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Irene was used to Gen thinking about how the world would react long before he ever twitched a muscle, even if he seemed to act spontaneously every time. Small wonder that when he proposed a picnic, and neglected to mention that they would be arriving by boat, she assumed that was intentional. She looked for the trap, the revenge for some small misdeed or quarrel, the slight smirk as he stood back to let her into the boat. She found none, only a cheery smile as though this was truly meant to be a treat, but that meant nothing. Gen was, after all, a master of such deception.
Well, damn him anyway. If he was going to play such games, there was no way she was going to admit that even the idea of climbing into a boat again nauseated her. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Straight-backed, and privately vowing to pay him back for this at the very first opportunity, she walked past him and climbed gingerly into the boat. It rocked, and despite herself Irene found herself screwing her eyes shut for a moment, holding to the sides tightly, determined not to imagine how deep and very cold the water below was – how deep, cold and treacherous it could be when someone was holding your head under water and refusing to allow you to come up. Her nightmares might not be as obvious as those of her husband but that didn’t mean there were no nightmares. Irene dreamt more quietly, privately, and never told anyone if she woke gasping for a breath without icy water filling her lungs.
When she opened her eyes, Gen was looking at her with what seemed to be honest concern, holding the oar steady in his one hand as he sat down opposite her.
“I had forgotten,” he said quietly. “Stupid of me. Sometimes I forget you can be scared of anything. We could--”
“Shut. Up.” If anything could get her back up it was the suggestion she might be scared. And perhaps, in private, it was all right for her to lose face with Gen but there were guards back there on the dock, even if they were out of ear-shot. Going back would mean returning past them, wondering if they had guessed the reason for the quick return. She raised her chin, refusing even to entertain that as a possibility. “I’m fine. Just… row, or put the sail up, or whatever it is you’re intending to do.”
He looked at her doubtfully, but she glared back at him. They were here now, it was his fault, and she was neither intending to make him feel better about that or admit that she would much prefer to have the security of dry land underneath her feet.
It would have taken someone much slower than Gen to fail to guess though. Apparently in an attempt to soothe her he started to talk as he rowed, meaningless prattle about the weather and the state of the water and where they were going. Perhaps it should have been enough to calm her, but if she listened to his voice rather than the words all she could hear was him describing how she could go in either conscious or unconscious, asking if she knew how to swim.
She still couldn’t swim. Stupid of her. The first thing you should do on someone finding a weakness was to rectify it, but somehow she hadn’t been able to face dealing with this one.
The sun was bright. It shouldn’t be possible to feel so cold. She clutched her cape tight around her, looking into the water rather than at Gen, unable to decide whether staring into the depths was better or worse than staring at him and remembering the one time when he had the power to kill her.
“Irene.” Her name called her back to attention, spoken in quite a different tone to his earlier chatter. She raised her head to find him looking at her, his eyes worried as he set down the oar. “You’re shivering,” he noted quietly.
“It’s cold,” she excused herself, defensive without being able to say why. Gen, of all people, would know why she was afraid – but it still seemed something to be ashamed of, to hide away rather than ever admitting to.
“Come here.” He didn’t reach for her, perhaps anticipating that if he did she might panic. A panic in a small boat like this – even the thought made her shudder. Instead, he opened his arms to her and waited.
It took a moment – more than a moment. The first few minutes were to fight down the nightmares, the rest were to convince herself that the slightest movement wouldn’t result in the boat tipping, spilling them both into the water.
Gen waited, patiently, silently, for her to convince her legs to move. Close as he was it took two wobbly staggering steps – steps that seemed to bridge a far greater distance between them – before Irene reached him. She clutched at him somewhat wildly, for once afraid of something other than losing her dignity, and he guided her gently until she was sitting again, pulling her close to him.
It wasn’t a large boat. There was only just space for them to fit there, side by side. Irene gulped air – had she been holding her breath on that short, unbalanced journey? – and considered throwing up. Perhaps she could throw up on Gen. It wouldn’t be the most cutting form of revenge, but it would at least be fitting.
“I’m sorry.” He spoke quietly into her ear, reaching around her to rub her fingers between his own. “It wasn’t intentional.” He pressed a light kiss against her neck in apology. “You spend so much time scaring the hell out of me that I forget it can go two ways.”
That did at least coax a laugh out of her, even if it was a weak one. “You expect me to believe this was an accident?” Funny thing was, she really did believe that already. Gen seldom looked so anxious about schemes he had planned for. Still, there was no harm in making him work for it.
“I was trying to be romantic,” he said ruefully. “I thought that out on the water at least we couldn’t be followed by a train of guards, or attendants – or assassins for that matter. It seemed easier than stealing you from your rooms.”
“Assassins have arrows,” she pointed out. “Or guns.” The thought made her look up, never confident that a situation was as safe as it appeared, scanning the horizon for danger.
“Not here,” he assured her, and squeezed her fingers lightly. “We’re safe here.”
“You’ve thought that before, just before someone stabbed you,” she said curtly. The memory of that made her glance back the way they had come, shivering again. “Let’s go back.” After all, she had an excuse now – one which didn’t feel as foolish as simply being afraid of water.
He didn’t challenge it though, allowed her the polite lie of being more worried about assassins than anything else as he started to row. He could have pointed out that there were no nearby cliffs that might provide a good vantage point, that the water was deserted, that any ship would be visible long before it was close enough to be a danger, but even Gen knew when fear was genuine and it was better not to tease.
At least, mostly he did. “I could ask you to marry me again,” he mused, as the oar dipped into the water.
She glared at him, and was vaguely grateful for the urge to slap him. It gave her something to focus on which wasn’t the feeling of the boat moving under her. “I could push you into the water,” she warned.
“I can swim,” he said, and grinned at her. “My grandfather taught me. How is it you don’t?”
It was a fair question when he came from the snow of Eddis. It was far warmer in Attolia – far more suited to such lessons – but Irene had been a princess. “It’s not considered a proper activity for girls.” And she hadn’t challenged that, not even when she’d been queen and able to make her own rules. Some lessons stuck.
“You’re not a girl any more,” he said. “We could remedy that.” Then, following her gaze into the water, he added quickly, “Not here. Somewhere shallower and safer. Somewhere even Relius and Teleus would approve of.”
“Maybe,” she conceded grudgingly. The docks were back in sight now. She was ready to concede a lot if it meant being able to stand on something that wouldn’t move under her.
He let her fix her gaze on them, moving quickly once they were close enough to secure the boat and help her out. Her grip on his hand must have been tight enough to hurt him, but he smiled at her as though it hadn’t gone white under her fingers.
“I take it earrings would be considered a suitable apology,” he said, quietly enough that he shouldn’t be overheard, not even by the guard who was hurrying towards them to resume his post.
She did consider slapping him for that, or possibly shoving him in the water. The look on his face said he expected it, was ready to duck for that piece of playfulness.
In the end it was just easier to catch him and kiss him instead.