“They went back to their families, or so the sages told me,” Penryn answered tightly, her mouth not bothering to try for a smile, a frown tugging at her lips instead. At least it was an honest expression, although he would alleviate even that pain if he could.
But there was no salve tucked away in their pack for wounds so old, ones that should not even be there if lore was to be believed.
Penryn was supposed to be something... other. Without desire for family or a minder who stayed, giving out simple, homespun advice that seemed to have carried over more than what the sages had provided.
“That must have been lonely,” Grimult observed, trying not to imprint his own history onto hers. He was older than his sisters, could remember the time before Saryn came and his desire for a sibling. A brother, more specifically, although his father had told him on more than one occasion that brothers were highly overrated, and Grimult would do well to believe him as he’d had four of them.
And although they were not what he had wished for so fervently, he cared for his sisters dearly and could not imagine the close of his fledgling years without both of them and their mischief.
Had Penryn yearned for such companionship?
Did she even now?
There was no mistaking the sadness in her when they spoke about his family. Something so commonplace yet so vitally important.
Another of her shrugs, and it might have been the trick of the light toying with him, but there seemed to be a greater shine to her eyes that had not been there before. “Penryn,” he murmured, and she shook her head, insisting she was all right.
She was still plucking berries from her cloak, her movements became less precise the more upset she became, juices beginning to run down to her bandages and staining the tips of her fingers as she worked.
His hand moved before he could think better of it, covering and stilling. Holding.
A hand much smaller than his own, partially hidden behind cloths he had wrapped there.
She was not crying, not like his sisters. There were no full, liberating sobs that would end a sorrow and purge a hurt feeling until all was put right again.
Just a silent trickle of a few errant tears, pushed away by an impatient hand that still stared down at the one captured by a Guardian.
“It had not occurred to me that Lightkeeps could want for families,” he confessed, feeling rather stupid as he did so.
Penryn took a deep breath, seeming to find her composure as she did so. “Too grand and dutiful for such weakness, yes?” she replied, and there was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice. “I suppose I am not a proper Lightkeep, then.”
He gave her hand a squeeze before forcing himself to release it. He had no business touching her at all, let alone for so long, and he had to hold back his apology. There had been enough of those already this evening, even if it was due.
“Don’t say that,” he chided. He did not know what to say to make it right, to smooth away the rawness of memories he had no business prying into, so he tried what had always worked for his sisters.
He glanced down at the cauldron between them, nearly to the top with her discovery. “Even so, you could take up foraging if you decide Lightkeeping isn’t to your taste. You are better at it than I am.” To admit that came at some personal cost, one that his instructors would be ashamed to hear. He had been good at it in the practise woods, when there was time and without a Lightkeep to protect at the same time. But now...
There was nothing wrong with her being the one to find their food, he decided, hoping he would soon begin to believe it. It was a good thing, as it meant she would be more prepared when their journeys parted and she...
She was alone again.
Was it any wonder that she would choose to be his friend rather than merely his companion? Content to watch as he tended to all tasks, silent and removed, full of all the dignity befitting her station?
Selfishly, he found himself almost grateful for her desperation, as he could not imagine how lonely that Journey would have been for him if she had wished to maintain proper decorum between them.
Not that he would admit it. He did not wish to be seen as benefitting from her distress, nor a history that seemed more painful than should have been allowed.
What good was there in keeping a Lightkeep miserable and unhappy, most especially in her tenderest years?
His was not to question.
Yet he did.
There was nothing he could say, nothing that could make anything right, so he held out the cauldron to her in silence. “Would you like to help me wash?” he asked, knowing it was better for her not to given the bandages, but she had accused him of leaving her abruptly and he could at least alter that if nothing else.
She smiled, relieved. “A good forager should be good at cleaning too, I expect.”
Grimult swallowed. “Aye,” he agreed, nodding more to himself than to her. He had been uncertain if he had offended her again and was glad that he had not.
There was little to do for the berries beyond offer a bit of water into the pot and watch as they floated about for a moment. Penryn picked out bits of debris before carefully pouring out the unneeded liquid, the fruits left behind, doubtlessly sparkling in their newly christened state, though it was too dim to see and appreciate it.
It was a simple task, but a satisfying one. They would
