He had not realised she would be so hungry, and he felt a moment’s guilt that they had spent so long talking when she had been eager to eat. But that passed as he watched both of his females, his mamé and his mate, surprisingly gladdened that they were from the same people. Their experiences had been wholly different—his wife had known many cycles of hardship in the Wastes—but all the same, he could not imagine bringing an Arterian mate here, not only for the fact that none would have accepted him.
There was kinship, and familiarity in the ways they spoke to one another, of the colony, of the people there, and he was pleased for it.
Even if it left him feeling slightly removed, unaware of precisely of what they spoke.
“It is almost as if they had a language of their own,” his faeder muttered in their own tongue, seated on the bench toward the side of the room. He gestured to the seat beside him, and Rykkon took his parritch and joined him there.
“Mamé looks happy,” Rykkon observed.
“Her family is here,” his faeder affirmed. “I would never expect her to be anything less.”
Rykkon smiled, contentment filling him. Perhaps it should not—not with the prospect of returning to such a tenuous situation in the village, and a wife that was so unsettled. But he supposed it was all right to appreciate this moment of togetherness while he could.
He took a bite of parritch, savouring the taste. He rarely made it for himself, either from laziness or sentiment he was never quite sure. Maybe it was a bit of both. The few times he had tried, it never tasted the same as what his mamé created, and it seemed hardly worth the effort.
“We must leave in the morning. You know this, yes?”
His father sighed deeply, staring into his cup of teshon. “I had hoped you could remain longer, but I knew your stay must be short.”
“I had hoped to feel more sure of what to do before we departed. Prim is quite determined that we do something. I just do not know what is safe.” He glanced at his wife, her conversation deepening to people he had never heard mentioned before. “She is so concerned that she is somehow lacking. As if she is heartless if she does nothing. Does she think me so because I wish to hold her wellbeing as paramount?”
“She is trying to be selfless,” his faeder reminded him gently. “And you must find a way to allow her that while also seeing to her safety. It is not an easy thing, to be a husband, but it is a role you have chosen. Just as you chose to learn of healing and bear those responsibilities accordingly.”
Rykkon gave him an incredulous look. “You know well we are born into our trades.”
His faeder looked at him with some surprise. “Oh? And I suppose your passion for the subject, your commitment to our people and their health is something that was equally instilled before you had even been removed from the sac?”
Rykkon shook his head, embarrassed by his father’s underhanded praise. “That is not what I meant. Our trade is selected for us, without any particular regard for temperament or desire. Suppose I proved weakened at the sight of blood. Would that not suggest I was not created for the purpose of healing?”
His faeder shook his head. “You would have learned and excelled at the challenge of it. As must all our young. And they are better for it by the end of it, as is their craft. It is changed and perfected by those who practise it, and by the needs of the people they serve. It is not stagnant and restrictive, it is our way of life.”
Rykkon was not wholly convinced, but he was not going to argue on the merits of their trade system. All he knew was healing, and he doubted any would accept his offspring for apprenticeship.
Which meant that he too would select their course even as they grew within their sac.
His faeder reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze, and Rykkon was glad to discover that his father’s easy affection was no longer as strange as it had felt the day before. “And what of your mate? Is she yet with child?” He glanced at Prim, her fur covering obscuring her figure. “It is difficult to tell.”
Rykkon shook his head, stirring his parritch. “Not that I am aware. She has relayed nothing to me of noticing the signs.”
His faeder nodded. “You must be patient, and do not expect her to inform you of her pregnancy. Your mamé was growing large for a long while before I finally asked her outright.”
Rykkon looked up at him sharply, aghast. “You... enquired?”
His faeder nodded soberly. “Their ways are different, even in that. And I waited as long as I could—I was deeply hurt for nearly a season that she did not think me worthy of informing. But apparently they do not have such a ceremony, and their females are not quite so aware of their constitutions. She truly was unaware that she was growing a youngling.” This he said with a disbelieving shake of his head, as if even now he could not comprehend how she could have been so ignorant of her own person, but there was an obvious smile in his eyes as he glanced over at his wife.
She was looking back at him, her eyes narrowing as she finally seemed to notice their quiet conversation in their native tongue.
“R-rude,” she chastised, her jaw set as it always was whenever his faeder would speak to him in their own language. It had always troubled her greatly that she could not seem to learn it, no matter how many lessons she was given.
His faeder chuckled. “My apologies, my dear,” he said, moving from the bench and going to her side, his empty bowl of parritch outstretched for her to refill with a pleased roll of her eyes.
Rykkon looked to Prim, hoping to see her equally contented, only to see her coming toward him, settling beside him on his faeder’s seat, taking his free hand in hers. She looked determined, and he almost wished he had never begun speaking with his father, as clearly he had missed something important within their female conversation.
“Rykkon,” she began, her eyes gentle but firm in whatever resolution she had reached.
“Prim,” he acknowledged, hoping to distract her as his thumb drifted over her knuckles, suddenly nervous of her intention.
