Her stomach clenched. No, she had not made that connection. “You... you think it’s forced? That these couples... what they feel isn’t natural, but just some... unavoidable by-product of... of...” she gestured between them, still struggling to understand this thing between them, let alone give it a name.
He leaned backward at last, and she found she could breathe a little easier, and her heart stopped its rapid rhythm.
“It is worth questioning,” he hedged, suddenly looking away from her. “I do not wish to believe that the unions of my brothers might be anything less than true, or that what their wives feel for them is not genuine affection. But it does give me pause.”
Renna nodded, feeling slightly sick. She didn’t feel some foreign force endearing her to Machrus. She... tolerated him well enough, had come to appreciate just a few of his ways. But for the most part she felt only loneliness and frustration, not anything she would have remotely considered love.
“So... all of your family’s marriages were arranged?” she asked, trying to avoid the topic of their bond for a while longer. She needed to think, to assess, to make sure her thoughts and feelings were her own. But would she even notice if they weren’t?
Machrus returned to his position as sentry, his hand tensing and relaxing upon a long handled knife. “Yes,” Machrus confirmed.
“Even your sisters’?” She hadn’t even met all of his brothers, let alone any sisters, and she began to wonder how much family he actually had, and if she would ever know them all.
“I have no sisters,” he answered absently. “Much to my mother’s dismay.”
Renna smiled. She remembered many in the colony who longed for daughters, yet sons seemed the only things their husbands were able to give them. Some aspects of motherhood were apparently universal. “Your poor mother,” Renna sympathised, the breeze managing to free a lock of hair from her braid. She tucked it away determinedly. “If you’d had any, would they have had to marry outsiders too?”
He glanced at her before shaking his head. “No. That honour,” his tone suggested he considered it anything but, “is reserved for the sons. Of which the sanmir and his chosen are required to have many.”
Renna blinked. “Required?”
Machrus’s smile was more a grimace than anything else. “There must be a son for every treaty. How else would the lines continue?”
“But... but... what if she can’t? Or if the children don’t...” don’t make it. She didn’t finish that thought, too many memories from her life before close and painful.
Machrus was watching her, his eyes narrowed. “If needs must, they will turn to other members of the family. There is expectation of the sanmira, but we are not cruel. She would not be cast aside. However, it is seen as... insult, should those daughters given in treaty not be given to sons of the main bloodline.”
Renna grew thoughtful. “So should I have been insulted that you were offered instead of Calgrus?”
Machrus released something more a kin to a snort than a laugh, but his amusement was clear. “He would not have been offered, regardless, as he is the inheritor.” She looked at him blankly. “As the line shall continue through him, he will only be permitted to wed a species known to result in children,” Machrus explained slowly, as if she should have guessed the reason. She wanted to huff at him, but restrained herself. “That is no insult meant to your kind, of course, only an essential practicality. But I suppose if you wish to take offence, you may.”
Her stomach clenched at the mention of children coming from their union, but reminded herself firmly that it did not matter whether or not she was compatible with him in such a way. She was not meant for motherhood, and that was simple fact.
Renna thought wistfully for a moment of those girls younger than she, deemed too much so to have married when the Marzon offered. They could have waited a few years, for when one of Adelmar and Sladec’s sons—though apparently not their first—had grown up enough, their territory held in interim until such time.
But that was selfish of her. It was hard to be devoted to a land that was not wholly one’s own, and there was no point in imagining other futures. Not when there would be no undoing of the one she had chosen.
“I don’t think I will, thanks,” she replied more brightly than she felt. “Doesn’t seem much point now that it’s so after the fact.”
Machrus hummed, twirling the knife in his hand. His dexterity was impressive, and she doubted she could have replicated the motion without dropping and stabbing herself in the process—not even after months of practise. But his life here was quiet, so perhaps he had nothing but time to do precisely that. “That is gracious of you.”
Renna sighed a little, leaning back to lie against the rock, looking up at the sky. It was obscured a little by boughs, but Machrus’s chosen spot for watering the grenpeets was in a bit of a clearing, the river widening to a still pool with ample shore for fuzz covered bodies to stand upon. The sky itself was a deep shade of blue, no clouds disrupting it. She wondered what the sky was like in the Old Days, when there was no colony, only people who had an entire planet to call their own.
“I don’t know if anyone has called me gracious before.” It was true. She was more prone to silence than to pleasantries, her acquiescence stemming from a lack of desire for confrontation than any true sense of goodwill. Her people understood that, and some even took advantage, but still, it was known.
“Perhaps too gracious,” Machrus mused, and she smiled ruefully at the sky above. Not a compliment then.
“Didn’t know someone could be too gracious.” A little ray of sun peeked through the trees, warming her skin. It shocked her that she could find it pleasant, for so long the light of the suns nothing but oppressive, but now... she was growing used to being cold, even with Machrus’s provision of clothing, so this proved a delight.
