Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 9

  Prim played with a berleet in her palm, and for a moment he thought she would ignore him. But eventually she sighed. “Have you ever lived with someone who was angry all the time? Over every little thing?”

  Rykkon shook his head slowly. He had certainly witnessed anger more times than he would care to admit—but that stemmed from his kin when he would venture into the unwelcoming village. “No,” he confirmed, pushing away thoughts of his own upbringing. They were not important. Not when he was attempting to understand his new wife.

  “I’m glad about that,” she remarked, and he looked to see any measure of deceit. If he had experienced similar circumstances, she would have to explain less to him. And yet, despite his worry, she seemed to be most truthful, and she continued without more prompting. “You have to think through every action carefully, because you never know what it is that will set them off. Is it because you made too much for a meal? That you made too little and couldn’t share when he came back early? So then when you try to leave, try to tell someone that he’s angry and unreasonable and he hurts you, they remind you that your mother’s dead and we all grieve in our separate ways.”

  “Your people are stupid,” Rykkon reminded her.

  She smiled at that, slight though it might have been. “Yes. They are.” She took another bite of meat, leaning against the wall of his dwelling as she did so, not quite looking at him. “So, I’m sorry if I ask too many times what you want, or if something’s okay for me to do. But I’m... I’m not used to it being all right to simply... be.” Her eyes flickered up to meet his, even as her next words wounded him, though he was certain she had not meant them to do so. “And I do not know you yet. I’m trying, but I think... it’ll take time for me to fully believe all that you say. Everything is so different from... before.”

  It was true of course. They hardly knew one another, but that was precisely what he was attempting to rectify. “Then do not thwart me when I make an enquiry,” he told her, trying to keep every bit of petulance from his tone. “How are we to trust one another if I am not permitted to ask about you?”

  “And me to you?” There was something pointed about her look, perhaps just the smallest bit challenging, and he had to push away the rankled feeling. She was right to ask things of him—it showed that she was interested, and that could not possibly be bad. Except that it could. The more she knew, the more she could dislike. The more details of his past that were made known, the higher the likelihood that she could come to see their mating as a mistake.

  “Do your people ever sever bonds?”

  Prim flinched, and any hint of challenge left her features, her gaze dropping to the floor. “Of course.”

  He wondered at her reaction, but said nothing in regard to it. “Then it is possible that when you know more of me, you would seek to undo our mating. But there is no such provision here, and it would only... hurt me that you should attempt it.”

  Prim frowned. “You think... if I know more about you, I’ll want to leave?”

  Rykkon tried to mimic one of her little shrugs. “It is possible.”

  She continued to study the floor. “From what I have... experienced so far with you, you are one of the best men I have ever known. If not the best.”

  “Then I am grieved you have known so few examples of proper behaviour. I have simply tried to be hospitable.” He warred with himself, whether or not he should mention it when doing so had caused their spat to begin with, but he risked it. Needed her to know, to understand, that last night had not been what he would have liked.

  That he was sorry to have hurt her.

  “And I was not a proper mate to you. Not truly. Not when you received only pain from me when we joined.”

  Heat suffused her cheeks, and she looked anywhere but at him. “Must you bring that up again?”

  “Yes,” he stressed, his voice becoming urgent. “Because I wish for you to know that I saw the blood and that it was never, never my intention that you be hurt. Not from me. Never in that way. And you will not permit me to speak of pleasure, or to ask if your kind is even capable of experiencing such gratifications, not without dismissing me entirely.”

  Prim set down the last of her food, and he wondered if the subject, the memory of what she must have experienced when he was inside her, had caused her to lose her appetite. His own belly roiled to consider it.

  “My people... we do not talk about these things.” Prim said at last. “We do them, some with greater frequency than others,” she remarked rather ruefully, “but we do not discuss these... particulars.”

  “Oh,” Rykkon breathed, realising too late that all this time, he had been bringing offence against her with the speaking of it. “Forgive me. I did not know. I will not insult you by asking of it again.”

  Except there were things he needed to know, things he had yet to understand.

  And yet her people did not speak of them.

  They simply did them.

  Rykkon stilled, at last a bit of comprehension coming over him.

  His wife would not speak of her potential for pleasures, nor of the blood he had seen.

  But if he understood her correctly, he could explore, could ascertain these answers for himself when next they joined.

  He merely had to select the proper time to do so.

  7. Leak

  Rykkon decided now was not the time for such explorations. Even though the prospect was an exciting one, the promise of such intimacies demanding the utmost of his attention, his wife was sore and still in bandages, and it seemed doubtful that she would be quite so receptive when her body still protested with hurts.

  So he would wait. However begrudgingly.

  Prim was acclimating fairly well—at least, that is what he told himself. She helped select their meals, taking small nibbles of his different stores, trying to decide what she favoured and what might possibly combine into something more pleasing.

  He had expected her to take an interest in their food, since she had made it so plain that her meals had been scarce and only allowed under the potential for violence, and even now she seemed to marvel a little that he would permit her such unfettered access to his goods. But as the suns rose and fell, she appeared to truly accept it, one morning even rising before he did so as to begin preparing their meal and brewing teshon for them both—a favourite of hers when she no longer needed neither willomn nor manta to function without much pain.

