He rescued her plate before it fell, careful to keep his other shoulder still so as not to disturb her.
He would move her soon, when her sleep was deeper and more true. He would ease her back onto her bedroll and put her cloak around her for warmth before retreating to his own careful vigil by the door.
He would sleep some out of necessity, but he needed to think, needed to garner some better control over himself before he faced her again.
For he was growing certain, that with each passing day, his Lightkeep would prove his undoing.
And he did not know how to stop it.
Or even if he wanted to.
Eleven
Grimult had done what he ought and had moved Penryn to her proper sleeping space.
Eventually.
But not before he had sat for a while, thinking through all that had troubled him the past day and what should be done about it.
Forgetting would be easiest, if it was possible. For him to know strictly what the sages found necessary and that was all, but he was not capable of forcing himself to put aside what was known. At least not entirely.
Perhaps Penryn had such magic. That when she awoke he could petition for her to purge such confusion from his mind until all that was left was the quiet sureness that he had fostered as an initiate.
He missed that more than he cared to admit. He knew that his work was important, that it was good and necessary. And now...
That was still true, but was undeniably tainted.
He could understand now why the relationship between Guardian and Lightkeep was to be a distant one. But there was no way to begin again, to purge Penryn’s recollections from his mind.
For his opinion of the sages to remain full of only respect and admiration.
He retreated to his own bedroll, stationed as it was beside the door. He should have felt at ease, a security that had not been afforded since their travels had begun, but it took a great deal longer than he’d like to sleep. Their plates would need washing, but he did not know if they could spare the water. Not until they found the stream once more.
Better they tend to thirst than be fastidious over the cleanliness of their dishware, regardless of the lessons instilled by his mother in his fledgling years, adamant that both were of equal importance.
He blinked when movement caught his eye as he stared up at the ceiling. It was thin in places, the grasses deteriorating from age and neglect. He thought he could see a few stars through the worst places, but perhaps that was only a trick on overly tired eyes.
But when Penryn twitched again, there was no mistaking it, her body jolting in response.
His first thought was that she was being bitten by something nefarious in the old cot, and he stood, sorry he had not insisted they abandon the bed entirely, tempting though it might be.
Her bedroll had been well made, however, treated and oiled to keep out such things, but he stood regardless, wishing he had the courage to take up the lantern and bring it nearer so he might check her without need for waking her at all.
But he still could not bring himself to touch what was not his, bowing over her as he strained to make out any dark speckles against clothing or skin. She had managed to push away most of the cloak since her fit had begun, and her arms were bare enough for any number of pests to feast upon, but he saw nothing in the dimness of the room.
She whimpered, her face contorting and regardless of the source of her discomfort, she needed to wake, so with a regretful hand, he had laid it on her shoulder, squeezing gently but insistently.
“Penryn,” Grimult murmured, her eyes flying open with a gasp.
She looked bewildered for a moment, and belatedly he realised she had been in the throes of something unrelated to a pest-ridden cot, her eyes welling with tears before she closed them tightly, turning to her side so she could hide it from him.
She said nothing, and he found himself at a loss for what would make for appropriate comfort. He had come to save her from something tangible, but evidently there were other things to plague her, ones that he did not know how to conquer.
Even if he would spare her anything, any pain at all, past or present.
Lira was prone to terrors in her sleep. Had been ever since she was small. His mother would wipe her brow with a cool cloth and murmur softly so as not to wake the others, her tone lilting into something even gentler, a song for a sweet one that should not have to bear such fears.
But Grimult had no skill with word or song, and Penryn was not his child to hold until the last of the dreams slid away.
But his hand was still on her shoulder, and he could not seem to call it back to himself, not when she was suffering.
“A dream?” he found himself asking, not certain he trusted his assessment when it came to her.
She stiffened, but he caught the barest of nods accompanied by a restrained sniff.
If she was going to cry then she would need a cloth to tend her eyes and nose. Saryn could go through quite a few of those when she declared herself in despair. His mother would provide them readily, but depending on the cause of the upset—mainly if it was a merely a perceived slight rather than a genuine tragedy—would set her to washing them all again once the tears had stopped and she was in possession of her wits once more.
He did love his sister’s passion, how freely she felt and expressed herself, even if it frightened him at times. Changeable as the tide, his father had said of Saryn often,
