Chapter 30 Betty
BETTY
We walk in a world of impossible, silent white, from sunrise, to evening to another new day. The walk back to Oakhaven is way easier than walking out of the lowtown. We eat along the way, with whatever we found as we travel back.
The snow falls in thick, gentle flakes, a soft curtain that muffles our footsteps and seals us in a private world. The shrieking, tearing energy of the Wildspont is gone, replaced by the crisp, clean scent of the mountains.
I am holding his hand.
It is not the massive, scarred, clawed hand of the Urog, a hand I had come to know better than my own. This is a new hand. It is still huge, his fingers still dwarf mine, but it is a hand. The skin is a deep, healthy green, the nails are blunt and clean.
I cannot stop looking at him.
He is not Threk, the monster I saved. He is Threk, the man who saved me.
He is walking beside me, a green-skinned warrior, his long black hair, still damp from the Wildspont’s magic, stirring in the wind.
He is wearing a mismatched set of armor and furs, scavenged from the bodies of Larda’s dead soldiers.
The black elven steel is too small for his massive, Orcish shoulders, and the human soldier's cloak is too short, but he wears it with a new, quiet dignity.
His face. It is strong, with a high, noble brow and a jaw that is all hard, masculine lines. His tusks are small, sharp, and frame a mouth that I… that I kissed. His eyes, no longer burning red, are a warm, intelligent hazel, and they are fixed on the path ahead.
He is not limping. The magic, whatever it was, has healed him completely. He is whole.
My heart is a mess of contradictions. It is aching with a grief so profound I can barely breathe—for the monster I loved, the one who is gone—and at the same time, it is soaring with a new, terrifying joy for the man who has taken his place.
"You are quiet," he says.
His voice. It is the deep, familiar rumble from the hot spring, but now it is clear and sure. It is a beautiful, formal voice, with a slight, almost musical cadence I have never heard.
I look down at our joined hands. "I... I am just... thinking."
"Of him?" he asks, his voice gentle.
My head snaps up. He knows.
"He is not gone, Betty," he says, stopping.
He turns to me, his new, hazel eyes soft.
He lifts his free hand—his hand—and taps the star-shaped, silvery scar on his chest. "The Urog was the cage.
The elven magic. But I was inside. I was the one who heard you.The one who touched you. I am still Threk."
He is. And he is also Namir. He is both.
He smiles, a small, gentle curve of his lips. "And I am... cold. This elf-armor is thin."
A small, wet laugh bubbles out of me. It is the first real laugh I have had in... years. "We're close. I... I see the smoke."
We crest the last hill.
Oakhaven is below us. It is not burned. The raiders' fires had been contained. And the village is… alive.
A meager celebration is underway. It is a cluster of people around the central bonfire, the one they must light for the solstice. For Christmas. I can hear someone—Old Man Hemlock—playing a thin, hopeful tune on his reed flute.
They are trying. They are surviving.
They see us.
The flute stops.
A shout goes up. "It's Betty! She's alive!"
They run toward us. Elder Maeve is in the lead, her face taking on both shock and relief.
And then they stop.
They skid to a halt in the snow, their joy instantly evaporating, replaced by sheer, naked terror.
They are not looking at me. They are staring at the orc beside me.
They do not see Threk, the Urog who saved them.
They see a new monster. A tall, armed, tusked, green-skinned Orc warrior, clad in the armor of their enemies.
The men raise their weapons. Pitchforks. Clubs. A rusty sword.
"Get behind me, Betty!" Joric’s father shouts, his face pale. "It's an Orc!"
"No!" I cry, stepping forward. "No, wait! It's—"
Threk moves. He steps in front of me, a shield between me and my village. But he does not growl. He does not raise his hands.
He holds his empty palms out to them, a sign of peace.
And he speaks.
His voice is clear, deep, and carries over the snow.
"Lord Larda is gone."
The entire village freezes. The shock of him speaking so clearly, so intelligently, is more powerful than any roar.
Elder Maeve lowers the cudgel in her hand. Her eyes are wide. "You... you can speak?"
"He can," I say, my voice shaking with pride. I step out from behind him, taking his hand in mine. The village gasps at the gesture. "The threat is over. Larda... Larda is dead. The Wildspont... it cured him. This... this is Threk."
A long, stunned silence.
Maeve looks at him. At his calm, hazel eyes. At the scar on his chest, visible where the armor gapes. At my hand in his.
"And... Joric?" she whispers, her voice laced with dread.
My stomach twists. I see Joric’s father, his face white with fear for his son. I see Joric's broken body, blasted against the wall. I see his final, regretful scream.
I cannot give them that truth. They deserve peace.
I take a deep breath. The lie is heavy, but it is kind.
"Joric... he died an honorable death," I say, my voice strong. "He saved my life. He distracted Larda at the end. He... he was a hero."
A wail goes up from Joric's mother. His father closes his eyes, the tears streaming down his face, but his shoulders straighten with pride. Grief and relief war on Maeve's face.
They can grieve for a hero. Not a traitor. My guilt settles for that.
A hesitant cheer starts. Someone shouts. "They're safe!"
"He saved us!"
"Merry Christmas!"
The village surges forward, their fear forgotten in a wave of pure, stunned joy. They surround us, offering flasks of ale, chunks of bread. They are patting Threk on his massive, armored back, laughing in relief.
