The Lightkeep

by Catherine Miller

  No one. She was acutely aware of that fact, but to hear him relate it so, to have abandoned hope of seeing those he loved...

  It was far more of a sacrifice than she would ever have asked of him. Even now it was on the tip of her tongue to urge him to go back, and to do it quickly, but that was foolish.

  When she needed him to complete the rest of her task.

  Not the one she was born to, but the one that was needed all the same.

  “Grim,” she murmured softly, coming to him and resting a hand on his arm. She gripped it lightly, wanting to hug it near to her, but a part of her feared that somehow he regretted that choice even now, that it was made from a sense of duty rather than a choice freely made.

  From the same love she felt for him.

  It made her nervous, made her timid, and perhaps she did not ask all she should.

  But no one had ever accused her of being brave.

  “I have to go back,” she confided, awaiting his reaction with a tight pit in her stomach. “I am not supposed to, but I find that I must.”

  He turned his brow furrowed. “Not because of me,” he insisted, his voice nearer an accusation than anything she had heard before. She smiled at him, a sad offering that she knew he would not truly accept.

  “I would restore you to your family,” she confessed, “But I have known since this morning that I must return. Things are not as they should be, and your people need to be warned.” Grimult’s eyes hardened and she could see what he was thinking, her grip on his arm tightening. “Not about those I was with,” she clarified. “The treaty is signed and they will honour it.”

  “They carve our people into stone and use them to decorate their Keep. I hardly think those are the actions of people who are to be trusted.”

  Penryn’s agitation was mounting and she was grateful when Grimult seemed satisfied with the kettle and he poured steaming water into the waiting pot. She did not want a quarrel, and they seemed destined to do just that if she could not pour out the whole of the history.

  It was tempting to renege on the agreement, to sit him down and begin as close to the beginning as she could. But there was so much to cover, so much to explain, and a very great part of her wanted to simply push it all away, to pretend none existed outside the walls of this little cottage.

  Just for a night.

  She could feel his eyes on her, probing and assessing, and she did not like that for a brief moment it felt like any other’s stare, watchful and perhaps even judgemental. It should be different with him, should make her feel cared for and attended to, not urge her to flee, to hide away until the eyes went away.

  “You are angry with me,” he commented, swirling the pot in his hands, encouraging the leaves the burst and release their precious oils, but he looked only at her rather than at the work.

  Penryn groaned, tugging at her hair and running a frustrated hand down the fabric of her dress. “That is not the right word,” she denied, finding it was truthful enough. “I am frustrated. By all that you do not know, even if it is not remotely your fault you do not know it. I want to be free of this gown, I want—”

  She did not know how to address the last want, not without causing more mortification to herself, so she cut off abruptly, turning from him. Maybe she could still cut herself out of her gown while he made their tea, and at least one of those troubles would be resolved with little inconvenience to him.

  She heard the pot of tea against the counter as he set it down, but did not hear his footsteps following after her. But she certainly felt his long fingers curling around her upper arm, ceasing her movement away from him. “What else do you want?” he enquired, and she wished he had not, and she could not quite raise her miserable eyes up to meet his. She took a deep breath and then another, remembering well how he had resisted the request before, and doubted tonight would be any different.

  “I wanted to go to sleep with you next to me, not having to spend the night worrying about what was happening to you or if you had reached home yet.” Her free hand came about her middle, as if trying to protect from some outward pain that was truly only internal. “Wondering if you needed me and I would not be there.”

  It was foolish to hold on to such concerns even now, most especially when it was quite apparent that he had never even attempted the journey back, so her fretting was for nothing. A hand, large and warm, cupped her cheek, urging her eyes upward to look at him. There was little point in resisting, so she complied, gratified to see that the softness had returned to his gaze when he regarded her. Even now she felt a clutch in her belly, in her heart, to be the one to receive such a look. “I shared the same burden,” he confessed, stepping closer and drawing her into his embrace. Was that what tonight was meant to be? Of joining and partings, of quarrels mended with soft eyes and gentle touches? The thought was not quite so intolerable now that she was back where she belonged. “Wondering if they were hurting you, if you needed me, and I had not found a way to you yet.”

  She opened her mouth to inform him that they would never have done so, that they held ample respect for her position, but she belatedly remembered he knew nothing of their language. He could not have heard the rumblings of the common folk, of the awe with which they spoke of her, of the fascination that came with welcoming the lone delegate from a world forbidden to them.

  So instead she pressed closer, the other talk seeming too close to what would come the next day, all tangled up together with traditions and history better left for clear heads and rested minds. “I am quite unharmed,” she promised him, but she allowed her injured wrist to fall away from him, holding it up for him to see, covered though it was by fabric. “They brought a healer, and he took your bandages and replaced them with his own. I did not much care for that.”

  Grimult shifted, wanting to inspect for himself, but when he tried to manipulate the fabric up so he could see, it proved uncooperative, too stiff and finely woven to allow for such a stretch.

