Trade (Deridia Book 2)

by Catherine Miller

  But the shaking continued, and she couldn’t move, something was talking, insistent and almost a demand though she could not fully catch the words.

  “I do not want to lose you, Renna!”

  Who was Renna? Poor man sounded rather sad that she’d been lost. She’d never been lost. Everyone else had been the ones to disappear.

  The shaking stopped and she was glad. It was an irksome thing, to be jostled so much, and she opened her mouth to tell the man so. It wasn’t her fault that his girl had gone missing, so he shouldn’t be here bothering her about it.

  “Blessed be,” the man cut in before she could chastise him, two hands at her face, thumbs smoothing down her cheekbones. Did she know him? “Renna? Are the spasms... are they...” he grumbled something she could not hear, still confused why he was talking to her at all. She wasn’t Renna—didn’t know anyone who was. “I am no healer, Renna. And I cannot leave you to retrieve one. Especially when he would be as blind as I am.”

  He sounded so upset at the prospect of this Renna dying. She didn’t feel the same, not when she didn’t even know the girl, but his sorrow was so sincere, his distress so apparent, that it was easy to reach out and pat whatever part of him she could reach. “Everyone has a time to go,” she reminded him. “Some sooner than we’d like.”

  She’d lost someone. Many someones. She couldn’t quite remember at the moment, but she knew the words had come from somewhere. Had she been comforted just like this? She couldn’t recall. But there was an awareness that she spoke rightly—that through the fog and muddle of her thoughts, they were true.

  Her chin was being pinched, her head turned, her bleary eyes unable to focus properly. But she could vaguely determine that someone was peering back at her, flashes of green and what could pass for flesh indicating perhaps it was a person and not a beastie. Were people better than beasties? She was fairly certain that people killed people too.

  “It is not your time,” she was told firmly. “Are you listening? It simply is not.” A pause, pained and lower, a plea. “Do not make me endure this again. I beg of you...” The voice was strained, and she wanted to furrow her brow, to remind him that it was this Renna’s time and not her own. But she didn’t seem very good with words at the moment, her tongue sluggish. So she gave him another pat, fairly certain she reached his shoulder, though perhaps it was his arm. Or maybe a leg.

  “It’ll turn out how it should,” she assured him, though the words didn’t seem to come out quite right. This is why it was better to sleep.

  She heard a scoff up above her, hard and derisive. “You cannot know that. Life is full of unpleasantness. Of pain. Of... of women dying too young.”

  He sounded so broken. Something stirred in her, an unease as if... as if it wasn’t right that he should sound so, as if he was meant to be something else. “S’not always good,” she agreed. Was the room growing hotter? She thought it was, though a moment before she’d been cold. “But where’s that promised?”

  Another snort, this one hidden under a chuff of what might have been a chuckle, and then a thumb was smoothing against her temple. “Sleep. I will keep trying, but you... rest.”

  He didn’t have to order her twice.

  She awoke slowly, her head pounding. She raised a hand to shield her eyes, the light even from the fire too bright. She dimly recalled waking a few times before, her mind muzzy and the memories blurred. Machrus had been there, tending to her—or at least, it must have been him—but she could not quite remember everything he’d done for her.

  Too much, probably, while she had so little to give him in return. She couldn’t imagine having to nurse him, for he would never have put himself in such a position.

  Shame seeped through her, sharp and aching, and she forced her hand to drop so she could look for him. She should have felt his presence immediately, sleeping so close to her on the bed as he was. Even in slumber he looked troubled, and no longer impeded by the host of blankets, she allowed her hand to settle on his cheek. There was a tremble to the movement, as if her limbs had suddenly grown weaker overnight, but still she managed it, smoothing her thumb against the hard line of his cheekbone, up to the raised texture of the markings at his temple.

  His eyes opened when first she touched them, alert and anxious, and guilt mingled with the shame. She had wanted to comfort him as he slept, not wake him.

  “Sorry,” she murmured softly, her voice raspy with disuse. She frowned at the sound, unusual after only a night spent asleep.

  He sat up hurriedly, leaning over her as he searched her eyes for... something. “What are you doing?” she queried, unnerved by the intensity of his scrutiny.

  “What is your name?” he asked, ignoring her question entirely.

  She looked at him in confusion. “Renna...” She shifted, a flare of pain in her back warning her not to do it again. “Machrus, what’s wrong?” He sighed deeply, evidently relieved, but she could not be so—not when he was acting strangely. “Machrus?”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face, and he looked so tired, her earlier guilt returning for having woken him. “You have not been yourself,” he answered at last. “You... you did not seem to remember me.” The way he said it, his hurt so apparent, gave her pause.

  There was no explaining away that, clearly, that bothered him.

  She would not make an assumption regarding the cause, but still, knowing it made a warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the fire beside them.

  She looked around the room, cups and bowls spread haphazardly on both floor and counter, as if he put them down wherever was nearest, and she frowned at the quantity.

  “How long?” She swallowed. Her mouth felt thick, unpleasantly so. The mess was more than would have accumulated in a day—though in truth, it was more than she would have expected him to make ever, regardless of the circumstances. He was of a tidy sort, always liked things neat and clean, so the disarray was incredibly strange.

