She pulled one free in any case, knowing it would not be terribly useful against the thick nature of the dress and the tight stitches that held it all together, but she had to try. She could not quite bring herself to calm, not when she felt trapped by the dress, and by the surge of hope that accompanied the sound outside, only to prove fruitless.
She yelped, the knife clattering to the floor below when there was sound at the door that was almost definitely a knock upon the wooden frame.
She stared at it, unable to move. If she could just remain still, there was a possibility that Grim was on the other side. That their true reunion was forthcoming, and she had not imagined him at all.
That he was real, and present, and willing to help her.
That she was not alone.
The heavy cloak he had worn felt real beneath her fingers. His tunic too, when she greedily had tried to feel more of him. The touch on her shoulder...
It was likely Henrik. It was not forbidden for the sages to come to her, and it was likely he was dissatisfied with her leaving so abruptly.
Which also meant he could offer no assistance with the laces of her dress, which was the most disappointing part.
Resigned, when the newcomer knocked again, Penryn moved forward, uncaring of the wild mess of her hair. Her fingers trembled lightly but made quick work of the bolt, then next the handle, pulling the door open just a crack, the first lamp she had lit offering a little illumination to the stoop.
A cloaked figure, not immediately outside, but one who had taken a few steps back into the dark, but who was suddenly coming nearer, and she felt a quick flash of fear, that a stranger had found her and she did not know him at all and he was trying to enter her new dwelling and she was alone and...
He pushed down his hood, perhaps seeing her fright, and there was Grim after all.
And it was possible that she did not even try to contain her tears, that she lurched forward in a frantic need to be with him, that she tripped on her hem and tumbled into him instead, all grace and poise. But he caught her in his familiar arms, and she breathed him in, wanting to capture this closeness, the utter joy that perhaps she was not mad after all, and if she was, she did not care.
Not if it meant he felt so real about her.
And maybe, if he was only a figment in her mind, she would get to keep him.
There was a sound, a thump as something was dropped, and belatedly she realised he had been holding his pack before dropping it on the floor, one arm going about her middle, clutching her close, and the other at the back of her head. And if she was not mistaken, the small pressures she felt at the crown might be kisses there.
She could not stop crying.
“Oh, Penryn,” he murmured, and he sounded so sad, and she squeezed her arms about him more tightly, afraid he would wish to talk, wish for explanations, and she could not bear the thought. Not if it meant she could no longer touch him.
And be touched.
Must not forget that glorious part of it.
She felt she had been starved and only now was offered respite, and she could not gather any semblance of self-control. Not yet. And it was not fair for him to ask it of her.
“We are letting the warmth out,” Grimult murmured into her hair, still pressing those small kisses that were all the warmth she needed. But she could not deny that he was cold, the chill of him eking through his clothing and seeping into her as well. She wanted to tell him that she did not care, not if it meant separating, of releasing him, but letting go would mean she could insist he remove his cloak and let her look him over properly. She had been cared for—perhaps a little too well since they had parted—but he had been injured and she hated to think of what he had done to be here. None had seen him, he had assured her, but that meant that no one had offered him shelter or food or...
She pulled back, immediately feeling the loss, but allowed her eyes to drink him in, tugging at the fabric that surrounded him, so dark a green that it was nearly black. He released a chuckle at her expense, turning instead to the door and shutting it, hesitating as he was confused by the same mechanisms as she was, but settling for the bolt. She did not care to see him so near a door, a flash of irrational fear insisting that he was going to disappear out into the night rather than remain with her. But she bit her lip and forced herself to calm, to allow him to shutter them away from the world and not react rashly.
“Here,” she insisted, pushing a chair near the fire and patting the back of it insistently. It was only belatedly that she realised his wings would have trouble with it, but a quick glance around the cottage informed her that there were no stools to be had. Of course not, for land-folk liked to ease back while they were seated, no wings to consider as they were crushed between body and a lattice of wood.
But Grimult did not seem to mind, removing his cloak and, shaking out his wings with a sigh. The feathers were pressed in strangely, and as he eased into the chair, spreading out his wings as comfortably as possible, she could see lines in the distortion, her fingers coming and touching gently. He would need her help to put all to rights, of that she was certain. “What made these?” she asked softly,