  What he had not expected, was for her to take interest in his healing. It had started when one of the villagers had come to him for aid, wary and hovering at the door, her eyes darting around the interior of his dwelling for sign of Prim. His wife was settled on his workbench, staring as he chopped and brewed, not yet making enquiries, but her eyes clearly holding question. He had determined to wait. It was not common for a wife to learn her husband’s craft, but he saw no harm in it. Perhaps his people would consider her with more respect if she held the potential for healing as well. But he would not presume upon what held her interest, instead going about his work and allowing her to decide what she would ask of him.

  Until Mincel appeared at his door, and the time for questions had passed.

  “Mincel,” he acknowledged when he allowed her entrance. None of his people had come since Lorrak’s visit, and he realised with some small surprise that it felt almost odd to be looking down at a female face that looked so much more like his own. Apparently in these few days with human company, he had been adjusting as well. “What ails you?”

  They rarely came for any other reason, and throughout the cycles as the sole healer to his kin, he had discovered that it led to much less awkward exchanges when he prompted them to hasten to the medicine.

  Mincel looked at Prim, not openly hostile, but not pleased either to see her sitting there. Prim was not looking at her, not exactly, and Rykkon wondered at how much privacy Mincel would require. “She does not understand our words,” he reminded her. “I would prefer she remain where she is.”

 
He doubted that a raiding party was stationed outside his door, Mincel serving as an effective distraction, but he would take no such chances. Perhaps in future, should one of his kin require more intimate healings, he would ask Prim to wait for him by the stream. But it was too soon, his trust not yet firm enough in his own people, and he wanted her where he could see that she was well.

  Mincel did not openly object, though she did not look exactly pleased.

  She held up her wrist for his inspection. “It hurts.”

  Rykkon approached, his fingers careful and assessing as he manipulated the bones, watching as she winced when he pressed. The bones were aligned, though the bruising and swelling suggested genuine damage had been done beyond a simple sprain. “Have you experienced a trauma?”

  Mincel bowed her head in confirmation. “I fell. A rock did not seem pleased with where I landed.”

  Rykkon stifled a smile. “It may be fractured, and I would like to secure it to ensure it heals properly. Have you any objection?”

  Mincel’s features were tight, and he realised that her original assessment of hurts was perhaps too simple of one. “Would you like something for the pain?”

  Her expression softened. “Please.”

  Rykkon released her arm, turning to his stores. Prim continued to watch him, and he wondered what she saw as he interacted with Mincel. Would she be impressed with his skills? He hoped so. “Did Kondarr accompany you?” he asked Mincel.

  She looked down at the floor, clearly ashamed. “It is not that he does not trust you, healer, he just thought it best to come along to see that I was well. Did not take another tumble.”

  Rykkon did not know if he believed her words, but he accepted them. And his rightness to keeping Prim precisely where she was. “Then you will be all right with something a little stronger.” He would not have given her a cup of manta and expected her to stumble through the forest to her home alone. But her husband was a competent one, and he would see her home properly. “Would you care for a brew now, or wait?” he belatedly asked, realising that she perhaps would prefer not to imbibe in his company. In Prim’s. But apparently the pain outweighed her natural wariness, “Now, please.”

  Rykkon set to brewing, bringing her a cup when it had finished, which she drank gratefully. He also presented her with a pouch of additional leaves for later. “Not too much,” he cautioned. “You will know when you have need of it.”

  Mincel bowed her head again, and allowed him to wrap and support the delicate wrist bones with a splint, listening to his instructions with care, even as her eyes began to become glassy as the pain left her. Rykkon nearly chuckled at that, so typical was the sight in his work. “Do you understand it all?”

  Mincel nodded and he escorted her outside, his hand upon her arm only until they came to the exterior, where he quickly released her as Kondarr approached. “Well?”

  “You were right to bring her here, but I have supported the bone and with rest she will heal nicely.”

  Mincel walked to her husband’s side, and Rykkon watched as Kondarr wrapped his arm about her waist, both a support and a claim. While their marriage had begun as a practical one—Mincel had young that required more meat and protections than she alone could provide—from the way Kondarr watched her, there seemed to be more affection behind his expression than Rykkon would have anticipated.

  “Did he treat you well?”

  Rykkon had no doubt that if Mincel suggested otherwise, he would soon be avoiding blows. But she bowed her head and rested it against Kondarr’s arm, the manta dulling the pain and leaving a need for sleep in its wake. “He was very good,” she assured her mate, holding up the pouch of additional leaves. “Gave me something to ease the pain, and I have more in case it comes back again.”

  Kondarr grunted, taking the small packet and tucking it into the pouch about his waist, evidently noting the way she swayed somewhat on her feet. And without consulting her, he picked her up completely, bowing his head once rather begrudgingly in Rykkon’s direction. “My thanks, healer,” he intoned.

  Rykkon bowed his own head. “You have my welcome,” he assured them both. “Always. That has not changed.”

  Both looked rather doubtful, though Mincel’s did not hold it for long as she preferred to rest her face against Kondarr’s chest, sleepy and trusting, surrendering to sleep even before they had fully departed Rykkon’s land.

