Mercy (Deridia Book 1)

by Catherine Miller

  And he could not bring himself to look back. Not when it hurt so much.

  “You’re very quiet,” Prim commented. Her hand was still tucked in his, and though he knew he should quicken his pace, he could not bring himself to do so. Not when it meant losing contact with her.

  “My thoughts are dark ones. I doubt you would wish to hear them.”

  Prim hummed in disagreement.

  They were on a different path, one that would keep them far from the malmout burrow. He would not risk another altercation with the creatures, whether or not his mamé said they were friendly under most circumstances.

  “I could guess, if you want,” Prim continued. Rykkon did not stop her from doing so, but his mood was glum and the quiet suited him well. “You’re thinking of how unfair it is that we have to go back. You wish that when we get back a fire had consumed the entire village, and it was just us again and we could have your parents nearby.”

  Rykkon gave her a morose look. “Perhaps not quite so dark, then.”

  Prim shrugged. “I’ve thought it. How much easier it would be if there weren’t other people to cause conflict, to make us weigh all these truly terrible options. I would never actually set a fire, though,” she clarified, and he wondered at her feeling it necessary, but he was too low to feel any concern for the matter.

  “Well, if you won’t tell me what you’re actually thinking about, I’ll just say what’s on my mind.”

  He braced himself for another reminder of her desire to return to her people, but his wife was never ending with her surprises.

  “I’m actually looking forward to being home. I’ll miss your parents, of course, but there’s something nice about our house.” She gave a weary sigh. “I miss our bed.” He felt his lips quirking in the smallest of smiles. Prim grinned up at him, though she smothered it quickly, attempting to look firm. “Now, don’t think I miss you in it. You wear me out enough as it is. I just miss how comfortable it is.”

  There had been no relating upon their journey, Prim being sore and exhausted from their travels, and he certainly missed her well enough. He hoped she was simply teasing him, and there was more to their bed that she missed than the abundance of furs she had to nest in.

  Prim glanced up at him, before she rolled her eyes. “Fine. I miss you a little. But if you want a proper reunion when we get home, you’re going to have to carry me at least half the time.”

  He did not move to do so, only stopped for a moment and pulled her into his embrace, leaning down—always amazed at how far he had to go to do so—and resting his head against the top of hers. “Thank you,” he breathed, his mood not quite lifted, not yet, but enough.

  “For what?” Prim asked, her voice somewhat muffled by his tunic. “Talking?”

  “For being here to pester me with words,” he teased, yet meaning all of it.

  She did not seem to know how to react at first, her body a bit stiff. He wondered if jesting was unwelcome, but eventually she relaxed, her arms coming to hug him in return. “There’s nowhere else I would rather be.” He hoped that was true, for he was coming to realise how much he needed her—her steadiness, her honest approach to their troubles. And, he hoped she could rely upon him as well.

  Prim shifted so she could peer up at him. “I think I’m getting pretty good at this chattering thing. I’ve learned from the best, after all.”

  Rykkon leaned back, his eyes narrowing. “To whom do you refer?”

  Prim smirked. “You, of course.”

  “I do not chatter,” he protested, conjuring images of one of the forest beasties, small and indignant in its harmless rage if one tarried too long near a nest.

  “Well, maybe not, but you do talk more than I do.”

  Rykkon grunted, choosing not to dignify that with a response—partially because to deny it would require an active falsehood. He did not think himself overly talkative, but his wife said little, especially in her beginning with him, and he had come to accept that he would be the more vocal within their mating. He had come to understand from watching other mates that such was not typical, but there was little usual about their coupling, and he had come to expect no less from their peculiarities.

  He even found himself grateful for them, when now he could tease with her, to find some measure of levity that had seemed so far removed from him only moments before. His wife could clearly manipulate him to her whim, and from the way she was looking at him, her smirk softening to a genuine smile, her hand returning to his as they continued on, he was certain she was perfectly aware of her powers.

  Perhaps that should trouble him more than it did.

  “We’re going to be fine, you know,” she said after a while spent in silence, though this time a little more peaceful than the last. He was troubled, could not quite forget his mamé’s tearful eyes, but the reminder of home was a welcome one.

  Not the people there who would cause difficulties. Not the threat to Mercy.

  But the dwelling that was his and hers, of their bed and the quiet simplicity that had brought them such contentment.

  The thought of it quickened his steps.

  “I do not trust that word, fine,” Rykkon told her, unable to hide his distaste. “You typically use it when you mean quite the opposite.”

  Prim had the good sense not to deny it, though he did not wholly appreciate her shrug. “That’s probably true.”

  Rykkon looked down at her. “Then why do it? Why not simply speak the whole of the truth when something is bothering you?”

  Prim was silent for a moment, long enough for him to wonder if she was considering her response or choosing to ignore him entirely. Either possibility seemed equally probable.

  But eventually she spoke, her voice thoughtful. “There wasn’t a lot of good complaining about things back in the colony. They simply... were. And when you ask me about something that I know can’t change—that we can’t change—it doesn’t feel very productive to make you feel worse about it by saying I’m feeling wretched.” Something in him sank to hear there were moments when she felt thusly, and he wondered if she was right to keep such dark moods from him when they came. “But it passes. It always does.”

