth until she could adjust more gradually, but she refused, untucking her fingers from his belt and walking steadily beside him—though still close. Still well within reach.
He likely should not have been so gladdened by that fact.
Yet now, with his kin watching with suspicious glares, he was relieved that he simply had to push her gently behind him as Kondarr approached him. “You will speak with the elders.”
Rykkon glanced toward Prim. She was exhausted, that much was certain, though she tried admirably to hide it. He had given her plenty of water, though she had refused the food, but even now she swayed a bit, her face tight and drawn even under the cover of the trees. She needed rest, not to face the many questions of the elders. At least, not now.
He opened his mouth to explain thusly, to inform Kondarr that his authority over him ended as soon as they returned to their own borders, but Okmar pushed through the slight crowd that had gathered, looking over them all with assessing eyes. “Rykkon,” he acknowledged with a slight nod. “Who do you hold in your protection?”
Rykkon turned. “A defector,” he remarked calmly. “And one who will be my mate.”
There were a few murmurs of disbelief amongst the onlookers, and Okmar shook his head with wizened disappointment. “This is not our way. You know this.”
It certainly was not. But their ways would provide no mate for him, no companion, no son to teach his ways with healing. And he wanted that. “You would deny me? You would cast me from your numbers? Who will care for you when you are sick? Who will deliver your young when the births prove too difficult?”
One female, round with child, shifted nervously. He would not deny her—would not deny any of them. But he was the healer, one naturally set apart, and he would take his rights as such. And if that included making space within his dwelling for the female tucked neatly behind him, with her grasping hands and quiet assurance of his protection, he most certainly would do so.
“This is too public a setting,” Okmar announced, gesturing for them both to follow him to his home, but Rykkon stood firm.
“I am afraid an audience shall have to wait until tomorrow. My mate is weakened from the journey and I would see to her needs first.”
The reminder of her new status as the healer’s mate—soon to be his wife—caused an uneasy stir among his kin. The elders had no rights between mates, could not comment, nor withdraw favour for the chosen one, and Rykkon hoped they remembered that when dealing with Prim.
“The morrow then,” Okmar acknowledged, his eyes most serious as they regarded him. “May she have a wife’s protections by that time, lest trouble befall her.”
Rykkon halted in his bow of acquiescence, though he schooled his features so as not to show his surprise. “You would threaten her?”
Okmar gestured to the people about him. “Threats are beneath a warrior. I merely observe that while you may do as you wish as our healer, it is difficult to protect a female from an entire village. Especially one you have not completed your bond with. Perhaps that will win some to your side, yes? Though,” he murmured, his eyes alight with pointed malice Rykkon had not seen before. “That did not help your father, now did it?”
Rykkon’s temper flared and he had to purposefully stop his hand from reaching for his blade. To cut. To maim. He knew the proper places that would cause the most damage—or, if he was feeling merciful, would only injure and not cause the enemy to expire.
He was not feeling particularly merciful.
Okmar turned away, apparently desiring to be the one to dismiss, and Rykkon counted five breaths before he managed to turn away himself, assuming rightly that Prim would follow as he made his way to his own dwelling.
He should have broken away from the company earlier and come here first. He could have dealt with Okmar in private, instead of parading his defiance in front of their entire people. Things would be even more difficult now, and any hope of acceptance for Prim or for himself, was nearly nonexistent.
Prim’s voice cut through his self-recriminations, low and tired, as she followed him through the darkened forest. The first of the suns had set and the second was quickly joining it, and he wanted them both secured before true darkness fell. He did not want to believe that Okmar would act tonight—would send an assassin to kill his new mate before she could truly become his wife. Their ways protected one of such status, would offer her some measure of physical safety even if they showed no particular kindness for her. And he would have her safe above all things.
“Where are we going?”
Rykkon gave a weary sigh. “My home. We will be there shortly; I know you are tired.”
She did not once more claim that she was ‘fine’, which he took as evidence of her particular degree of exhaustion.
But their night was not over, not with Okmar’s words still echoing in his ears.
He only hoped that she had been sincere when she spoke with Kondarr regarding her willingness to be with her Arterian husband.
He wondered what she saw when she looked about his dwelling. He had never been inside a colonist’s home, but he could not imagine they were particularly fine—not given the typical state of their clothing. The walls of his hut were covered in carefully organised shelves, herbs and medicines in varying stages of drying hanging from the ceiling in one corner above his admittedly messy work bench, while the bed claimed another of the walls.
“Will it do?”
There was little he could change should she find it distasteful, but the silence was making him anxious, as well as the knowledge of what was soon to come.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” was her only reply, and he could not quite make out if that suggested something good or not.
