11. Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
G yrda rested at Sahginoth's insistence for the next few days, but despite her injuries she was anxious, eager to be up and about. She did not like feeling like an invalid. She was used to work, used to being useful. She liked it. For a short while, she contented herself with preparing their meals and helping the healers change his poultices and bandages.
A large group of hunters followed Gyrda's directions to the valley and dragged the ice bear's body back to the village. It was big enough to feed the village for weeks, and such meat could not go to waste. They brought back her bow and arrows, too, but they had been crushed by the bear during its rampage across the clearing. Gyrda tried to mend them, tears pricking her eyes, but it was no use. They were beyond repair. She wept quietly when Sahginoth was asleep, not wanting to disturb him.
She had made the weapon with her father when she was just a girl, and it had served her well for three decades. Now, it was useless.
But one of the hunters took the broken wood, and two days later, a brand-new bow and arrows were waiting outside the door to their hut. Gyrda frowned as she smoothed her fingers over the beautifully carved wood, then held the arrows up to the light. They had taken the arrowheads from her old arrows and reused them, the worn metal familiar. She frowned.
"Why?" she asked Sahginoth as he sipped his broth.
He smiled at her. "They are grateful to you."
The next day, fur-lined leather leggings were left beside the hut to replace the ones she'd torn on the rocks. More gifts followed: food, hair ornaments, thick winter socks, new tunics, an embroidered quiver for her arrows. Each day when she woke, there was something new. Sahginoth would smile an amused smile while she marveled over them, shrugging when she questioned him. He had done nothing to urge the villagers to make her gifts, but he seemed pleased by it.
After a few weeks, she could no longer stand spending every moment in the hut. Her hands still pained her, but the swelling had gone down and she could use them for simple tasks. She bundled herself against the cold, donning her torn jacket, the claw marks on the back allowing in the bitter chill of the wind, and ventured out into the village.
She had meant to help the cooks at the central fires or sit with Zarhu for a few hours and help the old woman sew, but she was surrounded the moment she closed the door flap. Villagers vied for her attention, questions upon questions heaped on her as she tried to listen intently, asking the orcs to speak slower.
Was she hungry? Did she and Sahginoth need anything? Did she want to come choose the best cuts of the meat? Did she require more clothing?
It was overwhelming. She shrugged off most of their questions, spending the daylight hours helping around the village with whatever small tasks she could make herself useful doing. That night, a platter of the most succulent cuts of bear meat was brought to the hut for her and Sahginoth, seasoned with herbs and mushrooms. They feasted.
When it was time to sleep, she made her bed beside him as she had every night since she'd brought him back. The shallower cuts on his arms were healing well, and he pulled her against his side, her head resting on his upper arm. It felt right to fall asleep like that, cocooned in his warmth.
The next day, the villagers' questions were more serious, no longer about what she needed or wanted, but about what they needed. They peppered her with the questions she'd once seen them ask Sahginoth, and she answered as best she could, as she thought he would have, had they directed their questions to him. She ordered the teams of hunters out for fresh game, helped those who tended the greenhouses rebuild a fallen ice roof before the plants could die from being exposed to the cold. She ensured food was distributed to all the elders who lived alone and could no longer hunt for themselves, listened to a husband's complaints against his absent wife who spent more time in her parents' hut since the birth of their child than she did with him, leaving him to care for the infant alone.
Again, she felt overwhelmed. There was so much that needed seeing to, so many small problems to be addressed and some big ones that affected the whole village. How had Sahginoth managed it on his own all these years, caring for not only this village but all the other mountain clans as well? He always seemed so calm, unperturbed, as if being chief required little work. Did he do all this alone? Surely they had other elders who could advise them.
"Why do they come to me?" she asked Sahginoth that night as they ate their dinner.
He chuckled, taking her hand in his. "You saved their chief's life. You proved yourself the bravest of us all, the most selfless and determined." His eyes were soft as he looked at her, warm and loving, and she felt her skin prickle with gooseflesh at the intensity in his gaze. It had been so long since anyone looked at her like that, so thoroughly, as if he saw all of her. "They look to you as a leader now," he said with pride. "They will follow you, listen to you."
It seemed so much to put on her shoulders. Who was she, after all? A hunter and trapper, then a barmaid in a tavern. She had no experience leading. But he trusted her, and his people did too, and the weight of their trust was not an unpleasant burden. It gave her the purpose she'd always sought, and she would do her best to be worthy of them.
