He should not have let his confusion and fear play tricks with his tongue, Curdle thought, as he watched her expression close in what he believed was the beginning of judgement. Circumstance had given him no fair first impressions of this woman’s opinion on jinn. He thought he understood what drew the lines of suspicion across her forehead, but understanding did not help him now. Too late. You could not take back words already spoken.

Yet, almost before he had resigned himself to her reproach, however she might choose to give it, the woman’s sharp eyes shifted to the side. A glance he almost missed, avoiding direct eye contact as he was, but when she moved to sit down, settling in front of him rather than raising her voice or her hand or turning away, he could not help but stare. Even when she brought her gaze back up, apparently comfortable with her position, he only just remembered to shift his focus from her face. That was not the reaction he had expected. And as her expression softened, head tilting, his fingers stayed curled in their fists to hide the trembling in his hands rather than in any anger at himself or readiness to endure. 

It was the question though, asked so glibly of him, that left him truly confounded. 

She, who had once loved a jinni. She, who had seen that love shattered by the jinni’s cruel truth. She could ask such a thing? [i]Was[/i] it wrong to care? In many ways, Curdle believed it was. But what answer was she looking for? Would it turn a knife to tell her there was no insult in jinn caring for human, if hers had used her poorly? Or did she look for reasons behind the twisting of that emotion? Or was it curiousity alone that spurred the thought? She had seen the consequences and hurt that came of care. Maybe, as he once had, she wondered if it was even possible.

Having known of her for barely two days, and having learned more in the last ten minutes than he’d have liked, Curdle abandoned any hope of predicting her reactions. She’d lived a life much too far removed from anyone he’d known before, he thought. Sharp where others would have been merely cold. Turning away when another would have turned him in. Curious where others would have been sharp. Although… He flinched as she spoke of burdens; she was not without her barbs. 

That thought brought a regretful smile to his face, and Curdle found his answer in the weary sentiment washing over him as he remembered his manners and lowered himself to her level. “Is it wrong to care for anyone? I was all the company she kept, Miria messi.” He shrugged loosely, tone impartial, lifting his hands together before his sternum in absent illustration of his words. “In the end, we were both old and lonely. That is all the care we had for each other.”

As his explanation finished, the man spread his hands where they had measured the feelings he and Lady Gerun shared, as though letting that imaginary emotion tumble free. For a moment, the air sparked in muted imitation of falling water between his fingers and the ground and as he watched the light splash into insignificance, it left him suddenly bereft.

There had been no love torn from his heart when she died. But for a while, he had forgotten what it was to be alone. Even if that was all she’d had to give him, Curdle could not say it had been nothing.

Now, even that was gone. [i]She[/i] was gone, and he had only uncertainty, fear, and confusion left. In treating him as a friend, she had given him so much more than he could comprehend. Too much to lose, when he had never meant to accept it, never realized it was there. 

As his hands dropped slowly to his knees, tears came, unbidden, seeping from unfocused eyes to creep through the time worn creases on his cheeks. They had taken their time in arriving, and, not noticing, Curdle strove to show her an unaffected façade. “I am sorry, messi. What she gave to me I should not have let go. It was no wish of mine to give you trouble.”

The apology was as much to Miria as it was to the woman who’d set him on that path. The Lady Gerun had trusted him to see this through. Whether she had thought of the trouble it might give him or not he didn’t know, and no longer cared to know. It was no excuse for failing a promise.