“Friends,” he repeated, wanting her to know that he was processing her request rather than denying it.
He saw her swallow, saw her head bow a little more. “I told you it was foolish.”
That was not precisely what she had said, but there was no point in correcting her.
He was certain the instructors would be horrified at the implication. The sages even more so. He could easily picture the dark and stormy expressions that would cross their features, as smoothly as if they were a single entity and not the individuals they truly were.
Protector and charge, yes. Lightkeep and Guardian. But not... not friends.
But Penryn wanted that.
He did not know how to answer, not at first, and his silence was clearly a distressing thing to her. He did not want her embarrassment, but that did not stop if from coming, and she tried to shuffle farther away from him on her bedroll, a high, anxious sound emitting from her lips that attempted to be a laugh but failed miserably. “I told you,” she repeated, and he was not certain her back could accommodate her curling more into herself than she was currently attempting.
She looked impossibly small like that, and he grew even more concerned for the state of her wings, crumpled and misshapen as they must have been to accommodate such a position.
“Penryn,” he said instead, not caring for the sages and instructors and their dubious faces. They were not here, were not close to the verge of tears.
His Lightkeep was.
And she wanted to be friends, with all that came with it. Or... so he assumed was her intention. Easy conversation tempered with companionable silences. Interactions that were not stilted by formality and deference, that did not care for arguing over who held true authority.
Could he offer her that?
He could certainly try.
And would, because she had asked it of him.
“Penryn,” he tried again, infusing a note of firmness to his voice in his attempt to bid her look at him. There was no need for the mortification lancing through her, for her to grow so upset over what had not been rejected. “If that is how you would like things between us, then that is how it shall be.”
She blinked at him, evidently not expecting that such an answer could be forthcoming, and he found himself smiling back at her sadly. “Really?” she asked, her voice tight and unsure.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “I do not believe that those who tasked us with this,” he made a gesture over their camp, hoping she understood, “would agree with it, but...” he shook his head. “They gave the Journey to us. To complete, yes, but I think... I think the means are up to us, don’t you agree?”
Something bordered on a smile from her in return. “I would like that to be true,” she affirmed.
A thought came that worried him, and his eyes drifted through their surroundings. “Do you believe the sages have sent spies?” he asked suddenly. “Who would know if we do not comport ourselves to their liking?”
Belatedly he realised that his words might be taken poorly. He did not mean to insinuate any true untoward behaviour. He did not want her fearing that he would forget himself, forget what he was, press an advantage that was not welcome and was most wholly inappropriate.
But Penryn offered him a soft smile, and his worries were allayed. “Ours,” she murmured, as if testing the word on her tongue, something strange and foreign that had not occurred to her before. The Journey was theirs, sacred in its purpose, yes, but he could not believe that meant they had to continue on as stilted strangers.
Not if it meant she would be so unhappy for the entirety of the distance.
“I like that idea,” she confirmed with a nod of her head. “And... and I think that the sages only know what you tell them at the end,” she clarified, bringing her plate back to her lap and taking another nibble of cheese. “So they will know what you want them to know.”
There was a danger in that, he knew. If their stories did not align correctly then it would be obvious that untruths were rampant. But they could sort things out later, he was certain, so he would not concern himself overly much.
Even if the thought of deceiving the sages sent a roil through his stomach, instinct and honour warring with the necessity of maintaining primary loyalty to his charge.
She ate the last of her meal and he felt obliged to do the same, taking a few long swigs from his water flask to coax the dry foods into going down smoothly. He rose to his feet, his wings aiding in the smoothness of the endeavour with a quick cut through the air, and Penryn looked up at him, startled.
He did not know the reason, other than perhaps she had not been expecting his quick movement. Perhaps she had wished to discuss more? But she was finished, as was he, and there was more to tend before they began to rest for the evening.
“Your plate,” he urged, extending his hand to her. They were not dirty—not really, but they had been used, and they could benefit from a dunk in the stream before they were packed away again.
Penryn did not surrender it, instead glancing at the water herself. “Friends would help each other,” she reminded him, although there was a note of uncertainty that was odd. It made him curious, but he did not know how to approach an enquiry without risking insult and offense, so he allowed his hand to drop.
The stream was not far, the edge clearly visible from their camp, but it troubled him to abandon it all the same. The sacred flame would be left unattended as well as their provisions, but to escort her would mean that she was close and safest.
The lantern was her responsibility, and if she felt sure of its safety, then
