With that, he returned to his work, trying to smooth over his disgruntled feelings. He was certain that had not been her intent, that she spoke from a genuine concern for Mincel’s wellbeing, but the evidence of her continued wariness gave him pause. He had thought she had been acclimating fairly well, her movements a bit more free, some of her actions instigated of their own accord rather than by his direction or permission, but apparently she still harboured doubts.
Time amongst them would prove helpful, when she could spend the day watching their interactions and see for herself that the females were treated well and with respect—they would permit nothing less.
But while he had thus far defended his people, did not want her to think they were as hers had been, they possessed their own faults—which that same time would most certainly also show her.
He had mentioned the potential for shunning, but he did not think she truly understood the lasting damage that such could bring. And even now, he was uncertain that now was the time to enlighten her—not when she was still so new to his world, and he would save her from that reality as long as possible.
Prim was quiet for a long while, apparently considering his words, and when next she spoke, it was with a note of apology. “I don’t mean to insult any of your people. Really. I just...”
And to his absolute horror, suddenly her eyes began to leak, her breath heaved and choked, and he could do naught but stare at her. How was he to improve her airways? He had an herb that would stimulate the lungs, but he was afraid of using it upon her—not until he was better familiar with her physiology.
Her legs, however, seemed to function properly, for she rose, disappearing from his dwelling as she ran from him, and concern warred with his confusion, but his need to heal, to care for, overrode any trepidation.
Her speed surprised him, as he did not see her on the path, and he grew anxious that perhaps she had run in the opposite direction. He halted, listening, his eyes skimming the forest for any sign of movement. There were a few birds, flitting amongst the upper branches as they cheerily announced his failure as a mate, and with a growl he strode in the direction of the stream, hoping she had not been so foolish as to have gone elsewhere.
To his relief, he found her seated by the waters, her face and the strands of her hair nearest it damp and in places still dripping. She rubbed at it absently with her sleeve, and he watched her carefully for any further sign of distress. But she seemed calmer, her breath perhaps possessing a small shudder, but she did not appear close to suffocating from it.
“Are you well?” he asked, stopping a short distance away. He watched carefully for any further signs that her eyes held an excess of liquid, but there were none. Her face appeared perhaps more red, and he noted the necessity for more burn salve. The suns were high, the rays reaching through the trees and wrapping her in their warmth, and evidently she singed more rapidly than he had previously realised.
It was little wonder that her flesh had been in such disrepair, if she truly was as delicate as she appeared.
Prim was not looking at him, preferring to brush at her face and hair. “I’m fine. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
Rykkon was not certain of what he had seen, but she, as always, did not seem to wish to discuss the matter. He sighed. “Do you require aid?” He was not certain of what sort he offered. Potions and medicine were his comfort, had been for many cycles when they were his only company. But he was a husband now, and it seemed there were other duties he must fulfil as well. “I doubt you will wish to speak of it, but do you know the cause of your reaction?” While it was rare, some mothers brought their young to him, troubled and frightened when their breathing became short and raspy, and it was determined that some foods must be avoided for their safety. But he had never seen such an ailment in one so old, the affliction typically passing fairly quickly. But he had been exposing Prim to all sorts of new and untried items, and perhaps her system was akin to one of their young, teeth fresh in their mouths.
Prim flushed, brushing away his concern as he had known she would. “I just do everything wrong, that’s all. I’ll be better.”
Rykkon frowned. “That is an untruth.”
Prim glanced at him, and he was glad he had stopped a few paces from her, lest her neck be forced to bend at an uncomfortable angle so she could do just that. “Is it? I can’t help you with much beyond picking food out of containers, and even that you would do better yourself since you actually know what they are. I can’t help you with your work, not when your patients look at me like I’ll infect them with something colonist just by being near me.” Rykkon opened his mouth, ready to inform her that Mincel’s reaction was not unexpected, but shut it just as quickly as continued. “And I can’t even be a proper wife!”
Truly baffled now, Rykkon pursed his lips. “Explain.”
She looked up at him, her expression exasperated. “I may be new to relationships, but I’m not a complete idiot. Every woman in the colony knows that a man isn’t happy if he’s not getting to...” words seemed to fail her, for she struggled to find one to suit her purpose, her cheeks reddening even further. An impressive feat, that. “Getting to relate,” she said at last. Rykkon’s frown grew. “And how long do you think you’ll put up with that? Having a woman underfoot, eating your food and being generally useless?”
His words meant nothing to her, that was becoming obvious. He had offered her assurances that he thought her an adequate mate, that he was gladdened simply by her company. She was not burdensome, despite what falsehoods she was currently speaking, and he found her presence in his dwelling a generally pleasant one. But he also did not know what actions would prove her wrong, not when he was not yet prepared to relate as she so put it. He knew quite well she needed further healing first, but he was beginning to realise that perhaps not doing so was causing her some previously unconsidered emotional distress.
