Or what it was to have a roof to keep away the wind and cold.
“You may do as you wish,” Rykkon affirmed, knowing it was perfectly true. He gathered the last of his bottles, stopping them all carefully and returning them to his pouch, ineffective though they had proved this time. “But I may hope that others will see that I am useful.”
Lorrak grunted. “Do not count upon it,” he warned. “This does not bode well in your favour.”
Rykkon wished to argue. To remind him of the cycles of war that had never yet provided a cure for the Narada’s venom. But to do so would be tiresome, and ultimately fruitless, so instead he took Prim’s hand and left Lorrak to mourn, hoping good sense would return to him before any action could be taken.
Death came to all eventually. It was cruel to think that a healer could master it each time.
“Are you all right?” Prim asked him when they had left the village. People had stared as they passed, whispers passing freely between them, and Rykkon was certain that news had already reached them of Okmar’s death.
Of his failure.
But still he walked, his pace never altering, wishing to be free of them all, if only for a moment.
He held no illusions. If another asked, he would go. He would do his best to help, to ease their pains and care for them until they were well again. He had made a promise to do so, a deal that he could not rescind, and even now, one that he was not certain he would undo, even if he could.
“I am tired,” he told her, knowing it was true. She peered at him for a long while, and at last his pace slowed, realising that she struggled slightly to keep up with him.
“We both are, but there’s something else. Is it that he’s dead? Were you... did you like him?”
Rykkon could not help it, a snort of incredulous laughter coming out in short, harsh breaths as he struggled for composure. “No, I held no affection for him. He was a difficult man, with an unchanging mind, even knowing what pain he would inflict with his words and censures.”
Prim was quiet for a while, their dwelling coming into view, for which he was grateful. He wanted to return to the sweetness they had found the night before—had so little time truly passed since then?—his wife wrapped in his arms, her almost-kisses upon his chest as she found some of her courage to truly be with him.
He led her inside, his eyes scanning quickly for any sign of intruder or upset to his home, only to see it precisely as it had been left. The bed was invitingly rumpled, and though he should offer her teshon and some measure of food given the hour, all he wished was to enter it and sleep away his disgruntled thoughts until they were no more.
However, evidently his wife had other intentions.
“What did he say to you? At the end? You looked so surprised when he said it.”
Rykkon sighed, the words to disallow her questions half on his tongue. But as he sank upon the bed, fiddling with the straps upon his foot coverings, his frustration and tiredness making him clumsy, Prim knelt before him. Helping. Soothing wounds she could not even know were there.
She did not immediately know how the fasteners worked, but she learned well enough as she undid them, releasing first one foot, then the other, urging him under the covers. He happily obliged after shedding his tunic and blade, uncaring where either landed. But Prim seemed to, for she took both, folding the first neatly and settling it upon the lid of the trunk, the knife coming to rest upon it.
And then she stood, her hands clasped before her, suddenly looking uncertain as to what next she should do.
“Come here,” he told her, inviting. Needing.
For a moment he thought she meant to refuse him, but instead she merely turned, removing her trous quickly, before joining him in the bed. There were things to tend to. Their morning meal, the fire, replenishing the supplies he had used the night before.
But instead he found himself drawing her nearer, burying his face in the strangeness of her mane, holding her perhaps just a little too tightly. Yet she never protested, only lying there.
With him.
Eventually his pulse began to calm, even though the memories of Okmar and his final words remained, plaguing him as they seemed to repeat themselves within his mind.
He nearly started when Prim’s hand came and covered the arms that held her. “You asked me to speak of my nightmare. Shouldn’t the same principle apply here?”
Rykkon grimaced, and he was grateful she was no able to see it. “Did you feel better after you had spoken of it?” he hedged, part of him hoping that she would say no, while a larger part knew that he most certainly wished the opposite.
“Yes, I did. Because... even when I don’t want to, or when it’s hard, I’m learning we have to talk about things. But I understand it’s even harder when that means you have to repeat something terrible just so I know how you’ve been hurt this time.”
Rykkon moved slightly, looking at her in surprise. He did not expect the soft look in her eyes as she stared back at him, nor the way she kept her hands upon his arms. She was usually so quick to retreat, so certain that at any moment he would brush her away.
“How do you know that?”
“The look on your face,” she answered simply, her finger beginning to trace foreign patterns into the flesh of his arm. “You looked startled and... well, a little devastated.”
He glanced away from her, situating himself as they had been once more, the more able to hide from his regrets.
“Does that bother you? That I would notice that?”
“No,” he assured her, honestly. “It troubles me that he would have seen and been given the satisfaction.”
Prim was silent for a while, and he was content to hold her, to think that perhaps if they lay together long enough, his thoughts would settle and the mortification would pass that Okmar had seen once again how his words had affected him. He must have looked like a youngling again, all wide eyes and open hurt at the rejection of his people. His father had told him so many times the importance of hiding his emotions—that for others to see them would only give them another weapon to use against him.
But he supposed he was more like his mother, in that way.
