Mercy (Deridia Book 1)

by Catherine Miller

  Starting with listening to her desires. “What would you have us do?” he asked, drawing back only enough that he could look at her properly. “You were angry over the events of this day, but I am a healer, and it... it feels wrong to think that I would refuse one who called for me. Especially one so young.”

  Prim sighed, her forehead coming to rest against his own. “I know that. And you feel that way because you’re a good man.” Guilt niggled at him once again, as it always did when she shared with him—when she bared a truth even as he continued to withhold one of his own. She thought him a good man, one bound by honour and duty to see to the care of his people.

  And, he supposed, that was true. Hearing Lenra’s small feet running along the path had set him moving away from the comfort of his bed, from his wife, before he had even heard her request. He had persuaded Sanren to allow him to stay even when she had told him of Sakmet’s order.

  But things had changed.

  It was no longer his life alone that he had to consider, and Prim deserved to know all that bound him here—kept him from simply pulling her into his arms, of packing their things and finding some small piece of land that could be solely their own.

  It still pained him to think of it, to describe the nature of the separation that had left him so wholly alone. But he knew, with growing clarity, that he could no longer continue to use such an excuse to keep from speaking of it.

  “Prim,” he began. His resolve was sure, but he found himself hesitant. She had been smiling, her anger seemingly passed, and he did not wish to cause its return.

  But to think thusly was a sign of cowardice, not when she deserved to know his truths in their entirety.

  “Yes?” She pulled back a little, regarding him. She must have seen something in his eyes, for she frowned. “What is it?”

  “There is something... something that I find difficult to speak of. I told you a half-truth before, and for that, I am most deeply sorry.”

  Her frown deepened and she pulled away further. “You... you don’t love me?”

  “No!” This was not what he intended, and it served only as a further reminder that, while Prim might accept his love in the most general of senses, there was still much he had to show her so she might grow secure in its existence. “It is not that. Never that. It is regarding my parents.”

  Prim blinked at him, uncomprehendingly. “Your parents?”

  He gave a low nod, watching her carefully, wishing he could draw her closer, but nervous she would not wish to be touched by one who had not been wholly honest with her. “They did not perish, as your mother did. I allowed you to draw that conclusion, which was wrong of me.”

  Her brow furrowed. “They’re... alive?”

  The familiar ache settled over him, and he gave another nod. “Yes. They yet live. And it is for them that I must stay.”

  19. Vow

  Prim grew very quiet, obviously considering his words. “I... don’t understand.”

  He gave a rueful smile, shaking his head. “I know. I have not explained all to you as I should have done, and I hope to rectify that error.”

  She nodded, a little distractedly, and he waited patiently for the accusation he knew must surely follow. It still pained him when at last she spoke it. “Why did you want me to think they were dead?”

  He took her hand in his, trying to bestow all the sincerity he could. “That was not my intention. Not exactly. It is... difficult for me to speak of them, of our parting, and it was easier to allow you to draw your own conclusions, wrong though they might have been. I realise this was a deceit all the same, and for that I must atone.”

  Prim frowned. “I’m not sure I want to know what that means. I’d rather you just be honest with me.”

  Rykkon bowed his head, accepting. “That is fair.” In truth, he had not yet decided what he would offer in recompense. He had little that seemed to interest her, and what was given he wished to present freely—a sign of his love and care of her, not a token to assuage his conscience.

  He had not forgotten the fur wrap he intended to make her—if only the needs of his people would allow him time to make it for her.

  She glanced down at his arm. “Does that need bandaging?”

  Rykkon was surprised at her sudden shift in topic, but he nodded, pointing at the proper implements. She did not ask him if he needed assistance, only looked at him for direction before wrapping his wound, tying it carefully as he instructed. He tried not to be amused at her frustration, nor at the look of utter concentration on her face as she worked, and he hoped that he hid his smile adequately. It unravelled the first time, then she applied too much pressure the next, but eventually, it was tied to both their satisfactions.

  “Thank you,” he acknowledged, still surprised at her assistance. He should not have been—she had spoken of her love to him, and had their roles been reversed, he could not imagine the amount of anger he would have to experience that would keep him from bandaging any wounds she incurred.

  Prim nodded, taking his good hand in hers and picking up the abandoned cup of willomn before leading him to the bed. “Sit,” she instructed, and he obliged, his amusement growing that she should order him about so. But arguing was needless, not when he wanted nothing more than the comfort of his nest of furs, assuming she would lie there with him.

  She did not do so immediately, instead turning to his food stores and adding items to a bowl, seemingly at random. He was growing somewhat drowsy, his already wearied body overtaxed by the sudden injury and the infusion of medicinal herbs, but he was suspicious of her mood, and he could not allow himself to rest. Not yet. Not until he had explained himself to her fully.

  She brought over her bowl, apparently satisfied with her provisions, climbing over him so she could sit in upon her preferred side nearest the wall. She did not join him at the head, instead sitting cross-legged at his side, apparently better to stare at him. They had never discussed sleeping arrangements, and in his desire to put off their conversation all the more, he very nearly picked an argument, claiming that she had stolen his favoured spot.

