He did not know if that was better or worse for her. To understand mistreatment but have to endure it anyway, or to continue on in life, uncertain why it was necessary at all.
He could not keep indulging in wishes. Of all that he would have chosen for her if he had been given such opportunity.
But he could help her now and would do so to the best of his abilities, and push away thoughts of what was to come.
He smiled when Penryn discreetly peeked beneath her shift, declaring that her torso had been unmarred, so his ministrations would only have to be on arms and legs and the back of her neck.
The process was a slow one and methodical, the smoothing of salve, the prickle of her skin beneath his finger, the right pressure so as not to irritate flesh already abraded.
They looked far better by next morning, and they had only to make use of the process once more before the bites faded to pinpricks of red rather than swollen wheals.
He found her once, holding onto the jar when he came back from circling the camp. There would be meat that night, and he had already drained and skinned it, ready for the fire without also introducing the camp to the smell and carnage. The creature had been fairly small, with tusks pushing out defiantly, nose pressed to the ground as it scuttled about.
She looked up at his approach, eyes wide before she put the pot back in the rucksack. “Do you require more treatment?” Grimult asked in some surprise, the marks almost entirely gone by that point.
She had shaken her head adamantly, brushing off her knees before standing and pointing to the carcass hanging from one hand.
“What is that?” she asked dubiously, and he could well understand the confusion. Without its thick hide it was hardly recognisable. He did not know if she intended to ask after the name of the creature itself or confirmation that it was their supper, but he settled for the latter.
“Our supper,” he declared, coming to the fire, and cutting four portions of meat, two for now, two for the morning. Hearty helpings, as there was no good way to preserve the rest, and he felt a moment’s sorrow for that. It was waste, and he could not abide that, knowing that there were a great many meals to come from it if there was only time to tend it before spoiling.
Penryn was watching the entire venture with a distinctly disturbed look on her face, and he realised he had been right to do the gutting and skinning far from her. It was never a process he enjoyed, nor was the killing itself, but he could see the necessity of it. She had looked pale the last few days, and the beast had been sniffing along their camp, drawing other predators also looking for a meal.
Grimult glanced down at the meat before looking back at Penryn. “Are you well?” he enquired, hoping she was not going to refuse his offering, not when the creature was already dead and the waste would be an even greater loss.
Penryn took a deep breath before nodding. “Just unexpected,” she assured him, digging out the cook-pot. “Do not mind me.” A smile, a little thin, but offered freely enough.
It did little to alleviate his sudden discomfort, as if he had done wrong somehow when he had been only trying to keep their camp safe and fill their bellies in equal measure.
“Truly,” Penryn insisted. “I am sorry I was not more enthusiastic.” Her smile grew self-deprecating. “You are very aware that I would not have been exposed to what my food looks like before it is in my bowl. You likely do not mind as you grew up on a farm.”
He would not say that, not in the least, but was not certain he wished to argue the point. The taking of a life was a serious business, even if it was necessary, but that did not make it a pleasant one, and he felt the weight of it each time.
Penryn stationed the cook-pot over the flames to heat, and Grimult cleaned his hands with a generous pour from his flask before he dried them on a cloth and delved into the pack for what herbs he could conjure. He could not blame the sages for caring more for survival than taste and preference, but he was gratified when he found a generous portion of salt hiding in the bottom of the bag enclosing the dried meat. They had nearly exhausted it, and the flavour had grown on him well enough that he would miss it when it was absent from their diet entirely.
The dried fruits were nearly gone as well, although the hard biscuits were still plentiful.
He took his knife and cut off a portion of fat and placed it in the cook-pot, gratified with the sizzle that accompanied the action. The meat went in once the fat had rendered, though he used the point of his blade to deposit them so as to save having to wash his hands yet again.
“You do that well,” Penryn complimented, and he only belatedly realised she was watching him intently as he worked. He did not know how to respond to that, so he gave merely a grunt, pouring the salt and flecks of herbs over the meat. “Did the instructors show you how to cook, or was it your parents?”
Grimult shifted, watching their meal more than her, too afraid that if he saw the longing so often in her eyes, he would not want to answer her query at all and save her the pain of it. “Both,” he answered briskly, hoping that a speedy response would prove helpful. “Although my mother was about doing things properly while the instructors cared more for timeliness.”
He could