She had never been able to school her emotions as his father suggested.
And it had cost her dearly.
“He said that should our roles have been reversed, he would not have tried to save me.”
Prim stiffened in his embrace, and he forced himself to loosen his arms in case she wished to escape them. She did turn, removing his hiding spot in her hair, and he immediately missed it. But he supposed when her hand came, so tentatively, so hesitantly, and rested against his cheek, that held its own appeal as well.
“Then he was a stupid man.”
He remembered saying so of her people in much the same tone—a truth that was so blatant, it was beyond any denial. Yet many would disagree that Okmar had been foolish. He had worked tirelessly to preserve the tribe from any that would threaten it. Including a youngling born of two peoples he believed never should have been permitted to mate.
“No, really,” Prim insisted. “You’re their healer. The fact that you’re willing to help any of them after they’ve been so rude... so cruel is a little amazing to me.” Her eyes flitted away from his, but still he could see the guilt creeping in. “That is why I know you’re so much better than I am. Here I’ve left my people to face whatever comes alone. No warning, nothing. Yet you keep helping; keep showing them that you’re wonderful.”
He blinked, not expecting her to consider him wonderful.
Something in him warmed to believe she thought him so.
“I am not quite as you say I am,” he told her, a lump settling in his throat as he tried to speak the words. He tried not to think of them, of the promise he had made to care for these ungrateful peoples, but he could not allow his mate to think that he was somehow superior to her. He liked to think that he was kind, but his service was not solely for their benefit. Something that, on his most di
fficult days, was the only thing that made him go with whomever had called him.
“What do you mean?”
“There is much to that story, with most of it... painful. And I would prefer not to speak of it. Not now. Not when...”
Prim studied him for a moment, and must have seen that he spoke truly for she nodded. “I’d like to hear it someday, though. If you’ll tell it.”
Rykkon nodded, grateful that he would not have to speak on more of it. Not when he was so tired, his limbs heavy and the call to sleep growing ever louder. But there was one thing that she should know now, lest she continue to think that his work stemmed merely from an endless supply of goodwill that she had somehow been born without. “I made a promise, once, to care for these people, and a deal was made accordingly. There are... lives dependent on my ability to keep that promise. You understand?”
He was not certain that he made any sense at all, but his mind was growing murkier, his memories at least beginning to muddle along with it.
“Not really, but that’s okay. We can talk about it more later.”
Rykkon hummed his agreement, not truly wishing to, but not willing to fight the prospect either. Not now. Not when his mate was warm and pliant in his arms, when she was nestled so perfectly against him.
And he slept.
14. Liable
There was no Prim tugging at him, insistent in her intent when next he woke. His trous were precisely he how he had left them, and his wife was still asleep, curled against his side even as she slumbered.
A different pleasure, to be sure, but a pleasure nonetheless.
He would happily have remained with her, to have enjoyed her sleepy sighs and the way she fit so perfectly beside him, but his bladder reminded him of a particular need that had not been assuaged in some time.
She groaned unhappily when he extracted himself, but she settled into the warm place he vacated and he ensured he tucked the furs around her properly before he left the bed entirely.
Both suns were high when he exited his home, and he grimaced to see them. He knew the necessity of rest after a night without it, but it still seemed a day wasted.
He was completing his ablutions when he heard footsteps behind him. His hands were damp from the stream water, and he turned, ready to greet Prim with a smile when he saw a much larger figure approaching.
Rykkon stood hurriedly, cursing his forgotten blade that was still atop his discarded tunic.
“Kondarr,” he acknowledged, his eyes flitting back up the path toward his dwelling. Kondarr was blocking the way, but perhaps if he ran, he could return to Prim before any danger could befall her.
Unless something had already happened.
Kondarr raised his hand, drawing his attention once more. “Peace, healer, your mate is unharmed. For now.”
Rykkon glared. “I tire of people’s threats, warrior. Should you care for your mate to be harassed at every turn?”
The male’s mouth formed a grim line. “I have chosen a proper female to be my wife, so she would never be subjected to such treatment. You decided differently.” Rykkon wished to argue, but that niggling bit of truth could not be ignored. He knew well how his people would react when he accepted Prim’s petition. She did not. He should have told her that she would be unwelcome, that there would be little friendship or kindness to be found within the village. His mother had faced such abuses and suffered dearly for them. Yet he had been selfish. He wanted her, and she had come, and he would not turn her away.
“Do you require healing?” Rykkon asked somewhat stiffly. He had no interest in tending to anyone today. Tiredness still lingered, and the memories from the night before were beginning to assert themselves anew, and the idea of having to care for another illness, another hurt from an ungrateful person...
“My wife has... asked me to come here,” Kondarr answered with just as much difficulty. Kondarr had been cordial with him in the past, never offering what could be considered a measure of friendship, but when their orders took them to Mercy, he was not the most terrible of companions. But apparently his distaste for Rykkon’s wife was making things more difficult.
