He had imagined himself a strong Guardian, focused in all things, devoted solely to the task.
But instead he found himself devoted to her.
And she was not what he had expected. He had been promised a vessel, not a person and yet...
There was no denying what she was. When she spoke of hopes often dashed. Of a family that she never possessed.
They were simple wants, commonplace in his world, yet denied to her.
For a greater purpose, he reminded himself firmly, for a sacred duty that should fill her with joy at its fulfilment.
But there was no hidden satisfaction exuding from her when she stood, holding out her hand for his plate. “I will do the washing tonight,” she offered, her smile small and altogether too sad.
He held out his plate and allowed her to take it, even as he shook his head. “Together,” he countered.
There was much he could not give, but there was this. Small bouts of camaraderie, of chores undertaken with a willing, though sometimes begrudging, set of hands to lighten the load.
A taste of what had never been.
Nine
They found a routine that seemed to suite the both of them well enough.
He allowed Penryn to decide when she thought best for them to halt for the night, and she had taken to accompanying him as he made his rounds and scouted the best spots, showing her which tracks were worrisome and which were smaller, easily frightened creatures that would leave them be.
He was becoming overly familiar with a set of large prints that seemed to constantly be within the vicinity. They had yet to catch sight of any of the creatures that made them, and he did not want to alarm Penryn by pointing them out too often, even if he might have liked knowing if she recognised them from any of her many books.
She could build a fire now on her own, although once she had proved capable and confident in her own abilities, he had taken over the task once more. Penryn had asked him why, and Grimult had not been able to answer. Not when it spoke more of home, and, more specifically, how his father always tended the fires for his mother.
When the hours would grow late, and Grimult had finally earned the privilege of remaining awake an extra hour than his sisters, he could well remember the fire growing low, his mother about to get up from her seat beside his father, a large hand coming to press against her shoulder. “That’s my job,” he would murmur close to her ear, giving Grimult a quick smile as he passed. And his mother would smile, and appreciate all the more one of the few times she could sit and simply be given the many chores that consumed the rest of her day.
How could he tell Penryn that?
She was not his wife—the farthest from it—and to simply say that it was his job would lead them to yet another quarrel about their differing positions.
But when Penryn let out a sigh as she laid down on her bedroll, and was content to watch him work, smiling when the warmth of the fire hit her, he was grateful she accepted his non-answer.
Bathing was a more delicate problem that they had yet to fully tackle between them. The instructors had given no great hint of how it should be managed beyond a firm warning that cleanliness was an absolute necessity to stave off infection and disease and should not be neglected.
To suggest that there might be problems of privacy would have been to acknowledge that Penryn had taken a female form, and that was not allowed.
The stream was altogether too cold for merely stepping in and treating it as a large bathing-tub, so they sheepishly agreed to a heated cauldron of water and cloths discretely used when stripped down as fully as either dared and their backs were turned.
He had the added benefit of wings to preserve his modesty, but Penryn did not, and he did not care to admit how many times his ears turned hot realising her state of undress behind him.
It was one area that she admitted she missed about her life before the Journey, as evidently she had a tub all to herself, ready to be filled whenever she wished it.
He could not quite imagine that, not when it was his family that would have to set to work boiling kettles and bringing up water from the well below in order to enable such an indulgence.
Baran Engelsgor claimed his father had fashioned a way to bring the water up without the use of buckets, but none of the initiates believed him. His father was a smithy and might know more of metals than most, but that certainly didn’t mean he could make water ascend from a hole in the ground.
But perhaps the sages knew of some magic that could make it happen, although even the thought of that did not settle well. It seemed a waste of something precious if they did, although he had no knowledge of magics. Was it finite? To be rationed and used for only the greatest need, or unending like the sea itself?
He did not know. And it did not truly matter, for he could wield none, and he was not going to pester Penryn to learn more of her capabilities.
It had been an odd thing, to abandon the trees for open plains. He knew it would happen eventually, but he missed the canopy surrounding them, most especially when he felt all the more call to use his wings instead of his feet. Penryn caught him on more than one occasion staring up at the sky, and she would nudge him with her elbow, asking the reason for it. He had not given a proper answer the first
