“Out!” Sakmet insisted, the volume of his command causing the youngling to grunt in displeasure. Sanren did not wake.
Rykkon nudged Prim gently to get her moving, and he led her from the dwelling, his ears listening carefully for any indication that they were to be followed.
He would fight if he must, a great part of him burning for the opportunity to enact some measure of vengeance for his mistreatment, but the other longed for the quiet comfort of home.
“How bad is it?” Prim asked quietly, her eyes staring at the slash upon his arm. He did not let her see it properly as he was certain it would only upset her further since little could be done until they were both safe behind the walls of his home.
“You needn’t worry,” he assured her, more concerned that Sakmet would settle the youngling and come for him.
His pace quickened.
Prim did not appear satisfied with his answer, her lips thinning as she practically glared at him. He wondered at her offence, but his head was growing somewhat muddled.
They needed to be home.
Now.
It was only when they neared the outer edge of the village that he heard small feet hurrying along the path, and he slowed his pace, Prim looking at him questioningly as he turned.
Lenra caught up to them, her eyes wide, her breath coming in pants. She must have been trying very hard to catch them. “I am... sorry!” she said breathlessly. “I did not mean to cause trouble!” She caught notice of his wounded arm, and Rykkon was absolutely certain that had she been human, large, wet tears would have issued forth.
“I do not blame you, Lenra,” Rykkon assured her tiredly. He wanted his bed, and a cup of willomn, and a Prim that did not glare at him.
“I should not have brought you,” she whispered unhappily, her fingers clutching at the hem of her tunic, twisting and pulling in their distress. “Now Faeder is mad and you are hurt and Mamé…”
“Your mamé may live because you were brave enough to come for me,” he told her firmly. He could not lie. She was poorly and would have benefited from his vigil lest she require more of his intervention. He did not know if Sakmet knew to fetch a milking mother to feed the youngling if she did not wake soon. He did not know if he would be kind and patient with the young in his care.
But he could not force his knowledge upon an unwilling people, and the gash upon his arm was a vivid reminder that, while he had great freedoms as healer, there were those who would oppose him.
Lenra nodded, not appearing wholly convinced, and she turned to go. Prim’s hand settled on his good arm, her brow furrowed. “Is it safe for her to return home? He won’t…”
His first impulse was to rebuff her, to remind her that his people were not so cold and foolish as her own as to beat their own offspring. But he also had not expected Sakmet to risk injuring him while holding his young, so he found himself calling out to her once more. “Lenra,” he asked soberly, hoping that the query was unnecessary. “You are safe at home, yes? He will not harm you for calling up on me?”
The young female’s face scrunched up, and there was no mistaking the utter confusion to be found there. “Why would he do that?”
Rykkon relaxed. “Go along home, Lenra. You have a brother to meet.”
At that he witnessed the first smile from her, and she nodded before rushing back into the ever darkening village.
“I take it that was a no?”
Rykkon sighed and nodded, turning back so they could continue along the road. The bleeding was slowing, if only slightly, but he was anxious to see to the wound. “Evidently.”
Prim gave a sigh of her own, and he looked at her closely, trying to determine if he heard any hint of disappointment from her. Was it so important that his people be as capable of wrongdoing as hers?
But she said no more on the subject, and he was worn and cross, and now was not the time to question her.
He was grateful when their dwelling at last came into view, though he forced himself to make a cursory examination of the property to ensure they were truly alone. The interior was next, and he kept Prim upon the doorstep until he was satisfied that none awaited them.
“You may come in,” he assured her, staring down at the embers of the fire. It would need more wood and a proper stoking, but his arm would require his attention first.
Prim shut the door behind her, ensuring the latch caught fully, locking them away from the rest of the world, if only for a moment.
He went to his workbench. He would need to prepare a poultice, to both cleanse and numb the area, especially if stitching was required. But first, there was too much blood to see properly, so he took a clean cloth, wetting it from the jar of drinking water, mopping away the fresh and drying blood alike.
The light was dim, the glow of the second sun a faint smudge on the horizon, and he would have benefited from the fire. He glanced at Prim as she passed him, setting out new logs and kindling—not strictly necessary given the remaining coals, but he did not correct her—and he could not help but note the firm set of her jaw, the press of her lips. She was displeased, but he could not imagine at what.
“Thank you,” he said, squeezing out the cloth, stained now with his blood, before looking at the wound properly. As he had suspected, it was not overly deep, though the edges were a bit ragged. Sakmet had not cut him with a straight blade, nor one finely honed. It had been a jagged thing, good for sawing through meats for supper, but not much else.
Other than cutting a healer who only intended to help, of course.
Prim added another log with a bit more force than strictly necessary, sparks erupting from the pile. He was not certain whether to watch that none caught, or to pay careful attention to his wife and her strange mood.
He had seen her angry—typically at his foolishness—but he had not thought he had said anything upsetting.
