He already knew that Penryn had no such parents, to guide and indulge when situation demanded it.
And now...
She had only him.
He shifted, ready to go to the pack and fetch a clean cloth so she could cry heartily if she felt it was needed, but Penryn lurched around, hands grabbing at any part of him she could catch hold of, one finding the front of his tunic, the other a handful of wing.
That one was not particularly comfortable, digging in far more than he expected, but it kept him still, as apparently was her aim.
“Do not go,” Penryn pleaded, eyes wide and filled with sorrows. “Please.”
“Only to the pack,” he soothed, wondering how long it would take for her dream to lose its grip on her.
Penryn pulled her hands away, but there was something in her that made him think it was due to a lifetime of rejection rather than comprehending his words.
She was contorting herself into a tight little ball, huddled and tearful, and uncertain of what else to do, he made quick work of sifting through their supplies and pulling free the first cloth that came to hand.
He returned quickly enough, nestling the cloth into a tight-fisted hand as she made no movement to take it herself. “For your tears,” he explained, wondering how much was getting through to her at all.
Perhaps it was no mere dream. Perhaps it was some sort of trance, her thoughts and mind held captive by... something he could not name.
Previous Lightkeeps who found fault with their Journey?
The thought made him cold, knowing they would be right to be angry given how much had gone wrong.
Had from the very start.
His gesture did not have its intended effect because rather than appreciate his thoughtfulness, Penryn seemed to crumble even further. She clutched the cloth to her, but there was a flush coming to her cheeks and she would not look at him.
Had he embarrassed her? That had not been his intention in the least, but he supposed if he had been caught between waking and dreaming, if it had been difficult enough to cause such an emotional reaction...
He would not want her stares. Or even an acknowledgement that it had happened at all.
He could not stand there for long, warring with his indecision. Not when it would only add to the awkward tension between them. Stay and offer comfort or leave.
Grimult opened his mouth, ready to ask if he should stay, if... if she would care for an embrace if it might help, when Penryn’s voice cut through the silence first.
“Go back to sleep, Grim,” she murmured into the dark. “I will be fine in the morning.”
He did not believe her. Not when she looked so small and fragile huddled there. But she was to be obeyed in the areas she would let him, and although a great portion of him wanted to protest, regretted not keeping his bedroll where she suggested, nearby if she changed her mind and wanted something of him, he chose to heed her stated wishes.
But sleep did not come easily.
And as he lay and listened to the remnant of her tears, he knew it did not for her either.
◆◆◆
“I believe it is more westward,” Penryn cut in, gentle but firm in her suggestion. He did not mind her input, was glad of it in fact, when their path was not becoming clearer. He had been foolish not to consult the stars the night before, too overcome and distracted by a dwelling that had no business in being there. They would pay for it now as they wandered along, trying to find the patchy remains of a stream as it trickled through the plains.
“All right,” Grimult acknowledged as they walked in a diagonal. Always forward, but attempting to set their course to rights as best they could.
“The good news, of course,” Penryn continued, a forced cheer in her voice that she had been using since they woke that morning. Later than he would have liked, but he would concede the necessity of it. “Is that if we never find the path again, we will still hit the Wall. Then it is only to keep going along until we find the door.”
She was not wrong, but the thought of that made him grimace all the same.
Naturally Penryn had to notice. “I admit, it is not a great plan, but it should bring some comfort all the same.”
He supposed it did. That even with all his instructors’ teachings, failure was not entirely an option. Not unless something befell Penryn or the lantern.
The path was merely a convenience, he supposed, a most direct route that presumably was free of the most dangers.
How much had changed, however, since the course had first been plotted?
It was not worth considering lest he grow even more anxious.
He wanted out of the plains, and soon. There was something unsettling to be so exposed. Unnatural. If it was to be so, there should be water beneath his feet as he soared above the sea itself, salt and brine clinging to his skin and lips.
Not endless blades of golden grass.
Regardless of their course, what he wanted to find most was the stream. Their pouches were being rationed carefully, but already his mouth felt dry and he would have gladly taken a deep pull.
But if he took one now, would there be one to have later?
“You are very quiet today,” Penryn commented. It was true enough, but he did not think it worth stating aloud.
Worry stilled his tongue more than curiosity for what had troubled her the night before, but when he caught her steadily avoiding his gaze, he supposed she might have misinterpreted his silence.
“Our water supply is running low,” he told her honestly. “I am troubled by it.”
Almost equally so, he was concerned about Penryn’s idea that they might be required to forsake the path entirely and make their own way to the Wall. What other secrets would he see along