  Kondarr hesitated for a moment, and Rykkon thought that he might speak, but instead he merely gave another grunt and departed, his wife tucked neatly in his arms.

  And something in Rykkon began to ache as he watched them disappear into the trees.

  He wanted that.

  He wanted a wife, warm and pliant, to nuzzle into him with every assurance that he would keep her safe and secure while she slept. Prim slept beside him, as she had always done after their first night together, but it was different. She was stiff, her muscles tensed until at last sleep took her. Cold. Unwelcoming. And though it should not, it hurt him. She had claimed that he was allowed to join with her as he wished, and while he reminded himself firmly that she was still in the process of healing, that of course she should be nervous if his hands, his movements brushed against bruises that protested his every action. But she would not speak of it, and he had promised not to bring up the subject again lest he insult her further.

  But that did not keep him from desiring her, desiring that things be different.

  Especially when he lay beside her, sleepless and wanting. He tried to convince his arms to move, to pull her close and simply hold her—that the rest could wait until she was more ready to receive him. But he did not trust himself to be content with merely that, so he forced himself to stillness, to waiting. But it was tiresome.

  Yet even so, he would never say he would rather she be gone from him. Not when he had become so accustomed to taking his meals with another, to coaxing out small bits of what together compiled his wife.

  She did not much care for sweet things. She preferred her teshon to be brewed to near blackness, the flavours all the stronger. He had permitted her to select two of his tunics from his trunk for her to wear as she willed until he could provide her with her own coverings. And of those, she had taken the two oldest, the most worn.

  Concerned by that, that she should think him a selfish mate that would dictate he keep the best things for himself, he plied her for her reasoning.

  She had blushed, her fingers stroking the edge of the fabrics held carefully between her hands. “Did I choose wrongly? I can try again.”

  He nearly sighed at that, but he stifled his natural reaction. Her responses were as deeply ingrained as his occasional frustration with them, and she had asked him for patience. And, even when it seemed impossible, he would attempt to give it. “No. But there are finer and newer options, and if they appeal to you more then you should have them.”

  Prim looked down at his trunk again, though she made no move to make different selections. “They are very fine,” she confirmed. “But these are the softest and... I like the way they feel.”

  Well. That he certainly could not deny.

  And when he re-entered his home, Mincel and Kondarr long having departed, it was to find Prim still upon the workbench, wearing one of his too-large tunics and a pair of her old trous, little of them visible beneath the length of his—her—upper covering.

  Something in him ached again to see her so attired, much as it had done since he had gifted them to her. But now it was a little sharper, and bit more pronounced, and he hoped it quieted soon. It would not do to grow anxious and irritated with something she could not yet change.

  “They have gone,” he informed her, simply to have something to say as he entered. Her head did not rise to greet him, nor did her eyes leave the floor, and he wondered what she was thinking about so deeply.

  But she did not seem willing to share those thoughts, so he turned to clean his work-space, rinsing out the pot where he had brewed the manta, the little cup to fo
llow before being returned to its shelf. All the while he felt Prim’s gaze upon him, yet whenever he glanced back at her, it was to find her resolutely studying the floor.

  He made no enquiries, simply worked in silence, until finally her voice broke through the silence.

  “How did her wrist get like that?”

  Rykkon halted in his tidying, the question not what he would have expected, but he saw no harm in answering it. “She fell.”

  Prim looked up at him then, her eyes wide and haunted. “Are you sure?”

  How was he to explain this to her? He had tried to do so, knew with certainty that only time and healing of her own would allow her to believe that his people were not like the idiotic kind she came from. And he was particularly glad that she did not speak his words so she might never mistakenly suggest in Kondarr’s hearing that perhaps Mincel’s injuries were a result of his own hand.

  “We do not harm our mates,” Rykkon reminded her gently, infusing as much truth as he could into his words. “And I would not insult her by claiming a falsehood when I had no reason to believe it to be so.”

  Prim did not appear convinced. “But how do you know? Have you seen them together? What if she’s being hurt and this was her one chance to come for help and you just... sent her back?”

  Rykkon dropped the cloth he was using to dry his brew-pot, crossing to her side and taking her face between his hands—now seeming over-large and coarse against her own small features. Gentleness. Tenderness. That is what she needed from him. “Not everyone is you, and you do my people a disservice to think the situations are the same.”

  She looked disgruntled at that, but he was not yet ready to release her. “I’m not trying to insult them. I’m just saying, Desmond has a pretty interesting idea of what our people do and don’t do, and it isn’t always based in reality. Are you sure that she’s not being hurt at home?”

  He recalled the look in Kondarr’s eye as he regarded his mate, and he suddenly wished Prim had been a bit more bold and gone to the door to witness it for herself. But she had remained here, questioning and uncertain, drawing all sorts of conclusions that would eventually be proven false. “You have not seen her with her husband. He cares for her, more so than I had even realised, and to suggest that he would harm her in such a way...” Rykkon shook his head, the words distasteful on his tongue. He allowed his hands to fall away, though he remained close. “You would do well to assess people’s ways for what they are, not what you assume they will be.”