Chapter 31
THREK
Ihave to duck my head to enter the hovel.
My shoulders, now broad and muscled in the way of an Orc, brush both sides of the doorframe. It has been two weeks since the Wildspont. Two weeks of feeling the world with a mind that is finally my own, and two weeks of discovering that my new body is still too large for this small, human world.
As an Urog, this hovel was a cage. As an Orc… it is still a cage, but it is a warm one.
It is hers. And now, it is ours.
But it is still too small.
"Careful," Betty says from the corner, her voice full of that soft, amused lilt that makes my heart ache. "You already took the old beam out."
I grunt, stepping over the new, raw-pine threshold I set this morning. "It was rotten."
"It was fine," she teases, stirring a pot over the fire. The smell of suru stew fills the air, a scent that now means home.
"It was weak," I counter, my voice a deep rumble.
I run my hand over the new, sturdy log I am setting to replace the main roof beam.
The hovel is not a hovel anymore. For the past week, I have been expanding it.
I tore down the entire back wall, a move that made her gasp in terror, and I have been rebuilding it with fresh-cut pine, doubling its size.
My hands, my hands, which I am still relearning, know this work.
The memory of my father teaching me to notch logs, is a clear, sharp, good memory.
I am a warrior, but I am also a builder. And I am building a den for my mate.
Betty comes up behind me. I do not need to turn; I smell her. The scent of fialon berries and soap and that unique, warm smell that is just Betty. She holds up a cup of water.
I take it, my large green hand dwarfing the small wooden cup. I drink, and then I set it down. I turn, and she is still there, looking up at me, her blue eyes soft in the firelight.
I do not ask. I act.
I lean down and bury my face in her hair, sniffing. It is the old habit. The Urog instinct. But it is not a primal, sensory check anymore. It is reassurance. It is possession. It is love.
"You are clean," I murmur against her scalp.
"So are you," she whispers, her fingers tracing the silver, star-shaped scar on my chest. "You've been working all day. The palisade is..."
"Strong," I finish for her.
The work on the village wall has been… good.
At first, the humans were terrified. I do not blame them.
I am an Orc. They have only known Orcs as monsters, second only to the Dark Elves.
When I first walked to the broken palisade and saw six of their men, Joric’s father among them, struggling to lift a single, water-logged beam, I had simply waited.
They had stared at me, their hands on their axe-handles, their fear a sour scent in the air.
I had just pointed. "I can."
Their fear warred with their need. Finally, Elder Maeve had stepped forward, her face a mask of grim practicality. "Let him."
I had lifted the log. The one that six of them could not budge. I had lifted it as if it were a twig, and slotted it perfectly into place.
Since then, they are wary. But they are accepting. My strength is no longer a threat they must cower from. It is a boon that protects them.
When I hunt, I do not just bring back a single suru for our pot. I bring back a deer. I bring back three. And I do not bring them to Betty. I bring them to Elder Maeve. I lay them at her feet.
It is the Orc way. You provide for the clan.
And this village, this small, weak, human village… it has become my clan.
Betty pulls back, her small hands resting on my bare chest. "They... they like you, Threk. They are grateful. They are... afraid of you, yes. But they respect you."
"They are your clan," I say simply. "So they are mine. I protect them."
Her eyes soften. "And I am yours?"
The question... it makes my heart stop.
"You... you said yes," I say, my voice tight. The memory of that night, of her fear, her doubt... it is still a cold place in my chest.
"I did," she says, her smile bright and sure. "I said yes, Threk."
I shake my head, my hand covering hers over my scar. "You said yes to the human custom. To your Christmas wish. It was a good word. It settled my mind."
I lead her over to the new, larger table I built. "But it is not enough."
Her smile falters. "Not... enough?"
I take her hands. "In my clan... in the Orc tradition... a 'yes' is only the beginning. It is a promise to begin. It is not the bond."
I need her to understand this. All of it.
"The ceremony," I say, my voice low and serious. "It is... different. It is not just words. It is magic. It is old. It binds the souls, Betty. Not just the hearts. It is a vow before the War God and all our ancestors. It is... forever."
I look into her eyes, willing her to see the weight of what I am asking.
"When I do this... when we do this... there is no turning back. Ever. You will be my mate in this life, and all others. I will be yours. It is a chain. It is a shield. It is final."
She searches my face, her own face pale and serious in the firelight. She sees the absolute, terrifying sincerity in my eyes.
"A chain," she whispers.
"And a shield," I counter.
I look at the ritual I am planning, a piece of a life I almost forgot. The life of Namir.
"As for my life before I became an Urog," I say, my voice quieter, "it has been so long that I doubt my clan or my lineage is still alive. But, perhaps, one of these days, I will go and look for them."
Betty’s hand tightens in mine, a sudden, sharp spasm of fear. "You would not... leave?"
I shake my head, turning my hand to grip hers. "You are my clan now, Betty. You are my home. They are just... ghosts. You are real."
I lean down and kiss her forehead. "Is this what you want? Truly?"
She doesn't hesitate. Not this time.
"More than anything I have ever wanted."
My breath leaves me in a rush. She is sure.
I nod. "Then today... I prepare."
The rest of the day, she is gone. I ask her to help Elder Maeve. I need the hovel to myself.
I work.
I take a pouch of salt from our stores. Salt is pure. It burns away lies.
On the new, clean-swept dirt floor of our larger home, I spend an hour carving a perfect, deep circle. I pour the salt into the groove, filling it until it is a stark, white ring in the dark earth.
I take twine. Strong, thick twine used for hunting nets. I cut two lengths.
I sit before a new fire. I close my eyes.
I bless the twine. I speak the old words in the Orcish tongue, words I had no idea I remembered. They flow from me, ancient and powerful. I call on the War God. Not for victory in battle. But for strength. Strength to protect her. Strength to provide for her. Strength to be the Orc she deserves.
I take my knife. I prick my thumb. A single drop of my blood... Orc blood... falls onto each twine. It soaks in, a dark, binding stain.
My hands are shaking.
I, Namir of the Blood-Rock Clan, Threk the Urog, Threk the Savior, who faced Larda himself... I am nervous.
My heart pounds. This is more terrifying than any battle. This is more important.
This is forever.
I wait until the sun is gone. I wait until the only light in the hovel is the low, red glow of the fire.