She laid down, the mattress comfortable and the blankets warm, and wondered if it would be best simply to try to sleep rather than to allow her worried mind to play havoc with her already tender emotions.
And although she came close, her thoughts becoming muzzy and her breath slow and methodical, she had not quite managed it.
Until the bed dipped, and she felt him settling close to her. “Sleep, Penryn,” he urged, his voice the soft rumble that she loved so very dearly. “All can wait until tomorrow.”
And at last, she slept.
Because for once, he was near.
Precisely where he should be.
Seven
“And you?” Grimult asked, his eyes soft despite the strain in his voice having to ask it. “How were you chosen?”
It was amazing to Penryn how much easier it was to speak of matters when reclined in a bed, nestled close, the sun not quite peeking through the trees yet. Enough light to see the other, but not so blaring that all secrets were blatantly on display. He had woken first, and she opened a tired eye, feeling watched, only to break into a smile to see that it was because of him.
Perhaps in other occasions being pulled from sleep prematurely would be an unwelcome thing, but not now. Not when he had tucked himself around her after noticing her wakefulness, murmuring in her ear that it was time she share her secrets, and she would not be leaving the bed until she had done so.
It was more forward than she had expected from him, and for one delicious, teasing moment, she had thought to counter, reminding him that was hardly a threat at all, not when it was very close to what she truly desired.
But he was being serious, even if he tried to hide it behind a dose of playfulness, and rather than fight it, she found that her strict protocols were not quite so stringent so early in the morning, when sleep was still close at hand, when she could close her eyes and simply feel him all about her.
It would be a cruel tactic if she was not so willing to share with him, any manner of truths might come pouring out under such ministrations. But Grimult was careful with his queries, holding to the histories that should have belonged to him long before.
The slaughters even now were hard to discuss. Petty hunters satisfied with their trophies, regardless of the age of those they had killed. Children not as fast as their parents, fleeing to safety, only to be caught in a net or pierced by an arrow, their wings brutally removed before death had quite finished taking them.
It was slow, and it was agonising, and Grimult was not wrong to fear when weaponry was more advanced on one side than the other.
A people, so tied to the sea that it had never occurred to them to leave it, not even for a short time, banding together, to take war to the land-folk and put a stop to the huntings.
A slaughter of their own, when it was not seasoned warriors they faced, but towns unprepared for the attack that came from the very air itself.
An accord, first grudgingly given, imperfect in its language as neither spoke the other, at least at first, but through determined gestures and painstaking months of stunted drafts, they managed to establish enough of an understanding to etch out the beginnings of a tenuous treaty. Some stayed, heavily guarded, to learn and oversee the building of the Wall itself, to ensure their treaty was enacted properly. Then they returned with all they had gleaned of the land-dwellers world, writing it into books and passing along the language to other, younger generations.
All while promising that the threat was over, that the people did not have to worry, did not have to speak of it again, not when it was impossible for them to return...
And it did not take many generations until the people simply forgot. When horrors were shielded from the fledglings, until there was no memory to pass down at all, the sages offering to keep hold of the histories so the common folk could live and work in peace, unburdened by such harsh realities.
“Me?” Penryn asked, snuggling closer, wishing sleep might still be possible, but knowing she owed Grim all the answers he desired.
A huff, “Yes, you,” Grimult repeated, although the temporary frustration was smoothed with a kiss to her temple. “How are Lightkeeps chosen?”
She did not like to think of that part, and it sent an ache through her even now to do so. “They make it all very mystical,” Penryn answered bitterly. “Talk of stars and alignments, of a soul needing a bearer.” She turned her head, trying to see some recognition in Grimult. He nodded, but did not seem to remember such talks. Were his sisters her age? She felt for their mother, if so, for the fear to have been present while she carried a tiny life inside, that they might be born at just the right day, just the right hour, to be plucked away under the claim of honour and duty.
“They do pick a day and a time,” Penryn conceded, “but it is hardly any great mystery. They know when they need a Lightkeep to come here, and then calculate how old they should like them to be. The rest is arbitrary.” She grimaced, plucking at the quilt above her and pulling it higher toward her chin. Grimult must have taken the action to be a sudden chill for he stroked her arm, and did not object when she burrowed even further into him. “The midwives swear an oath,” she clarified, lest it confuse him how they
