She sniffled before she sighed, burrowing her head further into her arm, her voice slightly muffled. “They’re all back in the colony, just as they ever were. If your people want to, they could have them all wiped out at any time, or enslaved, or just leave them to starve. And I... I get to be here. To have a husband that is kinder than anyone I have ever known.”
Something in him warmed to hear of her assessment, and he found himself nudging away her mane to reveal the curve of her shoulder, and he leaned forward to brush his lips against the skin there. Soft and warm—that was his mate. Everything that was so different yet so lovely.
He was coming to well understand why his father had acted as he did. Why he had accepted ridicule and censure from his entire people if it meant he could keep the female he had come to so admire.
“And you feel guilt for finding me so?”
Prim chuffed out a laugh, raspy and tight from her tears. “No. I feel guilty that even knowing all of that, I wouldn’t change anything. That even now, I would rather be here with you than try to go and warn them.”
Rykkon’s arms tightened about her, pleased to know that she found his presence so appealing. “You hold no obligation to them,” he reminded her, believing it fully. “With every blow they allowed you to suffer, they absolved you of any duty to their care. With every bit of food that they so obviously knew was being stolen away from you, they confirmed that your place was never truly with them. It was always to be here. With me.”
She shuffled around so her body was facing him, and oh so tentatively, her arm came to settle about him, just as her head nestled against his chest. “The kindest person I’ve ever known,” she said again, and, though he could not be certain, he rather thought her lips ever so gently kissed him.
Parts of him warred as he considered what to do next. His earlier resolve that their next joining should not be now seemed but a dim memory, and he wondered at the consequences should he proceed. But she also required sleep, her day having been long and difficult, and he wondered if he could coax her into resting, this time with sweeter dreams to ease the way.
But instead his Prim decided on neither course, choosing to speak instead of her terrors. And though he would have liked to sponge away their memory, to be the distraction she had sought, stopping her would only prove all the more harmful.
“My father was never a very good man, even when Mother was alive. He liked to... be with other women, and she ignored it,” she paused, her tone growing thoughtful. “She must not have liked him much if she didn’t mind it. I... I wouldn’t like it if you did that.”
Rykkon was still, unsure if he should provide his thoughts on the matter, but feeling fairly confident that it was acceptable to assure her that he would never act thusly. “You need never fear that I would dishonour you in such a way.”
Prim smoothed her hand against his arm. “That’s just because you said the other women wouldn’t have you.”
Rykkon allowed his fingers to comb through her hair gently, coaxing her face upward. Perhaps she could not see him adequately, but he felt better knowing that he had made every attempt to show his sincerity. “Not even then, Prim. You are my mate; my wife. There would never have been another.”
She smiled softly, before settling her head back against his chest, and he allowed it, though he continued to enjoy the feel of her hair running between his fingers.
“I’m glad. But... as you know, my father isn’t as good a man as you are.”
Rykkon grunted in acknowledgement. “That is well known.”
“I have siblings, you know,” her voice soft and pensive. Of course he had not known, for she had never spoken of it. “Not... by my mother,” she clarified. “But he had children with others. Some of their mothers tried to get me to feel responsible for them, to help take care of them or give them extra rations, because I was the firstborn—because he was my father first.”
“That is foolish. It is the responsibility of the progenitors to care for the young.”
Prim sighed. “That’s what I thought too... but I wonder sometimes, if I shouldn’t have tried to be nicer. Kinder. You would have been.”
Rykkon hummed lowly. “I do not know what I would be, had I been raised as you were. You should not attempt to compare our outcomes when our upbringings were so different.” His fingers skimmed over her back and she shivered against him, and he wondered yet again if he should rise and renew the fire. But instead he settled for bringing the furs up closer about her, loathe to leave her embrace. “Is that what you dreamed? That you were back in Mercy?”
Her breath hitched again, and she was silent for a moment before she managed a quiet, “No. Not... exactly.”
Rykkon prepared himself to hear of unpleasantness, knowing that it must be so to reduce her to such tears. “Will you tell me of it?”
She did not speak for a long while, and though he wished to prod, to prompt her into relieving him of the many possibilities that circled through his mind, he gave her time.
Until, at last, she spoke. “We were... here. And we... I wanted to... relate, but you got angry, and said that I disgusted you.” Something in him clenched and ached to hear her speak the words, when nothing could be further from the truth.
“And this upset you? There is no truth in it, I promise you.”
Her fingers fiddled with the edge of the furs and his sleep-tunic. “I asked you why,” she admitted softly. “And you said it was because you were Arterian, that you... you were ashamed of humans and wanted nothing to do with them. With... me. And then my father came and he... he said I was stupid to have believed differently.”
Rykkon could not find words. He had thought that his actions alone would have assuaged any such fears. His every thought since she had come here was to her safety and comfort, and he did not think that any of his words would have suggested he found her race to be inferior to his own. Different, yes, there was no denying that. Perhaps some of their traits were superior in survival, but he did not think his Prim as lesser.
