Or so she seemed to accept.
Crisp linen was rolled into bandages, pots of salve cushioned amongst them, pouches of herbs and tinctures nestled at the bottom. He could identify them each by scent alone, but a neat hand had labelled each of the bottles with their given name, making the task simple.
Penryn glanced between him and the pouch, her brow furrowed. “Are you hurt?” she asked uncertainly, something strange in her eye as she did so.
Frustration perhaps? With him or with herself, he could not tell, but he shook his head regardless.
“No,” he assured her. “But you are.”
He nodded toward her hands, the stripes of red marks vibrant and angry against her otherwise pale skin.
To his surprise, she tucked them beneath her cloak and out of view, almost as a fledgling would hide something away from its mother when fearing a scolding.
It was a ridiculous action, when all he intended was to help.
He gave her a pointed look, not knowing what else to do. The marks were no fault of her own. A testament to unworked hands, perhaps, but that was likely due to the sages more than herself, if her thirst for practical knowledge was any indication. “Penryn,” he said with a sigh. “You are hurt and there is no point in denying it.”
She chewed at her lip, her head drooping, before she slowly allowed her hands to escape her cloak and lay open on her lap.
He could reach her from his own bedroll but the stretch would be awkward, and his shoulders protested the thought even as it first appeared.
Better to sit beside her.
He swallowed, taking up the medicines and briefly considering if he should ask for her permission to sit upon her sleeping space or if that should simply worsen the awkward roiling in his belly.
There was nothing wrong in this, and he would not be shamed into thinking so. It was not as if he was entering her bedchamber unannounced.
Even his mother would not be horrified, would she?
He was being absurd, and he settled down quickly before Penryn could change her mind and hide her hands away again.
If she had thought it odd that they had washed before eating, she said nothing, but there was little point in seeing to her hands if she was only going to douse them in water and undo his attempts at soothing abraded flesh.
There were slim pieces of wood filed to an almost unnatural smoothness that allowed him to take out a generous portion of salve without contaminating the whole pot of it with his fingers. Cautiously, certain a sage would disapprove more heartily for the action, he took one of her hands and laid it flat against his left palm.
He glanced up at her, trying to assess if she was uncomfortable with the action. She avoided his gaze, instead looking down at her injury, and he told himself he was being ridiculous. Part of his training had been to tend to any of her wounds, and that was precisely what he was doing.
Even... even if touch was involved.
He first smeared it on one hand and then the other, Penryn biting her lip to hold in whatever discomfort it must have caused her. “I am sorry,” he murmured anyway, nothing suggesting that she blamed him for it, but feeling the need to give an apology all the same.
“It is cold,” she commented, a slight hiss to her words. “How does it manage that?”
For all his lessons, he had not been instructed on how to recreate such medicines. “I do not know,” he admitted, the smell of it pungent as it reached his nose. “But it will help.”
Penryn nodded, and he looked down at her palm, considering.
She did not seem bothered by his touch, and that was... good. The gentle pressure of his thumb would likely make no great difference aside from allowing better healing.
He should not have to swallow, should be detached and unaffected by her sharp inhalation, but he felt a throb in his own hand as if he was the one injured. Was that part of her magic? To make others feel as she did? That would be a useful trait, though a dangerous one.
The stripe of red was warm to the touch, and he knew he had chosen rightly to dress each wound lest infection take hold and things grow more serious.
One palm done and then the other, and there was no more reason to hold her hand, able now to position it just so and have her hold it there as he tied on the bandages.
It was absurd for there to be a slight disappointment amongst the relief that it was finished, that he had completed his task and there was no more excuse for touching.
For touching a Lightkeep.
The thought made him stand and turn back to his own bedroll. Every instructor had been so clear on that point. There was a necessity, yes, and then there was indulgence, and he should know the difference.
“Thank you,” Penryn said behind him, her voice clear and indifferent to his warring thoughts. “That feels much better.”
Grimult shifted so he could look at her. “In the future, it would be better to speak of your discomforts so I may tend them earlier.”
Penryn bit her lip, looking away but not agreeing with him as he’d expected. He turned fully around, feeling strange. An agitation tickled at him, spurring more hasty speech than he typically allowed, and he did not appreciate the change. Where was his calm? His steady approach?
“You think me wrong?” he pressed, deciding it would be better to douse himself in the stream, shallow though it might still be than speak any longer. He would await Penryn’s words so as not to appear rude, but he needed to gather more control of himself and quickly.
Even if that meant a quick removal of himself from her presence.
“Not wrong,” Penryn clarified, a flash
