The blade was easy to clean with a handful of moss and a steady hand—or one that could almost be considered so.
The methodical nature of the task was soothing, a task that was simple to accomplish, although he grimaced as he took in the state of his outer garment. That would hardly yield as easily.
Penryn shifted beside him and he glanced in her direction. She would need tending, and soon, but there was an order to things. He could not see to her covered in blood and with hands blighted by another, so a thorough wash was in order.
But even he could see that her wrist was beginning to swell, her body reacting to the displacement of the bone.
The water was more cool than cold, but it was better than nothing. He held out a dripping hand to her and she eyed it speculatively. “Your hand,” he instructed, trying to keep some of the curtness from his voice but finding that he was not entirely successful. She raised her undamaged appendage and made to offer it to him, but he shook his head and looked pointedly at her broken wrist.
Colour infused her cheeks but she obliged with only a momentary hesitation, grimacing even as she so delicately rested her hand against his.
If she feared that he would cause her any purposeful discomfort, she was woefully mistaken. He was careful in his actions, his grip only as necessary as to guide her hand to the water itself and plunge beneath the surface. She gasped at the first contact, her eyes squeezed tight, but whether it was from pain or merely the change in sensation, he was not entirely certain.
But she settled quickly enough, and when he was satisfied that she would keep her wrist properly submerged, he returned to his own ministrations.
The sword was clean and he laid it carefully on the riverbank to dry before he would eventually restore it to its sheath. His side felt strangely light and unnatural, so long had it been a weight against him as he walked.
What would it be like at home again, when the only thing he would have to carry were buckets of fresh milk to be used or processed?
He removed his tunic, grateful that the construction meant he did not have to jostle his wing too much, before he doused it twice in the river, finding a suitable rock and settling it beneath to soak, satisfied that it would not disappear while he tended to Penryn.
His wing would have to be washed, and he loathed the prospect of it. Usually a dip, a ruffle of feathers, and they naturally would fall into place, but every movement of his right wing sent a lance of pain through his entire being.
It was a taste, no matter how small, of what Penryn must have endured at the removal of her own.
The thought was a horrifying one, and was enough to cause him to look at her once more.
She appeared thoroughly miserable, staring down at her arm as the river trickled over it. Her shoulders were slumped and she chewed at her lip, something in her posture suggesting she wanted to glance over at him but would not allow herself to do so.
Compassion welled, mingling with his resentment and he could not say which would prove the victor. She had been an active participant in his deception, and that was not easily overlooked, no matter how a part of him wished to.
He delved into the pack rather than immediately attempt conversation with her, pulling out the supplies to wrap her wrist adequately. Her ribs would be next, at least for a day or two, an added support during their travels.
It would leave a scarce amount of bandages for the duration, or even for his own wing, but that would hardly benefit from a wrap in any case.
There was little he could offer her for pain. There was a small pouch of powder, ground finely and easily taken in a tincture and swallowed, but he had been told to use it sparingly as the senses were dulled and the desire to sleep was an unwelcome but persistent companion.
They had no time for such things. Perhaps before they camped for the night he could offer some to her, although he knew he could not possibly resort to taking any himself. Not when danger could be lurking anywhere.
Even now.
He took a steadying breath. He was only doing what was necessary. He was not wasting time, despite Penryn’s earlier accusation that they had tarried too long.
She had been the one to insist on the bath in the hot water of the spring.
At the time he had been too consumed with the novelty, with the desire to please so any argument died quickly enough, even to go so far as to suggest the through washing of their clothes.
It hardly seemed justified to then make such claims when he had only listened to her.
Perhaps other Guardians were stronger, more direct in their approaches. Their Lightkeeps were to be guided, the path quick and steady, unyielding to desires to stop for berries or luxurious baths after weeks of making do with a rag and cold water.
“You are so quiet,” Penryn commented at last, still not daring to look at him. “I can only imagine what you are thinking, and none of it is very good.”
Satisfied with his assortment of materials, he ignored her statement in favour of what was more important. “Your wrist, please.”
She nibbled at her lip, but relented, pulling it free from the river, dripping and looking only marginally better than when he had placed it there.
He settled himself close to her, working with careful hands. Regardless of what she thought, he felt no need for speaking. Not when he was certain that it would only lead to further argument between them.
There was too much she would not say, and too much that he needed to know. He was frustrated enough without adding more of her
