She thought that much was obvious. It was not her affection that was in question, nor her commitment to him. At least... she hoped not. She had tried to offer him all that she could, in kisses and in words to express all that she felt, but he had asked her to come here, the reasons his own, and she would have to trust that perhaps afterward he might believe her.
They had passed a few boats by the time he stopped in front of one. This one was on the large side, with a thick beam in the centre that must serve a function she did not know.
She opened her mouth to ask if they were going somewhere, but before she had the chance, he took her hands in his. The right he held gently, holding just her uninjured fingertips in his large hand, ever mindful of her bandages.
“This is mine,” he informed her, a hint of pride in his voice. “She... she is not fit at the moment. I have been rather distracted of late.” Nothing in his tone suggested that he minded the distraction that must have been her. She remembered when first she’d come, the lady they had spoken of, and the funds Olivar would no longer have to fix her. She peeked at the boat again. She did not know what was wrong with it, as it appeared well maintained. The wood was well oiled, the metal bits were black and shiny. But then, she knew little of any such thing.
He’d already picked her over the needs of this lady. Before he’d even truly known her, before she was more than just a pitiful girl that had stirred his compassion, he had put her first.
And knowing that made it easier to look upon it as he did, as a source of adventure and a connection with the woman who had birthed him, loved him, once, and perhaps still did.
Though a small part of her felt wary of it, anxious that it might spirit him away while he left her behind, too incompetent to be taken on any more journeys.
But then he was squeezing her hand and drawing her attention away from any suspicions of his craft.
She made to make a quip about another stealing his affections, to tease him as she knew he liked to be teased, but one glance at his eyes made her pause. He was looking at her so earnestly, as if she was so very important, and it made her mouth grow dry.
“Ness,” he nearly whispered, and he closed his eyes for a moment, as if fighting for his own composure. It made her nervous. It made her heart flutter. It made her want to put her arms about him and tell him that no more words were needed.
Except, perhaps, maybe they were.
At least in this. When things muddled so quickly, and her every assumption could be so wrong.
“This craft is mine. To ship and haul, to carry goods to where they might be sold.”
There was a formality to his speech that confused her at first, but she tried not to show it.
Prove himself worthy. That was what he’d said.
A man of the Onidae proved that he could provide for his wife. For their children.
She swallowed, realisation coming slowly at what he meant to do.
It wasn’t enough that she had gleaned of his skills, that she knew of his life from their shared domesticity. He wanted to show her, to speak the words aloud.
And then, at the end, allow her to make her choice.
She had known how important it was for a death to be witnessed. When the most that could be hoped for was that one might live on in the memory of even just a single other.
And now...
Now the man she loved wanted her to bear witness to his ability to care for her, to the life he wished for them.
He showed her the boat. The interior with its room for the goods he would craft himself, or would ferry for another.
He held her hand as he took her back to his workroom, as he showed her the forge where his father had taught him to smith, showed her the moulds and tools where he would create weapons and tools to sell and use.
And then he led her back upstairs.
“Here is the home that I would give to you,” he continued, eyeing her steadily as he had done from the beginning. He seemed intent on missing nothing, no flicker of doubt, no hint of hesitation.
But he needn’t have worried. Not when all she could feel was warmth toward him, of the life he was preparing for them. Nothing was certain. She knew that. The Caern could come and tell him there would be no more trade, that his vassa would be taken from him and the right to sail as well.
But it hadn’t happened. Not yet. And for today they could have hope for their future, and she could smother her joy just long enough to allow him to finish, certain he had offered enough of himself so as to let her make her choice properly.
“The home where I will care for you, and hold you when you are sad.” His thumb was moving gently over her knuckles as they stood in the midst of what already felt so very much like home.
He’d offered her this once already. Back before she believed him, back when she thought she was pledging herself to a master and not the friend she had come to love so dearly.
“The home where... where I ask you to be mine. And offer myself as yours. If... if you would have me.”
She would have laughed at his uncertainty if she was not so close to crying.
She bit her lip, trying to force away her tears, but he tugged it free. And that was her undoing, until she could stand it no more as she wrapped her arms about him as best she could, her words slightly muffled by his tunic, but she did not care.
“Mine,” she affirmed. “And I will be yours. For always. Even... even if I don’t have nearly as much to offer you.” She looked up at him, saw the warmth and excitement in his eyes and knew it was mimicked heartily within her own. “Just me,” she said, an gift and a promise. “I hope that can be enough.”
He kissed her then, long and savouring, as if to prolong the wonderfulness of acceptance. Until finally he picked her up and she could not help but squeal as he gave them both a quick twirl.
“You are enough, sweet Ness,” he promised her. “More than enough.”
And despite everything she had endured, everything that her training had taught her...
She believed him.
