Edgard shook his head, his shoulders relaxing from a tension she did not know he possessed. She had always.... she could always tell when... when he was tense.
She pushed the thought away.
“Not long now, little miss,” he answered easily, although he inclined his head, the better to peer at her. She wondered what he saw. That did not seem a proper title for one of her position, but she did not find that she minded it. “You must be very tired,” he commented thoughtfully. “But maybe you had a cart to bring you. Not as fine as mine though, is it?” he asked, his hand reaching to the wood, long considered old, but kept well, hard though it was beneath her seat.
She should not answer that. No details, no information on what lay on the other side. “Yours is a very fine cart,” she agreed instead, gratified that her compliment had brought a twinkle to his eye, one that seemed most genuine.
He sat a little straighter at her praise, the click he gave the horse a bit more cheerful, and she wondered why her approval mattered to him.
Yet clearly, it did.
The increase in speed made each lurch a little more pronounced, and when the wheel caught on a stone it gave a particularly difficult jostle, her ribs protesting the action with pain that reminded her of the first day of their injury. She was able to suppress her low hiss, her hand coming to grip at her side. Soon. They would be there soon, and there would be no more carts, and there would be time for rest. After... well, after.
“You well?” Edgard asked, his brow furrowing as he regarded her.
She should sit up straighter, should prim and nod and assure him that all was well.
Even they were honeyed lies, the lot of them.
She was not allowed to be a person here, not really. She was a figurehead, her time for playacting behind her.
Locked away with...
That did not matter.
His hand moved, just at the corner of her vision. As if he meant to reach out, to touch her, and she gave him a sharp glance in warning. He had the good sense to appear momentarily sheepish, shaking his head at her reaction. “Forget you aren’t my granddaughter, that’s all.” He cleared his throat, allowing the horse to hold his full attention for a brief moment. “Was only going to say that they’ll see you patched up when we get there. Anyone can clearly see you aren’t quite right.”
At that he gave his own pointed glance at her wrist and she covered it with her free hand. She couldn’t bear to think of... of him wrapping it, of the care he had taken with her. Always so careful.
How far could he be by now?
The ache in her chest was real, more potent than any of the injuries she had incurred.
She did not want a sage looking her over, pulling away careful wrappings and giving her new, pristine and white and unfamiliar.
But she did not have a say. Not now. Only with...
“Look like you could use a hot meal too,” Edgard continued. “Or maybe a few.”
Penryn shifted, releasing a trembling breath. A part of her wanted to refuse to eat anything here, to wait until enough time had passed that it was possible he was settled in with his family, enjoying the bounty that came with farm-life and hard work, his mother doting on him as he had so often tended to her.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.
What if something happened along the way? What if he was hurt, and there was no one... no one to find him, to help him, to patch up his wounds and set the world right again.
“Stop,” she begged. “Please stop.”
Whether she entreated Edgard the thoughts pushing to the forefront of her mind, she could not be sure.
But Edgard obliged while the memories did not, and she staggered down from the cart, unthinkingly catching herself with her bound arm, the pain blossoming and nearly blinding in its intensity.
Yet it was better that than the overwhelming cacophony in her own mind, and she took a few deep breaths, perilously near to sobs.
The sages would be disgusted with her for her lack of self-control.
She could not find it within herself to care.
“Miss?” Edgard queried, learning his body towards her without actually moving from his seat. “Lightkeep?” He sounded terribly nervous, but she had no room to chide herself for worrying him. “Do I need to fetch help?”
Another breath and then another, and she felt a little more herself. “No,” she managed to get out. She should not be affected so. Not by a kiss, not by a host of kindness spread over weeks and weeks of travel.
She should be able to think his name without feeling as if she was about to split open.
But she couldn’t.
And for a moment, entertained the thought of the tether he had mentioned, pulling them near, agonising when apart.
She had dismissed it so quickly, certain it had been a fabrication of his own making, a confirmation, yes, that his care for her was genuine.
Perhaps she had been mistaken.
One last steadying breath and she pulled herself back into the cart. The blanket so generously given had been subjected to the floor and she righted it quickly, smoothing out the lines, pricks of texture against her palm where small, tight stitches held everything together.
The patterns were unfamiliar, the colours bright and vibrant in reds and blues, motifs of florals and greenery cut and sewn into patterns unlike what she had seen amongst the sages.
“My wife made that for me,” Edgard supplied without her having to enquire. With a click the horse was moving again. “Said it would keep me warm during my patrols.”
She did not question why a younger man was not used for such a purpose. Perhaps he had been when the gift had been given, hale and hearty, ready to keep watch for errant Lightkeeps or enemies alike.
“She has