  “Some things can change,” he reminded her, his voice a little weak. He forced himself to remember her earlier assurances—she was happy, with him, and a few moments of melancholy did not negate that reality. “How will I know what requires my attention if you are not honest about what troubles you?”

  Prim gave him a solemn look, and he realised that their time for light-heartedness had well passed—her eyes so grave and her mouth a tight line. “Because we don’t live in a world where there’s a solution to every problem. I thought that was becoming obvious with our discussions the last two days.”

  A weight pressed on him as he remembered their earlier words, his adamant refusal to return her to her people. “Prim...” he tried to soothe, false platitudes refusing to follow, yet wishing he could do something to help all the same.

  She shook her head, her steps quickening. “You’ve made your position plain, Rykkon. And I can’t say that I don’t understand it. You’re right; it’s dangerous and probably foolish to even consider it. But that doesn’t change the way that I feel, no matter how much I wish that it did.” If possible, her mouth formed an even firmer line. “So I’m sorry if when you ask how I’m feeling all I can manage is a fine, but I don’t think you really want me to give you a full answer every time you ask it.”

  Rykkon did not mean to prompt her to anger—but when was that ever his intention? Yet more often than he wished, that seemed to be the consequence of his words.

  She did not get far from him, not when his stride was so much longer, and there was little possibility he would slow so she could storm away as she clearly wished to do—not when there could be lurking dangers in these woods.

  She was allowed to be angry with him, no matter how it displeased him, but their tiff could not lead to harm.

  “Prim,” he said
again, returning to her side. Her shoulders were hunched and her arms were wrapped tightly about her middle, pulling her fur tight. He vaguely remembered his faeder’s enquiry and tried to judge her figure for any sign that a youngling resided there, but it still seemed impossible to tell—and now was certainly not the time to broach such a subject. “I do not wish to argue with you. Especially when, as you say, there is no right side to maintain. I only wish us to be safe, you know this, yes?” He did not know how to apologise, not when he was yet unwilling to relent and give in to her request to return to Mercy, but he knew well that silence often only furthered a darkened mood.

  Prim glanced at him, her steps not slowing. “You put yourself in danger for your people—for their good—and I am to live with that. But we will not do the same for mine?”

  Rykkon closed his eyes briefly, taking a steadying breath. “I do not understand you,” he said at last. “You grow angry for what my people do, what they have done to me. You have stated that you also have felt the impulse to simply deny them care. And yet now you use it as an argument to do the same for another group. You continue to insist that we enter a far more dangerous situation with information that can help no one. How is that reasonable?”

  “I don’t know if it will help! I just...” she stopped, gripping at her hair and trembling. The day was not very cold, at least not to him, but still, she shivered. “I just want all of it to stop,” she whispered brokenly, a tremor in her voice that was unfamiliar to him. “I don’t want to have to think about these things anymore—wonder if by me letting it go, just staying safe and tucked away with you I’ll wake up one day and feel this crushing guilt that I’m responsible by my inaction. Other people are supposed to make choices like this. Wiser, more important people. That’s why they’re our leaders, right?”

  Rykkon grimaced, reaching out and taking hold of her upper arms, rubbing gently to try to imbue some extra warmth into her. “That is their purpose, yes,” he confirmed. “But they are fallible, and prone to error, as are we.” Her cheeks were pale, her eyes red, and he was reminded how weary she must be, her thoughts plagued by her worries over her people. He had hoped to alleviate her burdens, to comfort her, but clearly his simple refusal did not absolve the needless blame she continued to harbour.

  “You are kinder than you give yourself credit for,” he said instead. Prim blinked at him in surprise, obviously not expecting this turn in conversation. “You said before that you feared you were not—that you were selfish and uncaring, and so you wished to act merely to prove that you were not as terrible as you feared. But someone truly unfeeling would not be so distressed. Would not fight their mate so vehemently for a cause that was not dear to them.”

  A sob emerged from her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to still any more of them, shaking her head as she did so. She had always been embarrassed by her tears, no matter how much he had assured her that there was no need to be. She pulled her hand away only slightly, enough so she could speak to him once more. “They were horrible. They are horrible. I should just be ready for them to receive whatever consequences come—justice for everything they’ve done, right? But why then does that feel so wrong? Why can’t I just let it go?”

  “Because...” Rykkon said, drawing her close and resting his hand against her head, smothering her hair and trying to find the words that always seemed so elusive to him. “Because they are your kind. Because you see a youngling, you see a mother, who had yet to be so very terrible, and you think that maybe there is one worth saving—one that could create some good. The others may disappoint you, may hurt you, yet no matter how you try, you always nurse some hope that there can be change.”

  Prim released another sob, and he kissed the top of her head. “It is an awful burden, the knowledge that you alone have the means to cause some—if not all of them—to suffer by merely withdrawing from them.” He rested his hand upon her neck and urged her to look at him. “I know all of this well, Prim. And I have made my choices. But through it all, whatever risks I take of my person, I have the assurance that I am doing good. They may not wish to acknowledge it, but I, with full confidence, may say that their physical wellbeing is improved by my intervention. Can you say the same if we journeyed there now? Without a plan, without a means of rescue for them?”