  “Turn around,” Grimult instructed, and Penryn did not hesitate to comply, not if it meant she would soon be situated in her shift and warm stockings, the last stitch of crimson stripped away from her.

  He took some moments to inspect the lacings and hooks, trying to make some sense of their construction, and Penryn grew frustrated. “I would remind you that I was willing to cut it off. I do not mind if you would rather be the one to do it.” Mara would be doubtlessly hurt if she ever learned of that, but at least Grimult would merely be snipping the lacing rather than the whole front of the gown as Penryn would have done.

  “And risk nicking your skin? I think not.”

  Then his fingers were there, pulling and tugging, at one point seeming only to manage to make the dress cinch tighter, her breathing hindered, but then they were loosening, and she was forced to catch the front lest it make a very fine puddle on the floor.

  Her relief overwhelmed any feeling of embarrassment, and she turned quickly and kissed him on the cheek before darting toward the wardrobe in search of something suitable. Something plain, and comfortable, and warm for when the fire dimmed...

  Satisfied with her choice of a linen shift in the colour of the thickest cream, she tugged the sleeve off of her bandages and slipped into her new garment. Then haphazardly folded the red gown with a semblance of care and tucked it into the lowest portion of the wardrobe. A knitted shawl, so large that it was nearly a blanket, offered a sense of modesty when she tied it about her shoulders, and finally the too-fine slippers were exchanged for plush stockings, just as she had been hoping for all day long.

  Grimult had his back to her, his attention solely focused on the tea, swirling a spoon rhythmically first one way, then the other. It took her a moment to realise he was attempting to give her privacy in a dwelling not intended for such things, and she called out to him. “I am decent again,” she promised, although it seemed a little strange to have a care for such things when she had been able to coax him into a heated spring for a bath, and there had been
far more skin on display then.

  She still needed to find a comb to tend her hair, but that could wait until after they had shared her tea.

  And maybe, if she was brave enough to broach the subject, hear some of what had filled Grimult’s days since their parting.

  The cottage itself was clearly meant for solitude. There was a single low table, enough for a lone plate and cup, next to a plush chair, high backed and tufted. It would hardly accommodate Grim in any case, and she pushed it closer to the fire, so they could sit beside one another. He seemed to understand her intent without her saying anything and picked up the table with ease, settling it between the two chairs before he placed two steaming mugs on top and settled into his own seat, spreading his wings over the back once more. He still did not appear wholly comfortable, but perhaps the tension would ease out of them with something warm to drink and more time with a cheery blaze. Penryn took hold of her own mug and took a careful sip. He had sweetened it somehow, and while the herbs were unfamiliar on her tongue, she found that she liked the taste very much.

  She saw the error in her arrangement as Grimult stared pensively into the fire rather than look at her, and she did not like the distance between them. It would have been rude to assume she was welcome on his lap without explicit invitation, but already she found that she missed it, regardless of the chair being cramped and unaccommodating.

  So she settled for placing her hand on the tabletop, palm upward, wishing that it would simply heal so she could have full use of it again.

  That he could take her hand in his and just... be.

  But upon seeing the movement, he seemed to believe she was open to his earlier desire to inspect what the healer had done, settling down his mug and shifting so he could look at it fully. She made no sound of her disappointment, having merely wanted the contact with him and not an examination, but if he felt he needed to ensure she had been taken care of, then she would not deny him. His eyes furrowed at the colour of the cloth, and she did not bother to suppress the rolling of her eyes. “Evidently they believe that everything for a Lightkeep should be red.”

  “Ah,” Grimult answered in understanding, glancing at her briefly. “You do not seem to enjoy their insistence.”

  Penryn’s lips thinned. “I only had to wear it for special occasions before,” she explained, finding this part was not so difficult to share as there was no accompanying panic that she would reveal too much, that she was uncovering secrets that were never meant to be shared. “I was hardly seen otherwise, so it did not matter the colour. So I grew up knowing that red meant I was going to be looked at, stared at, and I had to be so careful of how I acted.” She grimaced, remembering how she had tripped during her introduction to the Guardian initiates. “Which of course only made me all the more graceless, so worried was I of humiliating myself and the sages who trained me.”

  His fingers skimmed down the tips of hers, and she shivered, wondering how such a small gesture could produce so much sensation. “I saw you today,” Grimult admitted, although she had known it well already. “They would have had no complaints.” He managed not to grimace when speaking of the sages, and for just that moment, she was grateful.

  She did not know how to admit that despite her frequent hatred of them, for the methods they used and the traditions they held so staunchly dear, there was a part of her that still felt like a child looking for their approval, wanting their favour rather than their disappointment.

  And she did not know that she would ever be truly free of that feeling, no matter how much she wished it.

  “I could not understand the words. Could hardly believe they were coming from your mouth at all,” this he said with a rather pointed glance, as if he was hurt that she had never mentioned her proficiency at another form of speech. How could she, when she doubted that it occurred to most of his kind that other languages existed throughout the world, unique to their peoples. “But your manner was so altered.” He shook his head, releasing a little sigh. “For a moment, I did not know you.”

