Her eyes widened. She tried to open her mouth, her jaw uncooperative. It was intent on making her teeth chatter, but as that began to ease, it wanted to lock, the muscles seizing.
“I see,” Machrus murmured, his eyes betraying precisely what he thought of that.
They were anguished.
She had done that. Whether by her direct actions or simply her inability to allay his assumptions, apparently the thought of her death was upsetting to him.
That shouldn’t please her, but it did.
And she felt horrid for it.
Her act of foolishness was not a cry for attention. It had been impulsive and rash, but she had not intended either to end her life, or to drive this man into despair.
And it was not all right that she feel a tingling thrill that had nothing to do with her limbs regaining their usefulness.
She managed to shake her head, a lurching action that was just as inelegant as her hands, her jaw relaxing just enough for her to give a mumbling reply. “A walk.” His eyes flickered to meet hers, clearly not believing she spoke truly. “Just wanted a walk,” she pressed on. “Didn’t... didn’t mean to get so cold.”
Her nose was beginning to thaw, itching horribly. She wanted her hands to work so she could rub at it, but more so that she could lay a hand on Machrus’s cheek, to reassure him properly as her words clearly were not. “An animal c-came,” why were the words so hard to push out? His eyes widened. “W-went in the... the w-water.”
His eyes scanned her body, however impossibly given the blankets obscuring her form. “Are you hurt?”
“Back,” she affirmed. It didn’t actually hurt, not yet anyway. And she didn’t really have a concept of what the beast had done to her. Everything had happened so quickly, and there had been more than enough things to distract her from it.
Machrus sat up and helped her to also, letting her slump against his chest as she was too exhausted to support herself properly. His fingers undid the tie of her shawl, and she tried to swivel enough that her breasts would not come fully to view.
She was unsuccessful.
It was only really the one, the other pressed against the hard plane of his chest, and she was certain she would have been blushing if she’d been capable. She tried to look at his face to see if he noticed, but if he did he gave no indication. His full attention was on her back, his expression grim.
Any offense at him paying so little attention to her body fell away before it could even fully form.
“Is it b-bad?”
Machrus did not answer right away. He glanced at her shawl, her heart aching a little to see it torn, and handed it to her, situating it so that her breasts were covered.
“I will need you to lie on your stomach so I can treat these. Is that all right?”
Renna wondered why it wouldn’t be, but didn’t waste the strength in asking. But still, it was strange to hear him ask such a thing. She was used to his curtness, the perfunctory nature of his manner as he simply proceeded with what needed to be done.
It made her even more nervous.
Yet she hummed her assent, Machrus helping to situate her just so, the blankets following next as he wrapped her up as best he could while leaving her wounds exposed.
“I cannot give you something for the pain,” he told her regretfully. “It will only make you wish to sleep more than you already do.”
She didn’t know if such a thing was possible. She doubted she’d ever felt so tired in her life.
“Doesn’t hurt much,” she assured him. She paused. “That bad?”
Machrus didn’t answer, and she heard him going to the cupboards and fetching supplies. “Keep talking, Renna,” he ordered gruffly.
“Don’t want’a,” she protested half-heartedly. He didn’t want her to die, and apparently that meant it was important to remain awake. She wasn’t sure why exactly. Sleeping always seemed to help when some of the lighter sicknesses swept through the camp.
Except when it didn’t.
And instead of waking refreshed, they never awoke at all.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Can... can I have some water?” she entreated, the sound of the tap heralding his agreement. “And a castle of my own,” she whispered wistfully.
Machrus stared down at her. She hadn’t noticed his approach, but there was no mistaking his presence now. His eyes were narrowed, and she suppressed a round of foolish giggles.
What was wrong with her? Oh, yes. Everything.
“A... castle?” Clearly they did not have such things in his world, but he could likely conjure up the same imaginings she had through the bond. She’d never seen one either, of course, but her father had liked describing them in great detail. Large, stone structures that promised both safety and luxury for those fortunate enough to have one.
And she’d told those same stories to Maisie, while she’d been alive to hear them.
Machrus looked rather distressed. “A castle might be harder to provide you. You seem to know the appearance, but not how to construct it.”
She did laugh then, a choked, rasping sound that sent her into a fit of coughing. Machrus scowled and leaned down, pressing the cup to her lips. He had a towel ready to catch the inevitable dribbles, her position making it nearly impossible to drink without spilling. “Just a story, Machrus,” she mumbled tiredly. “Not real.” The tingling was growing sharper, a stabbing thing now that made her close her eyes tightly at the pain, wondering how serious Machrus was about keeping away the medicines that might numb it.
Knowing him, probably very.
He eyed her dubiously, but did not question her further. She didn’t care what he said, or how he tapped her, she kept her eyes tightly shut, her lip firmly tucked between her teeth as she tried not to squirm and moan as her limbs protested still being alive.
Was this the dying part, or the consequence of not dying?
Machrus was spreading an unguent over her back and shoulders. It was a potent smell that, while strong, was not wholly unpleasant. It was better than some of the black muck their under-qualified doctor had concocted from some of the sludge at the bottom of the pond. Claimed it could fight fever and infection. Seemed to work for some, but not for many. And it certainly did nothing for the illness that claimed poor Maisie.
