The Scourge (A.G. Henley) - By A.G. Henley Page 0,79
makes it different.”
“I promise I won’t for at least thirty paces. Would that be more real?”
Nope, I think. But I don’t say it out loud. I’m touched that he’s trying to empathize.
“Okay, here goes,” he says. I hear him limp away several paces, already veering off the path. “Ugh, reminds me of being in the caves.”
“Be careful. Your leg–”
Sure enough, he stumbles over something, cursing. Well, he wanted to know what being Sightless feels like. Injuries go with the territory. I go to him, but he shrugs me off.
“Hang on, I still have twenty-four more paces to go.”
“I think you got the idea.”
He’s already walking again, straying even farther away from the path. A bruised shin, scraped hands, and two more heartfelt curses later, he returns, grumbling. We skirt the village, heading in the direction of the little clearing where he found me the other day.
“Well, what did you think?” I ask, trying not to sound amused.
“I think I wouldn’t last long if I was Sightless. Do you ever wish you could see?”
His question surprises me. “Of course, all the time, but it’s sort of pointless. Like wishing to be taller, or to have blonde hair, or to be able to fly. Why do you ask?”
“You almost never want to know what things look like, so I wasn’t sure.”
“I can’t always picture it when someone describes something, even if I can touch or hear it too. It’s like tasting something when you aren’t sure what it is, and no one can confirm that you’re eating what you think you’re eating.”
Peree laughs. “I know what that’s like. Shrike’s cooking leaves a lot to be desired.”
When we reach the clearing, I sit in the grass at the base of the rock and pull my legs into my chest. A warm, dry breeze blows the stray hairs around my face. The nearby stream gurgles like a contented baby.
“I guess I don’t like to ask what things look like. It feels weak,” I say.
“What’s wrong with being weak sometimes?”
“Grow up with Aloe, and you’ll know. She’s a rock. I only remember her crying once, when my foster father died. I was young; Eland was a baby. I didn’t know what to do to comfort her.” I smooth my dress over my knees. “I wish she’d open up to me more.”
“Yeah . . . I know the feeling.”
I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Okay, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Open. Not a word I’d use to describe you, either.”
“What word would you use?”
“I have a few.”
“Like what?”
“Like stubborn.”
I straighten up, my hair flying around me. “Stubborn? That’s my word for you. You can’t take it.”
He scoffs. “You don’t think you’re stubborn? We wouldn’t be out here, days away from home, if you didn’t insist on finding the Hidden Waters yourself.”
“Who insisted on coming with me? And who insisted we keep going despite a life-threatening injury? And who insisted he get up and walk against the healer’s advice? You’re stubborn,” I say.
“Unusually, annoyingly responsible–”
“Grumpy, ungrateful–” I’m about to say something about how two-year-old Groundling children swim better than him, but his next word stops me.
“Beautiful.” He slides my hair back over my shoulder. “Especially in the morning sun, or by firelight, when the red in your hair heats up like burning embers.”
“And what about my dirty eyes?” The words pop out before I can stop them.
His hand rests on my shoulder. “What?”
“Nothing,” I mumble, mentally banging my head against the rock behind me. “Something you said when you were describing our water hole.”
“I wasn’t talking about your eyes. I’d never describe them as dirty. Muddy maybe–”
I choke. “First I’m slimy or scaly or whatever, and now I’m muddy? You have a way with compliments, don’t you?”
“I said you were strong, competent, and beautiful. Can I help it if that’s not what you heard?”
“Now I don’t listen?” I try to look offended.
“Wow, Fenn, you’re hard work. Just . . . shut up for a few minutes. Please. I have a story to tell you.”
“I don’t know if I’m in the mood,” I tease.
“And I’m stubborn and grumpy? Listen, I really want you to hear this one.”
I settle back against the rock. “All right, I’m listening.”
“So, there once was a boy who lived in the forest, high up in the trees. He was devilishly handsome, damn good with a bow and arrow, and better-than-average at storytelling.” I groan, and he shushes me. “Okay, okay, he was an amazing storyteller—satisfied? So, this boy. He was pretty happy at first, but