Patience. He was new to the ways of mating properly, and Prim was a strange one with her borrowed name and secrets. But she was the only one he would ever have, and he was determined to make their joining a pleasing one for both of them.
“I need the latrine,” she confessed when neither of them had moved for a long moment, and Rykkon rose, noting that she looked carefully away from his nakedness until he had retrieved his tunic and trous. He wondered if he should be insulted or not.
“Would you like an escort?” he asked rather stiffly, still considering his level of offence.
Prim stood as well, though she made no move to find her own leg coverings, instead simply shaking her head and walking perhaps a little tenderly toward the door. “No, thank you. I remember the way.”
It was difficult to watch her leave, and a very great part of him wanted to follow, to take her into his arms and carry her so whatever overused muscles did not have to suffer the walk—however short it seem to him. But there was something in her manner that suggested she desired some time alone, and he would have to respect her wish, even when it proved difficult.
He forewent the manta in favour of a milder selection. He sprinkled a liberal amount of willomn bark into a pot with water, watching the concoction turn a brilliant carmine, proving its potency.
For himself, he steeped some simple teshon leaves until they grew dark and the water heated. Satisfied that he would at least be able to share a drink with her when she returned, he sought something for their meal.
It was odd to think of what another might prefer, and he would have to ask what sorts of foods she was used to back at Mercy. He never ate much come morning, instead choosing to work steadily until hunger made him halt and find sustenance. It was less lonely that way, less a reminder that there were no kindly faces waiting him in his dwelling, none to share in the fruits of his forage.
He had found an outcropping of berleets the day before, still plump in their clusters of vibrantly hued skins. There were some benefits to being a healer, tramping through the forest with such frequency. His stores were commonly bountiful, if perhaps somewhat lacking in meat since he had to satisfy himself with smaller game since none of the hunters choose to accept him in their parties.
But he did not starve, and nor would Prim, and that was enough for him.
Along with the berleets, he fashioned little cakes and set them to bake upon the hearth, watching them closely for signs of burning. He did not want Prim to think him an incompetent at providing her nourishment.
When at last she returned, he saw the dampness in her hair that indicated she had at least partially bathed. She had not asked for a cloth to dry herself, and her shirt clung in very appealing places.
He swallowed thickly and turned away, going to their respective brews and pouring generous amounts into cups for them to imbibe.
“You cooked?” she said with some measure of surprise.
He hesitated before handing her the willomn, suddenly concerned that he had done something wrong—at least in her eyes.
“Are you not hungry?”
He held out her cup to her and watched her accept it before shuffling over to his workbench, sitting down carefully before watching the cakes by the hearth. “I would have done it,” she informed him, taking a sip of the willomn, evidently finding the taste more palatable than the manta for her nose did not crinkle. “I don’t want you to think I’m lazy. I’m not. I’ll help you around here in whatever you need.”
Rykkon stared down into the contents of his cup, a few errant leaves of the teshon having escaped the sieve. There was something in her tone that troubled him—a resignation mixed with almost a desperation that indicated that her offer did not come from a genuine desire to be helpful, and more a fear that he would tire of doting on her. “What do you think I shall do to you?” he asked quietly, not certain he wanted an answer.
She was not forthcoming with one, instead giving one of her shrugs and taking another sip of her drink. “Whatever you want. Isn’t that how this works?”
He grunted at that. He had tried to explain matings to her, at least the sort that his people practised, but evidently she required more time to truly appreciate the full extent of his commitment to her care and wellbeing. “I made our meals because you will require the nourishment and have yet to come to know my stores. If you would like to prepare them in the future, you are of course permitted to do so, but I do not...” he looked at her then, wishing she could believe him. “I am... most pleased by your company. But I did not bring you here to work, and I am certainly not going to punish you for not doing so when you are unwell.”
Especially when she was likely unwell because of his own doing the previous night. Guilt tugged at his belly, forming a hard and uncomfortable knot that refused to be soothed by the teshon.
She did not hate him. She had seemed honest when she spoke those words, and he would allow that thought to comfort him.
“You’re different than I expected,” she mused from the bench, and he knew he should not enquire further—not when likely it would end in an insult due to her perception of his people. But he wished she would speak more freely with him, and if a thought was offered, it seemed a waste not to pursue it.
“Do you find the difference satisfactory?”
Prim smiled then, a thin thing, but genuine. “I did not expect such kindness.”
Meaning she had fully expected to tie herself to a brute who would beat her as bloody as her kin.
He turned away and went to the cakes, checking to see if they had baked sufficiently. A bit of ash clung to the bottom of one, though he did not like to think on what sort of marriage she believed she had entered, he knew he would be giving her the clean and untainted of the two.
“I wish I could say that you will meet nothing but kindness here, but I am afraid that would prove a falsehood.”
Prim sighed, her finger running over the edge of her cup as it had done the night before. “Your people seemed very angry. Were they... was that man right? The one I spoke to at the camp? Do you really not... marry my kind?”
