5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
A s the days passed into weeks and the weeks into months, Gyrda thought of her old life less and less. She hunted with Sahginoth in the mountains, and he showed her every inch of the territory surrounding the village until she knew all the nearby peaks and valleys by heart: the best places to hunt birds and sheep, rabbits and pikas, the alpine lakes where fish darted beneath the layers of ice and could be caught by chipping a hole in the ice and dropping a lure. They trekked to a nearby clan with some of the hunters to deliver sleds of frozen meat when the orcs of another village were stricken with an illness and could not hunt. They ranged far across the snowy crags for their prey, carving dens into drifts of snow to sleep in at night.
She sat beside him in the longhouse when the villagers gathered for feasting and storytelling, marriages and births, and other celebrations. She could hear little of the music played and stories told, but she liked nothing more than sitting pressed against him in the crowded hall, the warmth of his body comforting beside hers.
He smiled more and more. She'd thought him a taciturn person, and he was solemn, a serious and level-headed leader who took nothing lightly, but he seemed to come alive when they were alone cooking their nightly meal or hiking over the mountains side by side. And when he smiled, she smiled, too.
There were days she could barely remember a life before the orc clan. The days here were simple but filled with hard work, and she enjoyed the ache in her muscles after a long hunt, the quiet wordless evenings sitting across the fire from Sahginoth, drinking their tea and repairing their weapons. She liked to slip away at night when the moon was high in the sky and sit in the hot springs, the dark star-speckled sky stretching endlessly above her, green wisps of the northern lights dancing over the snow-capped peaks. When she looked up, she lost herself in the beauty of the night, and everything that had come before this felt like a distant dream.
Her days had been simple in the human city, too, but the work felt like drudgery. She would rather hunt than mop ale-stained floors, rather spend countless silent hours with Sahginoth than another minute with the husband she'd left behind.
There were still those in the village who spoke to her too quickly or quietly for her to understand, especially the orclings, but the rest had adapted to her needs quickly, speaking loudly and clearly or merely gesturing. Zarhu was the only one who expected her to speak a great deal, however. Gyrda kept the old woman company when Sahginoth traveled to other clans for his work as the leader of all the Delakki orcs. Zarhu liked to chatter, but she liked it just as well when Gyrda talked to her while she sewed. Gyrda told her everything of the city, her childhood, of humans, while the old orc sewed Gyrda tunics and vests and leggings and embroidered new cushions for her bed.
Well, not everything.
Gyrda did not speak of her husband. No one ever asked, and she was not sure if she preferred that. She didn't want to speak of him, but there was a part of her desperate for someone to know.
But she craved the peace of this new life more than she craved understanding, for the moment, so she stayed silent.
Sahginoth rarely touched her, except to hand her a cup of tea or brush past her in the small house they shared. At first she'd been grateful for it. He was a beautiful creature, hard muscle covered in hypnotizing tattoos, his perpetually mussed hair falling around his face in tangled grey-black curls, but it was nice to have nothing expected of her, to be in control of her own body. She knew he looked at her with lust from time to time, and she returned his glances just as often, but he kept his distance. Gyrda suspected he was not the sort of male to make the first move, and she appreciated that.
She appreciated the time, because at first when their hands brushed, she thought instantly of her husband. The memories were unbidden and unwelcome, souring her moods. Over time they faded until nothing was left but his touch itself and her desire for more.
She wanted to trace the contours of his muscles, smooth the lines on his forehead with the tip of her finger, taste the salt of his skin. She wanted to feel his body pressed to hers, his strong hands slipping beneath her clothes. She wanted to see the look on his face when he saw her breasts for the first time. She dreamed of the hunger and awe she would see in his eyes, and it left her hot and aching with unfulfilled pleasure in her furs at night. She dared not touch herself, afraid he would hear.
Part of her wanted him to hear.
She'd found him hard to read, at first, but it only took a few weeks to realize he did not merely tolerate her and sneak the occasional glance when her breasts were unbound at night. He liked her. He was happy tramping through the high snow with her, hunting together, hauling a sled full of their game together. He liked making her tea. He liked when they cooked together. She could see it in the little smiles he gave her, the way the tension eased from his large body no matter how small the space they shared.
It gave her dangerous hopes. She began to imagine futures for them.
It was worse on the days he encouraged her to speak. He liked to hear her, even if he had to shout or speak slowly to answer.
But she wanted to hear him, too. She wanted to know more of him, though she had to pry the stories from him. Zarhu told her more of his childhood and grandmother than he did, and he didn't object to the old woman telling his secrets, but he didn't volunteer them.
"You don't tell me much of yourself," she chided him one night as he sliced mushrooms for their dinner.
He raised an eyebrow, tossing the mushrooms into the pan with the roasting ptarmigan. "Not much to tell," he said, crushing a handful of herbs in his palm and sprinkling them over the food.
Gyrda frowned. "Zarhu told me of how you chipped your tusk diving into the hot springs when you were a little boy, of how she used to teach you to sew when your grandmother was out hunting. She's told me dozens of stories of you."
He shrugged. "I'm not an interesting person."
