Embarrassment had filled him at her mention of making water, but he nodded his head all the same. Whatever her spirit might be passed along through the generations, her body was normal enough, with all the needs that came with it. He did not think that the reverence he felt for her could simply be expunged, but he would do as she asked of him in manner, and that... that could remain between just the two of them.
The thought was an odd one, of directly keeping something from the sages when doubtlessly he was asked to recount all he had experienced during his travels.
“How would you like for things to be?” he asked, meaning it. “I do not wish there to be discord between us.”
Her shoulder slumped as if he had cut some cord of tension that had been the only thing keeping her posture so straight and proper. “No,” she agreed. “That would be tedious.”
In that at least, they were in perfect alignment. He wanted the trials they faced to come from outside influence if they had to come at all. From wild beasts that would become their supper, from the perils of the road to come. Not because she was angry with him for something he did not know how to change.
She was quiet again, although this time contemplative rather than stewing in her displeasure. An improvement.
“I would like,” Penryn began at last, pushing around a piece of biscuit with her forefinger. He could not tell if it was simply an absent gesture or something to occupy her so she did not have to look at him while she spoke. She sighed, a mournful sound, and her shoulders hunched further. “Never mind,” she murmured with a shake of her head.
She appeared so sad in that moment, as if something devastating had taken place in her own mind, and it disturbed him. His lessons had not told him how to combat such things—at least not those taught by his instructors. But his mother had told him of the importance of attentiveness, of offering an extra dose of kindness to his sisters when they seemed in need of it.
And perhaps that applied here more than anything the instructors had offered.
“I would like to hear what you meant to say,” Grimult urged, careful to keep his voice soft. It was not a command. Not even a plea. Just a gentle, truthful statement that he wished to understand her.
She glanced up at him then, frowning slightly as she did so. “You will think me foolish,” she hedged, putting her plate back down beside her. She should eat more, and if their talking was too much of a distraction, then he would have them sit in silence.
Later.
When he had alleviated whatever burden plagued her.
“I am not certain that is possible,” Grimult denied, trying to conjure up a scenario where that might be true. He supposed if she walked blindly into danger, heedless of his calls to stop, he might think so. Although perhaps even those actions, imagined though they were, could be explained as some kind of trance induced by the sacred flame. It could happen, couldn’t it?
He could not know. For all the lessons he had been given, so few were about the nature of the Lightkeep herself. Of what it truly meant, of the powers that came along with the position. She was shrouded in mystery, even to the initiate.
Even to the Guardian.
To his surprise, Penryn snorted, both a laugh and a note of derision. “You have a great deal of faith in me, then,” she observed, her voice suggested that such a thing was unearned and near to ridiculous.
He forced down a bristle at that, although he could feel his feather shifting in defence, and he took a steadying breath to ensure there would be no visible signs of his temporary upset. He was not looking for an argument, would not engage if she felt it necessary to begin one, and he had to remind himself that she was attempting to divert from the original topic and it was his responsibility to keep her focused on the question that actually needed to be answered.
“You were going to say something,” he reminded her. “And I would still like to hear it.”
Another sigh, deeper and more begrudging, and her eyes drifted back to the bedroll, her fingers plucking at the hem of her cloak, removing burrs that had settled there. He would help if she required it. He would do his best to inspect his own clothing and feathers, though the latter would prove difficult to tend to on his own.
No one had said how that should be done. Touching the Lightkeep, unless the situation demanded it for her own safety, was nearly forbidden. There was nothing shameful about asking for help in preening one’s feathers, but something about it felt far too presumptuous.
Nearly intimate.
Which was ridiculous.
It was a communal habit, something between friends and relatives, but even a stranger could be obliged to intervene if something was terribly wrong and troublesome.
No one liked errant feathers that refused to lie down properly.
“Since you insist on hearing it,” Penryn began again, drawing on a note of primness, presumably in order to get the words out. “I would rather us travel as friends.”
He blinked at her, waiting for her to further expound on her words, but she offered nothing. Only a flick of her eyes in his direction, before, evidently disappointed