“They can,” Machrus continued. “If it means they agree to things they should not, simply to be polite.”
She raised her head slightly so she could look at him. “You agreed to this too,” she reminded him. “If it hadn’t been me who had consented, they would have just tried to find another one.” Perhaps one with a child, or with a man devastated at her departure. She dropped her head back down.
“I am... grateful, that it was you who agreed,” Machrus confessed, and she looked at him in shock. “It would have grieved me to know that I had to hurt someone who had greater hopes for what our... relationship... was meant to be.”
Renna smirked at that, a humourless thing that made her stomach clench, made words prickle at her tongue as she fought for silence.
She startled when Machrus suddenly appeared over her, his brow furrowed. “You look ill.”
This time she did laugh, though she supposed she should be more insulted than amused. And that loosened her restraint, made her forget that disagreement was something to be feared and never pursued, her thoughts forming into words without thought to consequence. She shook her head, ignoring his assessment of her appearance entirely. “Regardless of your desire not to hurt anyone, you do hurt me. Quite frequently, actually.”
He frowned, moving back slightly, and suddenly aware of what she’d said, she let him go so she did not have to view his reaction. She waited for the panic to begin, for her heart to race, for an outpouring of apologies to negate her truthfulness, but she felt surprisingly calm.
“I do not wish you hurt,” Machrus said at last, the words halting but seemingly sincere. She continued to look at the sky, a tiny puff of cloud appearing in front of the unending blue, more a whisper than something real.
“So you say,” she allowed, wondering at what was wrong with her that she was being so contrary and not feeling the least bit guilty for it. “But that doesn’t change the result.” She should stop talking. There was no reason to bring this up now, not when he had been kind to her by bringing her today, when he had revealed his worries over the bond. She did not want to discourage his actions by tainting their outing wit
h her own dissatisfactions, but there seemed no way to repeal what had already been disclosed. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t also be understanding toward his position as well.
“I understand your concerns,” she continued, sitting up so she could assess his demeanour for herself. “About the bond, about... about losing what we want due to some compulsion. And I stand by what I said before. I didn’t enter into this with romantic ideals. I don’t expect you to fall in love me,” why was that difficult to say? She pushed away her childish notions—they had led her astray before.
“But I also never thought that things would have to be so hard.” Her frustrations were leaking into her tone, weeks of loneliness and silence making her words quicken before she could think to rescind them. “I didn’t think that not being romantic would mean you would ignore me, that we wouldn’t speak. That I could live with a person and yet feel more alone than I ever have before.” Her throat tightened and she fell silent. She rubbed at the cord about her wrist, hidden beneath her sleeve, taking what small comfort she could.
“You know how to be kind,” she murmured, hating how small her voice had become, but finding that annoyance had drained away into sadness. “You brought me my things when your brother ordered them discarded. You were so considerate when I was afraid of going up to meet your people.” She gestured to their surroundings. “You brought me with you today.”
He did not respond immediately, but then, she hardly expected him to. She wondered if it would ever be easy between them, if their conversations would be without these long pauses. If, eventually, she would simply come to accept that when she spoke, there would be no response waiting for her at all.
“It is not my intention to be cruel,” he interjected at last. His posture was tense, his grip on the knife making his knuckles pale.
Renna took a steadying breath and forced her voice to gentle. “And if I told you that I found the silence to be cruel? To be ignored unless necessity dictates you interact with me? Would you do something to change that?”
She did not expect his growl of frustration, for him to stand and pace along the rock, the knife still clutched in his fist. Perhaps it should have made her nervous, his hold on it, his agitation, but she felt remarkably calm even as she watched him.
“I am not asking for the world,” she pleaded softly, knowing she should be quiet, allow him time to think, to process her thoughts without adding more to them, but now that her truths had begun, it was hard to quiet them again. “Just... for us to be friends?”
He halted. “Friends,” he repeated, his lips curling as if the word was foreign on his tongue.
She remembered that some of his words did not translate for her, so she tried to clarify. “Friends, you know... companions. People that you... enjoy seeing. Feel an affinity toward.”
Machrus gave her an incredulous look and she stopped talking. “I am familiar with the concept.”
She felt stung by his tone and crossed her arms, trying not to snap back at him in retort. “You didn’t seem like it,” she grumbled to herself, but from the raise of his eyebrows he heard her perfectly well. She flushed, but didn’t try to apologise.
Maybe she wasn’t so gracious after all.
“I do not wish for you to be... hurt by my actions,” Machrus eventually conceded. Sitting back down with a sigh. “If... friendship is what you require to be... satisfied here, then I suppose it would be dishonourable for me to refuse.”
Renna frowned. “I don’t want this to be fuelled by obligation or duty. You’ll only grow to resent me as much as you do the rest of your people for asking you to do this in the first place.”
He hung his head, breathing deeply, his eyes flashing to hers, all green and so very serious. “Then what would you have me do?”