That was a lie, but she often thought the same of herself and he seemed to find her interesting. She laughed softly to herself and he cocked his head at her. "What?" he asked.
"I think we talk in circles too often, when we talk at all."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you tell me what you want?" she asked. "Do you tell me what you think?"
His lips thinned and he stirred the mushrooms.
"You don't, do you?" she asked. She wanted more than this easy existence together. She wanted to push him. She wanted him to push back. She wanted to feel more from him than camaraderie.
"No." He spoke softly, but his lip curled on the word in frustration.
"Why?" she asked, and he ignored her, spooning the dinner onto plates and passing her one. He ate, staring into the fire. "There were so many sounds I missed when I lost my hearing," she said. "Some of them I still haven't grown used to. Sometimes I imagine I can hear something, like the wind across the slopes, the crackling of a fire, and I know it's only in my head. But I didn't miss talking. I didn't miss having conversations with anyone in the city. There was no one there I... cared for." She set her plate aside. "But I hate this. I want to be able to talk to you of everything. I want to have a normal conversation. I want to listen to you. I want you to tell me stories the way I tell you stories." She balled her hands into fists in her lap, looking away, afraid of what she might see on his face. "How can I regret something I've never had?" she asked. "But I want that with you, so I want my hearing back. I want you to talk to me."
She could see him moving out of the corner of her eye. He reached for her, large fingers gently caressing the side of her jaw. He tilted her face up to him. She stared at his lips, wishing she could look into his eyes when he spoke.
"I don't hate this," he said slowly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head slightly. He stared at her for a long moment and she couldn't decipher the emotions behind his eyes. "I thought you were born like this," he said finally. His lips thinned. "How did you lose your hearing?"
She frowned, digging back into her meal. She hadn't meant to confess so much, and now that she'd let slip that her hearing loss was recent, she would have to explain. What would he think, when he knew? She scraped the wing bone of the roasted bird between her teeth, tearing off the meat. If she was busy chewing, she could prevent herself from letting out the flood of words she'd kept to herself for so long. She could feel his stare on her, steady and patient. She finished her food and pushed the plate aside, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He pressed a cup of steaming tea into her hands and she shook her head slightly, setting it beside the fire.
"It's been almost a year," she said. "My husband was angry. He pushed me down the stairs." She could see him tense beside her, out of the corner of her eye. She swallowed. "There was a ringing in my ears when I woke a few days later, so loud I thought my skull would split. And when that faded, there was nothing." She shrugged, the movement tight and unnatural, and she worried he could hear the catch of tears in her voice. "He wasn't always like that. He was good enough, for a time. Then he was not, but you can grow used to anything, and I grew used to him." She reached up, rubbed absently at the scar beneath her hair where her head had struck the bottom stair. "I couldn't stay with him after that, though, but I didn't have anyone else. He took me in when my father died and I had nowhere else to go, when I owned nothing but my weapons and the clothes on my back. But I started thinking of the stories I heard as a girl, of women with cruel husbands who crossed the mountains to orc lands and found sanctuary. When summer turned, I sold my things; bought boots and a coat made for the cold. And I left."
He said nothing for long minutes while she watched the curling steam rise from her cup of tea, hearing the crackle of the fire inside her head as the flames danced. He did not even move except to breathe, and she stayed resolutely turned away, afraid to look at his face.
Finally, he reached for her, his hand hovering near her, not touching her. He moved slightly closer, and she turned, looking up at him. His hand clenched into a fist, his jaw set in an angry line. Then his fingers uncurled, brushing against her cheek, smoothing the curls of wayward hair that had escaped from her braid. He seemed to ease at the touch, as if it soothed him more than it soothed her. His lips parted and she watched his chest rise and fall with a deep breath.
Do not pity me, she prayed.
And he did not. She was grateful for it. There were no words he could say to change the past. Trying would be useless. He must have sensed that. He frowned sadly, his fingers tracing over her face where the glare of the sun on the snow had left her pink and sunburnt, his enormous hand gentle. She leaned slightly into his touch before she could stop herself and his eyes widened, his mouth opening. He hesitated before he spoke, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it.
"If you wish me to speak more, I will. Order me to tell you things, and I will, happily." He swallowed, his hand dropping from her face. "But I like being silent with you." He smiled slightly. "I like being with you. It is enough."
Her breath caught and she blinked at the sudden wetness in her eyes, wiping the tears away before they could fall. It had been a long time since anything was enough, since she was enough. Still, she wanted more.
She leaned forwards on her knees, bracing her hands on his shoulders, and he stiffened, his body going taut under her touch like the string of a bow pulled too tight. She watched his gaze drop to her lips as they parted, his eyes widening as she closed the distance between them. She felt the soft hitch in his breath as she pressed her mouth to his.
He remained completely frozen for a moment as her lips moved over his. His chipped tusk was rough against her lip and her tongue smoothed over its slightly jagged surface, teasing at the entrance to his mouth. He pulled back abruptly, holding her at arms length. His lips formed a word and she thought it might have been her name but she couldn't tell. His jaw worked, his fingers digging into her sides.
"I know you want me," she whispered.