She bit her lip, glancing at Olivar but something in her managing to be bold. “Why did your people choose to treaty with the Narada?” she asked, trying not to sound accusatory, but merely make her enquiry. She was curious, and if he did not wish to answer, that was his right. But she did not have to fear being hit, being struck for giving voice to an enquiry. At least, she hoped not.
He looked at her sombrely. “Our peoples have warred for many generations,” he said at last. “We grow weary of the bloodshed and loss.” He glanced at his wife, sighing deeply as he did so. “There are few answers that are simple,” he continued, his tone weary, as if this argument was an old one. “I am grateful I am not one of the elders who must make such difficult choices.”
“Is a principle worth dying for,” Olivar murmured beside her. “Or better yet, asking all those around you to die as well?”
Rykkon nodded, both men seeming to understand each other well. “Precisely.”
Ness hesitated. She looked at Olivar, imagined him plunging into the Narada in an attempt to right all that had been done for her—perhaps even to free a few more thralls from their lifetime of servitude. She recoiled from the thought, already knowing that despite his strength, his goodness and courage, he would soon be overwhelmed by the very weapons he had forged, the numbers of the Narada too overwhelming for any one man to defeat.
He would die. Bendan would die. Alindra too, if she was to fight.
The thought of it made her want to weep, wanted to hide within Olivar’s arms and remind herself that he was there and unhurt, but afraid to instigate it in front of these two strangers.
But true to his nature, Olivar seemed to know of it anyway, and he pulled her close and stroked her hair. “I am sorry, Ness,” he whispered, almost brokenly. “I am sorry that I do not know how to help.”
She nodded her head against him, holding on to his tunic with her uninjured hand, trying to keep him as close as possible. When he was near, there were not thoughts of rebellion, of a simmering anger for both herself and for her people. There was just him. Warm and gentle, strong and kind.
Everything that was Olivar.
“Please,” she whispered, peering up at him. “I would like to go home now.”
And it was home. The life he had created for them, filled with blankets, hot meals, and comforting touches.
There was more she should ask of Prim. Of the history of their peoples—if truly it was a shared thing. Of how they came to be here, of what came of the others she had mentioned.
But she found herself remarkably uncurious, which perhaps was a quality too deeply taught since girlhood.
Olivar looked at her with concern. “Are you well enough?” His eyes flitted over her again, and she realised why. Her limbs still felt heavy, as if they belonged to someone else but had somehow become attached to her instead. Her hand felt less so, but her legs...
“If you carry me,” she answered somewhat shyly. He had always offered it before, or simply done it, surprising her when suddenly her feet no longer touched the ground. But never had she asked, and she watched carefully to see if that was all right for her to do.
Olivar looked to Rykkon, apparently wanting a healer’s opinion before he agreed to anything. She wasn’t entirely sure what the difference was between a healer and a doctor, but she supposed there must be one for there to be such a distinction.
He had a human wife, in any case, and she had not died from the bite, so he must know his trade well.
“I suppose,” Rykkon hesitantly agreed. “I would prefer to watch her a while longer to ensure that she does not take a turn, but...”
He looked at her then, his head tilting to the side. “I have found that greater healing takes place when one is comfortable. So if Olivar does not mind it, I suppose you could return.”
She smiled at him, relief causing something tight and nearly painful in her chest to release. “My thanks,” she said again, bowing her head. “And... and may your child be blessed.”
This she directed to Prim. It felt odd to say it, and to find that she meant it. It was odder still to see the father there with the mother as she carried, to see affection as they looked at one another, so different from the couplings she had known.
It sent a moment’s sorrow through her at what had been and what she almost wished for in the future. But she shoved it away, locked it away where she would not have to feel it, not when wishing would only cause pain when failure killed it most thoroughly.
“Thank you,” Prim answered, and she gave the swell of her stomach a tired pat. “I did not think it could happen, you know,” she continued. “He told me it could, but I did not believe him. He likes to remind me that he was right.” She said this with a glare at her husband, but there was tenderness there, and there was no mistaking that it was felt in turn, despite Rykkon’s knowing smirk.
Could that be her one day? Teasing so easily and so sweetly with... with Olivar. A child within her that was not fearfully or mournfully carried but was wanted.
In a home that was hers, and was his.
It was dangerous, this wanting. For she had been content before, with her quiet deference, with thinking of Olivar as her half-master, a kindly keeper that had taken her in and cared for her better than she ever could have hoped.
But to want for more...
It was greedy. It was risky.
But even knowing that did not stop the quickening in her heart, the warmth that spread and grew.
The longing.
“Home,” she said again, as close to an order as she had ever given.
And Olivar complied.
18. Prove
She hadn’t expected that the others would wait for her. She should have known better as it was unlikely they would abandon Olivar in a foreign land, even one that they seemed to have good relations with, but when Olivar had appeared, her tucked tightly in his arms, they had looked genuinely concerned for her.