It was not the largest space, but it suited him well enough, as well as the families that had lived there before him. The roof was solid enough, heavy thatch carefully resealed every turn of the wet season, so she would be kept dry during even the worst storms. There was a pit for a fire, though now the coals were grey and dead from his absence.
He walked toward it, settling fresh wood and kindling before pulling out a piece of flint and setting it all to burn. Prim still remained watchful from just inside the door.
“You may come in,” he reminded her softly, feeling unease and anticipation in equal measure. “This is your dwelling now as well.”
Her face scrunched oddly at that—with distaste?—and he was momentarily stricken. He wanted her pleased, but that was ridiculous. This was all he had to offer, and she had not made enquiries before agreeing to come. If she was particular, she could have remained with all that was familiar.
Determined to make himself comfortable, he began undoing the many layers of his clothing, grateful to be free of the many twines of cloth that effectively kept the sands of the Wastes from rubbing at his skin. Prim made a sound of surprise but he ignored her, still offended at her apparent displeasure at his offering of home.
“Is there a latrine?” she asked quietly, and a part of him softened. Perhaps he had misunderstood, and she was more uncomfortable than ungrateful—she had not asked for any such thing during their journey, and he knew well that such needs were thoroughly distracting when unmet for too long.
Not bothering to retrieve his outer coverings from the floor, he led her back outside, down a path trodden do
wn from many feet making the same trek throughout the seasons, to the outhouse.
It was not as elaborate as the communal one within the village, but he took care of it well. He showed it to her, and explained about the importance of cleansing her hands in the nearby stream, in case the colonists did not know such things.
This was met with more enthusiasm than his hut had, and he instructed her to return there when she had finished. “Are you certain of the way?”
She nodded her head, her eyes suddenly anxious, and he left her then, knowing that to tarry would only prove bothersome. And her privacy would be invaded quite enough already, without intruding on this as well.
The fire had caught nicely when he returned to the hut, and he knew from experience that it would soon warm the interior. He finished divesting himself of his travel-worn clothes, and grimaced at how dirty his skin felt from his journey. Prim’s must feel even more so, especially with sand clinging to her many hurts. It would be pointless to spread salve onto grimy flesh, and he fully intended to care for her properly.
He took two sets of cloths to dry themselves and returned to the stream, only to find Prim already there, scrubbing at her hands and face. She turned sharply at his approach, her eyes widening as she took in his lack of dress.
Choosing to ignore her reaction lest it be an unfavourable one, he dropped his change of clothes and the drying cloths beside the shore, stepping into the water until it reached his waist.
He could still feel her stare, and he chanced a brief glance in her direction.
She did not appear disgusted. Not exactly. Wary, perhaps, but he could not discern precisely what she thought and felt as she looked at his partially nude form. He would like to see her thusly—to look at the female that was now his mate and commit her appearance to memory. “You may join me,” he told her quietly, gesturing to the pile. “I did not bring more clothing, but you will be able to dry yourself.”
Her attention turned to the little bundle, before coming to rest on him again. Uncertainty filled him. “Are you frightened of me?”
Prim shrugged her shoulders. “Yes,” she confirmed, though her fingers began the process of unwrapping her many layers, belying her words.
An enigma, his soon-wife. One he did not hope to understand yet.
His eyes did not seem capable of straying from her form as more of her flesh began to appear—first one arm, then the other, followed by her own version of trous and tunic. A few bits of cloth remained twined between her legs and around her breasts—curious fastenings that she did not remove before she stepped into the water, shivering slightly as she did so.
The water was an agreeable temperature to him—pleasantly cool and refreshing after the trials of the day, but he watched her carefully for any sign that she proved incapable of adjusting. He would not have her risking a frost. “I will tend your wounds when we return to my dwelling,” he informed her seriously, though he focused on scrubbing away the remaining sand from his flesh.
She inhaled sharply. “What?”
He wondered if he had chosen the incorrect words. “Your hurts? I will provide medicine.”
She looked down at her arms, appearing worse now that she was closer. Dark, angry looking things, the one on her face having taken on a purple hue as the day progressed.
Prim seemed to consider something before she took a steadying breath and turned to him. She had gone a bit further into the stream, hunching down so that her breast coverings were submerged beneath the water. Was she very modest? He supposed he was so, around his people, but that came from shame rather than the preservation of dignity. Did she feel similarly?
“So, you really are a doctor, then?”
Rykkon stared at her, trying to remember this word but finding its meaning lacking. “Doctor?”
She seemed frustrated, but tried again. “You know medicines. Treat people. Heal them.”
“Ah,” he acknowledged, giving a nod of his head. “Yes. The only of my people. And I will help you too.” He had told her that already, and he supposed he was glad that she sought his confirmation rather than continue to remain doubtful—although he would rather she believe him at his first word.