  For a moment she could not think of what to say, and she rotated her hand so she could press as much of her palm against his as the bandages would allow. “That is because it is Penryn that you know. It is Penryn that is your friend and who... loves you very dearly.” She could not quite believe that the words had escaped, but she could hardly deny it now, even as her heart began to pound, so rather than redact, she finished the thought as best she could. “These people did not need her. They needed their Lightkeep, the delegate who would hold them to their vows and those of their ancestors.”

  Grimult’s eyes were burning into her, and she dared a single glance, uncertain she wanted to see what he thought. Had he even heard the last of her words, or was he too consumed with her errant confession?

  His fingers closed about her palm, gentle and mindful of her injury, although it did not hurt now, not unless she tried to match the action. How much she wanted to do precisely that.

  “It is fortunate,” Grimult said at last, when it became obvious that she was not going to try to fill the silence herself, not when she could not trust what would come spilling from her lips without her consent. “That my affection for you is not one-sided.”

  She did not expect such a response, or such a turn in their conversation, and she began to doubt that she had heard him correctly at all. “Your affection?” she repeated dumbly, trying to make sense of it, trying to decide if he meant it and that maybe it was true that he was here with her, that it was his hand encasing hers, but maybe this part was a figment of her most fervent hopes rather than...

  A weary sigh, and he was picking up her hand, drawing her back to him if she wished to retrieve her stolen appendage. She put her mug down on the table as she rose, the reach awkward and her mind uncomprehending even as she stared at him for clarity.

  For him to say it again.

  He did not have to reach far, not when his height was so much greater than hers that even his seated position meant that she hardly towered at all. The hand free to do so cupped her cheek, smoothing across the delicate bone there, his expression soft. “It is fortunate,” he tried again. “That Penryn does not hold so tightly to convention, for I love her most dearly in return.”

  It was an odd thing having to be the one to lean down for a kiss, but she found that she did not mind. She could not even say who had reached for the other, only that suddenly they were kissing, softly, sweetly, but with all the longing and hints of the desperation they had both felt on the behalf of their beloved. His hair was soft between her fingers as she clung to him, and she did not miss the ripple through him when her fingers skimmed near the nape of his neck, and she smiled at his groan, breaking their connection but not moving away from him. She liked it when he played with her hair, and evidently he felt quite the same. “Our tea is getting cold,” she commented, not minding in the least, not if it meant she got to remain just as she was.

  Grimult had his eyes closed, and rather than allow her escape back to her own seat, his arms were suddenly about her middle, clutching her to him, his head buried in the folds of her shift. The embrace was almost desperate and she grew concerned, her fingers skimming through his hair, stroking and soothing, as she murmured to know what was wrong.

  “Grim,” she urged, the silence only making her all the more concerned, until finally her fingers abandoned their post and found their way to his chin, pressing lightly until he acquiesced and raised his head to look at her.

  She had never expected that her Grim might cry too. Not because of her. The shuddering she had felt through his body were his silent, heaving sobs, and she did not know what had brought on such a reaction, and she feared for him. “What is it?” she asked, uncertain she would always like to speak of what troubled her when she was upset, but wanted him to know she would listen if he chose to share it with her. “How can I help you?”

  His fingers were still tightly about her, and she worried at her lip, considering her options. “Sit back,�
�� she instructed, and he readily did so, and she returned to her position on his lap, reaching out and snagging his mug of tea and holding it to his lips for him.

  He drank, suddenly appearing rather embarrassed for his outburst, but Penryn would not allow that shame. Not here. Not when she had lost all control of her own reactions since he had stepped through that doorway.

  Wounds were too near, too raw, to be expected to have full mastery of oneself.

  “Tell me,” she murmured, holding him close with her arm about his shoulder, her head nestled against his. She was mindful of his wings, and she felt him shift briefly, only to find that he was pressing her own mug to her good hand, and she smiled, leaning ever so slightly forward to place a kiss to his temple.

  She had witnessed few kisses in her time, the first between a kitchen-maid and an undercook when she had snuck down to the kitchens in her early years. She could not have imagined what would spur such an exchange, although their timid smiles at one another had suggested it was a pleasant experience. She had not dared ask one of the sages about it, for she would have to confess her trespass and likely be required to tell of who she had witnessed. Later, when she was older and thought back on the memory, there was an odd sense of longing that she could not begin to explain, perhaps not for the act itself, but to have someone she should want to kiss.

  Who wanted to kiss her back.

  She could not have imagined the rightness of it, the warmth that could follow. To love, and to be loved completely in return.

  She brought the mug to her lips and took a draw, still pleasant even if it was not quite as hot as it had been.

  “I doubted,” Grimult commented at last. “That I would find you.”

  It was a confession he did not seem very keen to share, and she would treat him gently, despite her first impulse to scoff at such a concern. With all his training? It hardly seemed like it would pose a very great challenge.

  Another kiss seemed in order, and she placed two more simply because she could. It brought a small smile to his lips in any case, so they seemed just the thing.