She ducked beneath the surface again, scrubbing at her hair in what could only be described as an angry clash of fingers against tresses, and it took a great deal of his control to keep him from moving toward her. It would be so easy, to reach forward and grasp her wrists with gentle hands, to still her until whatever upset had passed and no harm came to her person.
But he had created an invisible line in the pool and promised himself he would not cross while she was so exposed on the other side.
Already he negotiated with himself on shifting the line just so, just enough that he could reach her.
But she took a trembling breath and seemed to find mastery of herself without his interference.
He should be glad, but he found himself watching her with the greatest of care, looking for any further signs that she was cracking about the edges.
He remembered her swaying in the arena. No wings to counterbalance when legs gave out, vulnerable and small yet required pretending she was neither.
He had wanted to reach out to her then, to go and offer aid, regardless of what instruction demanded.
He had waited, knowing that all would censure him.
There was none to do so now.
He took a step nearer, uncaring of the impropriety. They were not wholly naked after all, if that was some small comfort that needed to be given.
Her shoulders were slumped forward, her hair a dripping tangle, her expression not the picture of serenity it had been such a short while before.
Another step, and then another, and heedless of the consequence, Grimult wrapped his arm about her. Not both—that would be to create too much of a cage. But enough that she should know she was welcome if she needed him.
And when she sank eagerly against his chest, he supposed that meant that she did.
They were not pressed quite front to front. Her shoulder was pushed too close to his chest, his arm keeping her from being crushed entirely against him, but it was enough. Her head was pressed against his skin, her hair warm and smelling of earth and minerals that he could not name. Heat was everywhere, seeping into him, making him something new. The turmoil he endured so often as he tried to reconcile Penryn’s recollections with the awe he had always felt for the sages seemed to settle when she was so near, the rest set aside, if only for a little while.
“Sages do not make mistakes, we are told,” Grimult murmured, leaning down so he could press his cheek against the top of her hair. She shivered, and it could not be due to the cold, but he could not begin to name its source, yet he held her a little more firmly all the same. “But I often wonder the same for myself. If I was a mistake, if a better man could have been chosen for you.”
Regretful that she should feel it necessary, he did not stop her when she drew back enough that she could look at him squarely. Her eyes were red and strained, but there were no tears clinging to her cheeks, and for that he was grateful.
“Impossible,” she declared with the utmost sincerity.
He smiled, and with mounting shame, had to stifle the sudden and terrible urge to lean forward and kiss her.
He tried to tell himself it would have been on her upturned forehead, a humble thing that could have been bestowed on any member of her sex, even familiar.
But he knew that was not the truth. The urge had been for her mouth, for him to place his just so, a gesture of thankfulness for an appreciation he had not earned. Not truly. He ran them too hard, hunted too little. Spoke too much and not enough in equal measure.
He had expected other dangers when chosen to be her companion. As a boy he had imagined adventure, constant battle with nightmarish beasts, the elements themselves trying to keep the Lightkeep from completing the all-important Journey.
Rations had been sufficient, supplemented by foraged goods. Shelter had not always been ideal, but they were warm enough for the cold nights, and there was water enough to see them through the hottest portions of the days.
Yet evidently it was his own temptation that was challenge enough.
He should let her go. Walk back to his proper side and leave her be.
Yet he could not seem to persuade his arm that such was for the best.
Penryn was watching him with an odd expression in her eyes. It was not desire, not exactly, but a curiosity that suggested she would not be entirely against it if he were to just simply...
“We have clothes to launder,” he blurted out, fearing what he might do if not given a tangible distraction. While before he might have insisted on a patrol, keeping his hands and mind busy with the act of scrubbing seemed a plentiful distraction.
Penryn blinked. “Yes, of course,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly with a small sigh.
He must have misheard for he thought there was disappointment in her voice, but surely that was a projection of his own thoughts and feelings.
He strode to the pool’s edge, sloshing a wave of murky water onto the side as he did so, although it seeped quickly into the earth and disappeared beneath rock and moss. He cut two pieces of soap, the scent strong and pungent, much more suitable for clothes and dishes than for bodies.
He turned back around, trying to decide how best to ask Penryn if she knew how to complete this task or if she would require instruction.
Only to find that while his back was turned she had decided