  “No,” she whispered, her tone making clear how dejected she felt at that fact. “And I know you’re right. I do. I just... I didn’t think it would be this hard.”

  “We are going to be fine,” he reminded her, using her earlier assurance in the hopes of making her smile.

  It worked, a bit thin, a bit tired, but he approved of the shake of her head and the small roll of her eyes. He gave her a playful nudge, and she dried her eyes. Her face was still red and splotchy, but she did not look quite so crestfallen, all anger having seemingly been released by her tears.

  She made to take his hand, a prompt to their continued journey, but instead Rykkon picked her up, enjoying her surprised gasp and the way she put her arms about his neck. “I wasn’t tired yet,” she protested, though with the way she was settling against him, he did not think she truly objected to his intentions.

  “At least half the time,” he reminded her. “That is what you said was required for a proper homecoming.” He leaned down, dropping his voice to a whisper. “And I have missed you.”

  Her cheeks flamed, this time for an entirely different reason, and he was glad that his teasing had proved such an effective distraction. He could not help but lean down and place a kiss upon her lips, a promise in its own right.

  “We shall figure out what to do, Prim. We will. But you needn’t worry yourself into sickness in the process.”

  And with that, her head resting against his chest, her weight a welcome burden upon his arms, he began to carry her home.

  25. Treaty

  “You took a very long time.”

  The familiar trees were a welcome prospect after their travels, and Rykkon had many visions of their arrival—mainly centring upon reacquainting Prim with the luxuries of their bed.

  Finding Kondarr stationed upon their doorstep had never entered his imaginings.

  Prim had chosen to walk that day, so their pace was slowed somewhat, but he had more than fulfilled his resolution to carry her at least half the time. The blisters on her feet had grown shallow, and she was in a far better mood than when they had departed from his parents’. He still felt the pangs of longing to simply turn back, to spend far longer with those that he loved, but a growing urgency was sharpening his focus, quickening his steps to return to his people and learn what decisions had been reached regarding the colonists in Mercy.

  But upon nearing their home, he had scooped her up once again, determined to hasten them into their dwelling with as little wasted time as possible.

  Though upon seeing Kondarr’s presence barring the door, he reluctantly set her down once again.

  “There was far to go,” Rykkon reminded him, Prim coming to stand slightly behind him. If she showed any great surprise or fear at the male’s presence, she hid it well. “Have you been stationed here long?”

  “Too long,” Kondarr replied with a grunt of displeasure. “I am to report to the elders upon your arrival. It is fortunate you arrived when you did, for the hunters were to be called come first dawn.”

  Rykkon placed himself even more between Prim and Kondarr, noting the male’s eye line straying to her. “Were they so concerned? Has something happened?”

  Kondarr finally looked back at him. “They wished to send them four days back, but then the convoy from Narada arrived. They have been distracted.”

  Rykkon felt Prim shrink a little behind him, obviously recognising the name of the creatures despite the use of the Arterian tongue, and he was glad Kondarr was unable to see it. Fear was perceived as weakness, and none should cower from the Narada.

  “Is there word of a treaty?”

  Kondarr blinked slowly, his manner calm though he did not move from the doo
rstep. It made Rykkon uneasy. “They were not pleased with Lorrak’s retaliation. But that is unsurprising. It has made things... difficult.”

  Rykkon kept his expression carefully neutral. He had hoped they would arrive to find an accord had already been reached, Prim’s worry for her people a needless thing. But from the way Kondarr continued to look at him, that was not to be.

  “We are to accompany you,” Rykkon stated more than questioned, the reason for his presence fairly obvious.

  “Yes,” Kondarr confirmed, finally taking a step toward them both.

  “Must Prim come as well? Surely her presence would only serve as a reminder of what we have kept hidden.”

  Or,” Kondarr mused, “a reminder of what we have to offer.”

  There was no point in arguing. Even if he managed to injure Kondarr enough to allow them an escape—something he was loath to attempt even now—the hunters would soon be alerted to their disobedience and the warriors would be soon to follow. And they were both weary from travel, and now was not the day he chose to die.

  “I would set down my pack at least,” Rykkon negotiated. “The journey has been long, and I tire of carrying it.” He exaggerated the soreness of his shoulders, deciding there was little wrong in allowing Kondarr to believe he ailed more than he did.

  He wished for a moment to speak with Prim, but he doubted he would be granted such a thing. Not when Kondarr appeared so ready to depart.

  “It was long,” Kondarr agreed, making a quick gesture toward the door, permitting Rykkon to divest his burden. Rykkon moved past him, Prim remaining close and giving Kondarr wary glances as covertly as she would—which were not very hidden at all. “So long that it was almost as though you did more than gather herbs, healer.” Rykkon froze for a brief moment, turning to the other male, his gaze holding far too much knowledge. Had they followed him? Had his brief interlude of freedom been mere illusion?