His fingers skimmed down the tips of hers, and she shivered, wondering how such a small gesture could produce so much sensation. “I saw you today,” Grimult admitted, although she had known it well already. “They would have had no complaints.” He managed not to grimace when speaking of the sages, and for just that moment, she was grateful.
She did not know how to admit that despite her frequent hatred of them, for the methods they used and the traditions they held so staunchly dear, there was a part of her that still felt like a child looking for their approval, wanting their favour rather than their disappointment.
And she did not know that she would ever be truly free of that feeling, no matter how much she wished it.
“I could not understand the words. Could hardly believe they were coming from your mouth at all,” this he said with a rather pointed glance, as if he was hurt that she had never mentioned her proficiency at another form of speech. How could she, when she doubted that it occurred to most of his kind that other languages existed throughout the world, unique to their peoples. “But your manner was so altered.” He shook his head, releasing a little sigh. “For a moment, I did not know you.”
For a moment she could not think of what to say, and she rotated her hand so she could press as much of her palm against his as the bandages would allow. “That is because it is Penryn that you know. It is Penryn that is your friend and who... loves you very dearly.” She could not quite believe that the words had escaped, but she could hardly deny it now, even as her heart began to pound, so rather than redact, she finished the thought as best she could. “These people did not need her. They needed their Lightkeep, the delegate who would hold them to their vows and those of their ancestors.”
Grimult’s eyes were burning into her, and she dared a single glance, uncertain she wanted to see what he thought. Had he even heard the last of her words, or was he too consumed with her errant confession?
His fingers closed about her palm, gentle and mindful of her injury, although it did not hurt now, not unless she tried to match the action. How much she wanted to do precisely that.
“It is fortunate,” Grimult said at last, when it became obvious that she was not going to try to fill the silence herself, not when she could not trust what would come spilling from her lips without her consent. “That my affection for you is not one-sided.”
She did not expect such a response, or such a turn in their conversation, and she began to doubt that she had heard him correctly at all. “Your affection?” she repeated dumbly, trying to make sense of it, trying to decide if he meant it and that maybe it was true that he was here with her, that it was his hand encasing hers, but maybe this part was a figment of her most fervent hopes rather than...
A weary sigh, and he was picking up her hand, drawing her back to him if she wished to retrieve her stolen appendage. She put her mug down on the table as she rose, the reach awkward and her mind uncomprehending even as she stared at him for clarity.
For him to say it again.
He did not have to reach far, not when his height was so much greater than hers that even his seated position meant that she hardly towered at all. The hand free to do so cupped her cheek, smoothing across the delicate bone there, his expression soft. “It is fortunate,” he tried again. “That Penryn does not hold so tightly to convention, for I love her most dearly in return.”
It was an odd thing having to be the one to lean down for a kiss, but she found that she did not mind. She could not even say who had reached for the other, only that suddenly they were kissing, softly, sweetly, but with all the longing and hints of the desperation they had both felt on the behalf of their beloved. His hair was soft between her fingers as she clung to him, and she did not miss the ripple through him when her fingers skimmed near the nape of his neck, and she smiled at his groan, breaking their connection but not moving away from him. She liked it when he played with her hair, and evidently he felt quite the same. “Our tea is getting cold,” she commented, not minding in the least, not if it meant she got to remain just as she was.
Grimult had his eyes closed, and rather than allow her escape back to her own seat, his arms were suddenly about her middle, clutching her to him, his head buried in the folds of her shift. The embrace was almost desperate and she grew concerned, her fingers skimming through his hair, stroking and soothing, as she murmured to know what was wrong.
“Grim,” she urged, the silence only making her all the more concerned, until finally her fingers abandoned their post and found their way to his chin, pressing lightly until he acquiesced and raised his head to look at her.
She had never expected that her Grim might cry too. Not because of her. The shuddering she had felt through his body were his silent, heaving sobs, and she did not know what had brought on such a reaction, and she feared for him. “What is it?”