Bendan had even come up, his voice low as he questioned if she was well enough to depart, his tone dubious at best. “You look grey,” he insisted, his eyes narrowing at Olivar. “Why would you make her get up so soon?” he asked accusingly.
Ness found herself oddly touched by his concern, and she gave him a wan smile. “I want to go home, please,” she entreated. She held out her hand. It moved more easily now, and even her legs had lost some of the thick feeling, but she did not trust herself to walk on them yet.
Bendan stared a moment longer before he nodded, turning to the two others. “You heard the lady,” he barked. “Move!”
She was surprised at that, a deep blush coming to her cheeks as she tried to see if Archel and Rol were upset with her for her unintentional command, but both smiled at her pleasantly enough, and they wasted little time in getting back into the boat.
She was even more surprised when Bendan hit Olivar in the back of the head when he made to put her down in the craft and pick up an oar. “Do not be stupid,” he chastised, a deep scowl on his face. “She could fall over at any moment.”
Olivar did not seem to mind the hit for he made no move to retaliate, instead releasing a relieved breath before giving him a grateful smile.
The journey back was slower without Olivar’s assistance, but she did not mind. She was exactly where she wished to be, going back to precisely where she wished to rest, and it was easy to fall asleep to the soothing sound of the water lapping against the sides of the boat, to the rhythmic nature of the oars dipping into the smooth, glistening surface of the river.
The first sun had not even sunk beneath the horizon by the time they departed, and she was comforted a little by that. She had not cost them too much time with her unfortunate incident with the biting beast. Perhaps the Caern might take pity on an accident and not strip Olivar of his vassa.
At least, she could hope.
By the time they reached the docks, her legs almost felt like her own again, likely aided by the extra rest she had gotten as she was held so snugly in Ol
ivar’s arms. She did not bother offering to make the attempt at walking, as she knew she would be too slow for the suggestion to be a kindness.
Olivar did not mind in any case, the others shooing him away when he hesitated, intending to help them with the rest of the cargo and see the fabric to its proper new home, but Bendan was firm. “She said home. Not the port. You mind her, now.”
Olivar rolled his eyes, but he leaned down and kissed her temple, so she did not think that he minded being commanded either. That was so strange to her, even now. For as much as they insisted that they were not masters, they did not seem to mind when she voiced her desires, happily seeing that they were fulfilled.
And from their gentle looks and affectionate smiles, she was coming to realise it was because they cared for her.
It was an odd, gentle realisation. As if something slipped into place, obvious and right, much as it did when she accepted that the Narada had been wrong. They were simple truths, but profound ones, and she felt lighter for it.
“You look too happy for one that is supposed to be injured,” Olivar chided teasingly.
She was smiling, a soft thing that she had not even noticed. And though she should be embarrassed that he had seen it, she could not conjure up the feeling. Not now.
“I have realised a few things,” she told him vaguely. People stared as they passed, but none stopped them to comment on why Olivar was yet again carrying her. She supposed it was becoming a common enough occurrence that it simply was beyond notice any longer. That should bother her far more than it did, but even that was not worth fretting over.
Nothing seemed so very terrible any longer.
“Is that so?” Olivar asked, navigating a bit of congestion with ease. A cart had stalled in the middle of the street, two men bickering as a shop-keep appeared to argue both of them away from his door. That might have worried her before—for the fight that could erupt, the blows that would be exchanged and some poor thrall that would ultimately pay the most.
But now it seemed silly to have worried for so long about such things. At least, not here. She was protected here, not attacked. Not blamed for things that had nothing to do with her.
“Would you care to share these revelations, or am I to be made to guess?”
Ness looked up at him, and she smiled. “Home first,” she reminded him, wanting them to be able to speak freely, to have his full attention as she shared with him and not be distracted by passersby.
Olivar made a strange sort of grimace. “You make me nervous,” he admitted. “Insisting on being home. I do not know what I expect for you to say, but...” He shook his head, as if to dispel whatever thoughts were making him anxious.
She did not know why that seemed so odd to her. Olivar was allowed to be anxious, to be nervous, and whatever he felt like being. Perhaps it was simply the idea that she could be the cause. She didn’t particularly like that idea, as she always wanted him to be at ease, for him to be pleased by her company. She no longer feared quite so much that he would tire of her, that unless she was perfect in every regard he would dismiss her from his home and his friendship.
Olivar wasn’t like that. He had proven that to her, whether he believed it or not.
He was special.
“You don’t need to be,” she told him sincerely. “It’s nothing bad.”
Olivar hummed a little, not quite accepting her assurance, but not exactly rejecting it either. She sighed, knowing she would feel much the same. It was his silences that had first forced her to speak, to press an issue until he relented and shared with her.
It weakened her resolve, but only a small amount. She wanted to be tucked away in his chair when they talked, not out in the open when anyone could overhear.
He did not ask her to explain anything further, instead his gait quickening as they neared his home. The stairs he took two at a time, uncaring for the additional weight of her in his arms. He did not take her to his chair as she’d hoped, but instead brought her to his bedroom, obviously having difficulty deciding on whether to put her down in her cot or place her in his bed.
