Chapter 20.5 The Blood
Footsteps crunch over the grass behind me, and I lock my muscles into perfect stillness.
My dragon retreats, shying away at the thought of hurting Marton.
I exhale, and Marton takes another step closer.
"Tarah," he says miserably.
"I'm—sorry."
I sigh heavily.
"No." I turn to face him, taking in his regretful expression.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what's going on with me lately.
" I attempt a laugh. "I'm usually better at controlling myself.
"
"Well, you've been under a lot of stress lately," he says, an attempt at lightness.
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. It barely reaches his mouth.
We're a mess, the two of us.
"Why is it different," I whisper, "for me to want to take care of Cherry, than for you to want to take care of me?
Why is one unhealthy for me, but it's fine when you do it?
"
Marton pulls a face.
"Because. Because I—Tarah, I don't feel like I have to take care of you.
It's not...the thing that gives my life value.
I just want to help you. Because sometimes you act like what you need doesn't matter.
"
"Sometimes it doesn't matter," I grit out.
I think of my dream then, the fuzzy memories of blood on the stones, blood on my hands.
A dead man. Cherry's pale face. The day I realized some things mattered more than my own life.
More than my needs. The day I put them away for good.
Marton's expression tightens.
"I respectfully disagree."
I snort at this diplomatic response.
"You don't get a say."
"Fine," he says, voice clipped.
"Then you don't get a say in what I do, either.
" He strides away from me. As he goes, he picks up the crumpled tunic from the ground, shaking it out and stowing it in our pack.
I watch this with annoyance, but say nothing.
Because apparently that's what we're doing now.
We reach the mountains that night, no longer slowed by silly things like playfulness and conversation.
I wish I could say I appreciated the change.
But a full day and night pass in stilted silence, and then we're scouring the mountains the next day, still not interacting beyond the briefest discussions of headings and plans.
We find nothing that day, but I don't think either of us expected to.
We've agreed that our best bet is to head into the deepest part of the mountains, on the line between Philostia and Ithyma.
This will take another day of travel at least, and then we'll circle until we find the Trove.
Or don't find it, and are forced to make another plan.
But as we make camp that night, on a high and sheltered cliff, the silence begins to fray on my nerves.
I could ignore my own feelings, such as they are, but Marton seems stiff and unhappy in a way that bothers me.
As the evening wears on and we finish eating, Marton begins to shiver.
I cringe to myself, looking around at the camping spot that I have chosen.
Barren rock, under a jutting overhang, with a few scrubby trees clinging to the rock face for firewood.
An excellent place to stay for the night, for a dragon.
But the wind whips at us, whistling through the cleft in the stone we are nestled in, pulling my hair in all directions and no doubt chilling Marton to the bone.
I am a fool.
I am just about to suggest that we find a different, warmer spot to camp for the night when Marton climbs to his feet, wiping his hands on his trousers.
He approaches the fire, and begins to kick ashes over it to bank it, as we do most every night.
"Don't," I say. "Let it keep burning.
I will get more firewood."
Marton gives me an odd look.
He waves a hand out to the mountain passes and shadowed forests below us.
"We are exposed here. If there is anyone unfriendly nearby, they will see the light.
"
"Let them," I insist. "I can protect us.
You're cold."
Now he scowls at me.
Thinking, I suppose, of my failed attempt to protect us in the past. The memory stings.
Pointedly, Marton kicks ashes over the fire, and the bright light smolders down to nothing, the embers sheltered beneath a layer of ash.
This is him demonstrating what it looks like when we don't listen to each other.
It is very irritating.
Marton lays down against the wall of stone at the back of the cleft.
He spends a few moments shifting around, probably trying to find a comfortable spot atop the hard stone, but he gives up after a beat and just lies there on his back, closing his eyes with a sigh, one arm braced behind his head.
I note that he hasn't put the blanket down underneath him first, and I bitterly assume that he's leaving it for me, who doesn't feel the cold.
With jerky motions, I get to my feet, going over to our pack and removing supplies, unknotting the knots to turn it back into a blanket.
My attention catches on the small tunic I have been refusing to wear on principle.
I glance up at Marton once more, lying uncomfortable—and trying not to shiver—upon the rocky floor.
And I have an idea.
With vengeful intent, I strip the undershirt off over my head and quickly put on the tunic.
The fit is decent. It is a bit tight over my breasts, but nothing so bad as a corset.
The line of the waist falls in the correct location, so that the rest of the fabric falls loose and comfortable around my hips and thighs.
There is a pair of leggings with it, and after I roll these a few times at the ankle, they fit too.
I'm more comfortable and snug than I've been in days—maybe in ever—and the realization is irksome.
But my comfort was not the point. With self-righteous vitriol, I take the undershirt and blanket in my hands and stamp over to Marton.
He peaks one eye open at my approach, and I toss the undershirt and blanket in his face.
He splutters, sitting up, and I cross my arms. "Put the shirt on.
Get under the blanket."
Marton glares at me, holding the wad of material in his hands.
Then he sees that I am wearing the stolen tunic.
His eyes want to smile, but his mouth fights it.
Without saying anything—and with a more eager, gloating attitude than I intended my actions to create—he strips off his two layers of tunics, shuddering once at the chill wind, and then puts on the undershirt, layering the other clothes on top of it.
Marton hesitates, holding the blanket.
Still wordless, he holds my gaze, then nods to the hard stone next to him.
Meaning, I deduce, If I use the blanket, you have to share it with me.
I hold back a sigh, but sit down on the rocky ground beside him.
We're compromising, I suppose. He lays back against the stone, pulling the blanket up around him, and I lay down as well.
He tucks the blanket over and around me, forcing me in closer to his side in order to fit beneath it.
I lie stiffly for a moment, my body electrically aware of every inch of contact between us.
Our hips and shoulders touch as we lay side by side, still saying nothing.
My warmth gradually fills the space beneath the blanket, and Marton stops shivering.
Lying on his back, he uses his bent arm as a pillow, but when I try it myself, I can find no comfortable position.
With my left arm underneath me, my elbow practically hits Marton in the face, and with my right arm, I feel uncomfortable stretched.
I lower my arm in defeat, and a chuckle slips out of Marton.
Unbending the arm that he's using as a pillow, he reaches across his body and tugs me towards him, until I'm lying on my hip facing him—which is not uncomfortable with the thick tunic and leggings between myself and the stone—and my head is pillowed against the juncture of his chest and arm.
His right arm curves around my back, holding me close, and his left arm goes back behind his head as a pillow.
He continues lying on his back, gazing up at the overcast sky with a serene look on his face.
And I am...very comfortable.
He is like a cushion underneath and against me, warm and just the right mixture of firm and pliant.
Everything in me wants to melt against his body, and my heart rate picks up uneasily at the realization.
Because this feels dangerous.
Risky. Not for him, but for me.
Because I'm used to being the one doing the holding, but right now I'm being held, and the sensation is wildly different.
Wildly enjoyable and comforting and snug as a well-fitting tunic.
But this is not for me, I know. Nothing like this can be for me.
This is not for you, I remind myself.
Shut up, my traitorous body says, melting into the man who cradles me so tenderly against him.
Marton snuggles down, pulling me in tighter against his chest, and a contented sigh slips out of me.
A sound I desperately wish I could recapture.
But if Marton has heard it, he makes no sign, and in the next while his breath evens out in sleep.
I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face against his chest and breathing in his familiar scent.
I breathe in and out for a long while, trying to steady myself.
It works, and I eventually drift off to sleep, warm and held and comfortable.
I have no dreams that night, good or bad.