He reached out a hand and snagged her wrist, not to keep her from touching as she had first assumed, but to urge her around, all the closer to him. He did not pull, but his eyes beseeched, and before she had even made the conscious decision to do so, she found herself nestled on his lap, his arms twined about her waist, his chin resting upon her shoulder as he simply held her. It was not the most comfortable position, but she would not have forsaken it for anything. Neither spoke for a long while, and Grimult’s shivering ceased as the fire did its work and pushed heat back into him. And, Penryn liked to think, that her own presence was a balm of its own.
“Straps,” he said suddenly, and she shifted to look at him. His dark eyes were watchful as they answered, but soft, and it took a great deal to keep from leaning forward to kiss him rather than listen for what he was trying to tell her.
“Straps,” she repeated, not certain of what he was telling her, and her confusion must have been obvious.
“To tie down my wings so they were less obvious,” he elaborated, and she watched as he gave them a little shake even now.
Her eyes widened as she imagined such a thing, his beautiful wings tied down into unnatural positions, contorted and doubtlessly painful as he tried to blend in with the land-dwellers.
For her sake.
To be close.
To find her.
“There is no need to cry,” he assured her, smoothing his thumb over her cheek. She had not realised she had begun again, and she nodded, words failing her. She did not want to move, but she needed to help him, needed to show him how much she appreciated his sacrifice.
For her.
His arms were reluctant to leave her, but he did not stop her from leaving her perch on his lap, and there was no mistaking the shiver that ran through him when her fingers met errant feathers, twisting delicately to put them back into proper position. Just as he had shown her, so reluctant to ask for her aid, so determined that it was inappropriate for one such as her to tend to him.
He made no such protest now as she worked, and a little of her tension eased as she smoothed and tweaked, until the evidence of the first band was no longer visible. “Have you eaten?” she belatedly thought to ask. She would gladly continue until all were put to rights, but she did not want to ignore other of his needs while tending to the most obvious.
“I was given a plate at your little party,” Grimult answered, and there was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice. It was striking to her, for something harsh when there had been nothing but tenderness between them so far, and she was glad of her position behind him so he could not see the momentary hurt.
“It was hardly mine,” she denied, keeping her own voice level, although sadness seeped into it of its own accord.
She did not know what more to say of the matter, the realisation slow in coming that Grimult would be equally confused by all that had transpired as he ever had been before. He would have no way to communicate with those he had come into contact with, had understood none of the words of the sages or even her, untrained in their speech. And why should he have been? He was never meant to interact with them, should never have witnessed any of it.
She released a sigh, and turned her attention to his wound. It looked angry and a little twisted. She frowned, unwilling to touch it in case it caused him pain, but wishing that the healer had been able to look at this rather than waste time with her wrist. “You flew over the Wall,” she commented rather than asked. “Before you had healed.” It would explain the state of his wound, angered by the movement it was not ready to support. “And tonight?”
He did not answer her, but he did not deny it either, and she felt strangely miserable at the thought. It was foolish and not without great risk with none to help if it should bleed too much or catch infection. But still, he had risked it, and had even done so again tonight to ensure he did not lose her to Edgard’s beast and steadily moving cart.
“I will have answers from you,” Grimult insisted instead. “Of what all of this meant. What it is for. But perhaps not tonight.”
It was Penryn’s turn to shiver, and she found herself nodding, although he was not in a place to see it.
“Not tonight,” she agreed, turning back to her work on his feathers.
And really, it hardly mattered. They had a little time, for him to heal, for them to heal.
Before they had to face the rest.
And simply because she had to, had to touch him, had to thank him, she leaned forward—mindful of his wound—and kissed his cheek, her arms hugging her to him from behind. “Thank you,” she murmured, perhaps to him. Perhaps a prayer.
“For what?” he asked, and she kissed him again.
As if he did not know. “For not listening to me. For being here.”
To thank him for loving her enough to risk it all.
But though the words were there, she dared not speak them. Not quite yet.
For now, this was enough.
Six
Penryn worked on Grim’s wings until she was not entirely certain she would be able to bend her fingers come morning. But she was nearly finished and if she just was able to continue, then there would be no more evidence of the horrid marks on his wings and maybe...
Maybe it would be thanks enough for all he had sacrificed.
But did he even understand what he had given up? Guilt hung
