And had kept it from him, along with everything else.
They moved away from the body, and he made no effort to conceal it. If there were others, they would be free to look, to examine, and Grimult and Penryn would need to be far away by the time that happened. He had always been careful to hide their tracks whenever possible, the ashes of their campfire spread and buried in equal measure, dirt carefully packed wherever it had been upset then covered with a sprinkle of leaves and twigs that inhabited the forest floor.
Now he knew why that had been so carefully instilled.
But not to tell the Lightkeep?
“You are angry,” Penryn commented, searching his face and finding the truth of it easily enough. He had not attempted to hide that either.
“Aye,” he agreed. Their supplies seemed heavier than normal, tugging painfully against muscles that he had not realised were connected until their sudden damage.
“At me?” she asked quietly, a grimace on her face that already suggested she knew the answer.
It was an admission he was not quite willing to make, knowing that little good could come of it. He did not wish discord between them, yet it had found them all the same.
He moved to the stream and she followed after him, her wrist clutched to her chest, her good hand hiding it away protectively. Did she fear that he would cause her unnecessary pain in the setting of it? The thought was absurd.
Anger was making his heart beat wildly, an earlier echo of the fear that had lanced through him so recently. That had use, purpose, to urge him into battle and perform well.
This had no outlet and it was furthering his agitation. He wanted to leave, to expel some of his frustration before attempting any further contact with Penryn, but the tether kept him carefully in place. There could still be danger lurking in the corners, and she had been hurt thoroughly enough while simply walking next to him. She might be killed outright if he was any further than that.
But her wrist would require stabilising, and that was excuse enough for him to grunt out an instruction for her to remain by the stream while he cut away strips from a fallen log, making them as smooth as he could. He would wrap them in strips of cloth regardless, but it would be more painful for her if jagged edges worked away at tender flesh.
Every movement hurt, and he glanced over his shoulder at his wing, more irritated than was reasonable. The bleeding had slowed, and that was good, but that did not mean it was closer to healing—only that he was farther away from dying from such an injury.
It would need to be packed and tended to, and Penryn would have to be the one to do it, the placement of it impossible for his hands to reach.
Another resentment, when he wished for distance between them, for some of his betrayal to dim before they had to have true contact once more.
Satisfied with the splint, he almost turned to go back to her, when a glint of metal caught his eye. At first he thought it was the lantern, but that worthless tangle of intricate silver was where he had dropped it earlier.
His sword, bloodied and waiting.
Careless of him to have forgotten it.
He went closer to retrieve it, feeling strangely forlorn as he did so. He remembered the thrill and excitement when he had taken up a similar weapon for the first time. Not one made of wood to practice with his fellow initiates when they were still farmhands and fishers, but real weapons that would clash and spar as they went through real movements to be used by only one of them later.
And that was him.
To be used on some creature that looked too much like them, but whose body was thick and heavy, stronger and more solid than any of his kind.
Made for land instead of the air.
Were they kin, once?
Or altogether different?
He swallowed, shaking his head from such thoughts. It was not as if Penryn would offer him any such answers. She may hate the sages, but clearly not enough to offer him truth in order to spite them.
He turned back to her, his sword still in his hand. He would not put it away bloodied, would tend to it properly as he had been taught.
But first, the Lightkeep required his attention.
She was watching him as he approached, as she likely had been doing since he had left her side. There was moisture clinging to her lashes, whether from a fresh bought of tears or from the ones she had shed earlier, he could not be certain.
He did not know what she was expecting of him, but there was a tension in her shoulders that suggested it was not merely healing she was waiting for.
It made him frown. Did she think he would berate her openly? Their friendship had become genuine, or so he had believed, but he had not forgotten that respect was owed her. He had become disillusioned too much, but that still held true.
Or should it not?
He knelt and plunged his hands into the stream, more a river in this part of the forest than any they had encountered before. Large rocks made the water trip and froth a ways off, the sound louder than was usual. Perhaps that was why the great beast had been able to move unnoticed, to strike when Grimult had not expected it.
Tendrils of red spread from his hands and sword, swirling and dissolving into the fresh, clear water and pushing further downstream.
Would it reach the sages’ keep someday?
It was a foolish thought, as already he lost sight of the blood itself, mixing too thoroughly with the rest of the water.
Clean.
He wanted that. He wanted peace to return to him, the quiet assurance that he had done right.
But
