Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Ky keeps his word. There is no more of that. Mostly because he falls asleep that night and does not get up the next morning. Or the next.
It’s not the first time Ethram has slept too many nights in the armchair, but it had been tiresome then and it is tiresome now.
He hadn’t expected his guest to sleep unbroken for days, and he catches himself fretting at the doorway more times than he’d like to admit.
But even without food and water, Ky looks sturdier each day.
More of a flush under his skin. More of a sheen to his long hair.
More of that pressure around him that makes Ethram’s head hurt, makes him feel like he’s had a cup too much of wine.
On the third day, he feels like he’s had a bottle or more. He staggers into the hallway wall, catching himself on the coat hooks. Gods. Exposure to aether can cause illnesses like this, he knows. What he doesn’t know is why his guest is bleeding aether like a broken airship.
He has to leave the house. It’s too much.
He’s been forced outside against his will for many reasons before—his work, the need for food and supplies, for unwanted social engagements—but he’s never left his house because staying is unbearable.
The pressure is mounting, gathering like the skies in the moment before a storm comes down.
He does not wish to be here when it does.
He dresses in town clothes, the quality things that have people respecting his indifference, and combs his hair with a touch of styling wax, and heads out. The first breath of air outside his cottage clears his head with blessed peace. He lets out his breath, glancing back at his cottage once.
It sits entirely innocently, quiet and unremarkable. No one would ever suspect the aetherstorm hiding inside it.
When he reaches Esk, he finds it looking as sorry as he feels. The week of rain has left the bare trees sagging miserably, and the drainage channels in the streets are alive with tiny, raging rapids. The River Lune is high, swollen enough that the storm must still be raging upriver.
The university is as busy as ever. He gathers his mail from his office, avoids talking to anyone, nods in passing greeting at his neighbouring scholar Sol, so at least Sol will vouch for his continued existence, and heads out again.
He had meant to spend some time studying the old rituals of Esk for his latest work, but instead he is thinking of stormbeasts and other strange creatures from myth that might explain the pale-haired, pale-eyed man currently sleeping in his bed.
He goes to the town market, which is larger than the usual one he visits on the outskirts, and thus louder and more crowded, and wholly unpleasant. He buys more than he needs. Or maybe exactly what he needs, if he is to be feeding another mouth.
The rag market isn’t so far away, and he browses for a while before selecting a few shirts, two pairs of trousers, a nightshirt, and a thick, woollen jumper that will have a better chance of keeping Ky decent than anything he owns.
It’s all old and gone through at least one mending apiece, and thus costs him very little. It will last Ky through the winter.
He does not think too much about why he is so concerned for his warmth and winter health.
It’s hardly his problem to take on, except who else will do so if he does not?
He also buys new singlets, socks, and undergarments.
He had been unfortunate enough to notice Ky’s lack of such things when he’d stripped off before climbing into Ethram’s bed.
Night is falling when he finally climbs out of his hired carriage and creaks his garden gate open. The overgrown garden throws out stretched, reaching shadows that catch at his feet as he drags his purchases through the door.
He’d thought the house would be dark, but it is not.
It is warm, and all the lamps are lit. He sets down his bags and unlaces his boots, glad to find that the unnatural pressure in the air is gone.
Instead, there is a gentle ripple of sensation, as if air is swaying around him. It isn’t at all unpleasant.
When he looks up again, Ky is standing in the doorway to the bedroom. He is naked, all bare skin and soft hair draping down past his waist.
“Gods,” mutters Ethram. He busies himself with peeling off his coat. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Not really,” says Ky. His voice is different. Richer, alive with a bite of something like amusement, something like trouble. “The fires are lit.”
“Did you know that the most flammable part of the body is the hair?” Ethram gathers up his parcels and heads past Ky towards the kitchen. “Perhaps tie it back next time.”
He knows Ky has followed him. Can feel that presence at his back.
“These are for you,” he says, dropping his parcels on the table. “Take a bath. Get dressed.”
“I’ve none of your currency to repay you,” Ky says. He unwraps the parcel, pulls out the jumper. Makes a small noise, maybe of pleasure.
“Having you clothed will be payment enough,” he mutters.
He takes the market packages into the pantry and unpacks.
The sounds of paper and cloth continue as Ethram stows away onions and parsnips.
Before he’s done, the door creaks, and Ky looks in.
He’s pulled a shirt on, which hangs long enough to reach his thighs. It is an improvement.
“How long did I sleep, then?”
