Lynna lets out a gentle huff, her chest deflating with relief that we haven’t killed each other. “If you were more like Espan, my life would be a whole lot more relaxing, Rexxan.”
“And a whole lot more boring, I imagine,” I tell her, as we walk back to find Espan.
Our heads turn to the sound of the door opening and there she stands, leaving me wondering if she was quite that beautiful when she left. Her hunting clothes are slightly torn, and her hairline, neck, and ear are caked in dried blood. She limps over, and as she gets closer I can see the shadows of exhaustion beneath her eyes and the injuries littering every exposed piece of skin I can see.
My eyes meet Lynna’s and for once we are on the same page. Now is not the best time to tell Renna that we know.
She tosses an iron key on the table in front of us, the metal clattering along the polished wood and skidding to a halt in front of Espan. The key. She has the key.Fuck, I know how violent the fight must’ve been for her to get that, and she looks half-broken. Physically, I mean. Renna has an unbreakable spirit.
"It's done," she says, her voice hoarse. She’s hurt. She wouldn’t be hurt if she’d done the sensible thing of taking Onyx and Stellan with her, but I understand now why she ran away in such a rush.
Even the thought of anyone discovering who she is must be terrifying for her.
* * *
"Ren?"I ask, gently knocking on her door.
"Yes?"
“Lynna and I are here.”
"How can I help?" She asks, quietly.
"No, love. We're here to helpyou."
The door unlocks a little, and a beautiful dark eye peers around. She shuffles back, letting us in.
"I thought I could help heal your wounds, Renna," says Lynna, eventually.
A sorceress. Can it really be? People in Yterras grow up hearing about them as a thing of myth or legend.
I tie her impossibly long dark hair up in a braid, wincing at the arrow wound in the back of her shoulder. Renna doesn’t make a sound as we stitch the wound closed, disinfecting all her smaller cuts. It’s the stab wound to her thigh that has Lynna and myself switching languages like we do when we’re working together in the Healing Halls, working a little faster now. She’s pale from blood loss.
I feel her forehead. She is shivering violently but not cold, and I think she’s just dehydrated and exhausted. I’m not used to feeling like this about someone, but seeing her in this state is making me…sad? Angry? Some kind of cocktail of the two, I think.
"You're very strong," I say, kissing her as Lynna sizzles her skin with some disinfectant chemical. I mean it. I’m in awe of her. She falls asleep as I run my fingers through her hair, but I stay exactly where I am for an hour. I like justbeingwith her. Just coexisting beside her. It’s nice. I’ll miss her when I go home.
But contrary to what romantic books would have me believe, sitting and watching a woman sleep for hours is incredibly fucking boring, no matter how beautiful, so I get up and make myself useful. Renna brought a prisoner back with her, and as Espan is anti-torture, I spend the night interrogating him for information. It’s funny how much people tell you when they think you’ll spare their life. But the kill doesn’t relieve my tension, not tonight.
I trudge up the stairs out of the dungeons, the steps smooth and well-worn from centuries of use, and my sour mood only spoils further. This is my fault. She's up there in that state and I feel like it's my fault. If I'd given her more opportunity and more safety to open up to me, she wouldn't have run away on her own like that.
"She wants you," says Lynna, coming out of Renna's room and wiping her hands with a white cloth. The trail of her white ballgown pools at her feet, long sleeves tumbling down to the floor beside it. Her skin glows in the dim hallway, and somehow, she looks immaculate, despite the stress and blood of the last few hours. I, however, am splattered in blood. My face, my arms, my shirt. It is everywhere. Lynna does not look surprised.
"How is she?"
"She's in bed. She can't get back to sleep, despite her exhaustion. She wants you to sit with her."
Why is my chest glowing with pride? She wants me there with her.Me. It's an honour. I knock and creep into her room where she lies in bed, her whole body covered by a night dress that is far too big for her.
"I can't sleep, and—holy fuck, did you take a bath in blood or something?"
“Something like that,” I mutter, cryptically.
"I don't want you to touch me. I hurt."
"That's alright," I say, stretching over her bed to get a book off the shelf. I sit on the chair, beginning to read aloud until she finally drifts off, her lips a little pouted in her sleep. Gods, she’s actually quite sweet when she’s not actively trying to ruin my life. Her long lashes paint shadows across her delicate face, and I am hit once again by that unfamiliar warm feeling in my chest.
I don’t know how to make that feeling go away.