But apparently, some hidden part of her, was still troubled by the prospect.
“I do not think that,” he told her lamely, his words, his actions, so wholly inadequate.
Prim rearranged herself, turning so she was leaning somewhat above him, more able to look at him, and he again questioned how much she could truly see. “Don’t you? Even a little? You said yourself how easy we were to contain in the colony. We’ve stayed there for generations, even when it meant having limited food, limited resources. And you... you’re half human, yet you hide it. I think that’s a bit telling of what you really think.”
Rykkon shifted, nudging her away so he could rise and start the fire. He wanted to be certain she could see him, could not possibly doubt the sincerity of his words—when at last he managed to find them.
He caught her staring at him, suddenly looking small within the furs, all alone in his bed. He was reminded how gentle he must be with her, in all things—even in the hidden fears that manifested themselves in her dreams, unearthing doubts that might have never been spoken in the daylight.
The fire catching at the kindling, growing as it reached the larger logs, Rykkon was satisfied that the light would remain and he returned to the bed, watching as Prim seemed to relax at his return. “Did I make you angry? Saying that?”
Rykkon shook his head, reclining once more, tugging at her until she resumed her position against his side. She did, perhaps a little more stiffly, a little more uncertainly, but he felt better for the contact. “You are right to speak your fears aloud; otherwise I would not know what you require of me.”
Prim sighed. “I didn’t used to be like this. I didn’t cry, I didn’t anger people. I just... was me. I did my chores, I cooked my food, I slept. And I don’t feel like myself anymore. I upset you all the time...”
“That is a falsehood. There have been... occasions when I have been displeased by your words, but we are quick to mend.”
She gave a rueful s
mile that resembled more of a grimace. “I suppose.”
“And I am uncertain that your assessment of your time in Mercy is accurate.”
Her head tilted so she could look at him fully, her brow furrowed as she did so. “What do you mean?”
“Your description is of survival. There is no joy in it, no suggestion of happiness or satisfaction in your life there. You tended to your work and spoke little so as to avoid beatings or disparagement. I should like to think that perhaps here you are... coming to find that there are more agreeable means of interacting with another. Ones that could prove more... fulfilling.”
“Are you talking about love?” She did not duck her head, her cheeks did not colour. She merely looked at him, assessing.
He allowed his hand to rise, to push away a lock of hair that escaped from behind her ear. “Perhaps I am.”
“I haven’t been loved in a very long time.”
Rykkon hummed at that, sorrier than he could say that she had experienced the same. “I think you have not loved for just the same. And it can make a person cold if they are not careful.”
Prim frowned. “You think I’m cold?”
Rykkon hesitated, not sure precisely how to speak of his observations without insulting her. “I think experience has taught you to hide. And you do it well. But, I had hoped, that in time you would come to learn that you need not hide from me.”
“I don’t mean to be that way,” she told him with a sigh. “I don’t mean to hide, or be cowardly. I know your people are very brave.”
Rykkon tapped her arm until she glanced at him. “I do not say this because I wish you to be more like my kin. I say this because I wish to know you, not which elements you feel I would more approve.”
Prim nodded slowly, and when she did not speak further, he felt it necessary to address her earlier fear. “I am not ashamed of your... humanness.”
“What about your own?” she questioned softly.
Rykkon hesitated. “It is... different for me.”
She shifted, perching her chin on his chest as she looked up at him. “Why? I cannot help my parentage anymore than you can. I can’t help that I was born human instead of Arterian. Then why is it shameful for you and not for me?”
He doubted he could make her understand. She spoke truly—they were both merely the results of decisions that came before them, with no power over the outcome. So he spoke of what he could, knowing the explanation would be inadequate, yet it was all that he had to offer her. “I was taught even as a youngling to care for these people. To heal their wounds and treat their sick. And still they hesitate to come to me for aid, doubtful that I am as capable, as knowledgeable as those who have trained before me. So I suppose I have to come to... resent that part in me that makes them doubt. My work would be simpler without it.”
Prim stared at him intently. “And that’s all there is? It’s about your work?”
“Perhaps not all,” he relented, not wishing to speak on the subject any longer, but she did not seem willing to accept his words and allow peace between them.
“Your life would be simpler. Your people would accept you, you would have a wife and children and no one would hesitate to come to you when they needed you. They’d think it was an honour when you came to their homes instead of making your wife stay outside.”
Words eluded him, but he reached for her, to urge her to stay, to assure her that he knew that his desires had no bearing in reality—no bearing in his care for her.
But Prim shook her head, and to his surprise she did not move away from him, instead settling back against him all the more. “I get it. Honestly. You think I haven’t wondered what it would be like if I’d had a different father?” She snorted, a sound that lacked in humour and sounded strange coming from her. “I’ve even wondered what life would have been like to have Desmond for a father. Anything seemed better than the one I have.”