“Three days.” He empties a parcel of flour into the flour bin. White dust blooms up, settles across his knuckles. “Like the dead.”
Ky laughs. It is a rough breath of a laugh, but there is a wealth of amusement in it. “Not quite.” He leans, watching Ethram work. “You are kind, Ethram Hart,” he says.
Ethram is unimpressed. “Not kind enough to not insist you go have that bath.”
Ky goes, and by the time Ethram has finished stocking the pantry and has gotten started on dinner, he is back.
He is gleaming like moonlight. There is a faint cling of steam on his skin, and Ethram doesn’t want to know how much wood he used to get the water that hot.
“There is fresh water, if you wish to bathe,” says Ky.
Ethram eyes the pot over the fire. Ky plucks the knife from his hand.
“I will finish things here,” he says. “Go.”
It is an odd sensation, being chivvied from his own kitchen.
But it is nice to sink into a bath with water hotter than he’s ever been able to get it, and let the aches soak from his body.
And when he heads back inside, the scent of spiced soup is rich in the air, and that is nice, too.
The smell brings other thoughts to mind, of salt-dark rock and damp sand between his toes.
“Where did you learn this?” he asks as he scoops more of the stew into his bowl.
Ethram can cook about five recipes passably well, and he does not deviate.
Ky’s cooking is a welcome variation, and tastes, Ethram thinks, better than anything he has ever cooked with the same ingredients and the same tools.
It tastes like something he’s been missing.
“I collect all sorts of things,” says Ky. “I’ve learned much from willing teachers.” And again, a flash of amusement.
Ethram’s beginning to think there is an endless joke that is entertaining Ky, and he cannot fathom what it must be. It irritates him, but that isn’t unusual. Most things irritate him.
“I learned this one from a woman from the isle of Spira. Though she used goat, not bird.”
“I haven’t eaten goat since I was a child,” Ethram says, tricked into continuing the conversation by a small nudge of nostalgia. “I grew up near Spira.”
Ky makes a sound of interest. When Ethram glances up, he’s watching him. There is interest on his face. Ethram couldn’t say what he finds interesting. Ethram is possibly the most uninteresting person there could be. He tries quite hard to keep it that way.
“I remember nothing of my past,” Ky says, as if in explanation. “Just flickers, here and there. I find your memories charming, if you’ll be generous enough to share them.”
“There’s little of interest there.”
“I do not think so.”
“In any case,” he continues, brusque. “You can take the bed again tonight. I’ll change the linens tomorrow after you leave.”
“Certainly not. I am well enough for the hearth now.”
“I’ve no energy for bed linens tonight.”
“Then allow me.” Ky gathers the bowls, sets them in the sink.
He does this all with a casual self-possession.
He could be gathering ancient tomes in the library, or setting out floral blessings for a festival with the way he moves.
Careful, graceful, his hair shifting in the light.
But he’s only shuffling dirty dishes in a run-down kitchen, and the picture fits ill because of it.
Still, Ethram does not intend to allow him anything.
He sets off to the bedroom, only to feel a solid grip catch him by his shoulders.
Ky moves Ethram’s entire body with the same thoughtless ease as he’d moved the dishes, setting him aside.
Ethram catches himself against the wall, pulse thundering in his ears.
All the strength in his body would not be enough to make Ky even hesitate.
He suspected so, but to know it…
Ky means no harm, he reminds himself. He’s given no harm.
Ky has already stripped the linens from the mattress and pillows by the time Ethram brings in his last clean set from the linen closet.
He’ll have to take the dirty set to the launderers tomorrow, or he’ll be forced to wash them himself.
He hates the dirty work of the laundry, all heat and blistered fingers.
Ky makes short work of the bed, shifting the mattress around with a casual ease that makes the back of Ethram’s neck itch. He distracts himself by rolling out the quilt instead of thinking of Ky’s strong shoulders and large hands.
The bed looks inviting when it’s done. Much nicer than the old armchair, but there is no way someone Ky’s height could comfortably sleep in that chair, and he’d be a poor host to send him there.
“You don’t really mean to sleep on the hearth?” His words are out before he can think them through. He really should have thought them through.
Ky gives him an opaque look. “Is there another option?”
The bed is right there, between them. It’s not a large bed. It’s barely enough for two grown people, and certainly not when one of the people is Ky.
“If you aren’t a restless sleeper, then we can share. It cannot be the first time you’ve done such things.” Ethram wants to shove his hand over his mouth, stop his own foolish words. It is too late, of course. He has gone and said it.
“I am not a restless sleeper,” says Ky, and that is that.