17. Magnolia
17
MAGNOLIA
T rue to his word, Garrek did get me up early. Before dawn, my whole tent trembled when a big blue fist struck the pole frame of it, three times in rapid succession. Like an unnecessarily dramatic version of knocking on a door.
“I’m up,” I groaned, yanking off my silk bonnet. I rubbed my face sleepily, wishing for what felt like the millionth time that this planet had something that might resemble caffeine. I’d put my hair in Dutch braids last night, and a quick slide of my hands along their lengths told me they’d survived alright, so all I had to do now was get dressed.
When I emerged, fully dressed and with my hat on my head, I saw Garrek waiting in the gloom of pre-dawn by the shuldu. I was so used to seeing him with his vest that finding him so completely shirtless first thing in the morning made me feel kind of funny. My chest went hot and tight as my gaze tracked along the broad lines of his shoulders, the strong planes of his chest.
“Magnolia?”
Apparently, he’d been talking to me. And I was too busy gawking at his muscles to notice. Nice one.
“Sorry,” I breathed. I cleared my throat. “What’s that?”
Garrek was holding something beneath his arm that I didn’t recognize.
“It’s a stool. So you can get up and down on your own.”
He unfolded the contraption, revealing a step-stool with two levels. It looked brand new. My eyebrows shot up.
“Did you… Did you make that?”
“Of course I did. You think I need to carry around a stool like this for myself?”
“No. Of course not. What would a seven-foot-something behemoth need with a stool?”
“Seven feet?” His purple eyes narrowed. “Did you hit your head?”
“No. Never mind. It just means, yes, I acknowledge that you’re extremely freaking tall, oh mighty shuldu rider.”
I sounded a little pissy. Maybe I was. But Garrek didn’t rise to meet my mood. Instead, something like dark laughter danced in his eyes.
“Tall-ass rider.”
The unexpected recall of last night’s conversation just about slapped me in the face. My mood shifted instantly, and before I knew it I was wiping tears from my eyes as I desperately tried to keep my laughter inside so that I wouldn’t wake Killian up yet. At one point, I was so far bent over in my wheezing that my hat fell off.
I reached for it, but Garrek was already there. He’d closed the distance between us without me even noticing, and when I stood, he carefully placed the hat on my head.
Then he turned and started walking back towards the shuldu where they were tied to the trunks of trees. And what I saw then killed my laughter dead as a knife.
Garrek’s back, usually covered up by his vest, or hidden while he faced me, was on full display in the greyish light. His hair was tied in a simple low ponytail, which made it easy to see that gouged into the meaty muscle was the criss-crossing violence of dozens of wounds.
Panic rose like vomit so fast I couldn’t speak. Had that happened last night? How the hell hadn’t I noticed? Why hadn’t he said anything?
But the more I stared at the mess of his back, the more I realized that these were old wounds. Completely closed over.
Scars.
My own words from last night came back at me, like a sobbing echo.
Words about how I knew he wouldn’t have killed his own father without a good reason .
And there that reason was. I knew it intrinsically. I knew it without being told.
Garrek had been hurt, over and over again, by the person who was meant to protect him.
I wanted to weep. I wanted to run and hug him. I wanted to trace the line of each scar with my fingertips and tell him everything would be OK. And then, I wanted to trace them all again with my lips.
That last, treacherously specific desire jarred me out of my own thoughts so fast that by the time Garrek turned around to look back at me, I knew my face was a neutral mask.
He set the stool down beside Shanti, who was already saddled and ready.
We watched each other, and after a long moment, he raised his hand towards me.
“Get up,” he said.
I took his hand and stepped onto the stool.
My instinct about Garrek not being a particularly patient teacher was, unfortunately for me, bang-on. Morning after morning during our lessons, he barked orders at me, and every time I made a mistake, he’d looked so disappointed. Like I’d personally offended him by being such a terrible cowgirl. Killian tried to soothe my bruised ego by giving me encouraging tips in the evenings when we were getting ready for the night or washing up in whatever creek or small lake or pond we came across .
Garrek’s take-no-shit sternness, however, meant that I learned really fast. Within two weeks, he decided that I was competent enough to ride Shanti on my own, at least at the pace of our current travels. He made it very clear that I was not ready for any sort of speed or jumping, and that was just fine with me.
I should have felt proud and excited about my new skills, however fledgling they were. I’d wanted to get better, get stronger, learn how to ride before I met Oaken. But I couldn’t seem to muster up any excitement about what I learned. All I felt was a pathetic sort of gloominess because a part of me was convinced that Garrek had taught me so ruthlessly, and so quickly, so that he didn’t have to sit with me and share a mount anymore.
As we made our way around the forest towards the mountains, we exhausted our supplies, and Garrek and Killian began trapping animals and fishing for food. I helped out by foraging, only collecting exactly what Garrek told me was safe. The closer we got to the mountains, the colder and wetter it got. Three weeks into travelling, Garrek decided there was no longer a risk of forest fires, and campfires became a part of our nighttime routine. Garrek and I had both watched Killian closely during the first few fires, but he’d exhibited nothing but a respectful sort of caution towards the flames.
While Garrek seemed to be getting quieter, snappier, and pulling away from me more and more each day, Killian was doing the opposite. He was blooming. Absolutely thriving. I could see how much travelling and experiencing new things was invigorating him. And I could also see, despite his bouts of anger and defiance, how much he worshipped Garrek. Whatever had been slowly, carefully forming between them had strengthened after that night with the idra.
Trust was building, and it was building for both of them. And it was fucking beautiful to see.
I just wished I knew why the hell things were so weird between Garrek and me. One night, about a month into our journey, as I sat on Garrek’s bedroll inside Garrek’s tent, I mulled over the strained awkwardness that had grown between us. I didn’t think I’d said anything or done anything. But whatever tiny tendrils of friendship that might have been taking root for us seemed to have been yanked out for no real reason.