She smiled at him, a little sadly, and his anxiousness rose. “I’ve decided something,” she continued. “Talking with your mother. Remembering that... well...” She took a steadying breath. “These are people. Maybe not my people, not anymore. I might be happy to be free of them, to have a life with you far away from them, but that doesn’t change what they are. And they need to know what’s coming. What may happen to them.”
Rykkon swallowed thickly. “The elders may not have reached a decision. They may not choose to reveal their location to the Narada.”
Prim nodded. “And I hope that they don’t. But even so, I think it’s important that they be warned of what could happen. That they be prepared.”
Rykkon stared down at her. “What are you asking of me?”
She took another breath, deeper, the first sign of tension and nervousness showing in her.
“Will you take me back to Mercy?”
24. Parting
“No.”
The word left him before he was even cognisant of the thought. Prim blinked at him in equal surprise, evidently shocked by his adamant refusal.
“No?”
Rykkon found himself nodding in confirmation. “No. You are not rejoining them. You are not leaving me.”
He had not meant to say that—did not think he truly believed that to be what she meant. She had asked him to take her into the Wilds to see his parents, and he supposed it was not impossible for her to ask also to merely visit her people.
Regardless of how few of them were likely worth her compassion.
Her eyes softened, the disbelief being replaced with sympathy. “Never. That isn’t what I want at all. I just want to go talk with them. That’s it.”
He stared down at her, wanting to trust her intentions fully. He reminded himself that she loved him, that she understood the mating rite and all its responsibilities. They were to think first of one another. In every way. But there were other realities that he did not think she had
considered. “Is it?”
Prim’s brow furrowed. “Of course. How could you think otherwise?”
Rykkon put down his parritch and turned to face her. “So, we travel to your people, and you tell them of the danger that is coming. What then?”
Prim huffed a little. “I don’t know exactly.”
Rykkon nodded. There was little they could do, though he thought it likely their resistance would only lead to bloodshed, with little coming from the Narada. “So you will frighten them into acting foolishly; rashly. For their circumstances remain unchanged. There is no more water in the Wastes than there had been before, the suns no less hot. And yet we have made the journey, you are healthier than you have ever been with them, and they will notice.”
He waited for her denial, but she merely looked at him, her expression not pleased by any means, but she was listening. Hopefully comprehending all that he had to say. “So when suddenly they clamour for your help, when they offer you bribes and perhaps threaten you to reveal how we manage to travel the Wastes, how shall you feel then? Will you feel the need to stay, to lead them? I have told you why they cannot follow us, as they will be slaughtered just as thoroughly, if not more so. We have no need of slaves, nor the desire for them, and my people are not prone to acts of clemency. Would you be prepared to walk away and leave them? Truly?”
Prim frowned, starting to look uncertain.
“Rykkon,” his mamé said quietly, and though he wished to prompt Prim into expressing her thoughts, he turned to his mother. “If she... if she thinks it’s important...”
Rykkon’s mouth formed a thin line. He had little experience with disagreeing with his mother. There had been squabbles in his youngling days when he had been stubborn and she had rebuked him, but later, as he had grown larger and she seemed so frail and delicate, it seemed kinder to accommodate her requests than to pose any sort of rebuttal.
Except now he had a wife who was suggesting something dangerous, and he could not acquiesce simply to please them both.
“Mamé,” he said gently, hoping she could understand. “It sounds cruel, I am certain. But unless something changes, where we may offer them a solution and not simply bring them to despair and desperation, how are we actually helping?”
Rykkon glanced back to his mate, noting the slump of her shoulders, her resolution obviously having wavered by his argument. “So you’re saying we do nothing,” she murmured softly, her tone low and despondent.
“I am saying,” he answered, taking her hand in his. “That your conscience is good and true for wanting to help them. To save them. But we must be practical as well as compassionate, and until there is something tangible we may offer them...” He hung his head, knowing that he had to admit his limitations. “I cannot protect you from all of them. I cannot ask the warriors to join us in such a task, and I am only one. They could take you from me before we could escape them. And I... I cannot allow that.”
“You’d get hurt,” Prim murmured, looking down at her hands. “You always get hurt.”
He looked toward his parents with a grimace, wishing they had not heard that part, but he supposed it was true enough that to deny it would be a falsehood. “Regardless of whatever plan you concocted, we need to return to the village first in any case. I must hear of what the elders have decided, and they must see that we have returned in a timely manner.”
He reached his arm about her shoulders, and she eased against him, though it seemed to be more from exhaustion than tenderness toward him. “I am sorry that I cannot give you the answer you desire.”
Prim took a shuddering breath, wiping at her eyes even though they had yet to leak. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I just... I don’t want to feel responsible for what happens to them.”
They had discussed this before, but he supposed such troubles were not eased by a lone conversation. So instead he kissed her temple, and held her for a while, though he found his eyes drifting to his parritch with not a small amount of longing.