So, she worked while he healed. Dawn to dusk, she served the village. She spoke with the young wife who had abandoned her family. The woman suffered from a darkness of the heart and mind Gyrda had seen before when she trained as a midwife. Some women felt a despair and sadness after giving birth that took time to ease. She made sure the healers brought the woman soothing teas to keep her calm and taught the young husband how to care for her, listen to her concerns and fears and allay them as best he could, show her the patience and love she needed to heal her mind. She set her rabbit traps in the evenings and checked them in the mornings, giving her catches to the elders. She heard the village's concerns in the great hall, and if anyone minded that they had to shout when they stood and spoke their concerns to her, they did not say so. When mountain cat tracks were sighted near the village, she went out with the hunters to frighten the predator away and protect the orclings who ran free each day on the plateau. She helped butcher and freeze the rest of the bear meat and trekked four days over the mountains to a nearby village to deliver a few pack-loads of it to the chief there as a condolence for the death of his young child.
The morning she returned, there was another package waiting by the hut door. She took it inside to the fire where Sahginoth sat, drinking his tea and poking at his bandages with a frustrated frown, and opened it.
Wrapped in soft cloth was a new winter coat made from the hide of the ice bear. The creature's skin was black, making a soft leather as dark as the night sky. The coat was lined with the beast's white fur, warm and soft against the skin, a ruff of it around the hood, embroidered in places with sparkling silver threads.
Sahginoth grinned. "That looks like Zarhu's handiwork," he remarked.
Gyrda sat in awed silence, the beautiful coat laid across her lap. These gifts were too much. She had come here with everything she owned in one small pack. Now she had new weapons, enough clothes to fill one of the chests in Sahginoth's hut, finely carved and beaded jewelry for her hair. Now she had a whole village of people who welcomed her as their own, who looked up to her, respected her, cared for her.
She had only hoped to free herself from her husband, to be allowed to live in peace in the mountains, eke out a simple living from the cold, unforgiving slopes. She could not have imagined this.
He moved towards her slowly, wincing as his stitches pulled. He rested his hand over hers on the garment, and she looked up at him.
"It is your due," he said proudly. "You killed the beast. You deserve to wear its hide."
She nodded slowly, barely comprehending. But she pulled on the coat, leaving her torn one in the hut, and went to thank Zarhu.
Gradually, the responsibilities she'd taken on seemed less frightening, her days too busy for her to feel anxiety over whether the decisions she made were right. Sahginoth always seemed pleased when she told him how she spent her days, what decisions she made.
His wounds slowly healed, and the healers pulled out the stitches. He began to leave the hut, spending a few hours of each day at his old duties, though he could not yet hunt. He moved slowly at first, his body still weak, and could not stand for long. It was jarring to see such a strong, capable man tire so easily. Gyrda watched over him closely, worried he would push himself too far. He did not, however, seeming content to let her continue to handle many of his old daily duties as the chief.
But as he healed, she began to worry. He regained his strength and the newfound joviality she'd seen in him before his injuries. And she still slept beside him at night, her head pillowed on his arm, but he did not touch her apart from that. He did not kiss her. She caught him looking at her a few times with an odd expression on his face; not something bad, but something she could not explain, and it made her anxious. It was not the lust he'd looked at her with before, the hunger and longing.
Were those feelings gone, for him? Did he no longer see her as a lover, but merely as a helper?
If he did, she would not turn him away. She liked helping him. She liked helping the village. For the first time since her father had died, she felt at peace. At home. If this was all she could have, she would still take it. It would not be enough, but she would take it.
A month passed. She thought of taking her bed back to the side of the hut she'd occupied since her arrival, but he did not seem to mind that she stayed beside him, so she left things as they were. She did not want to be apart from him.
She slept in a tunic, and he wore the pants he'd worn to bed since she'd first come to live with him. He fidgeted, though. She'd not noticed that when she had her own bed, behind the curtain he'd strung up, but now that she shared his space, she couldn't help but notice it.
"Do you not like wearing clothes to bed?" she asked.
The hut was lit by only firelight, and it was too dark to see his face clearly, but he looked as if he were blushing. He nodded once, sharply.
"Then why do you wear them?" she asked with a laugh.
A smile curved the corners of his mouth. "All those months ago, I did not think you wanted to see my cock when I got up every morning."
"But I've seen it now," she said. His lips went slack, his gaze heating for a moment before he shrugged slightly. He did not take off his pants, however.
Gyrda leaned against him, tracing the lines of the tattoos on his arms and abdomen. The skin had knitted together, but not quite evenly, and now scars bisected many of the black ink lines, marring their elegant swirls. She did not mind that their beauty was changed. It was proof of what he'd done for her sake, to protect her.
She looked up at him, hoping to see hunger in his eyes again at her touch, hoping to rekindle what they'd had before the attack. It was there for a brief moment, then his expression shuttered, and he placed his hand over hers, stopping her caress.
"Sleep," he said simply. She sighed and lay back, resting her head on his arm.
Perhaps he was not well enough yet for lovemaking, she told herself. Perhaps he still felt pain. She worried, nonetheless.