19. Wed
“So,” Ness finally managed to begin. It was difficult to speak at all, her contentment urging her simply to revel. Her head was still tucked against his chest, and she did not wish to move, wanted to stay here for always, safe and so very happy. But she wanted to know and understand what was to come, and that urged her to at least try. “What happens now?”
She felt the rumble in his chest as he hummed in question. “What would you like to happen?”
Ness was glad she could hide her face so easily. She did not know how to voice such things, not when she could scarcely believe they were her own wants at all.
She wanted to be his in every way possible, the thought alone making her cheeks burn, even as she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. It thrilled her as much as it terrified her, that he could want her, could want to be with her, and she with him.
But all she had known were assigned couplings, of a vague sort of awareness that a master had a mistress, and those were not at all the same things. And even more so, she did not know the ways of the Onidae—Olivar’s ways—and what would come next for them.
She took a steadying breath and mustered her courage, small as it might be. “I should like to be yours,” she admitted, her heart pounding furiously. “But I don’t know what that means for you.”
She felt his hand in her hair, his fingers stroking gently before he shifted to tilt her chin upward. The act was so familiar to her now, his needing to see her eyes, perhaps so he might glean what she was thinking and feeling from the few words she gave to him. She would be better about that, she decided. She was already improving, but she tried to imagine what she might be when she was older. He wouldn’t have to coax. She would speak freely, would never hesitate to look at him when she talked.
She liked that future.
“I would marry you, Ness,” Olivar answered her, his thumb skimming over the round of her cheek. “That is how you would be mine. And with th
at honour you give me, in return every bit of what I own shall partly be yours. My people will be yours, just like every other wedded woman has the right to claim.”
He was always so careful to assure her of her place here, that things were different. She was not certain she actually needed so many reminders, but she supposed it was for his benefit as well. He wanted nothing unsaid, wanted to ensure she truly understood. Except still he was avoiding what she had truly meant to ask.
“But...” she began, colour infusing her cheeks. He looked at her so tenderly that it only furthered her embarrassment, even as a gentle warmth went through her that a man as wonderful as him could look at her in such a way. “How do we actually... wed?”
She did not expect him to laugh, and though she loved the rich, full sound of it, her mortification grew. She made to pull away, not wanting to talk any longer, at least until she had a chance to think through her questions so as not to appear stupid in front of the man she loved.
But he held her closer and kissed the top of her head, finding his composure. “Forgive me,” he entreated, sounding genuinely contrite. “I do not mock you, Ness, I promise this. It is only that when we are together, I find it so easy to forget there is so much you do not know.”
Ness frowned, her feelings still a little bruised, “Is that a good thing?”
He gave her the sheepish smile that she loved so much, and a part of her ire eased. “I do not know,” he admitted. “But that is the truth all the same. I forget that you have not always been here, and then you are so sweet and lovely when you ask me, and I...” he shrugged his broad shoulders. “I am sorry I gave offence,” he finished, bowing so that his forehead met hers.
She nodded, a bit more of her embarrassment fading at his apology.
She found that she was glad he could forget. She did not want him always thinking of her past whenever he looked at her, of the poor, miserable girl that she had been.
She would happily forget it all if she could.
Except, with him, she did. At least a little. Not all the time, as the darker parts of her memory returned despite her best efforts to keep them adequately locked away. But Olivar made it easier as he gave her new, brighter things to think upon.
She could simply... be.
Be Ness. Not a thrall, or even a young girl who once had been called that.
Just Ness.
With Olivar.
And she liked that thought best of all.
"I forgive you," she told him, deciding it was better to simply accept his apologies rather than brush them away. She had taken offence and there was no point in pretending otherwise. "But I should still like an answer," she reminded him, easing back against him. It was a bit more difficult than before, and she did not like that it should be so. She did not want to be cross with him, not when it was so much nicer to simply embrace the warm feelings that came so often when she was near him, but evidently emotions could not be so easily commanded.
"Shall we sit?" Olivar asked, and she did not miss the way he was suddenly watching her, obviously noting the slight tension that remained. "I have answers for you, truly, but I would rather speak of our marriage when you are... at ease," he said carefully, eyeing her quickly to see that his words were well received.
Her shoulders slumped a little, guilt niggling at her. She did not mean to be difficult, nor did she intend to hold any grudges. There was no point, especially when there had been nothing malicious in his intentions, so she did her best to push away the last of her disgruntlement, giving him a nod of assent.
He smiled, though even that was a touch strained, and he led her toward his big chair. He did not ask if she would like to sit with him, merely sat and opened his arms wide, staring at her in entreaty.
She could tell he would be disappointed in her refusal, and in truth, she had no intention of denying him. She had not been so embarrassed after all.
It was a little awkward at first, trying to situate knees and elbows so that she might be comfortable and he wasn't being poked terribly. But then he placed his hands on her waist and positioned her just so, and she sank against him, the last of her earlier upset soothing as he wrapped his arm about her, keeping her close and seeming to revel in her company.