  But that would be tedious, especially since he had been the one to wrong her by remaining silent on the subject for so long.

  “Eat,” she told him, holding out the bowl. It was simple fare, but most welcome after their abysmal routine these last days. She had brought nothing for herself, it seemed, and it took a glare and a nudge before she rolled her eyes and relented, taking a handful of its contents for herself.

  “You are quite proficient at giving orders,” he mused, not entirely certain he gave it as a compliment, but finding that he did not mind her directives. Not when they saw him fed and bandaged, and her company sharing his bed.

  Prim flushed and popped a berleet in her mouth. “You get to be the patient too, sometimes. I’m sorry your healer isn’t as skilled as mine.”

  He reached over and patted her knee. “You were more than adequate, and what you do not yet know, you will come to learn in time.” She did not seem overly anxious to begin speaking of the matter of his parents, and a part of him hoped that she had merely accepted their continued existence without any need for further explanation. He looked down at his cup briefly, collecting his thoughts. But it felt wrong to dismiss it entirely, and he felt the need to clarify. “Did I overestimate the importance of the subject? Do you not care to hear of my parents?”

  Prim shook her head. “No. But I figured we could both be comfortable when we talk about it. You already said it’s difficult for you, and I don’t see a point in making it any more so.”

  His sweet Prim. Blunt at times, but caring in her own unique way.

  He took another sip of willomn, allowing the warmth to loosen his tongue. But still, the words felt stilted, the experiences painful ones that left him uncertain how to speak of them. “I do not know where to begin.”

  “Well,” Prim prompted. “You said that that they lived together after he found her. That they were happy, and that your people
let them marry. Did something change?”

  Rykkon pressed his lips together, trying to push away the vividness of the memories and simply allow himself to give a description of that time. There was no need to feel it, to remember the details—indeed, to do so had proven nothing but a hindrance. For each time he recalled those times, dwelt upon them for too long a period, it made it all the more difficult to remain civil and attentive to those who came to him for aid.

  For they were the same ones that had driven his mother away.

  “My people may not have directly inhibited their joining, but, as you are well aware, they can be cruel in other ways.” He sighed, taking another sip of willomn and pushing away the darker memories. There was more to his upbringing than hurtful words and the occasional beating from the older young, and he would not allow Prim to think otherwise. “She was always sweet, my mother, always kind and thoughtful. She made this a home.” He gestured around his dwelling, hoping that Prim could understand.

  Prim smiled. “Mothers are good at that.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “She... she liked to pick flowers by the spring. Would fill the house with them after the mists passed and it grew warm again. Faeder... he would always tease her, would say that his home should be filled with medicine, not pretty weeds that served no purpose.”

  “Did she throw them out if he disliked them so?”

  Rykkon scoffed. “She would not even consider it. She would only go out and pick more, until I thought I might choke from the fragrance.” He glanced at her, feeling the need to clarify further—the ways of a proper father and mother who loved each other as his did. “He always liked to act so begrudging, but if you saw the way her eyes held such laughter at her supposed defiance, at the way he would shake his head and kiss her when he saw that the flowers had multiplied come morning...” He gave one of her shrugs. He had not understood them, then, not truly. What it was to love another—to love a mate so dearly, even when their actions seemed so inscrutable.

  Or perhaps, because of it.

  But he had been a youngling then, with little thought of the nature of his mother. She simply... was.

  Until one day, the laughter faded.

  And there were no more flowers.

  “A fever took her,” he continued, his voice low. “Faeder was... I had never seen him so distraught. Nothing he did seemed to help her, and she only worsened. The shakes that came upon her...” he shook his head, trying not to think of how they had rattled her small frame—harsh and violent, uncaring of her utter exhaustion. “It lasted so long, and though we should not have thought it in her sickroom, we began to believe that she would not last.”

  Prim was quiet for a moment, before she replaced her uneaten nibbles into the bowl before coming to lie next to him, holding him. “But she made it?”

  Rykkon hesitated. “She lived, but she was... changed. She was... simple, in a way. Quiet and dazed, and even the most uncomplicated task confused her.” He was glad that his good arm was available to wrap around her, to keep her close—a tangible reminder that he was no longer alone. “She had never gone much into the village, but now... they had always thought her beneath them, one of the fallen people without home or ability to care for themselves properly—banished to the Wastes. And now that she could no longer speak for herself, they took great pleasure in abusing her if ever Faeder or I were distracted with matters of trade.”

  He remembered the anger he had felt when he would find her, looking so small and fragile as the others towered over her. They disbanded quickly whenever he neared, fervently denying that anything had transpired. He had begged his mother to speak to him, to confirm that a wrong had been done so he could justify retaliation to the elders. But instead she simply rocked herself, humming lightly under her breath.

  And he had burned with rage, not yet grown, still much to learn before he could call himself Healer.