But his mate came first.
Whether it meant saving her from rashness, or denying his own hunger.
Their departure later that day was a tearful affair. He would have liked to have remained longer, to at least have spent another night, but his faeder had reminded him that with tensions so high within the village, it was best not to provoke them by remaining gone longer than was reasonable.
“Perhaps they would be too distracted to notice I am gone,” Rykkon had argued weakly, knowing him to be right but finding their time together all too short.
Prim had slept a while, and that had given him time alone with his parents, to hear of their lives. According to his mamé, Ati the malmout was indeed a good friend to them, his mate and new family a welcome addition to their daily walks through the forest. Rykkon noted that his faeder did not mention the beast’s attack on her son’s person, so he remained silent to it as well. It had been a reasonable response, and if the creature was friendly to his mother, he would not wish to taint her affection for it.
“I should like to... to see your children, when they come,” she said wistfully, having given him another bowl of parritch since his previous one had gone cold. “It was... it was hard being all alone with... with you.”
His faeder had glanced at her, looking affronted. “I was there.”
She patted his arm. “Not... all of the time. You had your healing duties to... tend to.”
Rykkon would have liked that. Would like to think that she would be there before their first young was born, able to help them both with such a foreign little thing. He knew how to ease the birth of them, but he had no experience with the raising of young, and he would value the wisdom of his parents’ in how to do so.
“Soon,” he told her, choosing to believe that it would be so—whether another journey here or perhaps those days when she did poorly would become fewer still, and it would be safe for her to return.
When Prim had awoken and his mamé had filled their bags with water and little cakes and whatever other provisions she had time to prepare, it was time for them to leave.
His faeder held out a pouch, its contents straining against the simple drawstring. “Here,” he said. “You have completed your task.”
Rykkon opened it just a little, and brought it to his nose. “Grenut,” he acknowledged, looking to his faeder. “You have so much to spare?” It had been the reason given for his journey, and he was grateful for his father’s thoughtfulness, but he could not leave them with none. Not if it could be needed.
His father refused when he tried to return it, shaking his head. “It grows bountifully here. You were not wrong in saying that to our people.”
Rykkon nodding, settling the pouch in his pack, patched as he had sat and shared of his life with those who meant so much to him.
Though he had not explained the slashes to his mamé.
She had enquired, but he prompted her to speak of her little trinkets she had shown him the day before, the importance of the eggshell, the grasses.
Her eyes were bright as she spoke of it, the fond memories of adventures with her husband, and he was glad to know that despite what they told him, of missing him and withstanding some of her worst days, they could still be happy with one another.
“We’ll be able to...come home soon,” his mamé explained to him, her tone firm and her eyes equally so as she regarded her husband as they stood outside the dwelling, their pack upon Rykkon’s back and Prim beside him. His faeder smiled at his wife, and did not object to her words, but Rykkon was fairly certain that he would not in fact see them come to his door for a long while yet.
“I shall see how they have handled my absence,” he assured her. “And maybe I can see you again before too long.”
It felt wrong to promise her, to give hopes that might have little basis for fulfilment, but he was acutely aware of how she might withdraw upon their departure—might hide away in the recesses of her mind, the separation too much for her strained mind.
He did not envy what his faeder would soon witness, but their options were few.
So he held her close, and let her wet the front of his tunic with her leaking eyes, and tried to memorise this feeling of completeness, of having all of his family near, if only for a moment.
His faeder was more brusque, though Rykkon could tell in his every manner that he was struggling with his own feelings, his embrace punctuated with a tight squeeze to his shoulder, his voice low as he said his goodbyes. “You will be careful of the journey,” he more ordered than suggested. “And you will be careful with our people.” This was related in an even sterner voice.
“I have survived this long,” Rykkon reminded him.
His faeder pulled away. “I want more than that for you.” He looked toward Prim. “For you both.”
Prim was quiet, but allowed his mamé to give her a full hug, and Rykkon could just make out her choked whisper as to how to make proper parritch, Prim nodding and accepting both her affection and recipe with grace. “Y-you... are good for him,” he caught toward the end. “T-thank you for... for accepting him.”
Prim glanced his way and caught him watching, her expression solemn. “I love him,” she confirmed. “You raised him well.”
His mamé wiped at her eyes, sniffling all the while. “H-he was a good boy. It wasn’t hard.”
He doubted that very much. He liked to disappear in the woods, to explore and track small beasties and pretend he was in the Wilds, the hero of his village, admired by all.
And his poor mamé would have to spend her afternoon hunting him in turn, his faeder usually away tending to someone in need.
And the day was growing later, and they had much ground to cover before the second sun set.
Rykkon took Prim’s hand, and gently pulled her away from his mamé. “Until the next time then,” he murmured, his own sadness beginning to choke his voice, though he tried his best to steady it.
He could not...
Would not, say goodbye.
His mamé sobbed, and his faeder tucked her close to his side, before Rykkon and Prim made their way into the trees.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 32