CHAPTER 12

 

TAC’MOT

 

Midway into my shift, I take an unsanctioned break to feed a princess.  I shake my head and marvel.  What an incredible circumstance. I make my way to the galley, wondering what a princess will even eat.  With only a vague idea, I start fossicking around.  I have heard Gryfala are known for being quite particular.  I’m going to have to ask the hob what she’s likely to prefer.

A deep, threatening boom of noise sounds at my back.  “That hole in the floor?  You will pay for it.”

I drop the box I’d been examining and awkwardly shuffle my long feet, pivoting with my heels in order to spin around.  “Without disagreement,” I confirm.  “You can dock it out of… my… stipend...”

What is this look on his face?

He’s folded his arms as he leans against the counter, his horns sweeping back so far they’re nearly scraping the wall.  He’s no longer promising bodily harm with a glare.  He’s… avoiding my eyes.  “I’m not hiring you on.”

I’m speechless.  Brax isn’t one to hold grudges, exactly—instead, his approach, while primitive, is ingeniously effective: he simply beats whoever is causing irritation until his aggression is purged.

Easy.

Yet here he is.  Not glaring me down.  Not expressly threatening me.  Not tanning my hide until it’s fit for a floor rug.  Not hiring me back on?

I wiggle my ears.  “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

Brax sighs.  “You have served seven solars.  Don’t you want to… I don’t know.  Do whatever it is people do offship?”

He wouldn’t know because he rarely steps offship.

I wouldn’t know either, and for the same reason.  “No.  I want to stay with you.”

His jaw tics.  “Well you can’t.”

Perhaps today’s new visitors are the cause of this completely abnormal behavior.  Ever cautious of his infamous Rakhii nature—and by this, I really mean temper—I try to suss this out with great care.  “Our new mechanic is a hob.”

He lets his fangs show.  Or maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, such is his agitation.  His tone is expectedly sarcastic, yet his face shows the tiniest flicker of… pain.  “Very perceptive.  What of it?”

I squint at him and continue.  “And now a princess—” I pause as he averts his face again.

What is this? I’m deeply unsettled.  “W-well… you’re from the same homeland, and have so many of the same experiences...”  I trail off at his particularly effective glower.  He’s really upped his game lately.  I wonder if he needs more fiber pellets in his diet; I vow to sneak more into his rations.

“I don’t care where a male is from,” he grits out, pointedly ignoring any mention of the princess.  I don’t know if he’s aware, but his tail flicks when something has him on edge.

Like now.

“And the only experience we share is turning our backs on the ‘Homeland’ that teveked us both over.”

He straightens and I take that as the cue it is.

I tap two fingers on the tabletop.  “This topic is closed for discussion, isn’t it?”  For now.

He gives me a hard smile.  “What gave it away?”

I take my leave along with some food, and slip into my room to find the Gryfala curled up on the floor instead of my bed.

She’s been crying.

I’d expected her to be cross with me.  Locking a princess in a ship’s private quarters as if she were a misbehaving companion animal that couldn’t be trusted on the loose?  I expected her to be furious.

I didn’t expect to smell this odd, twisted odor of fear.

It isn’t the same from earlier, when she’d been panicked and running, or when she’d been startled at Lem’s antics.  This smell is different, the emotions taste different.  There is a deep flavor of sadness—almost despair—here too.

Feeling decidedly unstrung, I try to smother the warble that is tickling at my throat.  Then I realize I’m scratching at my ribs.

With effort, I cease this, staring down at her sleeping form, unable to comprehend why she’d prefer to cry on the hard, cold floor versus a much more comfortable surface.  But having not had a reason to cry in a very long time, and possessing a fair idea of what would cause her to smell so deeply of heartbreak, I don’t dislodge her from the place she’s claimed.  Instead, I quietly begin to walk closer towards her, ever mindful not to spill the bowl of food I had prepared for her despite the maladroit fashion of my shuffle.  I set it down next to her head, use a claw tip to tease the strands of mane from where they stick to her cheeks and face, and sweep them behind her ear, before patting her on the back and silently leaving the room.