Of course he did not. He was her Grim.
Her husband.
“Breathe, Pen,” he murmured, his wings splayed while his hands were not, blocking them from view for a moment. He led them so that her back was to the partition, away from onlookers from that direction as well, and took her face between his palms. Warm again, and steady, even if she felt as if she was quite the reverse.
“What did he say?” she asked, not knowing if she was asking him to repeat their whispered conversation, or if she was asking him to relate the initial claim.
That she looked...
Looked like...
“A good breath first,” Grimult ordered, his voice commanding even his thumbs were softly coaxing as they skimmed along her cheeks. She obliged, finding that the world stopped whirling quite so fiercely when she did so, and she took another without prompting. And another. “Good,” Grim encouraged, leaning down so his forehead was pressed against hers. She was safe here, and although something burned in her to move, to hear what that man claimed and force herself to understand it, another wanted nothing more to stay cocooned with her husband and let the rest fall away.
She was so tired. They might have been clean and fed, but they had not slept much at all since their return travels had begun, the constant pursuit of the land-dwellers keeping an unrelenting pace that afforded so little time for rest.
There were dark smudges beneath Grimult’s eyes, indicating that he felt quite the same as her, yet he was holding it together.
Another breath, and she turned her eyes up to meet his. “He knew my...” her throat tensed to even utter the word, but Grim understood.
“Your mother,” Grimult confirmed, his eyes soft and sad. Just as they always were when she spoke of her past. Had it been so very bad?
She had been safe. Had been taught well, and had plenty to eat, something she doubted that all of the clans could claim when winters went long and conditions were particularly harsh.
But there had been no affection, not once her initial minders were dismissed. As if only fledglings needed a kind word and a soft hand.
She swallowed. “Who is he?” she managed to get out, suddenly wishing that Grimult’s wing would drop so she might get a look at him again.
Grimult’s thumb halted in its ministrations. “He says that he is your father.”
Her eyes widened. She bit her lip, evidently hard enough to be worrisome because Grimult felt the need to coax it free, to chide her softly to be gentle with herself.
“Do you believe him?” she asked, unable to bear the possibility that he was somehow mistaken, that the claim was one of desire for a child lost rather than the reality that it was her that was taken.
Grimult frowned. “I see the same pain as when I look into your eyes and you speak of them. There has been loss, of that I am certain.”
Not quite an answer, but all she would receive, for now. At least between the two of them.
She reached out and patted her husband’s chest. He was her strength when hers was failing, but she had been partially restored and needed to address the others in the room once more.
He stepped away from her and allowed his wings to settle back into their resting place. The others were not positioned as they had been, instead huddled together in fervent discussion, Rezen pulled between them. He did not seem very aware of their presence surrounding him, his attention fixated on her.
She still did not like the scrutiny. She had spent far too much of her life being watched so carefully, and even now it made her skin prickle with discomfort and awareness, even if it was well intentioned.
She swallowed, liking the feel of her husband so near to her, even if her back was turned and they were not touching.
“How do I know you speak truly?” she asked, pleased that her voice was calm even if her heart still raced at the prospect of what might be so near.
“On the day of your birth, the sages sent an envoy to collect you. Before your mother or I had even a chance to meet you, suddenly you were gone.” He gestured to the men about him. “This is known by all.”
A hand was laid on his shoulder, and Harlow addressed her. “We were told not to discuss it, that it was secret business that did not bear retelling, but he was a father in need of comfort, and we gave it freely.” Did he think she would mind? That her loyalties were so bound with the sages themselves that she would condemn them for sharing their grief with those closest to them?
Penryn tugged at her skirt, crumpling and releasing. “You will find no censure from me,” she assured them. Old lessons urged her otherwise, but they were dull things that lacked any power of compulsion.
Harlow nodded, squeezing his friend’s shoulder in commiseration. He looked to Rezen but he did not seem able to speak just yet, perhaps too preoccupied with memories long buried. “That means you are...” he glanced at Grimult briefly. “You’re the Lightkeep then?”
In another life, another time, Penryn might have raised her head a little higher. Her chin might have jutted just a small amount, her eyes filled with certainty and knowledge beyond her years.
But now, she was tired.
And her voice was mild and simple in her reply.
“Yes,” she answered calmly, feeling Grimult’s hand at the small of her back. It should not be there, not now, not given what they now had confirmed, but she did not fault him for it. Not when she needed to feel his touch just as badly as he needed to give it.
None spoke for a time. It was clear that many wanted