She smiled at him thinly, gesturing about them. “Do you hate this?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Me being here with you. I assume you come here frequently. Is it so dreadful for me to be here with you? Does it feel like a begrudging responsibility?”
It was his turn to frown. “I do not find your presence to be... displeasing.”
A high compliment, coming from him. She scoffed to herself that her gauge of praise had altered so completely. “I much prefer it to being home by myself,” she affirmed. She wanted to shift a little nearer to him, the space between them a bit wide for talking about friendship. But while her company might not offend him, touching her most certainly did, so she could keep her distance.
“I could... bring you with me more often,” Machrus conceded, each word carefully chosen. “I will... attempt to speak more when we are at home.”
It was not a lot, but it was more than she had before they came here. She had spoken sincerely—she did not want a friendship that was forced upon him. But this was a start. And maybe with more openness between them, there might be less awkwardness, and something more genuine and fulfilling could be fostered. She had seen the kindliness in him, his attentiveness and care, and that small, hidden part of her that had long been buried under pain and despair thrilled at what she’d experienced.
She did shuffle forward then, and he eyed her warily at her approach. She held out her hand, watched him stare at it uncomprehendingly. Apparently the bond did not show him everything, just as he had claimed.
“You take it,” she prodded amiably. “That is how we seal a bargain amongst my people.”
He did so, his much larger hand swallowing her own. She gave his a squeeze, and he did the same, looking to her for confirmation that he had done rightly.
“Friends, then,” she pronounced, hoping that he would stay true to his concessions.
“Friends,” he confirmed, a bit sceptical, a bit uncertain.
Quite a bit guarded.
But this time her smile was genuine, and as they turned back to watch his grenpeets, she felt contentment settle over her.
Perhaps things would not have to be so difficult after all.
14. Accord
Friendship with Machrus was not the easiest she’d ever experienced. He was not the sort she would have sought out for herself, not with his grim nature and quiet reserve. He would have been pleasant enough to work next to, or perhaps sit beside for a meal when her own thoughts made more companionable options less desirable.
But he was who she had, and there was no changing it.
And he was trying, which meant a great deal to her.
The changes were not overt. To an outsider, he would still seem most foreboding with his silences, but there were subtle things that made him appear perhaps just a little bit warmer. If she did not rise when he did, the smells of cooking food would draw her from their room, and instead of handing her a plate with a single nod of acknowledgement to her thanks, he would follow her to the table and tell her of the food—of its origin, of the people who had initially developed it.
It was fascinating, in its way, that he should know who had discovered how to make the crumbly morsel he had baked for them, how the sweet nectar was collected that complimented it so well when drizzled generously overtop.
She supposed such conversations should not mean so much to her, not when they were rather impersonal in nature. He was still reticent to talk of himself, to speak of his life before she had entered it, of his decision to make his home away from his people. But then, she was equally unwilling to talk of her own life, so she would not begrudge him for it. Especially not when she appreciated his efforts.
He did not take her with him every day, though on days when he extended no invitation, he offered suggestions on what she might do to occupy herself. He was always awkward as he did that, hovering near the door and looking more at the carving of the stoop than at her.
“I could take you to Adelmar,” he suggested, his forefinger skimming over the grain of the wood—evidently a fascinating endeavour, for it held all of his attention. “If you would prefer not to be alone.”
She should be brave enough to go—to apologise
for her abrupt departure the last time she was there, any rudeness that might have given the older woman offence. But she couldn’t bring herself to go just yet, not until she was surer that she would inconvenience Machrus less in the process.
“I’ll be fine here,” she assured him, meaning it a little more now that he had asked after her. “The house could use a cleaning.”
It didn’t, not really, and he seemed to know that as he finally looked at her briefly before flickering to the already tidy space. But he did not object, only nodded and promising that he would cook something for their later meal if she did not wish to do so herself.
She could not deny that those days disappointed her—she had come to enjoy the days spent amongst the grenpeets, of lying in the grasses and watching the skies overhead. She had never indulged so in the Wastes. The sands were too hot against her skin to lie upon unless near their lone pool, and there was always work that needed doing.
But here there was nothing to prevent her, other than when a grenpeet would wander too close, curious at what new impediment had appeared in its grass.
At first she had felt utterly useless going with him, lazing away the daylight while Machrus toiled, but most of his tasks seemed to require watchfulness and only the occasional intervention, so there was not a great deal for even him to do.
And when it became clear that she did not expect him to spend his days prattling to her, he seemed to relax somewhat as well, his shoulders not so tense, his glances at her filled with far less suspicious unease.
Today he had asked her to join him, and they were back at the river, settled on his favoured rock and watching the grenpeets as they drank. He always seemed to take hold of the same knife, a long handled thing with a blade carefully etched with twining vines and the occasional flower. It seemed too pretty to be meant for violence.
“Is that your favourite?” she asked, breaking their unspoken agreement that topics should remain free of anything that could be considered personal.
Trade (Deridia Book 2) Page 19