She looked down at her arms then, her fingers absently tracing over the marks there before she looked at him again. “Are things really going to be different here?”
Her eyes were different than he had usually seen them. There were emotions to be found there at time, usually anger or annoyance while she dealt with her kin. But now there was a tenuous amount of hope lingering there, replacing her usually deadened expression.
He found it appealing.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “You likely will not believe me at first, but you will, given time.” Of that he would make certain.
She nodded, turning so she could dunk her head and attempt to release any wayward sand trapped between the strands. He wondered what it would feel like to help her, to allow the strange mane to flow through his fingers.
Later. With time, and maybe a little trust.
When they had both become satisfied with their washes, Rykkon emerged first, noting that Prim looked steadily away as he dried himself and dressed. “Do you find me displeasing?”
She looked up at him, startled. “What?”
“My form,” he reiterated. “Does it displease you?” He forced himself to sound calm, but it was difficult. Not when this mattered so very much.
“I...” She looked at him then, assessing, though there was no open disgust in her gaze—though it was difficult to tell precisely what she thought of him. Prim hesitated for a moment before she took a step closer, her arms coming to cover her breasts, the cloth now rather translucent after their soak in the water. “You’re... different.”
Rykkon stilled. Even to her eyes, he knew that he was an oddity.
He turned away, pain lancing through him. “I see.”
She was quiet, not offering anything more, and he pulled his tunic over his head—the better to hide from her. He had thought things would be different, when he took one of her kind as a mate. Apparently he was wrong.
“That doesn’t mean it’s bad, though. I’m sure I look very different to you too.” He glanced back at her, only to catch another of her shrugs, her eyes watching his carefully. “I just don’t see why it matters.”
Some grip on him loosened as understanding came. She did not mean different than his kind, only different than herself—her people. There was no mistaking that. Even now, his skin changing to meet the darkened hue as true night began to descend, his ears a sharpened contrast to her own rounded offering.
Did it really matter? It certainly seemed to for everyone else. He had known she was a strange one, everything about her had indicated that from the very beginning, but to hear it vocalised so clearly...
“You are very unusual,” he remarked, and he stooped to pick up the other cloth and hold it out for her. She took it with only the briefest hesitation, her expression rather peculiar.
“I hear that a lot,” she murmured softly, a smile playing about her lips. It was not a pleasant thing to behold, not when her eyes held so little life, so little humour.
He had hurt her, somehow, and it did not settle well with him. Apparently they had much still to learn of one another.
He watched her rifle through her pack and pull out a worn set of clothes, thinner and in more disrepair than even her others. He would have to make her something new, something with tight seams and warm collars so she would not shiver as she did so now, fumbling as she did to undo the wet cloths that still twined about her, allowing them to drop to the ground before pulling on her tunic.
He swallowed thickly as her delicate curves were exposed, marred only by the obvious signs of abuse that covered her ribs. One was most certainly damaged, if the black welts were any indication of the severity of injury.
It made him glad of his skills, that he could offer her as measure of comfort.
She would need a brew of manta, something
to ease the pains that surely plagued her, as well as any soreness that she incurred from their long trek from Mercy.
He was slightly disappointed when she was once again clothed, though he was glad to know that he had least found his new mate’s body an attractive thing. He had given it little consideration when he had accepted her, knowing that the companionship another would bring would be worth any potential unpleasantness during their actual mating. But she had been crafted well, and his body evidently was ready to identify her as female, regardless of her differences.
Perhaps she was correct. Perhaps it really did not matter.
“Come,” he beckoned. He had no belt to offer her to hold, and he did not know how well she could see in this relative darkness, so he held out his hand instead to lead her back to their dwelling. She looked at it for only a moment before she took it with tentative care, silent and yielding as much she had shown herself to be.
“You’ll really give me something to help the bruises?”
They walked back toward the hut at a slow pace, Rykkon rather enjoying the feel of her hand in his, not as smooth as he had expected but welcome all the same. And they had hurried enough this day. “Does that surprise you?” It troubled him that it would.
“They kind of just ignored them,” she answered in a mumble, her gaze focused on the forest around them, and he wondered how much she could see. The trees were dense here, making the path all the darker, but he knew it well and they entered his home again in short order.
“Your people have no healers?” Prim hesitantly sat her pack down just to the side of the door, looking to him for approval before releasing it. He gave a nod of encouragement. “This is your home now, as well. You are permitted to make use of my things and settle your own where you like.”
She still did not appear wholly convinced, but did follow him to the drying line to add her strips of cloth to the larger articles, now damp with stream water. He situated them with care, helping to do the same with hers when the line proved too high for her to reach. “We have a doctor, but he couldn’t do much for me. After a while, he just said to come if I thought something was broken.”
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 4