He must have touched a particularly deep portion for she could not fully contain her groan, her brow furrowing as she tried to keep her composure. It was only pain. A hot, searing thing that was a reminder that she was wounded, and she needn’t shy away from it. Or so she told herself.
And then Machrus was reaching out, smoothing his thumb over her lip until she released the firm hold she had on it with her teeth. “You will make it bleed,” he chastised her gently. Gently for him, at least. “If you wish to cry out, then do so.”
She didn’t want to make a fuss, not when all of this was self-inflicted. “M’sorry for going out,” she said at last, needing him to know she meant it. His fingers stopped in their work, evidently listening. “M’sorry for causing... causing trouble.”
Machrus resumed smoothing the salve on her back, long strokes, then gentler ones as he must have neared an open wound. “Was there... was there a particular reason for your walk? You have never desired one before.” He peered down at her suspiciously. “Or have you?”
Renna did not shy away. She was in pain, and his conversation was a comfort in its way, even when he felt the need to question her. “No. T-this was the first time.” She closed her eyes again, so utterly exhausted. Both in body and in spirit. She was not meant for deceit, had always tearfully confessed whatever secret she harboured from her parents, no matter how small. “I couldn’t just lie there anymore,” she continued, her eyes beseeching as they met his. For understanding. And, perhaps more importantly, that he forgive her.
“I c-couldn’t lie there and pretend I didn’t want more from you.”
20. Fever
Machrus was silent for a long while. His fingers were diligent in tendi
ng to her injuries, and Renna could not quite bring herself to press him into speaking with her. She could not even say for certain that his continued care of her indicated that he was in a forgiving mood, only that duty compelled him to keep her from dying of infection.
He brushed her pale hair away from her shoulders, and she could nearly feel his scrutiny before he finally declared they could move on to the bandaging.
The pain in her hands and feet was nearly unbearable, searing and stabbing, and it was almost enough to distract her from the confession she’d made to him. Almost.
She couldn’t contain her whimpers, not fully, turning to outright cries when Machrus tried to massage her hands once again. He stilled, no longer pressing, but simply holding, his eyes soft as he regarded her.
It was more than she had hoped for, but her greediness reminded her that it wasn’t enough. She didn’t want to cry, not anymore. Not about the pain in her heart, not about the agony in her hands and feet, but her body didn’t seem to care much about her preferences.
She wished he had let her sleep so perhaps she could have been blessedly unconscious for this part of things, but he was a brute and kept nudging her back to the waking world, and she could not seem to stop crying about it...
“I am sorry,” Machrus murmured at last, stroking her hair, the other holding her hand. Even now she could not bring herself to yank it away. “I am sorry that you have been unhappy. I am sorry that my land is not safe enough and that you were hurt. I am sorry that I did not wake so I could escort you.”
If he had woken up then she wouldn’t have gone. The point was to be alone—to choose to be alone rather than allow the ache to fester with the knowledge that her loneliness came by Machrus’s choice instead.
And while she could appreciate his apologies for what they are, that did not make them enough. Not anymore.
“I know you are,” she told him sadly. “But that doesn’t change anything.”
He did not even try to deny it.
He helped her to sit up so he could wrap a bandage about her torso, the scratches on her back requiring loops of clean linen to also tuck about her breasts, and she found herself watching him carefully. She felt ridiculous for doing it, for studying her own husband to see if he had any sort of reaction to her naked form, especially when he was so focused on her care. But still, she did, and though his eyes flickered frequently to her eyes, they did not linger anywhere else to suggest he appreciated her nakedness.
She should be grateful that she wasn’t married to a brute of a husband who would prioritise such things when she was ill. But her sense seemed to have left her before she stepped out that door only a few hours ago, and she felt a twinge of hurt that had nothing to do with her excruciating pain in her limbs.
When he’d secured the bandages to his satisfaction, her heart beating fast each time his fingers would skim over a sensitive bit of flesh, she nestled deeply in the covers he tucked up around her, her voice muffled. “I’m going to sleep now,” she informed him firmly, or as firmly as she could manage. She could hear the slurring, her exhaustion making articulate speech nearly impossible. “No tapping.”
If he thought it dangerous, he said nothing, merely sitting beside her as she tried her best to ignore him.
And unlike earlier, sleep came easily.
Too easily.
She felt Machrus rubbing at her hands again, saying her name with increased urgency, but her eyes were heavy and she could only grumble out the barest of protests. It was hot, too hot, and the blankets were stifling in weight, his grip on her hand was too tight, but her own feeble flailing did not seem to give him pause.
She should probably try harder to reassure him—he did sound very upset—but sleep was lovely, the dark inviting, and she felt herself drifting off again.
She was being lifted, first her head, then her shoulders, and even in her delirious state she could feel the sharp, quick agony when a wound was jostled. She cried out and she was put back into her nest, just where she wanted to be.
“Renna,” Machrus ordered firmly. “You have to drink something.”
She wanted to duck away from him, to push her head back into the softness of the bed, but the cup against her lips was insistent, the water trickling steadily.