She closed her eyes, turning her head against his shoulder and simply being, trying to still her thoughts and questions as she enjoyed him.
"I did not think I would have this," Olivar murmured softly, almost too low for her to hear.
She blinked, turning slightly so she could look at him. "Why?" she asked curiously, a bit of incredulity in her tone. Olivar was everything that was good, and it seemed preposterous that he should worry about finding a willing woman to call his wife.
He smiled ruefully, tugging at the end of her hair and staring at the end. He seemed fascinated by it, and she wasn't certain why. It was merely hair. It was longer than she had seen amongst the Onidae, but that was only because thralls did not have access to shears to keep it any differently. The men often had shorn hair, the easier for them to work in the tunnels, longer locks a detriment when it was difficult enough to see from the poor lighting.
The women however...
She wasn't entirely certain why theirs was not cut as well. She doubted the Narada much cared for differentiation between the sexes. All she knew for certain was that long plaits were easily grabbed, easily pulled whenever a master saw fit.
She had often resented her hair for that, wishing it might be short enough that it couldn't be grabbed and used to cause her pain.
But as Olivar grew more comfortable, grew a little bolder with his touches, she found that a part of her was glad for its length. She liked pleasing him. Not in the ways she was used to, of course. It was not born of fear, only desire. And that made the urge all the stronger.
"I am not entirely certain," Olivar finally answered, skimming his thumb over the end of her braid. "Bendan would often tell me merely to pick a woman and pursue her, but that never seemed quite proper." He glanced at her then, a tinge of green spreading through his ears. "I am glad I never listened to him."
She leaned forward, pressing her lips against the firm line of his jaw. "Me too," she agreed, as if confessing a great secret.
Olivar made the funny coughing noise in his throat, and he swallowed thickly, his eyes sparkling strangely as he glanced at her briefly before staring once again at her braid. "A wedding," he mumbled, his tone a bit strained.
She frowned, wondering what troubled him, and she found her fingers settling under his chin, coaxing him as he so often did to her. "Are you well?" she asked, hoping that she had not now been the one to accidently say something wrong.
He nodded, the green spreading downward onto his neck. She hadn't meant to embarrass him. She hated that feeling and certainly didn't wish it for him. "I am," he insisted. "I just find myself... wanting a bit more than I should."
Her brow furrowed further, and she opened her mouth to press for a fuller response, but something in his expression made her pause. He was silently pleading with her, and she stilled, her hand dropping as she decided perhaps it was better not to enquire. He would speak on it if he wished; there was no need to harass him.
But settling on that did not keep her cheeks from flaming anew when she thought of one possible explanation, further confirmed by her subtle shifting. He kept her still, his mouth a tight line, his eyes closing briefly.
She had thought she had been mortified earlier. It was nothing compared to now.
“I...” she started, not at all sure of what she intended to say. Apologise? That didn’t seem quite right. Perhaps an offer to move might have been appropriate, as she did not know what might hurt him. She was so inexperienced despite everything, and she found herself mildly curious if his anatomy was even what she had known before.
She grimaced inwardly. She had no great fondness for that, at least not as it had been used. It seemed strange, trying to separate all that had transpired with what might come in her future, but
she would try. And that included trying not to resent Olivar’s parts for things they hadn’t done to her.
She bit her lip, still uncertain of what to do, his words settling over her.
He... wanted her.
She had known that. His entreaty for him to be his wife had been full of implication, but she was terribly slow in realising things. Especially what that truly meant.
The thralls that had been assigned to her hadn’t wanted her. They might have performed as ordered, had supplied the implantation, but they would have done so with any that had been brought into the room.
There was nothing special about her.
But to Olivar there was.
And that meant more to her than she thought possible.
“I feel I should apologise for offending you again,” Olivar muttered, peering at her only briefly before settling his attention back on her braid.
She smiled at him, finding it much easier to do than she’d expected. Her embarrassment was dwindling as she watched his own discomfort, and she found it more important to soothe his worries than nurse any lingering awkwardness. “You don’t have to,” she assured him. She wanted to curl back into him as she had been, but suddenly she was afraid of getting too close to him. Not for what might happen, not for her own sake, but for his.
He took a heavy breath, then looked at her properly. “I expect nothing of you,” he forced out, the words sure if perhaps a bit rushed. “Even... even when we wed.”
He did not clarify to what exactly he referred, but for once she did not need him to. She found it difficult to keep his stare, as this subject was a difficult one, but she also needed him to understand her feelings on the matter.
“Do you want that with me?” she asked, needing to be sure before she bared her own desires to him.
Olivar eyed her cautiously. “I want what you are willing to share,” he said carefully.
Thrall (Deridia Book 3) Page 32
