10. Chapter 10
Chapter ten
G yrda's stomach woke her, and for a few moments, she was merely ravenously hungry. Then pain flared across her whole body. Her back and knees felt raw; her legs and arms were so sore she could barely move them. Gyrda lifted her head, looking down at her hands. They were swollen, deep bloody red lines marked across the palms where she'd held the strap. Someone had undressed her, and there was a matching line across her chest, the skin around it bruised and tender, but clean. Her wounds had been tended to.
She sat up slowly. Someone touched her shoulder and she started, looking up. An orc woman smiled down at her, one of the village's healers.
Gyrda opened her mouth to speak but only a croak emerged, her throat still raw and dry. "It's alright," the woman enunciated slowly. She pointed across the hut and Gyrda looked behind her. Sahginoth lay in his own furs, his eyes closed. Touching Gyrda's shoulder again to get her attention, the woman said, "He lives."
Gyrda almost sobbed in relief, slumping against the hide wall of the hut, her eyes trained on the soft rise and fall of Sahginoth's chest beneath the blankets as he slept. The woman bustled around the space. She pressed a bowl of delicious smelling broth into Gyrda's injured hands. Gyrda drank, and the orc held out an open fronted tunic to her, helping her slip her arms through the sleeves and wrap it around herself. It was large and covered her to mid-thigh. That was good enough for the moment. She could barely move. Better clothes could wait.
The woman held up a wooden jar, saying something Gyrda could not make out, and pointed to her cuts and bruises. Gyrda nodded, hardly caring what the orc meant. The woman gently applied a salve to her knees and palms, then spread the tunic open carefully, tending to the wound on Gyrda's chest. The healer's touch was light, but every slight caress felt like fire, her skin raw and tender. Still, they were both alive.
When the woman finished, Gyrda looked up at her. "Will he survive?" she asked.
The healer smiled, the curve of her lips hesitant, then nodded tightly. "I think so."
"Has he awoken?"
The woman shook her head and Gyrda grimaced. He'd lost so much blood. It might be days before he woke.
"How long was I asleep?" she asked.
"Only through the night."
She made Gyrda some of the herbal tea Sahginoth always prepared her, and Gyrda drank, a bit of her strength returning, though every inch of her still ached. Eventually, the healer left, promising that another would be by soon to check on them, and someone from the village would bring them dinner.
Gyrda pulled her furs across the tent to Sahginoth, laying them beside his. She pulled back his blankets. Most of his chest and arms were bandaged, his neck as well. There was a cut on his chin that had scabbed. She peeled back the bandage on his stomach where his wounds were the worst, lifting the herb poultice underneath.
His skin was raw like freshly butchered meat, thick stitches marking his flesh on the deepest wounds, the bottom layers of the bandage wet with fresh blood. Her stomach roiled and she replaced the cloth, tears slipping down her cheeks.
He'd saved her. He'd redirected the bear's wrath towards him again and again, away from her, knowing he couldn't kill the beast on his own, only hoping to give her time to run.
She touched his face, smoothing the lines on his forehead, her tears falling onto his bandages. She wanted to speak to him, but he looked so peaceful in sleep. She couldn't risk waking him. Instead, she pulled the furs back up to his chin and lay down beside him, curling up against his side.
He was still so warm, as warm as he'd been three nights before when they'd lain in this bed together, sweaty and replete with pleasure. She wished to go back in time. Perhaps, if she'd stayed with him that night after they'd made love, if they'd woken in each other's arms, they would not have gone hunting. They might have spent the morning pleasuring each other again, instead of hiking towards the herds of mountain sheep. They would not have been in that valley at night, with a predator. He would not be fighting for his life right now. The village would not be without a chief.
Gyrda buried her face in the sleeve of her tunic and cried herself to sleep.
Everything hurt.
He felt as if he'd been torn to pieces. Wasn't death supposed to be a release, the halls of the afterlife an unending celebration?
Sahginoth tried to move, and searing pain shot through his body. If he'd thought he hurt before, he was wrong. This was true agony.
He opened his eyes, his lids feeling so heavy it was an effort to lift them. The sloping walls of his own hut greeted him, smoke curling up and out through the hole in the roof. The warm colors of twilight spread across the sky. He turned his head. He was in bed, wrapped in furs. Gyrda was beside him. He frowned.
"Chief!" Brug, one of the village's apprentice healers, hurried to him from his squat by the fire. "You're awake," he whispered.
"Yes," Sahginoth breathed, his voice faint and rasping.
"How do you feel?" Brug asked.
"Terrible." His head fell back to the cushions and the young orc brought him a cup of water, lifting him slightly so he could drink. His muscles protested, his stomach burning as if it had been torn open.
It had. He closed his eyes for a moment, memories flooding back to him. The bear, its claws so sharp they felt like knives slicing through his flesh. Gyrda, trying to lure the beast away from him, even when he told her to run and save herself. The fear and rage on her face when she drove his hunting knife into the creature's brain.
And then, nothing.
He opened his eyes again to see Brug's worried face. "How did you find us?" he asked.
