“Is that blood?”
Trygve turned and inspected her robe more closely. It was indeed blood. Shaking his head, he let out a trembling, worried breath.
“All right,” she said. “It is blood. But it’s not my blood.”
For some reason, this was not comforting and his countenance betrayed as much.
“I’m fine,” she said. “No, I’m really fine.” Her tone grew more insistent as his expression grew even more concerned. He wasn’t convinced.
“I went for a walk while you were sleeping and ran into a rogue bandit.”
“You cut a bandit? Why’d you get that close?”
“Oh, I didn’t. He startled me. Then some archer in the distance got him. He toppled over and now I’ve got blood on my robe.”
The casual way she expressed this would have been infuriating had Trygve not been overwhelmed by relief that the archer had been there. It’s not that she was an incapable fighter, but her experience was limited and she had no developed defenses and knew nothing of planning for danger.
“Trygve, what’s wrong?” He’d been silent too long. “Are you angry at me? I’m sorry, I didn’t know what was going to happen.
“No, not angry, it’s just…” He rubbed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose with one hand before lightly gripping her shoulder and neck. “I can’t lose you too.”