  “People are stupid,” Prim agreed, her fingers stroking lightly in comfort. “And cowardly. For them to take advantage of someone so sick...” she shook her head disgustedly.

  He squeezed her shoulder in thanks, her indignation on his mother’s behalf a balm he had not realised he needed.

  “Couldn’t you have left her at home? It seems better than subjecting her to that kind of treatment.”

  “Eventually Fader reached that same conclusion. One of us tried to stay with her always, but I still had much to be taught, and our safety came from his ability to be useful, so he could not refuse those who came to him in need.” It was an argument they had frequently. Rykkon wished to refuse them all, to withhold any assistance until they learned to behave themselves.

  But his father had disagreed, his face so worn and solemn, suddenly appearing much older than he had a mere cycle before.

  “The cobbler can refuse an order! Why can we not?” Rykkon’s voice, trembling with the outrage only a youth could conjure, the hurts on his mother’s behalf deep ones.

  His faeder had laid a hand upon his shoulder, trying to soothe him, though the action proved fruitless. “Because we are healers, Rykkon. And not all of them are so terrible. Would you punish the younglings yet to be born because their fathers are prone to speaking cruelly? Would you force a mother to lose an arm due to infection because she had not been welcoming?”

  Rykkon had no answer beyond a petulant sigh. “Mamé deserves better.” He did not know much else, but of that he was certain.

  Faeder nodded, his eyes showing great pain as he glanced over at his wife, silent as ever in her corner. “You will receive no argument from me.”

  Rykkon held his wife closer, pushing away his memories as he focused upon narration. “Faeder had been afraid of what would befall her if left alone... if she should wander into the stream and drown herself, or if she should grow lost in the forest. She liked to visit there... seemed to enjoy walks in the trees, to look at the creatures there. She was almost like one of the young, in that way. Small things amused her, but she would become... easily frightened and withdrawn when approached by other people. So eventually he allowed her to remain behind, and we simply had to pray that she remained well.”

  “She was lucky she had you both to take care of her.”

  Rykkon sighed, shaking his head. “I would not use such a term. It was because of our heritage that she was exposed to such an unfeeling people who enjoyed tormenting a sickened female.”

  She must have noted the bitterness with which he spoke, for she frowned. “Do you blame yourself then? For what happened to her?”

  Did he? Rykkon did not know. He wished he had been stronger, more protective of her. He had pulled his blade more than once, had run off whatever reprobate had worsened her condition, but even that had not been enough.

  “Don’t answer that. It’s written all over your face.”

  Rykkon grimaced before trying to smooth away the emotions she clearly found so evident. He had slipped with her of late, his practised placidity giving way to reveal much more in his expressions than he had ever anticipated. “She is my mother. I cannot help but feel responsible for her.”

  Prim gave his chest a pat. “I understand. But you have to remember, she made her choices long before you were born. She must have loved your father more than she feared his people.”

  Rykkon sighed. “Maybe that was wrong.”

  “Maybe,” Prim relented after a brief hesitation. “But I think you know someone who is making a very similar choice.”

  He glanced down at her, knowing well to whom she referred. “You are also my responsibility,” he reminded her. “Mine to protect.”

  “True. But not yours to command. And I believe we have already discussed the matter of my choices, my willingness to remain here, and it did not end well for you when you suggested I should regret my decision.”

  Though it had no place here, not when they discussed such serious things, he could not help but feel slightly pleased at her words. Not when they meant that she chose him above all else. “You speak truly.�
� He grew more sombre. “But if something were to happen to you... I cannot guarantee that I would not shoulder some measure of blame.”

  Prim shook her head, and he could see the exasperation there. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Very likely,” he agreed.

  They were silent for a time, and he was grateful for the respite. He never thought he should experience it—the simple joy to hold his mate within his arms, to draw strength from her continued presence, even as the shadows of his past hurts flittered through his mind. It amazed him how comfortable she had grown with him, as she felt confident enough to press herself against him as she pleased, to spread herself across his chest without thought of any possibility of rejection.

  For she never would receive it. And, apparently, she was coming to believe that.

  “That still doesn’t explain why you have to stay,” she said at last, and he closed his eyes, knowing that she was owed an explanation in its entirety.

  “Faeder wished for us to leave—he thought it best for her. Perhaps in isolation, she could recover. Where life was simple and there were none to frighten her back into herself.”

  He remembered when his father had first approached him. Cautious and thoughtful, one of the first times he had approached his son more as a male well trained within the same trade rather than the master to his novice. “Rykkon,” he had asked, startling him from his forages.

  “Should you not be with mamé?” He glanced back toward the dwelling, though even his keen eyesight could not afford him a view of their home. “Has something happened?”

  His father shook his head, nearing him, his manner somewhat distracted even as he glanced down at the musseroms Rykkon was collecting. “If I was simply a male who came to you, his wife suddenly... as your mother has become, what would you suggest for me?”

  Rykkon had stilled, looking to his father with questions filling his mind, but instead worked to conjure a proper reply. “She needs peace and rest. A quiet place in which to heal.”