The young orc frowned. "Find you? No. Gyrda brought you back on the sled. She must have walked for a whole night and a day. It was dark when she returned, and she collapsed before she could tell us more than that you'd been attacked," he whispered.
Sahginoth looked down at the woman beside him, her hair falling over her face as she slept. He turned to his side, ignoring the healer's protests and reached out. His arm was bandaged, as was his chest. He didn't look below the rest of the furs. He remembered what the bear had done to him. The rest of his body would be worse, he suspected. Gently, he turned Gyrda towards him.
Her loose tunic fell open at the neck and he hissed at the sight of a dark raw bruise across her chest, the mark of where she'd pulled him on the sled. Her hands were bruised as well, the skin purple and swollen. He pushed back her furs. Her knees were covered in bloody scabs.
"Where else is she hurt?" he growled, blinking away the tears gathering in his eyes.
"There are claw marks on her back," the young orc answered, "but they are not deep."
"Has she been tended?"
"Yes, of course. There has been a healer with both of you since she brought you back."
Sahginoth's fear subsided and he leaned back against his cushions. "When?" he asked.
"She brought you back just after the sun set last night. She did wake and eat this morning, then fell asleep beside you. She has not woken since."
Sahginoth nodded. Good. Let her sleep. She had more than earned the rest, the stubborn woman.
He'd wanted her to leave him, return to the village. He'd not thought she could save him, and if she'd remained with him, they might both have died. He had not imagined she would haul him all the way back on her own.
But he was glad she had.
His heart swelled as Brug gingerly checked his bandages, binding fresh poultices over his wounds. He'd thought, the morning after they made love, that perhaps she did not feel for him the same way he felt for her. She had left him to sleep alone, after all. The thought had eaten away at him the whole day when they hiked. He wanted her. He wanted everything from her, not just for her to warm his bed.
But what did she want?
The night after their hike, in the dark, she had reached for him, kissed him. She had wanted him to touch her. And then she had risked her life for him, helped him kill the bear. She had hurt herself pulling him all the way back to the village, and he was twice her weight, at least. She would not do such things if she did not care for him, would she?
Brug finished checking his wounds and helped him sit up against the cushions. The young orc gave him some broth and dried fish and prepared a bowl for Gyrda when she woke, then left them in peace with a promise that healers would continue to check on them regularly. Sahginoth settled back down on the bed, his body protesting each movement. He gritted his teeth. The wounds were deep and still stung, the healers' herbs doing little to take away the pain, but he was strong. He could bear it.
He could bear anything at the moment. He looked down at the woman by his side, pulling her into the curve of his arm despite the pain. He had never wanted a mate, never felt that he needed one. He'd been wrong. This woman was meant for him, and the fates had kept him from marriage before, saving him for her.
She stirred against him, murmuring something in her sleep. Her brow pinched in pain as she moved. Her eyes flew open and she looked up at him.
She was up on her skinned knees in a moment, holding his head, her injured hands patting over him cautiously as she whispered his name, over and over. Tears slipped down her face. "I thought you would die before I could bring you home," she murmured, her voice thick with her tears.
He reached up against her protests, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She sniffed, blotting her eyes on the sleeves of her tunic.
"You must stop crying," he shouted, the effort painful, "or you won't be able to see what I'm saying."
She gave a small hiccupping laugh and nodded. "Are you well?" she asked.
"No, woman," he chuckled, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches and scabs. "I nearly died." He took her hands in his, cradling the backs of them against his palms, careful to avoid her wounds. She watched him intently, her teeth digging into her lower lip. "You saved me," he said, the wonder of it still filling him with a warmth that chased away his pain.
He was unbelievably grateful to be alive. He had always lived for his village and his ancestors, for all the Delakki clans. Now, he lived for her, too. She was a part of his people, the most important of his people. He had a new purpose to carry him through each day; to love her, care for her, show her the passion and respect her husband had denied her. He meant to make that clear to her as soon as he was well enough.
"Your people need you," she said softly.
"And do you need me?" he asked.
She cocked her head slightly, her eyes going wide with anxiety. He couldn't tell if she had not understood him, or if the question frightened her. Her lips parted, but she did not answer or repeat what she'd thought he'd said back to him to see if it was correct, as she often did.
"Come," he said, pulling her down beside him. "Rest."
She nodded, pulling her furs back around her as she settled beside him, a small frown wrinkling her brow. He wanted to pull her into his arms, sleep with her tucked against his chest, but they were both too hurt at the moment. So instead he closed his eyes, comforted by the heat of her arm against his, the soft sound of her breaths and the crackling of the fire.
Did you send her, grandmother, he wondered? Had his grandmother found the perfect woman and guided her to him? He wouldn't put it past Yotul. She'd been a quiet but determined and shrewd woman. He smiled as Gyrda's breathing evened into sleep beside him. He knew if his grandmother was here today, she would adore Gyrda, as he did.
He had found his mate. He'd never intended to have one, but she was his, now, and he was never giving her up.