A strange thought.
“I cannot say that I am pleased with how you view me.”
Prim flinched, then sighed, then looked down at her hands.
“I am not one of your males. I am not going to cast you out for not yet being ready to receive me... to desire me. That is as much my error in not courting you properly so that you would do so. I had thought it... prudent to give you time to heal. And I do not find you useless. You are simply new and have much to learn of a life you are wholly unaccustomed to.”
Prim fiddled with her hands. “Why are you so understanding? When all I seem to do is think the wrong things about... everything?”
Rykkon moved closer, settling down beside her, his hand settling on her shoulder. Delicate, yet strong, his wife. Strong in courage, strong in will, but perhaps weak in other ways. “Because I have a mate who has been hurt, and I am a healer. Because I listen and try to understand what little you say to me. Someday you will trust me, will accept that this is your home now and you will be the only wife I shall ever know—and that I would ask for no other, even if I could.” He allowed his hand to drop, settling it near hers upon the bank, words failing him. He did not know what else to say, but knew from her actions that he was failing her as a mate.
And was startled when he felt a hand settling atop his own.
He stared down at it, not daring to move too quickly lest she move it away again—lest she apologise for touching her own husband. Prim was not looking at him, instead looking over at the stream, at the glistening waters that gurgled pleasantly as they passed. “I should like to learn things. To understand what it is you do so maybe that... someday I could learn to heal myself, too.”
It was an odd request, at least to him. Perhaps other mates shared in their trade, but he had not heard of such things—his mother had no great interest in learning of salves and calms, more frequently complaining that the pots she needed for cooking were being put to use for something entirely different.
But he could deny her nothing. Not when she asked so little of him.
“Very well,” he affirme
d, trying to decide if she would like the lesson to begin now. But he had learned through experience, through chopping and brewing and foraging alongside his father, and all of such would require movement.
Something he was loath to do when her hand was still resting upon his, the longest touch she had ever given him. Flesh against flesh was a pleasant thing, he decided. He had known it when he had first joined with her, memory turning his muscles tense as he recalled the feel of her, so warm and soft against him.
But this was of a different sort. For her to touch him of her own accord—it was a beautiful thing.
And something he wanted to treasure and encourage in the future.
“And... should I be learning your language? Would that help for when people come? I know... I know you said they wouldn’t accept me, and that’s fine, but I don’t want them to reject you because of me.”
He turned his hand so he could grip hers gently, hoping she would believe his words. “They already view me with mistrust, and that is nothing of your doing. If you should like to learn I can... attempt to teach you, but it is a difficult thing and I would not have you discouraged. I do not mind using your tongue.”
Yet he would prefer his own.
But there was also a part of him that wanted to keep her ignorant of the things his people would inevitably say. They would likely only be hurtful, and while she could tell from their expressions that she was an outsider—unwelcome—if she wished to learn, he would aid her.
Her head tilted slightly and her brow furrowed. “Has one of my kind tried to learn before?”
Rykkon stilled, considering his words carefully. “Yes,” he admitted at last. He would not lie to her. “Without much success.”
He felt her eyes upon him, watchful and considering, but she did not ask further. He almost wished she would, so he could prove that she was allowed to ask him things, to know him, even when the subjects were painful and he did not seem able to speak of them of his own volition.
But she did not.
And a part of him was grateful for that too, if it meant he would not have to speak of it at all.
“I would still like to try, I think.”
“Very well,” he said again, hoping she would see that her requests would be accommodated whenever possible. He should begin with a lesson, point to the landscape about them and identify them in his words, helping her through the precise sounds until they at least possessed a resemblance to his own.
But instead he found himself simply looking at her, something in him tightening and prompting, the hand not currently surrounding hers coming to stroke her cheek, already losing some of its redness. Perhaps not from exposure to the suns, then.
“Do you think you could be happy here, with me? Not merely grateful to be away from the rest of your people and their idiocy but... happy for its own sake?”
Happy with him. Because she could learn to care for him, to want him, to find his home a pleasing place to share.
It should not matter. She had asked if his kind knew of marriages built upon convenience, and he had supplied the example of Mincel and Kondarr. But even they seemed to have kindled some affection, and... he wanted it.
Needed it.
With her.
And for one devastating moment he feared she would simply say, ‘Does it matter?’, so dismissive of that which mattered to him. But instead she turned, perhaps a little startled, perhaps a little frightened, silent for a long while before finally offering her a tenuous smile.
Thin, and too small.
But real.
“Yes. Yes, I think I can.”
8. Payment
“You are getting closer, but not quite.”
