It frightened him.
Penryn nodded. “Then we prioritise a water source,” she agreed. A quick glance in his direction. “And the path is secondary.”
He said nothing, not knowing what else to suggest. There was a smudge of dark green toward the edge of their vision, coming closer the longer they forged ahead.
A forest. Had to be. If they had not found their course by the time they reached it, it would be all the harder to use the stars to align them properly.
Unless he risked leaving Penryn long enough to fly above the tree line and make such judgements on his own.
He did not much care for any of his options, and he could admit if only to himself that he was shorter of temper than he’d any right to be. His mother would say that he woke up surly and didn’t know how to shake it, before promptly ruffling as many feathers as she could reach until she got a hint of a smile from him.
Then she would pat his cheek and declare that she knew there was a hint of her happy fledgling still in there somewhere, not entirely forsaken by age and experience.
He missed her. Missed the easiness that came with family, with years spent together, living and working. Tensions might flare but they were quick to be soothed, with either well-used apologies or a kindly touch.
It was different here. He did not know which rules to abandon and which to hold fast, and the conflict was difficult to negotiate.
And Penryn seemed to notice.
He could see her biting at her lip from the corner of his eye, and she would cast him worried glances every few paces, always jerking her head back to avoid looking at him directly if he turned his head too far in enquiry.
Penryn made a noise, perhaps a clearing of her throat, or perhaps a groan that was stifled by some miserable conclusion, he could not be certain. “I am sorry I woke you last night,” she said at last, evidently still worried that it was the true cause for his demeanour.
Grimult shook his head, hoping she would believe him but becoming less hopeful that she was able. “You did not,” he told her truthfully. “I am not certain I would have rested well last night regardless of what you did.”
Another glance in her direction, and she was still tormenting her bottom lip. If she did not stop soon, he feared that it might come to serious harm. He wanted to halt his steps and speak to her properly, to ease whatever tension still lingered, her doubts that he was cross with her. But necessity kept him moving, the sure and ever-present reality that if they did not press onward, they would soon suffer for it.
How quickly tension could form between them. An ill chosen word or even a silence that stretched too long was enough to set them at odds.
Was this always the way with women? Or was this a unique quality to a Lightkeep?
Or he was the problem, which was probably more than likely. He was not so prideful as to think him incapable of that.
“Would it be of any benefit,” he began at last, “to speak of what you dreamt?”
He could easily imagining the tightening of her mouth, the way her shoulders would raise ever so slightly, whether in defence or some other emotion he could not name.
Penryn’s voice was tightly controlled when she answered him. “Why would you think that?”
Again the urge was there to pause, to take a step nearer and touch her in some way, to urge and console in equal measure. “Because you are agitated. And seem reluctant to accept that I was not disturbed by you. It seems only reasonable that perhaps you are still troubled and cannot believe that I am not.”
Not entirely true, as there was plenty that worried him a great deal. But she bore no fault in it, even if she had been the one to see the illicit hut and suggest they make camp there.
“I...” she began, cut her words abruptly cut off with a sound of alarm.
He turned, his hand already at his sword, only to find her looking down at her feet, one boot covered in what appeared to be mud.
She held it out, a light laugh coming from her lips that was born of relief. “I think I found our stream.”
She stooped down, parting the grasses as she did so. Her boot had left quite an indentation in the soft earth, the topmost succumbing to the pressure and the water evidently underneath pooling at the surface due to the disruption.
He could not quite help his smile in return. They had a path, then, a true one, meant for them to follow. It disturbed him slightly for the stream to disappear so entirely, and he wondered how long they would have wandered without it.
How desperate they might have gotten.
It would be difficult to follow if their attention had to be so completely focused on the ground to ensure they did not waver.
“I suppose I have to keep going like this,” Penryn commented in bemusement, still holding her left foot out awkwardly.
There was little he could offer her in way of solution beyond a shrug. “It will dry. We can beat off the excess when we stop for the night.”
Penryn nodded but her expression was not a happy one.
It bolstered his spirits to see the line of trees coming ever nearer, most especially when he was now certain of their trajectory. But Penryn seemed to take no comfort in their newfound way, if anything looking even more miserable than she had when she had woken that morning.
He did not know how to make his suggestion again that she unburden herself by sharing of her nightmare, and nothing else came to mind that might smooth things between them.
“I miss having a bath,” she interjected abruptly, a woeful confession that was almost sheepish. “And