And Threk... he stands there, a green-skinned giant in the middle of a human celebration, looking utterly shell-shocked.
But he never lets go of my hand.
The celebration moves to the bonfire. The flute starts up again, faster this time.
We are swept with them. I am laughing, crying, trying to answer a dozen questions at once.
Threk is silent, watching everything with new, clear eyes. He watches the humans hugging. He watches them share drinks. He watches the children throw snowballs.
He looks at me, his hazel eyes warm in the firelight.
He sees me staring into the flames, my heart so full I think it might burst. It's Christmas Day. And we are alive.
He squeezes my hand.
He walks into the center of the clearing, pulling me gently with him, right in front of the bonfire.
The music stops. The talking fades. Everyone is watching us.
He turns to me.
And he kneels.
A collective gasp sucks the air out of the village.
A tusked, green-skinned Orc warrior, clad in black armor, is kneeling in the snow at my feet.
"Threk?" I whisper, my face burning.
"In my people's ways, this is not *formal," he says, his deep, clear voice rumbling across the silent square. "But I have learned... in yours... this is the custom."
He looks up at me, his hazel eyes blazing with a love so fierce it steals my breath.
"Betty. You are my world. You are my light. My star. Will you be my mate?"
The words... they are too much.
Happiness. Love. A future.
He is offering me everything I never thought I could have.
And my guilt, the black, ugly, final antagonist I still carry, rises up and chokes me.
I recoil. I rip my hand from his, stumbling backward, away from the bonfire, away from his hope, away from the staring villagers.
"No," I gasp, my hand flying to my hair, twisting, pulling. The old, familiar panic is here. "I can't."
"Betty?" His voice is broken, confused. He stands, his face a mask of pain.
"I can't!" I sob, backing away. "Don't you see? I killed them! My family! My mother, my brother... they burned because of me! Because I was a fool!"
The words pour out of me, the poison I have held in for years, now spilling all over the Christmas snow.
"I don't deserve this!" I cry, hitting my own chest. "I don't deserve love! I don't deserve happiness! I am a curse, Threk! I touch things and they die! Joric... you... I almost got you killed! I made you sacrifice yourself!"
I look at him, this beautiful, whole, perfect orc, and all I see is another person I will destroy.
"I'm afraid," I whisper, my voice raw. "I'm so afraid. If I say yes... if I am happy... the world will take you from me, too. To punish me. It's what I deserve."
He doesn't let me run.
He crosses the snow in two strides. He takes my hands, his grip firm, pulling my fingers from my hair. He holds me, forcing me to look at him.
"You think your life is penance?" he says, his voice low and fierce. "My life was a cage. A red darkness. Screaming. Pain. Every day."
He shakes his head. "You did not kill your family, Betty. The elves did. Larda did. Hate them. Do not hate yourself."
"But I—"
"You think you do not deserve happiness?" he interrupts, his voice breaking. "You are the only happiness I have ever known. You are my light. My star."
His hands cup my face, his palms green and warm against my frozen, tear-stained skin.
"You did not bring me death. You found me dying. You gave me life. You gave me my mind. You gave me my name."
He leans in, his hazel eyes pleading. "You are not afraid you will lose me. You are afraid to be happy. I am afraid, too. I am afraid to be Namir. I am afraid to be this." He gestures to himself. "But I am not afraid with you."
He touches his forehead to mine.
"You told me about Christmas. A time for wishes. Your wish was for me to be free. Now I have a wish."
He pulls back, just enough to see my eyes.
"Be my mate, Betty. Live with me. That is my Christmas wish. Please... grant it."
His words are a key, turning the lock on a part of my heart I thought was dead and rotten. My sobs catch in my throat, his hope is a shock to my system, a light so bright it hurts. He is offering me a future when all I have ever looked for is an end.
But the cold, hard, ugly knots of guilt don't dissolve. They tighten in one last, vicious spasm.
I pull back from him, my hands slipping from his face, my new, fragile joy instantly poisoned by a lifetime of terror.
He's wrong.
"Threk... I..." I shake my head, my voice a broken, panicked whisper. "You can't... you don't see. What if I am a curse? What if I say yes and... and you're next? What if I'm not strong enough to deserve this? I... I will break you. I break everything I touch."
I am staring at the snow at his feet, crying again, but these are the old, familiar tears of fear and self-hatred. This is safe. This is known.
He doesn't argue. He doesn't shout.
He just waits.
I feel his patience, a warm, solid thing in the cold air. It is infuriating. It is terrifying. It is unshakeable.
Slowly, timidly, I lift my gaze.
He is still there. He hasn't moved. He is not angry. He is not disappointed. His hazel eyes are steady and warm, his love an unshakeable mountain that refuses to be moved by my fear. He is not asking me to be perfect. He is asking me to be his.
He sees my brokenness. He knows my guilt. He knows every ugly, cowardly part of me.
And he is still offering me his world.
And I realize... this is the choice.
My penance isn't to suffer. My atonement isn't to die or to be miserable.
My real penance is to be brave enough to live. To be brave enough to accept this gift and love him back. To run toward happiness, not away from it, even if it terrifies me.
That is the hardest thing I have ever had to do.
The tears that fall now are different. They are not for my past. They are not tears of grief or fear.
They are tears of release.
I throw my arms around his neck, pulling his face down to mine, my sob turning into a gasping, wet laugh.
"Yes. Gods, Threk... Yes."