Joe Abercrombie - Half the World

He looked better than ever. Or maybe she just saw him differently, knowing what she knew.

“Thorn.” He looked surprised to see her and she could hardly blame him. Then he looked worried. “What’s wrong?”

She realized she must look worse even than usual and wished she hadn’t run all the way, or at least waited to knock until she’d caught her breath and wiped the sweat from her forehead. But she’d been dancing around this far too long. Time to face it, sweaty or not.

“I talked to your sister,” she said.

He looked more worried. “What about?”

“About you having a sister, for one thing.”

“That’s no secret.”

“That might not be.”

He looked even more worried. “What did she tell you?”

“That you saved my life. When I killed Edwal.”

He winced. “I told her not to say anything!”

“Well, that didn’t work.”

“Reckon you’d best come in. If you want to.” He stepped back from the door and she followed him into the shadowy hallway, heart pounding harder than ever. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything noble, just … something good. And I wasn’t sure, and it took me too long, and I made a bloody mess of it-”

She took a step toward him. “Did you go to Father Yarvi?”

“Yes.”

“Did Father Yarvi save my life?”

“Yes.”

“Did you lose your place because of it?”

He worked his mouth as though looking for a way to deny it, but couldn’t. “I was going to tell you, but …”

“I’m not easy to tell things to.”

“And I’m not much good at telling.” He pushed his hair back and scrubbed at his head as though it hurt. “Didn’t want you feeling in my debt. Wouldn’t have been fair.”

She blinked at that. “So … you didn’t just risk everything for my sake, you kept it to yourself so I wouldn’t feel bad about it.”

“One way of putting it … maybe.” And he looked at her from under his brows, eyes gleaming in the shadows. That look, as if there was nothing he would rather be looking at. And however she’d tried to weed those hopes away they blossomed in a riot, and the want came up stronger than ever.

She took another little step toward him. “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“But I am. For how I treated you. On the way back. On the way out, for that matter. I’m sorry, Brand. I’ve never been sorrier. I’ve never been sorry at all, really. Got to work on that. Just … I got the wrong idea about … something.”

He stood there, silent. Waiting. Looking. No bloody help at all.

Just say it. How hard could it be? She’d killed men. Just say it. “I stopped talking to you … because …” But getting the words out was like hauling anvils out of a well. “I … like …” It was as if she tottered out onto a frozen lake, not knowing whether the next step might send her plunging to an icy doom. “I’ve always … liked …” She couldn’t make the “you.” She couldn’t have made the “you” if it was that or die. She squeezed her eyes shut. “What I’m trying to say is-Whoa!”

She snapped her eyes open. He’d touched her cheek, fingertips brushing the scar there.

“You’ve got your hand on me.” Stupidest thing she’d ever said and that with some fierce competition. They could both see he had his hand on her. Wasn’t as if it fell there by accident.

He jerked it away. “I thought-”

“No!” She caught his wrist and guided it back. “I mean … Yes.” His fingertips were warm against her face, hers sliding over the back of his hand, pressing it there and it felt … Gods. “This is happening, is it?”

He stepped a little closer, the knobble on his neck bobbing as he swallowed. “I reckon.” He was looking at her mouth. Looking at it as though there was something really interesting in there and she wasn’t sure she’d ever been so scared.

“What do we do?” she found she’d squeaked out, voice running away from her, higher and higher. “I mean, I know what we do … I guess.” Gods, that was a lie, she hadn’t a clue. She wished now Skifr had taught her a little less about swords and a bit more about the arts of love, or whatever. “I mean, what do we do now we know that, you know-”

He put his thumb gently across her lips. “Shut up, Thorn.”

“Right,” she breathed, and she realized she had her hand up between them, as if to push him away. So used to pushing folk away, and him in particular, and she forced it to go soft, laid it gently on his chest, hoped he couldn’t feel it trembling.

Closer he came, and she was taken suddenly with an urge to run for it, and then with an urge to giggle, and she made a stupid gurgle swallowing her laughter, and then his lips were touching hers. Gently, just brushing, one way, then the other, and she realized she had her eyes open and snapped them shut. Couldn’t think what to do with her hands. Stiff as a woman made of wood, she was, for a moment, but then things started to go soft.

The side of his nose nudged hers, ticklish.

He made a noise in his throat, and so did she.

She caught his lip between hers, tugged at it, slipped that hand on his chest up around his neck, and pulled him closer, their teeth knocked awkwardly together and they broke apart.

Not much of a kiss, really. Nothing like she’d imagined it would be, and the gods knew she’d imagined it enough, but it left her hot all over. Maybe that was just the running, but she’d done a lot of running and never felt quite like this.

She opened her eyes and he was looking at her. That look, through the strands of hair across his face. Wasn’t the first kiss she ever had, but the others had felt like children playing. This was as different from that as a battle from the training square.

“Oh,” she croaked. “That … wasn’t so bad.”

She let go of his hand and caught a fistful of his shirt, started dragging him back toward her, caught the smile at the corner of his mouth and smiled herself-

There was a rattle outside the door.

“Rin,” muttered Brand, and as if that was the starting word on a race they both took off running. Pelted down the corridor like thieves caught in the act, tangling on a stairway, giggling like idiots as they scrambled into a room and Brand wrestled the door shut, leaning back against it as if there were a dozen angry Vanstermen outside.

They hunched in the shadows, their breath coming quick.

“Why did we run?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Thorn whispered back.

“You think she can hear us?”

“What if she can?” asked Thorn.

“I don’t know.”

“So this is your room, is it?”

He straightened up, grinning like a king who’d won a victory. “I have a room.”

“Quite the distinguished citizen,” she said, strolling around in a circle, taking it in. Didn’t take long. There was a pallet bed in one corner with Brand’s worn-out old blanket on it, and his sea chest sitting open in another, and the sword that used to be Odda’s leaning against the wall, and aside from that just bare boards and bare walls and a lot of shadows. “Ever wonder if you’ve overdone the furniture?”

“It’s not quite finished.”

“It’s not quite started,” she said, the circle taking her back toward him.

“If it’s not what you were used to at the empress’s palace, I won’t keep you.”

She snorted. “I lived under a boat with forty men in it. Reckon I can stand this a while.”

His eyes were on her as she came close. That look. Little bit hungry, little bit scared. “Staying, then?”

“I’ve got nothing else pressing.”