Page 26 of Light Locked #1

She bit down her smile as she retrieved the water and a cloth from her bag, and unwrapped the broken bandaging on his shoulder.

The brief humor she’d enjoyed faded as she noticed the state of his skin.

There was extensive scarring, and as she cleaned it, the bandages slid farther apart.

Curiosity set in as she saw another series of scars.

She nudged at the shoulder of the jacket to peek beneath the fabric.

Clea glanced at Ryson, who was looking off in the opposite direction. Feeling secure, she pinched the bandages and loosened those closer to his wound.

The only part of his body that was exposed was his face. Did that mean what skin he hid was as heavily marked as his shoulder?

“Princess,” he said, startling her. “What are you doing?”

She turned to see him watching her again.

She pulled her hands away, feeling like she’d been caught stealing.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You might heal fast, but frankly, not…well.”

“Don’t act like you’ve never seen scars before.

You Veilin might do without them, but I know you’ve seen plenty of regular humans and Kalex,” he replied, shifting where he sat.

His movements only disturbed the bandaging further, loosening both of the strips on his neck and shoulder. “Are you done? I’m not an exhibit.”

“No, no, hold on, almost,” she said, still needing to rewrap the wound.

Clea helped herself to one of the daggers from his belt, causing him to raise an eyebrow before she cut a large piece of fabric from the cloth she’d used to clean the wound.

“You know, if I had to have a different eye color, it would be silver.” She sliced the fabric into strips, and purified it with a blessing before wrapping it around his shoulder.

“Why?” he asked, seemingly appalled, and she could already sense a follow up question before she shared her answer.

“I just said they were scary before because there has been so much mention of silver eyes being cursed, but I like them. Cien doesn’t own the color silver.

” She replied resolutely as she smoothed out the fabric of the bandages with her fingertips.

“If I want to like them, I will. I used to watch the moon almost every night from my windowsill. I thought it was beautiful even then. Cien doesn’t own the moon.

Cien doesn’t own scars either. They’ve never bothered me. ” She wrapped his shoulder in silence.

“Because you’re apparently mad.”

Despite the gruffness of his tone and the insult, she smiled. Being mad in a world like this one didn’t sound so awful either. His follow up question never came.

Clea snuck a curious glance at his face, expecting to catch a glimpse of his condescension or derision, emotions she suddenly found humorous on him, especially when directed at her. Instead, she was surprised to find him oddly transfixed on a strand of hair loosened from her braid .

She realized her braid was a complete mess as she hadn’t rebraided it well enough. Self-consciously, she tucked the strand away, seeing him almost flinch at the abrupt motion.

“It’s a mess,” she said, justifying her nervous reaction, but he didn’t reply.

She finished smoothing out the resulting bandaging with her fingers and tied it. Before she had time to pull away from him, she noticed small welts of scar tissue that formed a pale crescent along his neck.

She remained silent for a moment, and Ryson turned to see her expression as the silence continued. His eyes found hers, and as if he understood her shock, his hand moved to pull the bandages back over his throat.

“Wait,” she said, stopping him. “May I see it?”

She rested a tender hand on his, and he said nothing as she guided his hand from his throat. Her eyes settled on the scar, and she leaned toward him as she pulled the bandages down around his collarbone.

“Who did this to you?” she whispered in disbelief. With a scar like that, he should’ve been dead. If a slit throat could not kill him, then what could?

He held his breath as her fingers grazed the mark and she leaned forward to inspect it.

That large scar wasn’t the only one. Even his neck seemed to be covered in layers of them.

She wasn’t sure why she felt like touching it might hurt him.

The skin had clearly seen worse, but perhaps it wasn’t the physical wound she was reaching for.

There were questions in her touch. Ryson seemed to sense that.

“I have a question for you,” he said, seeming to answer the curiosity in her fingers with his own query. Watching her eyes, he said, “Why do you wear clothes as if you’re afraid of your own body?”

Clea nearly jolted back, stunned by the question and he straightened slightly, seeming to note her reaction.

“What do you mean?” she asked and simply in asking, she felt like he’d tried to strip them off. “I like to be modest. Not everything has to be shown. Can’t I have preferences?”

“I know the difference between someone who desires modesty and someone who hides behind it,” he said.