  “This is the third day,” Machrus told her, still watching her carefully. He reached out and laid a hand upon her forehead, relaxing slightly at what he found. To her his large palm was warm as it ever was, though it felt strange for him to touch her so willingly, even out of medical concern.

  So long? He looked haunted by that, as if the time had been harrowing for him. Was it purely concern for her wellbeing, or because it would reflect poorly on him if she died while in his care? She did not know and didn’t know how to ask without offending him, so instead she dismissed it entirely.

  “Can... can you help me to the...” she pointed, already blushing at having to ask. She would have tried to make it alone except she doubted he would take well to watching her fall over. She felt incredibly weak—understandable given how long she must have lain here. Had she eaten anything? She could not recall. The bowls suggested that someone had, but her stomach ached with emptiness, so perhaps those were Machrus’s meals.

  “Of course.” Machrus rose quickly, and helped her to sit up, and she noted he was in his usual sleeping attire, mussed as it was. She glanced down to take in her own state, blanching when she realised she wore nothing save for linen bandages about her breasts, and the rest of her would be entirely visible once she left her pile of blankets.

  “Ah,” Machrus noted, evidently understanding her sudden dilemma. “There seemed little purpose in dressing you. Your bandages had to be changed with relative frequency, and the rest was rarely in view.”

  Rarely was not the same as never.

  But she bit back her retort even as shame niggled at her. She was not an overly modest person, her circumstances surrounding upbringing had only allowed for so much, but it was the sharp knowledge that he wouldn’t want to see her nakedness that made her itch to be covered.

  He took one of the blankets, lighter and smaller than the others, and tucked it about her as best he could. He did not go over her shoulders, for which she was grateful, as that would have laid too much pressure on delicately healing wounds. So in
stead he knotted it in the front, and though her arms would have to support most of the weight, at least she wouldn’t be walking with her nethers fully exposed.

  She had expected him to perhaps lend his arm while she hobbled to the lavatory, testing out weakened legs so they would grow used to supporting her once more. But instead he simply scooped her up and carried her to it, her arms not even having the good sense to hold onto him turn. Instead, they hung loosely, her heart the only thing that reacted to his sudden movement—and perhaps also, his sudden closeness.

  He carried her inside, helping her to stand, her cheeks flushed for him to be so near. Her hands grasped the basin of the sink, and he eyed her worriedly. “Do you require me to stay?”

  “No,” she declared emphatically. She wasn’t as weak as all that, and she simply refused to think about what he’d already seen while caring for her these last days. “But... thank you. I can manage.”

  He eyed her dubiously for a moment longer before he gave a tentative nod. “You will call when you are finished.” It was not a question.

  But his command did not irk her, whether because she knew that she still required his help or because she liked his attentiveness, she could not be certain.

  Everything was harder to do than she would have liked, but she managed. Her teeth were cleaned thoroughly, her body was wiped down with a wet cloth—she blushed as she imagined Machrus having done that while she slept. But he wouldn’t have, would he? The longer she was upright, the more pronounced the pain her back and shoulders became, and it was that more than unsteadiness that caused her to finally call for her husband, the blanket wrapped tightly about her.

  He seemed to have used the time for a similar purpose. His appearance was less dishevelled, water droplets clinging to his hair indicating he had washed.

  He made to pick her up again, but she shuffled a step backward. “I’d like to try to walk, I think.” Even if it was just a few steps, she did not want to impose on Machrus much longer. She was not an invalid.

  He eyed her warily, but took hold of her waist, supporting her as she took careful steps back to their makeshift bed on the floor. She was grateful he had made it for her, but now that she was more coherent, she was sorry that he’d had to, not simply because it meant she was ill. From her first day she’d known his aversion to her being on the floor, yet he’d made it as comfortable for her as possible, even going so far as to sleep beside her, whether intentionally done or not.

  She probably should try to sit at the table, or perhaps even offer to clean up a bit, but everything felt shaky and weak so despite her desire to be helpful, she instead made her way back into bed, adjusting the blankets just so while Machrus watched her. “I’ll be up soon,” she assured him, slightly embarrassed if he should think her lazy.

  “You have been ill,” he reminded her, scowling slightly. “It would be foolhardy for you to do anything but rest after a fever such as yours.”

  Fever? She frowned, remembering Maisie’s, sudden sympathy filling her. That had been terrifying, the feeling of utter helplessness a powerful weight as the one she loved slowly perished. It was good he didn’t love her, then. For then the last few days would truly have been harrowing.

  Except something in his manner, in the way he looked at her, suggested that he had suffered also. She wished she could remember more, but everything was a darkened haze—an awareness that time had passed, that something had been wrong, but little more than that.

  “Are you certain you are well?” She couldn’t have given him something, could she? She had no idea how illnesses truly worked, especially not between species. Or had hers been an affect of the cold and not actual disease? “You look exhausted.”

  His expression was grim. “I should prepare a meal for you. You have not eaten much these last days.”