I lay down on top of the bedroll, still fully dressed. The bedroll smelled more like me than Garrek, now. And that made me sad.
That’s it.
I sat up abruptly. I was going to go talk to Garrek. Right now. Moping around like a highschooler whose crush had ghosted her was too pathetic for words.
Wait. No. Not crush. Totally the wrong analogy.
If I had a crush on anyone, it had to be Oaken. Right?
Oaken, whom I’d never even met.
Oaken, who’d begun to feel as distant as a dream while Garrek felt so real.
Oaken, who didn’t have that hard blue jaw and those smoke-purple eyes and a back that made me want to hold him. To heal him.
Oaken, who didn’t love Killian in the gruffest, silently tender way imaginable.
Because Garrek did love Killian.
Even if he no longer seemed to even like me.
All fired up, I stomped out of the tent. Only to freeze when I saw Garrek seated by the fire, his face screwed up with pain.
“What is it?”
His eyes flew open. They burned briefly white when he saw me.
“Nothing to concern yourself with.”
I ignored him, worry gnawing in my belly.
“What is it?” I asked again, crossing my arms and standing in front of him. I used my best big-sister voice on him. The one that usually said I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Or believe any lies.
Resigned, he sighed and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Back’s burned.”
“What?!” I hurried around him and got down on my knees. Before he could argue or pull himself out of reach, I grasped the thick dark rope of his ponytail and tossed it forwards over his shoulder. The ragged lines of scar tissue looked dark. Inflamed.
“What the hell happened?” I asked, my voice sharp even as my touch on his skin was gentle.
“Why I always wore the vest,” he grunted as I brushed a tender spot. “It’s like our ears. Scar tissue is more sensitive to sunburn.”
“Garrek,” I whispered, biting my lip to hold tears at bay. Maybe this was why he’d been so fucking weird with me lately. He was in constant pain from long hours with his back exposed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“No point. I don’t have another vest. My hair covers it some.”
“Clearly not enough!” I cried. “I have sunscreen, you dope! And anti-inflammatory creams!”
“I have a big back. I’d use it all up. Be a waste.”
“How could that possibly be a waste,” I demanded, “if it’s something that could help you feel better?”
“Because you need them, Magnolia!” He twisted so abruptly and violently to face me that I fell flat on my ass. “You have a whole life to live with Oaken after you leave me!” His eyes seared me. “Do you think Oaken has fancy human creams and medications to replace those ones? Of course not!”
His eyes closed, and he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he opened his eyes again, there were lines of pain etched around them. “I can’t, Magnolia. I can’t keep… Keep them.”
You have a whole life to live with Oaken after you leave me.
A month ago, that sentence would have filled me with joy.
But now…
Now, when I heard the words, it was as if each one landed like a blow. Feeling suddenly bruised, like my insides had been battered, I got unsteadily to my feet. I went back into the tent, feeling Garrek’s eyes on my back the entire way.
Inside the tent, I let myself cry. Silently, because I knew Garrek with those Zabrian ears of his would hear me if I weren’t careful. I ripped open my med kit, took out the tubes of sunscreen and anti-inflammatory cream, and hated how small they were. Because Garrek was right. He was big. He had a lot of scars. The tubes would be empty in a matter of weeks, if not days.
In that moment, I didn’t even care. I would have emptied the entire contents on him in a single day if it would have made a difference.
But I knew he wouldn’t let me. He would never allow me to sit there and put the cream on him if it meant I’d later go without. He wouldn’t let me help him.
I glanced around the tent, trying desperately to come up with other solutions. Maybe I could make him a new vest. But out of what? If Garrek had had any spare hides or fabric, he likely would have made his own by now. I’d seen him mending Killian’s bedroll before. He knew how to sew.
I looked at the bedroll in here now but abandoned the idea of cutting it up almost as soon as I thought of it. This was Garrek’s. Even if I was making something for him, I didn’t feel that I had the right to ruin it. And, despite the fact that spring was advancing into summer, it was getting colder and colder at night out here. Once I met up with Oaken, Garrek would need his bedroll back .
What, then? Use some of my own clothing? None of my shirts would fit him, and I didn’t really have anything extra to cut up. I’d packed the bare minimum: pants, a few tops, underwear, one set of now blood-stained pyjamas, and the jacket, hat, and boots provided by Tasha, the bridal program’s facilitator on Elora Station.
I did have a little bit of yarn and my crochet hook, but it was nowhere near enough to make Garrek an entire vest.
I didn’t have anything extra. Nothing frivolous. Nothing I could live without.
Except…
My eyes snagged on a sliver of lacy white fabric in my bag. Slowly, I pulled the garment out.
My wedding dress.
It was the one thing that I didn’t really need. The one pretty, romantic, non-practical item of clothing I’d brought. I’d worn it my first day here, when I’d expected to meet and marry Oaken upon arrival.
It wasn’t a full, formal wedding dress. More of a strappy sundress. But I loved it anyway. It was beautiful and whimsical and edged with gorgeous lace. I’d been so excited when I’d chosen it. So honoured to wear it for my wedding. I’d kept it as clean as possible, packing it as carefully as I had wrapped up the little ship in a bottle Nelson had given me.
I shook it out and held it up, running an appraising gaze over its shape. Before, when I’d looked at this dress, I’d seen love and longing and hope for something better. It had represented something magical, something nearly miraculous. My own happily ever after.
Now, when I looked at it, I simply saw a dress. A dress with a flowy skirt which gave me plenty of fabric to work with.
I grabbed my scissors and my suture kit from the med kit.
And then I got to work.