“It’s not how much your clothes cover. It’s how you wear them.

Veilin aren’t the only ones adept at sensing vulnerability.

You and I might approach it differently, use it differently, but our sense of it is the same. ”

Clea stood up. “I don’t see your point.”

“My point is that we’re both wearing bandages, but you have to talk about your scars in order for anyone to see them.”

“I don’t have any scars.” She returned to her place on the other side of the fire. She watched him as he tightened the bandages around his neck. He had no way of telling how they looked, and yet he cinched them carefully, like he had an intentional sense of their placement .

Ryson glanced over at her thoughtfully but allowed her response to linger and didn’t inquire further.

Clea pulled the folder out of her bag again, struggling with a deep sense of discomfort from their interaction and hoping to bury herself in it.

The talisman Althala had given her rolled out.

The rags around it came undone, and she snatched it up as the light of the fire caught it.

She made a note not to look at Ryson as she returned it to her bag.

“What is that?” he asked, with a suspicious lilt in his tone.

“Something Althala gave me before I left.”

“Let me see it,” he said.

Gripping it like gold, Clea glanced up at him. She hadn’t wanted to discuss it tonight. They’d talked enough.

Clea unwrapped the talisman and showed it to him. She watched his eyes as they locked on to it. She could tell he recognized it.

“Do you know what that is?” he murmured, his tone hard.

“An Insednian talisman,” Clea confessed. “I thought that perhaps you might recognize it.”

“You’re accusing me of being an Insednian?” he asked in a way that made her question if Althala’s assumptions had been wrong.

“I was going to ask you.”

Ryson studied her, and then offered his hand .

“Let me see,” he said, and Clea tossed it to him. He didn’t even glance at it before he stood up and hurled it into the forest.

Clea followed the path of the talisman as it whistled up into the sky and the darkness beyond.

“Why would you do that?” She scrambled to her feet as he took a seat again.

“Never speak about them again,” Ryson snapped, and his sudden vigor surprised her. “Forget whatever that woman told you about them. I respect knowledge, Clea, but even knowledge of them is poison, especially to someone like you. The Insednians have ways of knowing who speaks of them.”

“But she gave that to me! The least you could have done was warn me in advance!” Clea cried, unable to wrestle down the emotion in her voice. Everything else came up with it, Clea’s temper surging with an explosive wave of feeling.

“It’s done, Princess. Leave it alone. It was for your own good,” he said, staring at the fire.

“For my own good,” she growled. “You’re being especially awful tonight.”

Ryson’s eyes followed her as she stormed toward the edge of the clearing.

“Where are you going?” he asked, easing back to his feet.

“To find it!”

“Leave it alone,” he warned.

“It’s only a talisman!” She passed him and gasped when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back around. She slammed her fist against his chest, and he released her.

“Stop it! That talisman was a gift! It’s just a talisman!”

“And the Deadlock is just a medallion?” he challenged as she backed away from him. She clenched her fist. He had a point.

“When did you start caring so much?” she asked vengefully.

Ryson seemed taken aback by her question.

“And quit grabbing me and throwing me around,” she continued. “I’m not an animal!”

“If you could be reasoned with, I wouldn’t have to, but apparently you love putting yourself in danger! Don’t you understand the situation we’re in?”

“You don’t have to touch me!” she shouted, hands balled into fists by her sides.

“What is your problem with touching?” He threw a hand out in an expressive gesture that was rare for him.

Clea breathed tensely in the ensuing silence. “I’m not—” she started and then changed the direction of her words. “It was a punishable offense in Loda.”

Ryson stared like she was speaking a different language. “What?”

Urged on by the seemingly genuine nature of his confusion, Clea added, “People didn’t touch me. It was a mandate of the king. He said being untouchable gave me an air of divinity. Apparently, that gave people hope. ”

Ryson’s expression didn’t change. “People weren’t allowed to touch you? Are you joking?”

“No, I’m not joking!” she shot back. “And it did what he said. Everyone stared every time I went into the streets. I had guards. I was a symbol of hope. So, just don’t—”

“And inside the castle?” he asked, oddly perplexed by the revelation.

Clea glanced into the woods, still tempted to pursue the talisman. For the moment, she relented, at least determined to finish her explanation. “Yes, all right? No one.”