The latter thought made her heart beat faster, not with the same paralysing fear as the last time she was faced with the prospect of being there, but with some warm feeling that crept through her muscles, that made her want to be closer to him, to be a part of him.
It felt somehow detached from what she’d known before. The fear of enduring that again was still there, the remembered pain still vivid if she dwelt upon it long enough.
But this...
There was desire too. The sort of thing she now supposed the Narada worked so hard to quell. She understood why now. It made her want to be reckless, to want for things that she had always supposed could not be. But now...
“Your bed is fine,” she murmured softly, unable to keep the pink from spreading through her cheeks.
She peeked upward and noted that green was seeping through Olivar’s ears as well, and that made her give him an affectionate smile. For as intimidating as his appearance might at first have been, he was sweet and almost shy in his care of her—so wanting her to be pleased, to be comforted instead of afraid of him.
And it made her love him for it.
It was an odd word. One that had no place in the life she’d known before, even if the Narada had a concept for it. Love was for the people, for the Commander, for duty and honour and the households they would once serve.
She had tried to give it, to feel the passionate desire to serve as she was told, but it had always been a slow, forced thing.
Not like this.
This had come softly, sweetly, with every look, every touch, every kind word that he gave to her, just as he gifted her with clothes and blankets simply because he thought she should have them.
He hesitantly approached the other side of the bed, eyeing her speculatively for a moment. “I could bring a chair,” he offered, his eyes already drifting to the door. Always so careful with her, even when it was unnecessary.
She swallowed, her own nervousness rising, despite her sureness, and she gave the bed a pat beside her. “It’s all right,” she assured him.
She had thought her nest on the floor to be the pinnacle of luxury, but his bed was far more so. The cushioning was even thicker, and there was room enough that she could roll and sprawl without even finding the edge.
She would like her own blankets, of course, but merely because she had grown so fond of them. He had laid her out on top of his, likely so as not to frighten her, and she was glad of it. She needed to talk, not surrender to more sleep. It would be cruel to make him wait so long.
“We are home,” he reminded her. “You said you would tell me now.”
He had settled on the far edge, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and took his hand, tugging at it a little until he shifted closer, until she was held within his arms again, propped against the fluff he called pillows, but more securely held by his embrace.
“Now I’m home,” she murmured so softly she wasn’t sure he heard it at all. That was all right. It wasn’t for him. It was simply an exhalation of a truth that had become so bright and real that she needed to say it.
But he must have heard, for he stiffened a little, and her own anxiousness grew.
“I...” she stuttered out, wanting him to calm so she could once more be at ease with him, but also not wanting to rescind her words either. They were spoken in truth, and she wouldn’t lie to him. So instead she asked what she had meant to before, back when cowardice and fear had stilled her tongue. “Did you mean what you said to the Caern?”
She couldn’t look at him, not when some of the awkwardness was seeping back between them. She hated it.
“Which part?” Olivar asked warily.
She pinched a piece of his tunic between her fingers. She remembered well how he had phrased it, the shock of them burning the memory into her mind.
But for once it was not a trauma that she tried for forget, but a thrill
of disbelief, of utter certainty that she must have misunderstood.
Except he had been so clear, so firm in his resolve to the Caern.
“That you would marry me,” she answered him.
His silence was not a comfort, and she felt it acutely until she could not help peering up at him, needing to judge at least his expression.
He was staring at her. Of course he was. And so intently that her cheeks immediately heated to see it, and she bit her lip to keep from glancing back down. He didn't like when she did that, she knew that, and she could well understand why. It was a reminder of where she'd come from, of all that he was hoping she might forget, and she would have him be proud of her.
"Do you remember what else I said?" he asked carefully.
She nodded, a bit hesitantly. "You did not think you had proven yourself to me," she answered slowly. "That... that I might accept for the wrong reason."
His mouth formed a grim line. It did not suit him. "That has not changed."
She frowned, not liking the firmness in his tone, the way he seemed so certain when she felt quite the opposite. "You think I do not wish it?"
His expression slipped into incredulity. "You are too good," he surprised her by replying instead, his fingers coming to skim her cheek. "An entire people took advantage of that goodness. Until I know... until I can be certain you are well enough to choose for yourself so that I do not do the same..." he shook his head, a pained look crossing his features. "I would never force you," he told her firmly. "To do anything." He looked at her so intently, as if willing her to understand him. She did, a lump settling in her throat at his sincerity. "Do you believe that?"
"You are not them," she unnecessarily reminded him. They had spoken of this already. He knew that she thought differently of him. "You do not need to fear that."
He scoffed, the movement jostling her a little, but he quieted quickly as if he had noticed. Always so careful with her, even when vexed. "Perhaps," he grudgingly conceded. "But that is not the same as allowing you to wed me when..." he trailed off, and when she glanced at him again, it was clear he did not intend to continue.
Thrall (Deridia Book 3) Page 30
