Page 239 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

CHAPTER EIGHT

Calran

F or the first time since the sickness struck, passing the rains is a pleasant experience. It still has its discomforts, of course, and the memorial we hold for Sam and for all those we have lost is a darker, harder moment, but overall, the time goes quickly.

I have my patrol routes memorised now, my knowledge of the forest around Gregar’s village almost as good as the knowledge of my own trees. There is no sign of trouble from other tribes, much to the relief of everyone, and the deeper into the season we get, the more we are all able to relax.

It is a joy to spend time with my brothers, old and new, in the gathering hut that - much like the one in our village - has only held the belongings of the people we have lost for so long.

Filling the space with life and laughter helps to heal wounds in all of us that we have carried so long, we had forgotten what it was not to have them.

We eat together regularly. Talk late into the evening.

Often, the elders will bid Molly to sing as she did at the memorial, her voice far more beautiful than even the loveliest birdsong.

It is a precious gift she has been given, and I am sure to tell her so through my Grace.

The gathering hut is also used by the females for their lessons in reading and writing - strange human methods of communicating without speaking - but also for lessons in speaking the raskarran tongue.

Sally speaks our words like she was born to them, and the sunset haired female, Rachel, is quick to learn them.

Between them, they teach the rest our words, building from naming things to forming thoughts and ideas.

It is something Molly likes to practise with me as we wait for our midday meal to cook. She has a sharp headspace and learns quickly, as younglings so often do, and I do not think I am misinterpreting her to say we have bonded over these practise sessions.

“I wash the clothes in the pools,” she says, nose wrinkling with concentration. “You wash the clothes in the pools. She wash the clothes in the pools.”

“Washes,” I correct. “She washes.”

Molly grimaces, then repeats, “She washes the clothes. Washes, washes, washes. Whydutheyallhavetubediffrent? ”

“I don’t know,” my Grace says in response. Our understanding of each other is getting better every day. Now, even when she is not speaking directly to me, I tend to understand most of what she is saying.

“ Sannoyin ,” Molly says, and though her meaning is no clearer than it ever has been, I can read her frustration in her tone.

“Please tell Molly that she is doing very well,” I say to Grace. “She speaks raskarran words far better than I could hope to speak human ones.”

I have tried to learn some of their words, but they do not stick so well in my headspace.

Humans have a cleverness in a way that raskarrans do not, I think.

They might be defenceless against the creatures of the forest, but what they lack in size and strength they make up for in the quickness of their headspaces.

My Grace relays my message, and Molly’s cheeks brighten with a pleased blush, even as she rolls her eyes at me, shaking her head as if to say I am being far too exaggerated in my words.

She receives praise like someone who has never been given much before.

I know from my Grace that Molly left a family behind when she came to these trees.

I have to wonder what kind of family they were to fail to notice the wonderful qualities Molly has.

She is a fine youngling, and will grow into a fine female in another few seasons. Any father would be proud to name her daughter.

After we have eaten, Molly helps Grace to clean up, then announces, “I go to Carrie now. We make clothes for Marsal. Very small clothes.”

Her eyes shine with delight as she says it. Her heartspace is very taken with our youngest sister.

“Okay,” my Grace says, smiling. We are both very proud of how hard Molly is working at her chosen craft.

Molly grabs her bag of sewing things, then heads for the door, turning back at the last moment.

“You have youngling?” she asks.

Her phrasing is awkward, but her meaning is clear enough. I see my Grace trying to hide her flinch.

“If Lina chooses that for us,” I say.

Molly squints as she works to decipher my words, then nods.

Her eyes cut to my Grace, and she is a perceptive youngling.

I think she knows that she has caused discomfort with her question.

But she is also clever enough not to say anything further.

I try to convey with a look that I will care for her mother, that she does not need to worry.

She swallows heavily, but nods, then heads out into the rains.

I rise from my seat, going to my Grace and slipping my arms around her.

Lately, we have been using the time that Molly spends away from the hut to enjoy each other in the waking world.

