“Maybe if we were bats.”
I pull my feet out and cringe. They are black and blue, and have cuts all over them. One of my toenails is torn half off, the broken half glued to the skin with dried blood. I lift the corner of the broken half and give it a swift yank, separating it from the bit of skin still holding it in place. With a shudder, I throw it into the water.
Golmarr sits down beside me and removes his brown leather vest. The inside is inlaid with bits of smooth, flat metal.
“What are those for?” I ask. “Usually ornamentation is worn on the outside.”
“This is a jerkin. It is armor,” he explains, touching the metal. “It covers my heart and ribs. That way, if I am shot with an arrow, it won’t kill me.”
My eyes grow round. “Have you ever been shot before?”
He presses his lips together and flips the vest over. “Look.” He touches a spot in the middle of the vest where the leather has a small tear. “Someone tried to shoot me in the back when we were crossing the Glass Forest to your kingdom. We traded our light armor for chain mail after that. That is why we arrived at your palace armed and injured.” My gaze automatically moves to the long cut on his cheek, a black scab now. “That is how I got this,” he says, touching the healing wound. “We fought back, and I got slashed with a knife.” He sets the vest down away from the edge of the water and untucks his dirty white shirt from his pants, pulling it over his head. My face flames, and I avert my eyes. Golmarr laughs again. “Haven’t you ever seen a man without his shirt on?”
I shake my head. “Definitely not.”
“My brothers and I never wear shirts if it is warm outside and we’re working or practicing our fighting. It saves a lot of shirts from the laundry.”
I peer at him from the corner of my eye. On his left wrist is a small belt-like contraption that holds his dagger. He removes the dagger and begins sawing at the seam where his sleeve attaches to the rest of his shirt. After he’s gotten the sleeve off, he starts on the other. “What are you doing?” I ask, almost forgetting that he’s half-naked.
“I need fabric, and I don’t want to keep taking it from your skirt if we can help it.” When he cuts, the muscles in his arm tighten beneath his warm golden skin. I study him, the way his body moves, the bulge of his bicep leading to angular shoulders, the dip of his collarbone, which slopes up to his neck and his mouth. I study his lips, and my blood grows warmer. They are framed by black stubble and naturally curve up at the corners. My gaze wanders to his nose, which is long and narrow, and quite nice, and then I look at his eyes. He’s staring at me, his cheeks slightly pink. “Now you’ve seen a man without his shirt on.” His pale eyes turn predatory as he leans toward me, and for a heartbeat, his gaze lowers to my lips. “Was it as scandalous as you imagined it would be?” he whispers. I do not know what to say to that, so I shrug and turn away from him and hope he can’t tell that my face is so hot even my neck and scalp are burning. He chuckles.
Kneeling in front of me, he takes my foot out of the water and gently pats it dry with his sleeve. Next, he wraps the cut sleeve around it, covering my foot from my toes to my heel, and securely tucks the end of the fabric under one of the layers.
My chest fills with warmth. “You cut your shirtsleeves off for me?”
“If my boots would fit you, I’d give you my boots.” He dries the other foot and wraps it. When he finishes, his fingers slide up my ankle and touch one of the big, thick scars on my calf. I hold my breath and watch as he brushes his thumb over the entire length of it. His eyes meet mine. “In Anthar, scars are a badge of honor. They prove that you have faced pain and overcome it.”
I swallow against a lump in my throat and throw my arms around his neck, hugging him tight. “Thank you, Golmarr.” His hands press against my back and I hug him tighter, pulling against his bare skin. My body stiffens. I am hugging a man who is not wearing a shirt. I quickly shove him away and clear my throat. He throws his head back and laughs again, and I realize that laughing out loud like that is not quite as barbaric as I once thought it was.
When he puts his shirt and vest back on, his arms are bare all the way up to his shoulders. He retrieves his bow from where I left it the night before and slings it over his back. I stand and try walking with the shirtsleeves covering my feet. The sandy lakeshore barely penetrates through the fabric, but anything bigger than a pebble is excruciating. I try not to flinch with every step, try to hide the pain so he doesn’t know I can barely walk. Before I have taken five steps, Golmarr is beside me, looping my arm over his shoulder and taking some of my weight.
“It looks like you’re the one who needs a little help this time,” he says, and I realize, barbarian warrior or not, that he is the kindest man I have ever met.