  His avoidance troubled her, but even when she called to him, he ignored her, focusing solely on preparing food for them while she could only sink back against the mattress unthinkingly, barely stifling her gasp when she allowed her weight to settle against her back. She sat up again, frustrated with herself and worried about him. To his credit, he did not delay the process so he could avoid her longer, another bowl appearing in short order, this one filled with soup. He held a spoon in his hands, his eyes assessing. “I can manage,” she told him, hoping she was being truthful.

  He appeared dubious and sank down beside her, offering her the bowl, a thin cloth wrapped around it, presumably so she could not burn her hands as she held it. His thoughtfulness warmed her, and she accepted his offering with a hint of a smile, her thanks genuine. Her hand shook a little, and though she thought ruefully of how much she would likely spill, she set the bowl on her lap. She would simply try to be as neat as possible, and she accepted her spoon gratefully.

  She truly was hungry.

  Machrus watched her for a moment, and she forced herself to eat slowly lest she burn her mouth and perhaps cause him to take her bowl away and—to her horror—consider feeding her himself. He likely had done so while she was sick, but the thought of it now...

  She smiled at him, holding up her almost-steady spoon. “See? I’m doing fine.”

  Machrus looked doubtful, his mouth a tight line. “Quite remarkable.”

  She was not offended by his comment, because she was beginning to notice the traces of concern lingering in his eyes. He was worried for her, and while that might not soften his words, that didn’t mean he did not worry about her.

  After her third bite he seemed truly satisfied that she was not about to fall over and scald herself with the hot soup, and he rose to fetch a bowl for himself. She expected him to return to the table, to sit like he always did when he ate a meal. But instead he returned, settling next to her carefully so as not to jostle her too much.

  “You didn’t answer me, before,” she reminded him, schooling her tone so as not to sound overanxious. “Distracting me with food won’t make me forget.” He glared at her, though it lacked its usual heat. She stared back at him steadily. “Are you certain you’re well?”

  “Perfectly,” he retorted bitingly.

  “Really?” she took a calm sip of her soup. It was quite good. She wondered if he would teach her how to prepare it when she was better. “You just don’t seem quite yourself.” He had said something similar about her when first she’d awoken, or at least that she hadn’t been... if she hadn’t been her, then who was she?

  This time the heat met the glare, sparkling and intense. Yet still he did not move, did not abandon her, though she was waiting for him to do it—or at the very least, to get up and pace about the room, his irritation forcing his limbs into action.

  “Do you think me made of stone? That I could sit here for days, listen to your rantings, to your cries, and remain wholly unaffected? That is what you think of me? That I am... I am heartless?”

  Did she think that? In the beginning she certainly did. He was... cold, and distant, anger his only emotion when his frustration overwhelmed his solemn composure. But seeing him with his family, with the brothers he so clearly loved, with sisters he had come to accept as his own...

  No, she did not think him heartless.

  “I used to,” she answered truthfully, watching as her words struck him. He looked down at his hands, his grip tight around the bowl. “I don’t anymore.” She took in the room again, the disorder, the mess, and tried to make sense of it all. “Have... have these last days been difficult for you?”

  She wished she could remember more of what had happened, know of her own behaviour and what she might have said to him. But straining to recall only made her head hurt, so she stopped in favour of looking at him, of trying to assess his reaction.

  He gave a snort, shaking his head, his voice a low grumble as he continued to stare down at his hands. “Were they difficult,” he repeated, more to himself than to her, the words dripping with disbelief.

  She thought it a fair question, a chance to allow him to speak of his own experience, but ev
idently he found it utterly foolish. She almost rescinded it, changed the subject so that they could find another matter to discuss, but then he was looking at her, his eyes fervent and all thought of talking fell away.

  “I had to sit by and watch you suffer, not knowing in the least how I could help you. I did not know what medicines might prove even more poisonous than the wounds already festering on your back. I did not know if your blood was too frozen and you would die from the cold. I could not even use the bond to comfort you because you would have only felt my own fear!” He sat his bowl down upon the ground, never looking away from her. “And you needed that. Needed it so that you might know me, be reassured by me, but I could not...” He shook his head, obviously distraught at what he appeared to deem as his own failings. “And so you thought yourself alone. You were frightened of everything, convinced that I was only there to do you harm and not...” He faltered, swallowed once, as if the memory alone was enough to affect him.

  “And now you ask if it was difficult.” He sighed, closing his eyes briefly, before his eyes met hers. “It was torture, Renna. Nothing short of it.”

  She knew that pain, the helplessness and fear—that nothing you did would ever be enough. Because you could not will another’s body to function, could not beg it to keep fighting because you could not bear to lose them. Until, finally, death was almost a relief, for their affliction had been so very great—even as you hoped, an irrational, impossible hope, that perhaps they might recover after all.

  She was ready to tell him that she understood, that she was so very sorry for what he’d been forced to endure due to her carelessness, to apologise and hope he would forgive her someday, perhaps when a little time had passed and memories were not so fresh.

  But then he continued, a broken whisper filled with an aged sorrow, her heart constricting just to hear it.

  “I was already forced to watch one wife die. Never do I wish to experience that again.”