Prim groaned in frustration, choosing that moment to sit upon the forest floor in a huff, nearly squashing a pair of perfectly acceptable musseroms in the process. He reached out for her, keeping her from doing so, easing her down just beside them to continue her petulance without damaging something useful. She glared at them, at him, and he came quite closer to reminding her that she was only learning his language by her own suggestion.
But she was beginning to glare when he did that also, so he remained silent.
“Could you make it out at least?”
“Yes,” he affirmed, mostly to appease her, but partially because it was true. He did not mean for her to grow discouraged, but there was much that was pressing on his mind. “But I am not as particular as others will be.” He would gladly work out her efforts, but others would dismiss her, grow critical, and if she grew so despondent from his gentle corrections, he hated to see what would come of their less than kind lessons in syntax.
“Did you have difficulty learning mine?” He should say yes, should give her that comfort. But he had benefits that she did not, though he was loath to speak of them.
“It was different,” he hedged, placing the musseroms in one of the pouches hanging from his belt. “And you are learning well. You will understand before you can speak it.”
“It would help if I heard it more then,” she murmured, and he wondered if it was not for his ears, as she said it to the ground and at such a low volume. She frowned, plucking at the grasses which determinedly grew between the forest’s underbrush. “What do the musseroms do?” she asked suddenly, and he dismissed her earlier comment.
He had been hasty, he realised, forgetting that he was to be teaching her as well. This trek was proving much slower than his usual jaunts in the forest, and he would not cover nearly as much ground, but he was not displeased. Not in the least. She had asked to accompany him, and he had gladly accepted, knowing he would simply worry for her if he left her behind.
He retrieved one from its pouch, handing it to her. “Note the mottled texture, the grey intermingling with the brown. Too much brown and they are a poisonous variety. Too much grey and they are too young and horribly bitter.” His head cocked as he looked down at her. “Or do your people enjoy bitterness?”
Prim scrunched up her nose as she peered back at him. “In temperament or in their food? Because I would say neither.”
They were alike then. “Then you should select varieties that look like this one. A mild flavour and hearty.”
“For...” she prompted, and he took back the musserom and returned it to his belt.
“For our stew come first nightfall. Not everything is medicinal.”
“No,” she agreed, “But I think it’s likely that if there’s a poisonous variety, I’ll end up finding that kind and you’ll need to heal us both.”
“I promise to do so,” he vowed, meaning it. Her presence here, learning his craft and the different uses, was more pleasant than he could have imagined. And if it meant easing them through the occasional poisoning, it seemed a worthy exchange. Though he would be watching whatever she put in their food for quite some time, just to be certain such things would never be necessary.
She climbed back to her feet and brushed off her trous. She was still wearing her own as his spares dwarfed her frame, and he became all too aware of how additional clothing for her was becoming a pressing necessity. This pair already had holes in the knees, and the dirt seemed stained into the very fabric. Come the colder seasons, he could fashion her a pair out of hides, cut specifically for her size, but she needed cloth while it was still so warm when the suns were out.
Which meant venturing into the village for trade. A dubious process to be certain, but apparently a needed one.
They would not go much farther, then, in their forages. He had hoped to retrieve more manta, but that could wait.
The needs of his mate were paramount.
He almost changed their path and went there directly, but he paused, remembering that he had another to consider now. “Would a trip into the village be acceptable?”
Prim appeared rather startled. “I thought we were gathering things today.”
Rykkon reached down and placed four fingers in the hole at her knee, looking up at her pointedly. Her cheeks darkened, and he withdre
w them. “Forgive me, it was not my intention to bring you shame. But you are my wife and you have been here too long without me securing clothing of your own.”
Prim glanced away before nodding her head. “If I say that it’s not necessary, you won’t accept that, will you?”
Rykkon reached for her chin and gently turned it so he could study her face properly. “Would you be saying that because these came from your people and you value their provision, or because you think that I have given too much without proper payment?”
Prim’s blush deepened, and he was reminded that while the colonists’ flesh did not alter in surroundings as the Arterian’s did, it certainly responded to emotion. “I don’t consider it payment. A wife isn’t a whore.”
“No,” he agreed. “She is not. Which is why when I see you in inadequate clothing, I wish to gift you with new. Which is why when you are hungry, I wish to see that our stores are bountiful so you may always eat your fill. Because you are my wife, and it is my duty and my honour to provide for you.” He skimmed his thumb across her delicate cheekbone, the bruising there greatly diminished after he spread a generous amount of salve there every night before they retired. “So will you allow me that pleasure? And join me in the village so I may secure it?”
She shuddered beneath his hand, and he frowned, withdrawing. But her eyes did not show fear, did not show revulsion at the prospect, and she blinked and nodded. “If you want to go, I don’t mind going. And I... I’d be grateful for the clothes. These were old before I even got them.”
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 10
