Page 39 of The Goblin and The Dancer
It wasn’t very refreshing to drink, but it felt wonderful against the skin, and they plunged their dirty faces and hands into the bubbling pool, reaching for the heat.
Grik scrubbed the top of his head, where the hairs on top of his skull had become particularly matted, and then drank his fill.
Grik and Paul, who weren’t as particular about slime and more practical-minded—knowing that they would more than likely grow dirtier before they ever got out of here—contented themselves with the briefest of splashes, but Rosanna lingered by the pool’s edge.
“Can I have a moment in private to wash a little?” she asked. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Paul and Grik moved a little ways down the tunnel and around a corner and situated themselves against the wall. Grik tried not to watch as Paul lowered himself painfully to the ground, holding his leg out stiffly in front of him as he finally rested his head against the rock.
“Are you all right?” Grik asked.
Paul didn’t answer at first. When he did speak, his whispered words made Grik jump in surprise.“You’re not the only one who has hidden things, you know.”
Paul had the expression of someone who had been carrying a secret for a long while, a secret he needed to be rid of before he was sick to his stomach over it.
“What do you mean?” Grik prompted him cautiously, startled that the soldier wanted to confide in him, but hoping he could be deserving of it.
“This wound . . .” Paul’s handsome features twisted with shame as he looked away. “It’s permanent. I was given an extended leave because the doctors thought I might be able to recover.” He swallowed. “But I know now that I won’t. I’ll never be a soldier again. I’m a cripple for life.”
Grik didn’t speak. He couldn’t think of anything to say, but he felt Paul’s humiliation and pain and despair as clearly as if it were his own.
What was there for Paul now? He had been a career soldier, and now that had been cut short. He didn’t know anything else; the soldier’s life had been his sole identity.
Grik swallowed. Paul had always seemed so completely self-assured, so lofty and unshakable in his strength and confidence. He had seemed perfect.Now that confidence was gone—as well as the perfection—revealing the ugliness of fear that he had kept hidden deep inside.
Just like Grik.
“I’m sorry,” Grik whispered.
Paul jerked a little, as if resisting Grik’s sympathy, and his voice was gruff. “You were right to doubt my courting Rosanna. It was nothing but vanity. When I was with her, I felt the same. I could pretend that . . .” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
They listened for a moment to the distant sounds of dripping rocks.
“I think she knows my injury is permanent,” Paul said quietly. “Or at least suspects.”
Grik was quiet, his mind full of Rosanna. How much did Rosanna know and keep to herself? She was like that: watching kindly but careful to speak, for fear of hurting others.
Paul threw a pebble against the far wall, and the little rock rolled away with a lonely-sounding clatter. “What future do I have to offer anyone anyway?”
Grik didn’t know how to answer that question. He didn’t have much of a future to offer Rosanna either.“Maybe Rosanna isn’t interested in all of that.” Grik waved a hand in a gesture that took in everything he and Paul thought they needed: money, wealth, position, and respect. “Maybe . . .” He paused as the realization grew into a certainty. “Maybe we were trying to get things to impress her that she never wanted.”
We never thought of what Rosanna wanted; we only assumed.
Grik put a flabby hand to his mouth as the recognition of what they had done washed over him. Rosanna was a woman, not a doll to be squabbled over: they couldn’t claim ownership of her. Grik and Paul had been no better than Ratiga, treating Rosanna as if she were an object.
“You’re right,” Paul said quietly. “I never did know what she wanted. But now that you say it, I think you’re right.” He paused and then added even more quietly, “She’s not like other girls, is she?”
Grik was silent. So Paul had seen it too, the special secret that Grik had thought only he could see.He tried to swallow. Finally, he asked, “Do you love Rosanna?”For once, he wasn’t afraid to hear the answer, wasn’t afraid to hear the ardent confession from some voice other than his own.
“I don’t know. I like her. I . . . I need her or . . . someone like her. She looks at me as if there’s nothing wrong with me.”
Grik knew that need. “We all have to have someone like that,” he agreed softly.
Paul looked at Grik. “I don’t think I do love her. But I liked that she saw me as more than just a war hero or a ladies’ man . . . or a cripple. I thought I was . . . needed.”
“We did need you!” Grik assured him. “We still do.”
Paul was silent for a long time, but then he said, very gruffly, “Thanks.” But Grik knew what the soldier meant and was too proud to say.