Apparently satisfied with the fire, Prim stood, joining him at the jar of water and pouring out enough to wash her hands thoroughly. He eyed her somewhat sceptically, knowing that he would have to do the same before tending to the wound, but the pain had increased from the rubbing of the cloth, and his thoughts were muddled from the loss of blood.
“What do you need me to do?”
Whatever nervousness she had displayed during Sanren’s birth was absent. There was no timidity in her posture, though perhaps he could detect a bit of resignation as she looked, not at the gash, but at his face.
He used his good hand to point at several jars. “Those shall need to be mixed.”
She nodded, and though she had to stand upon a stool to reach the uppermost, she did not ask for his assistance. He sank down upon the bench, suddenly grateful for her willingness to help without persuasion, though he watched carefully for her measurements as she added large pinchfuls to the waiting mortar. “Will it need stitching?”
He eyed the wound again, more concerned about her tone than the cut itself. “Yes,” he admitted, watching her closely. “Though you will not be required to do it.”
She shrugged, taking hold of the pestle before looking at him. “Grind it?”
He gave a low nod. “Until it forms a paste.”
Her form was surprisingly good, as she pulled strength from her arm rather than solely her wrist so as to work with great efficiency.
He wondered if she had watched him as he worked, noting his posture, the techniques passed along through the generations.
It pleased him to think that perhaps she had.
While she worked, he washed his hands as best he could, lathering the soaproot and scrubbing thoroughly. Rinsing proved more difficult, and he was tempted to simply plunge his hands into the jar entirely, but Prim noted his challenge and paused in her grinding so she could assist him. “You’re allowed to ask for help, you know,” she reminded him, her tone still rather odd.
Was she annoyed with him for being hurt?
It was not a terrible injury, and it would not affect his ability to protect her. Should someone
come intending harm, he could still fight. Perhaps not as well, perhaps not as dextrously, but she need not fear for her safety.
“You are angry,” he observed as she returned to the pestle.
“An astute observation,” she commended dryly.
The confirmation troubled him, and he was not certain of what to say. “At me?” he finally asked, finding the answer to that question the most pressing.
She paused in her work, though she did not turn to him. “In part.”
Something in him deflated, and his shoulders slumped. The pain seemed more acute, the muzzy feeling in his head more pronounced. “I see.”
Prim glanced at him. “I’m not sure you do.”
He doubted that also, his wife always a source of great confusion, but he did know that he did not like her to be angry with him. Especially not when he still bled, when his arm throbbed in protest, and he could not rightly ascertain what troubled her.
“Where’s the needle?” she asked, finally satisfied with the poultice and showing it to him for confirmation. He pointed again to a box, a few needles resting inside with some of the village spinner’s finest thread. It was not often he was called upon to sew a wound, most of his kind preferring to be left with large and mangled scars rather than ask for his help. He looked upon such wounds with great disappointment, yet another reminder of how few truly wished for his aid.
He dipped a flattened stick into the poultice, rubbing it carefully around the edges of the cut. Not close enough to interfere with where the stitches would be placed, but enough to hopefully deaden some of the feeling as he worked. More would be added after, to prevent infection, but until it was properly closed...
Prim held out the threaded needle, eyeing him closely. “Do you want me to do it?”
Rykkon hesitated, before finally shaking his head. If she truly wished to learn his trade, this would have been a good opportunity for her to practise, but her mood worried him and he would rather be finished quickly. So he could rest, so he could speak with her properly.
So he could forget much of what had happened.
“You need not watch,” he told her. “I would... much appreciate a cup of willomn for when this is completed.” She nodded, turning back to the workbench. He opened his mouth to give further direction, but she pulled out the correct pouch with only minimal rifling. Apparently she did watch him as he worked.
She set the water to boil, and to his surprise, returned to watch him as he worked. “This can be rather gruesome,” he warned her. He had stitched himself before, the wound then having been much larger and more terrible. A fight had ended with a blade through his side. The male had been sanctioned for having attempted a killing blow upon a healer, but none else in the village had been able to help.
Kondarr had been willing to fetch a needle and thread, but they left him in the dirt, watchful and uneasy rather than caring. Now, at least, he had Prim. Even if she was angry with him.
One never did quite grow used to the feeling of flesh tugging to meet flesh. Of a needle piercing delicate tissues, of a wound closed much as a seam held together cloth.
He expected Prim to waver, to look away as he worked, but she held steady, watchful both of his needle and of his face. He had to breathe carefully, both for the pain and the unnaturalness of the act. He was grateful for his knowledge—he always was—but there were some things he wished could be done by another.
Stitching a rend in his own flesh was one of those things.
“Why are you angry with me?” he asked, welcoming the distraction of her words, even if he found them displeasing.
Prim, however, was quiet, and he considered pressing her again simply so she might speak with him. But instead she seemed to gather her thoughts, her hand coming to rest upon his leg, resting there softly. It was the first comfort she had shown him that was not born purely from medicinal need, and he relaxed somewhat to feel it. “You care for them too much,” she said at last. “They do not want you. They hurt you. All this time, you made it sound like it was just me that was in danger here. But obviously...”