Rykkon grew still. Careful. “Have you ever witnessed such a thing? Do we raid Mercy and steal away your females?”
Prim flushed before she glanced at him, her eyes firm and steady. “I almost wish you would.”
Rykkon had no reply to that, so he took the cakes away from the flames. They were thin, and likely chewy, but they would fill them both.
He handed her the plate with the cake and the berleets, and she thanked him, turning around on his workbench so the plate sat upon the surface. He did not know if it bothered him that she would do so—he did not eat there himself. That portion of his dwelling was reserved for his craft, for the careful mixing and brewing that could inevitably save a life. He usually sat before the fire or took his meals into the forest, lest the quiet serve as too deep a reminder that there was none for company.
Except now there was.
And she sat upon his workbench and ate at the table there.
And it was with some measure of surprise that he found himself joining her.
She made no objections, not that he expected that she would do so even if his presence proved a bother to her, but she slid over a little to make room for his much larger frame.
She began with the cake, he noted, and though her face betrayed no great pleasure in it, there also showed no disgust.
She swallowed, pushing at the berleets with her finger, though not yet tasting one. He doubted she had seen one before as they did not grow within the confines of the Wastes, and he deliberately picked up one of his own and placed it whole into his mouth to show her there was nothing difficult about it.
Prim mimicked him, this time her eyes widening as the flavour must have reached her tongue.
“Enjoyable?”
She nodded, taking another one.
He wondered at how satisfying it felt to have pleased her in such a small way. And yet it was.
“Why
do you call it Mercy?” she suddenly asked between bites of berleet. She did continue to nibble at the cake, but with much less enthusiasm. He could not blame her, not when such was his preference as well.
“How did you come to live there?” He wondered what their young were taught. He knew the history well between their peoples, but that did not mean that the colonists maintained the truth after so many cycles had passed.
She looked up at him in some confusion. “I was born there.”
A smile formed on his lips, unbidden, before he carefully smoothed his features. She made an odd expression when he did so, and he determined it would be best not to smile in her presence again. Not if it unnerved her. “Your people, then.”
“Oh.” She sat a moment, considering. She suddenly appeared rather sheepish. “Most of the ship is a few leagues away from the oasis. So didn’t they just... start walking?” Start walking. As if his people were not involved at all—as if the colonists had been so capable when their dwelling was filled with flames, leaking poison into the very air. He knew the stories well, even if she did not, and the humans’ survival most certainly did not begin with walking. She must have noted his expression, for she quickly clarified further. “I never paid much attention when Desmond spoke of their arrival.”
Rykkon inclined his head. “It did not interest you? To know of the relations between our people?”
Prim looked away. “It wasn’t that,” she said at last. “It just seemed... rather far away. And when you’re preoccupied with survival and with just making it to the next day, it suddenly isn’t as important how we got to the camp.”
Rykkon took a bite of his cake,—chewy, as he had feared—considering. “Our warriors found the colonist survivors.”
Prim’s eyes widened in surprise. “And they didn’t just kill them?”
He would have been offended, had that not been precisely their intention. “No. A truce was formed, out in the Wastes, when it was determined that your people could be so easily contained.”
She grimaced at that, rubbing at her chapped flesh, soothed by his balms the night before, but evidently troubling her this morning. “I will give you more salve.”
Her fingers halted their motion and she nodded. “Thank you.” She was quiet for a while, apparently weighing the truth of his words, but when she turned and looked at him, the gratitude he had half-expected was absent, leaving behind only the deadened expression he was coming to equate with her. “And you thought that mercy? To leave us out there?”
Every time he had made the trek through the Wastes, had he not wondered similarly? The heat was nearly unbearable, only worsened when the winds came and began to blow all manner of dust and sands at such velocities that any bit of exposed flesh would be heartily abused by it. “You would not be alive today if they had not brought you to the camp.”
Her expression darkened a little, and she focused once more on her meal, her shoulders ever so slightly bowed. And though she made no suggestion of it, did not speak the words aloud, he wondered if that was precisely what she wished for.
And the thought troubled him more than he could say.
Yet before he could prompt her further—to garner her assurances that no harm would befall herself by her own hand—a voice from beyond his hut interrupted their meal.
“Rykkon, healer, approach!”
He stiffened. The voice he knew, but he had not expected him to actually appear here. A summons would have sufficed, and would have allowed them both time to dress and prepare.
Prim looked at him quizzically, a berleet poised just before her mouth. “Are they here about...” Her eyes flicked toward the bed, still rumpled from sleep.
“Yes,” he confirmed, sighing deeply as he did so. It would be rudeness itself to keep one of his status waiting upon the doorstep, and he could not refuse him entry—not when his position within the tribe was so tenuous.
He looked to his wife, still seated upon the bench, fingers slightly stained with juice and legs exposed. Dressed was preferable. But there was no time.
Rykkon stood and moved to the door, opening it wide in at least a show of welcome, though he felt little himself.