“Yes?” Rykkon prompted, anxious to return to the house but hesitating if something was indeed wrong with Mincel. She had been the closest to kind to either of them, her payment generous in her offerings to Prim, and he was grateful for it.
“The elders are meeting today to discuss what is to be done about the Narada.”
Rykkon’s brow furrowed. “Okmar shall be interred this day.” Burial days were to be respected, no business or trade to sully them—the only exception being Rykkon’s own. A youngling would wait for none when it chose to be born, regardless of how respected the newly passed.
“That should indicate to you how serious they consider the matter.”
Kondarr spoke truly, and new worries settled over Rykkon as he considered their outcomes. Lorrak had been furious, his eyes hateful as he looked at Prim.
And for the first time, Rykkon began to wonder if now was the time to run.
“Why did Mincel feel I should know?”
Kondarr gave him an incredulous look. “You cannot believe that your name shall not enter into their talks. That your mate’s presence would not have been a direct cause of increased tensions between our peoples.”
Rykkon stood taller, wishing yet again that he had a blade to reassure himself further. But he had his fists, and he supposed he could make do if such proved necessary. “Prim is not to blame. I chose to mate with her. I took her to the village. And therefore, I am the one to bear responsibility.”
Kondarr’s gaze was steady. “I am certain they are aware of that.”
Rykkon glowered at him. “Shall I be called to speak with them?”
The other male sighed. “Perhaps. But Mincel wished for you to know so you may prepare yourself. Prepare your mate.”
Rykkon forced his head to bow, his thoughts jumbled but knowing that he should show his gratitude all the same. “Your mate is most kind.”
Kondarr gave a low grunt. “She is too soft-hearted,” he complained, though his tone suggested that while it currently annoyed him, he thought well of his wife.
“She is not foolish,” Rykkon observed, knowing it to be true. She had been practical after her first husband had perished. She had young and could not afford to tarry long in selecting a new mate, and she had chosen well.
Kondarr grunted again. “Perhaps.” There was no mistaking that the male resented this charge, but apparently he cared for his wife more than he disagreed with her insistence upon the message being given directly.
And though as soon as he had spoken it he regretted ever having opened his mouth, something in the way Kondarr was with his wife urged him to do so.
To see if one male of his own kind could understand his decision.
“I would have been alone my entire life,” Rykkon found himself saying, the words coming without thought. “Can you truly not appreciate why I accepted her?”
Kondarr eyed him steadily. “I do not know what you want from me. I cannot condone your choice—it is against our very nature.” The male sighed, closing his eyes briefly before looking at Rykkon once more. “But, now that I have Mincel, I suppose I cannot say I would ever choose to be alone. Not now.”
Rykkon nodded, knowing that to expect anything more would be asking far too much. And perhaps with Mincel showing some measure of sympathy toward Prim and her healer, Kondarr might come to see them more kindly as well.
It was likely a fruitless hope, but one that comforted him all the same.
“I thank you for the warning,” he answered, releasing the man from his charge. Kondarr gave a short nod before disappearing back into the wood.
Rykkon dreaded what would come of the elders’ talks. He understood well the importance of the treaty with the Narada—Okmar’s death a sobering reminder that further combat would lead to many more lives being lost—but not for the first time, he wondered what would be the pr
ecise terms of that accord.
Could he truly be grateful for the lives of his people being saved when it meant the potential enslavement of Prim’s?
He was in a grim mood when he returned to his dwelling, Prim blinking sleepily at his entrance. The guilt remained even as something warm settled in his chest at the sight of her. “Did you rest long enough?”
Prim blinked again before nodding slowly. “I feel all groggy though.”
Rykkon hummed in acknowledgement. “I shall make you some teshon.”
Prim smiled at him before she slipped from the bed and donned a pair of trous before leaving the room. He did not bother asking after her destination—her needs were likely very similar to what his own had been.
A part of him was disappointed that she had woken already, as he found it a pleasing thought to have returned to her—to ward off his troubled thoughts perhaps with a little exploration.
He wondered if he could coax her back to bed when she returned.
Brewing the teshon was a soothing process, in its way. The way the leaves swirled in the boiling water, darkening the brew until the flavour would be rich and fervent on the tongue. He wondered if it tasted different to Prim, if perhaps her tastes were dissimilar to his own.
He did not believe Kondarr’s words that to mate with a human was against their nature. There were differences, to be certain. To pretend otherwise would be absurd. But she was capable of feeling, of joining, of caring for him...
And, perhaps one day, they would be blessed with young.
And if their union could produce a living, breathing, functioning entity, how could that possibly be so very wrong?
“What are you thinking about?”
Rykkon had not heard her return, and he chastised himself for his lack of vigilance. “I do not think it would please you to hear of it.” He was not exactly certain which would upset her more—the thought of young or that he questioned their mating, if only for a moment.
Prim continued to watch him, and he held out a cup of teshon, hoping to distract her. She accepted it readily enough, but she did not drink it. “It’s obviously bothering you, and I’d like to help if I can.”
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 18