Rykkon frowned. The leader of their people seemed a weak man, a little too hasty to appease the Arterians to truly be respected. But he well understood her point. He did not appear one to dishonour a child through hurts.
“I just don’t want you to eventually resent me. I can’t do anything about my humanness. I don’t know what I could possibly do to make your people like me. And... will there come a time when you think that would have been better to be alone than to have to put up with the additional disdain that they will inevitably show you?”
“No,” he assured her, with absolute certainty. “They are my people, and I will do what I can for them. But my loyalty is to you, to my mate, and you are the one I have chosen. I will honour you, and cherish you, and love our children for what they are—a product of myself and you.”
He remembered her earlier disbelief at the prospect of children, and something in him urged him to press her further on the matter. Perhaps it was concern for the young she had yet to bear, to know if they would be unwanted by their mother, a burden she had never considered or thought to want. Or perhaps it was some lingering desire he did not know he possessed—to have young of his own, to have someone love him in return. “Do you despise the thought of our young?”
Her silence worried him, and he closed his eyes, uncertainty overwhelming him for the first time. Never had he doubted their mating, but this... How were they to truly be mates if they could not allow young between them.
“I wouldn’t care for my siblings,” she said at last, and Rykkon looked down at her, confused. Her voice was soft, her tone almost regretful, and she ran the tip of her finger over the furs as she seemed to remember some past wrong. “They had as little choice in the matter as I did, but when their mothers came, when they thrust them at me and told me I was responsible for them... I felt nothing. I just handed them back and walked out into the Wastes.”
Rykkon laid a hand upon her head, stroking gently at her temple. “That is not a sign of what you will be in motherhood.”
She shuddered against him, burrowing her head a little deeper against him. “Isn’t it? It’s hard being a mother in the colony. And there were so many babies. No one was thinking, everyone was just... carrying on with life, you know? And suddenly there were all these kids and no more food to feed them, and why would they do that? How could they be so thoughtless?”
“Mates... desire to... relate with one another,” he reminded her, well aware of the conditions in Mercy, but knowing it was true all the same. “It is not beyond belief that young would follow.”
“I get that. I do. But then explain the wisdom of my father choosing to be with so many women! Be with your wife, but don’t just go along procreating with any woman that will let you!” It was the closest he had heard to anger in her voice, and it was not misplaced. Not when she spoke truly and her father had been so thoughtless—cruel, even, in his manner and lack of forethought.
“Our young will not be raised in Mercy,” he reminded her. “They will not go hungry, or know the pain of a beating as you have.”
But to his distress, when Prim looked at him again, there were tears in her eyes. “But you already said it. I’m cold. How will I know that I can love them enough? That I won’t just want to... pass them back to their mother and run away?”
“Because...” Rykkon began, struggling for words. He wondered if most mates were able to offer assurances of love because they loved one another—that the proof was in their very act that would beget those young. But Prim did not love him. Perhaps one day, but not yet. So he would have to settle on a different truth and hope it was enough. “Because it troubles you so that you would not be a good one. And,” he reminded her. “You will not be alone. I will help. I will care for both you and your young. I am not your father, and you are not your mother. Things will be different.”
He only hoped that she would eventually believe him.
12. Poison
“I like this,” Prim said at last, “lying here with you. Talking. I never... it felt so awkward when I first got here, but not anymore.”
Rykkon found that he could not agree with her more. Even though the subjects might be difficult, even if they revealed wounds and vulnerabilities, he found it a pleasing thing to share with her. He did not like that she had ever felt uncomfortable near him, but he supposed that such was to be expected. They had been strangers, his ways wholly different than she was accustomed to, and it was ridiculous to think that she could embrace him so immediately.
Except, she was beginning to.
And it was far more wonderful than he had hoped.
He held her a little closer, suddenly wishing she was closer to his mouth so he might finally see what kissing her entailed. If any of the males knew that he was considering it, they would look at him in horror. It simply was not done, both sides of any mated pair too aware of the little glands that could end a husband so efficiently. But his wife could not do so, and while that meant he had to care for her all the more, to see to her safety with all the vigilance he could muster, it meant he could also explore kissing.
And perhaps, if that kissing was a pleasing thing, it might mean exploring other aspects of her person as well.
If only she was a bit closer to his mouth.
He was contemplating how to shift her there, the precise pressure he would have to place on her arms to draw her upward, or perhaps roll her over him so he could feel her exquisite weight upon him once more—this time with no tears between them, no hurried and frantic movements born from a desire to forget.
But instead a desire to be close. To continue to share, and to learn.
Yet before he could do so, to assuage the ache that was growing in him simply at the prospect of experiencing that with her, a slight scuffling sound caught his ear and he stilled. Animals did not typically venture this close to his dwelling, the small clearing too infused with unfamiliar scents to cause a general wariness of it. If some did, they were tiny creatures, more intent on scuttling about the roof and nesting in the thatch than causing such a sound in the brush below.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 15