My Grace grows more relaxed all the time about intimacy and feels comfortable to do many of the things we do in the dreamspace while awake.

But it is not such things on my mind as I hold her to me, rather a desire to comfort her.

To ease the hurts that still trouble her headspace and heartspace far more than they should.

“The thought of younglings still troubles you,” I say, careful to keep my voice as soft and kind as I can manage.

These conversations are always difficult for my brave Grace, and I would not do her further harm with a carelessly chosen word or tone.

“Is it that you fear I want them and you do not? Or that it is something that may not be possible for us? Or am I wrong in both these thoughts and it is something else entirely?”

With so many newly mated pairs with younglings on the way, I know it must play on my Grace’s headspace.

I know the male that owned her considered her a failure for not providing him with a youngling, but there was so much wrong with that situation.

I find it hard to understand why my Grace would hold his thoughts and feelings so close.

My Grace goes tight in my arms. I rub my hands over her shoulders and neck, trying to soothe some of her fear and discomfort out of her.

“Speak of your thoughts to me, my Grace,” I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “These things are always easier when shared.”

She sighs, melting into my touches some, but her arms are still crossed about her chest - a sure sign that she is trying to keep herself together.

“It’s… hard,” she says, voice cracking.

“Would you prefer to speak in the dreamspace?”

Our communication is so much easier now, but in the dreamspace there is still less chance that we will misunderstand one another.

She turns in my arms, looking up at me. I expect her to say something, but instead she kisses me.

A hard, desperate sort of kiss. Despite myself, I respond, my cock stiffening in my leathers, my lips parting to meet her kiss fully.

But this is not a kiss of love and affection, but one of distraction, and I do not think entertaining it will help my Grace.

Still, I am a weak male, for we are in the bedroom, my body over hers, before I can draw myself back enough to stop.

Breathing hard, I drop my head into the pelts next to hers, clutching her tight to me so that she might know that it is not lack of desire for her that makes me stop. I hope it softens my withdrawal some.

I turn us so we are lying side by side, my tail looping about her leg and drawing it to me. We are entangled, our limbs intertwined, my forehead pressed to hers. Without mating fully, it would not be possible to be closer. I hope it makes my Grace feel safe.

“You are not yourself, my Grace. Please speak to me of what troubles you, so that I might understand and help.”

She blinks rapidly, liquid pooling in her eyes before spilling past her lashes and trickling down her nose.

“You’re such a wonderful father to Molly,” she says. “You would be a wonderful father to our child.”

I smile, my chest puffing up a little with pride at her assessment, even though I should be focused on her hurts.

“I am glad you think so,” I say. “But why does this fill you with such anguish?”

“Because,” she says, her voice small and pained. “What if I can never give you a child? What if it’s like with Simon and we try and try and try and nothing happens? What if he was right and I’m defective?”

If I could kill that male three times over, I would.

“Not all mates are blessed with younglings, it is true,” I say.

“But that is not the fault of either person. Sometimes Lina has another path in mind for us. We are blessed to have Molly for our daughter, and perhaps Lina would consider that blessing enough. Perhaps it is for us to be helping hands to the others in the tribe as they experience parenthood. I remember when my nieces were born - how difficult it was for my brother and his linasha. Raising a youngling is no easy thing. Your sisters will find your support invaluable - as their healer and their friend. But, my Grace, we do not yet know if we are not to be blessed with younglings of our own. We are not grown old enough that our bodies are not capable. Sometimes these things happen straight away between mates, sometimes they take time. There are six seasons between Jassal and Ahnjas. Carrie and Endzoh grow no youngling yet. Blessings come when they come, and we are not out of time. Not for many seasons yet.”

Her eyes are wide with hope, still shimmering with emotions. I brush away one of her tears with my thumb, tracing the now familiar shape of her face. She is so beautiful, my fierce, brave mate.

“Won’t you be disappointed?” she says.

I consider how best to answer the question. I will not lie to her, not ever. Not even to protect her heartspace.