“Lorrak,” he acknowledged, bowing his head. “I did not expect you so early; I would have joined you in your home had you called for me.” It was difficult to present the signs of respect for an elder to one so young. But Lorrak had proven himself a cunning warrior, and the people had chosen to reward him in kind.
Lorrak responded with a bow of his own head, his face unreadable. “I am certain you would have, but I wished to see you both in a more... natural environment.” His eyes, narrow and pale, assessed him. “Have you an objection?”
Rykkon took a step backward, and gestured him inward. “Of course not.”
Though it would have been prudent to keep his attention solely on Lorrak for the extent of his visit, Rykkon could not help but glance at Prim as their guest entered the dwelling—saw her eyes widen, saw the berleet fall from her fingers as she took in the male’s large stature that diminished even Rykkon’s on considerable frame.
There were reasons Lorrak had been elected to the council of elders. His strength had been one of them.
Prim did not seem to know what to do, and Rykkon crossed over to her, holding out his hand and drawing her upward, lest she continue to remain seated in an elder’s presence. With gentle fingers, he urged her head downward so she made the customary bow.
Lorrak watched it all with careful eyes, his perusal of Prim’s exposed legs and Rykkon’s own sleeping attire a most pointed one, before they shifted to take in the state of the bed. “You have wasted little time, I see.”
Rykkon felt not even a little embarrassment, though he saw Prim’s cheeks flush, evidently understanding Lorrak’s implication even without the benefit of knowing the language he spoke.
“She is my wife,” he confirmed, his hand lingering on her neck. He had not noticed how fragile it looked, his long fingers and large palm seemed to dwarf it in comparison, and he grew all the more aware that here, in this place where physical strength was lauded, he was her sole protector.
And one of their most formidable warriors had already crossed the threshold.
Rykkon forced himself to calm. Lorrak had not yet indicated he meant either of them harm, and Rykkon could not in good conscience act before he knew with certainty that such was his intention. “We were enjoying a morning meal. Would you care to join us?”
Only Lorrak’s eyes shifted as they landed once more on Prim, the rest of him remaining perfectly still. “Why would you do this?” he asked, ignoring Rykkon’s own offer of hospitality. An offence on its own, but today was evidently not the day for certain formalities. “Must your entire bloodline be tainted with colonist blood?”
Rykkon straightened, though he willed his muscles into neutrality. “She is my mate, my wife. Any offspring will be welcomed.”
Lorrak’s head tilted ever so slightly to the side. “Will they?”
Rykkon forced himself from moving forward, from allowing his hands to find purchase around the elder’s neck. It would only cause the male to retaliate, both upon himself and on Prim. And he could not allow that.
“We are mates,” he repeated. “We stated our intent publicly yesterday, and last night I brought her under my full protection. There should be no need for this conversation.” Rykkon looked pointedly as Lorrak’s blade, ever strapped to his thigh. “Or were you sent with a different purpose?”
Anger flashed in the elder’s eyes. “Do not insult our ways, healer, lest you receive punishment.” Lorrak looked once more at Prim, his gaze giving a final assessment of her person. “I was sent to ascertain the extent of your bond, and am satisfied that you are true to your word. She is your wife, and all must live with the consequences.”
Rykkon wanted to argue. Wanted to remind Lorrak and all of the elders and villagers that his life was almost entirely separate from their own—that Prim’s presence here would affect th
em little. But such would be pointless when they were determined to treat her with suspicion and, likely, ridicule.
Lorrak made to leave, forced to bow his head lest he hit it on the too-low door frame. Rykkon followed, watchful, not certain that the exchange was truly over. He was gratified if it was—if the elders had enough sense to realise that a mating was a private commitment and not inclusive of comment or objection—but wariness lingered.
That perhaps Lorrak left only for a swarm of warriors to take his place.
“Do you intend to act against me?” he found himself asking, heedless of the wisdom of it.
Lorrak paused, turning back. “It is you who have acted against us.”
Rykkon stood firm, though he allowed his head to lower in deference, regardless of his desire for defiance. “That was not my intention. An opportunity for a mate presented itself, and I accepted. I meant no disrespect to our people.”
Rykkon could feel Lorrak’s shrewd gaze before he risked a glance upward. “You are fortunate that you have your knowledge, healer, for I am not certain that our people would be so willing to overlook your selfishness without it.”
“I will care for them, as I have always done,” he vowed. “Nothing has changed.”
Lorrak looked over him, and Rykkon did likewise, seeing Prim out of the corner of his eyes, lingering in the shadows of the doorway.
“You are wrong, healer. Everything has changed.”
6. Pleasure
Prim was rather withdrawn when Lorrak departed and Rykkon once more entered their dwelling. She fidgeted a little, her hands worrying at the hem of her tunic, even as she busied herself with locating her trous and donning them, smoothing out the wrinkles with quick passes of her palms. A fruitless gesture, as their night upon the floor following their travels in her pack left them hopelessly crumpled.
And she avoided his eye, which was most troubling.
“Prim?”
She startled, though when she looked at him, he could ascertain no fear, no anxiety. Nothing at all.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 7
