She wakes. She has not slept deeply. She is not used to sharing her bed. Not in her rooms on her isle. Their bed. Their rooms. Their isle. She feels his resting warmth behind her, his arm heavy across her stomach. She feels his regular deep breaths on her neck and the rise and fall of his chest. They are still naked under the furs she realises. She is glad he is still asleep. She would not know what to say, how to behave. There have been no mornings like this before. Nor nights like the one passed mere hours ago. She wonders if he remembers the same things she does. The details are so fleeting they are hard to pin down. She thinks of the way his sure hand and arms touched and held her, even now his fingers are splayed possessively on her. She blushes in the gloom as she recalls his kisses. Her muscles tighten in memory at what came afterwards. She lets out a breath that sounds too loud in the room. She knows she will be sore and sticky when she rises, but thinks that is no such great chore. Not for what he made her feel.
He huffs behind her, waking slowly and sleepily. She is sorry to have disturbed him though by the same token she is not sorry to feel him stir against her. She feels him stretch lithely like a cat and then curl closer into her body, his hand feeling blindly for hers. She does not hesitate to catch it and pull it to her lips. He hums happily and places a gentle kiss just behind her ear. Now she feels a warmth in her that reminds her of the night before. Is this what she would have felt with another, she wonders suddenly. She thinks not. No, she thinks with rare complete certainty, there is only one who she can be herself with, for all her faults. And there is only one who she trusts to be true always. It hurt first of all, but now she relies on it like the air she breathes.
She turns to him. Her eyes are closed still. His fingers run up over her ribs, skirts her collar bone and come to rest in her hair. She smells him, almost senses the stubble that has grown in mere hours. His lips press down on hers. Her eyelashes brush against his.
"Hello, wife." He speaks first. She is grateful.
"Hello, husband."
"It's early," he says after a moment.
"I'm tired still."
He smiles. His expression is not like it was last night, but there are hints of it in his eyes. They watch her. She finds it hard to meet his look and closes her eyes again.
"Sleep then, my wench."
She thinks he is watching her, but she only sees him asleep when she peeks. She matches his deep breaths, feeling the steady heartbeat through her hand on his chest.
When she wakes, hours later, he is not there. Panic rises in her, irrational thoughts flood her mind. He is her greatest weakness, she knows. She reacts against his every action. He teases, she sighs and grumbles. He kisses, she matches it the best she can. He speaks of secrets and skeletons, she cannot help but listen and understand. She sits quickly, pulling the furs with her.
The door opens. It is him. She knows the relief is apparent on her face. He looks at her with a funny smile as he comes to her.
"I cannot be here every time you wake, wench." He sits, eyes catching the beams of sunlight escaping round the curtains' heavy cloth. He reads her thoughts with ease these days.
"I know." She is a fool, she thinks, as she hides behind her bed-messed hair.
"That's not to say I won't try my hardest. This morning was—" he trails his hand slowly across her bare, sleepy-warm shoulder and brushes her blonde locks away. He gives a satisfied sigh. "I never thought I would wake up with a wife, or you."
"Nor me." She catches herself. "I mean with a husband. You."
He smiles softly. There is a moment where both are lost in their thoughts. She hates her remaining awkwardness with him. She thought naively that that would be all different this morning. There is a certain instinctive openness she has with him now, but she has to fight her way through these types of conversations. She hopes the patience he has shown with her, with her last night, will not disappear.
"Well, wench. I have checked. This is not a dream, I assure you." His hand finds her cheek to pull her closer. Her ruined cheek.
She flinches. She cannot help it. She knows it matters little to him. They both have the scars of war. But still she finds his touch too much. She made sure it was avoided last night.
"Forgive me, I—"
He does not move his hand, tender or his gaze, strong.
"Close your eyes," he says.
She looks at him, trying to understand. When she cannot, she does so anyway. She feels the pressure and warmth of his palm on her cheek. She feels him shift closer. The slow change of calloused skin to soft lips makes her gasp and catch her breath. It is almost unbearable, but she forces herself to be still. To be still for him. He kisses her once, twice before she twists a hand in his undershirt and pulls him to her lips. He gives in for a heartbeat but then pulls away.
"You shy away, but you needn't. I know you will anyhow. But I intend to kiss it every day, if I won't catch a dagger at my throat?"
The odd memory of his touches lingers on her skin and her face warms at his earnest plea. She nods silently. She cannot refuse him, not when he overcomes the same struggle with his injured arm. She wonders at her mind which accepts his wounds so freely and cannot do the same for hers. She finds these intricacies of thought overwhelming. Simpler to strike a sword against another and be done with it.
"Now, wife. Do you intend to let your husband freeze this morning? That would be an unfortunate start to this marriage."
As he says it, he is already pulling at the furs she huddles in. He mumbles something she does not catch as he nestles next to her, blonde heads touching. She remembers beds shared in taverns, falling asleep with a clear space between them but waking entangled and close. She had wrenched herself away then, frightened of her thoughts. She smiles against his skin. Not now, though. Not now.