She looked pointedly at the wound, now mostly closed with careful stitches. “This does not happen often,” he assured her.
Prim scoffed, shaking her head. “Once is plenty.”
He did not know what to tell her. There was little point in arguing that his was not a dangerous life. His people were not always known for their reasonableness—a little too quick to go for their blades, a little too strong with their words. They held dearly to their sense of honour, but perceived slights could easily prove deadly.
And an unwanted healer could initiate much offence when his trade was begrudgingly accepted, or perhaps foisted upon an unconscious recipient.
“This shall heal,” he reminded her, the reassurance lame even to his own ear.
“Another one might not,” she answered testily, her head shaking a little. He did not know how to soothe her, not when her anger was reasonable—if still displeasing.
“What would you have me do?” he finally asked, trimming the edges of the thread and smoothing a thick layer of poultice over the wound. It would cleanse and aid in the healing, and already he felt gladdened for the numbing quality as the pain began to recede. The water was beginning to steam, and he would be grateful for the willomn, but he felt a little more sure, a little more able to speak with his wife when not distracted by his work.
He made to rise, to go to the water and brew the willomn, but Prim put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him where he was, while she fetched it herself. “You are kind to help me, even when you are angry.”
Prim swirled the leaves in the water with a long-handled spoon, sighing deeply. Her shoulders slumped a little, and she suddenly looked as weary as he felt. “I’m angry because I love you. You know that, right?”
Rykkon blinked at her. He most certainly did not know that. She turned slightly, looking at him only briefly before shaking her head again. “I’m not very good at being romantic. I was hoping you would have figured it out by now, but I guess some things just need saying.”
She poured the steeped liquid into a cup, holding it out to him. “I love you. And I hate to see you hurt, and I hate that someone rewarded your help with a knife. So yes, I’m angry. But not enough that I would sit by and watch you struggle through doing everything yourself. Not when I care about you so much.”
He thought that words had failed him before, but now they seemed simply nonexistent. He accepted the cup, the warmth pleasant against his fingers as he took a large swallow, uncaring of the burn in his mouth.
“Prim...” he said at last, trying to centre his thoughts—to reconcile them with his feelings.
Prim gave a shrug before returning to the workbench, taking a clean rag—one intended for bandaging, not for cleaning, he noted with a vague awareness—before beginning to brush away the evidence of her mixing. She had been tidy, but dried leaves and a smear of poultice were quickly washed away, and he simply watched her.
“It’s all right,” she told him. “I don’t expect you to say it back. I think you said that some marriages here have love in them, but we knew going in that this wasn’t like those.” The way she said it, it truly sounded as if she did not blame him should he not reciprocate his feelings. There was no hurt in her voice, no devastation that he had yet to form the proper words, only an enigmatic acceptance that he did not share in her feelings.
“Prim,” he tried again, taking another swallow of liquid, both for courage and to chase away the last of his pain. He put the cup upon the bench, mindful that he did so directly in the area she was attempting to clean.
“Did you want more?” She eyed the cup dubiously, for there was still plenty within it, but it made her stop, made her turn to him, her eyes questioning.
“I had hoped you would have figured it out by now,” he repeated back to her. His own words might fail him, but she had supplied good ones. “But I suppose some things require saying.”
He use
d his good hand to grasp her forearm, tugging her closer. Even seated, he was nearly as tall as she was, and it felt odd for a moment to be the one looking up at her—slight though it might be. “I love you.”
Perhaps he should have embellished—found a more profound way in which to express how deeply he felt for her. But he did not know what to say, only wished for her to know that she was not alone in her feelings. This was not a stagnant accord, practical and born simply from mutual benefit. It had started in such a way, but it had grown.
He saw a moment’s uncertainty in her eyes, and he tugged her closer. He longed to hold her properly, to bring her onto his lap and bury his face in her shoulder, in her hair, revelling in the knowledge that nights filled with such pain and rejection could be tempered with such sweetness.
But his arm had yet to be fully bandaged, so instead he drew her as close as he could, holding her with his one arm. “Do you believe me?”
His lips traced her collar bones, less a kiss and more a tender way to pass the time before she responded. Learning, memorising, appreciating the feel of every part of her.
“I wondered,” she admitted, leaning down so she could kiss him properly. He did not want her to wonder about his love for her. It should be most evident in all that he did. She did not deepen the kiss, did not attempt to persuade him into their bed. His arm was still a dull throb, a reminder that rest was of great import, and for the first time he truly loathed the injury.
Not when it meant postponing a joining with his wife.
But Prim was smiling at him when she pulled away. “At first I thought that your kindness was just a part of you—that it didn’t have to do with any real... affection for me.” Rykkon frowned, and her smile grew a bit more. “But then you started taking such good care of me, and, well...” she gave one of her slight shrugs.
Rykkon hummed, a bit noncommittally. He tried to care for her as he should, but so often he did not succeed. He would try to improve, but he knew even now that he had much still to learn about being a proper mate.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 24