And she supposed her mouth did feel a little dry.
She swallowed, though even that felt like too much effort. And then the cup was taken away and the blankets were being tucked around her more firmly, heavy and unwelcome now that she was so hot and achy. She groaned, pushing at them in protest, but someone hard and unyielding was there to keep them in place, ensuring she remained fully covered. “Be still, Renna,” he chastised, his voice betraying his frustration.
Didn’t he realise that everything felt wrong? She was poorly and so very tired, and he was being mean with his tone. “Not nice,” she chided, hating how confined her arms were, the position on her stomach uncomfortable. She never slept this way, so why was she positioned so? She tried to turn over, to put herself to rights and go back to sleep once more, but the hands were back, keeping her from achieving her aim. “Stop!” she protested, much more a whine than a command.
One of the hands was suddenly holding hers, the other coming to brush away the hair from over-heated face. She whimpered.
“Renna,” the voice tried again, the tone much softer, almost coaxing. It made her stop her struggles, liking the way it sounded. “I know you believe it is too hot, but you have to trust me that you are not. And you will hurt your back should you try to lie on your wounds.”
She was hurt? She didn’t feel it. Everything felt heavy and dull, her awareness fleeting. Nothing seemed quite real, her own body held slightly apart from her. There was something foreign in her head, pulsing and nudging at her, growing in its influence as coolness began to spread through her, soothing and comforting in its power.
“Sleep,” she heard hazily, the hand still smoothing through her hair, her scalp tingling as fingers grazed against it. “Rest, for now.”
She wanted to remind the voice that she had been trying to, but that these horrid blankets were keeping her from succumbing, but her mouth wasn’t working and she felt herself already drifting off again.
There was screaming. She wasn’t certain from where, only that the sound was piercing and was making her head hurt and her throat raw.
Her throat?
“Renna!” Something was at her shoulders, strangely cool as they held her down. She imagined the fur, the claws, the sharp teeth dripping with saliva as the beast readied to eat her, and she struggled harder, finally giving in despair as she sobbed into the ground.
“Renna, you are safe,” a voice insisted, feeling at her face with cool hands. She nuzzled into it, the sensation a pleasant one, a sharp contrast to the damaging paws she’d expected. A gruff voice sounded above her, displeased about something, a hand coming to her neck before she heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Why could you not have apprenticed with a healer?” The voice sounded angry with her, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe his head hurt from the screaming too. Something wet and cold was laid across her neck and she shrieked again, certain it was an overlarge tongue tasting her before it took its first bite.
“Hush, Renna,” the voice pleaded with her, sounding tired and worn. “It will help. There is no need to cry.”
There certainly was a need, with a creature ready to eat her, with... with someone back at home that wouldn’t love her. She couldn’t quite remember him at the moment, but he was there, and he’d hurt her... somehow. Or maybe that hadn’t been real at all.
She cried softly, mumbling to herself and trying to make sense of the jumbled mess of her thoughts, but everything was too bright, too frightening.
And then the tapping resumed, lightly against her cheek, her blurred vision not allowing her to focus on whatever was so determinedly keeping her from fully surrendering to her misery. Or sleep. Whichever proved stronger.
“No tapping,” she re
minded the voice, brushing it away with her hands. Except her hands weren’t cooperating properly, a strange lurching all that she managed.
“This is important, Renna,” the voice persisted. “Can you describe the animal that attacked you? I cannot know... some of them are poisonous. I cannot know what you may be reacting to if I do not...” The voice was getting louder, more anxious, angry in its frustration. “How am I to help you?”
She reached out again, this time her hand meeting something other than her numerous blankets, and she gave it an awkward pat. She was trying to be forceful, but her arm wouldn’t obey. “S’all right,” she assured the voice, hoping it would be quiet if she said the right thing. She wanted to sleep, to cry, to succumb to her wretchedness in peace, not be tapped and questioned about the thing that was likely still going to pounce and eat her at any moment.
“It is not all right,” the voice growled back at her. “You have been poisoned!” Fear spiked through her, growing all the more certain that this creature was far more intelligent than she had first allowed. She lay perfectly still, hoping it would move on, would leave her be, would find some other thing to torment.
“I d-don’t want to die,” she whispered brokenly, perhaps a plea, perhaps a prayer, but true in either regard.
And then the growling stopped, and fingers were combing through her hair once more. “I am gratified to hear it. For I do not wish that either.”
Maybe there were two creatures in the room. The one that was hard and rumbling, with a wet tongue and sharp teeth that wanted her eaten, and this other, kinder one whose touch was pleasant and his words a comfort.
She slept again, finding it impossible not to with the tender ministrations to her hair, the weight on her eyes coaxing them closed, to simply give in, even if that other creature was still in the room. But she surrendered all the same, hoping that the other, nicer one would keep it at bay, would protect her while she slept just a little bit longer.
Something was shaking, but she couldn’t move to avoid it, no matter how she tried to wriggle away, tried to roll over to a cooler spot, to nestle back down and rest. Why was she so tired? Had she worked particularly hard? She couldn’t remember.
Trade (Deridia Book 2) Page 29