Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Rowena
I didn’t sleep. Not until Vrogul returned. The moon had been up for hours, and I’d been tossing and turning in that large bed, when the door finally opened and he slipped in. I heard him remove his boots, heard him wrap himself in a plaid, heard him settle in front of the cold hearth.
I didn’t like the thought of taking his bed from him, but now I fell asleep quickly.
Mayhap ‘twas exhaustion. Mayhap ‘twas knowing he was there.
The following day was much the same, and the one after. I spent the days with Issa and her friends learning about the village, and the nights alone in Vrogul’s big bed, straining for the sound of his return.
On the third day in Battleborn Village, I borrowed a set of cleaning rags and wiped down Vrogul’s mantel and table. The place had been clean when I arrived, but he was now clearly avoiding his own home.
On the fourth day, I took it a step further and aired out all the linens and rugs and swept the flagstone floor.
And on the fifth day, I decided to start cooking as well.
Mayhap if his home was inviting and smelled of porridge in the morning and roasted vegetables in the evening, he might consider staying longer.
‘Twasn’t until I was bent over the table mid-day that I realized what that thought had indicated. I wanted to spend time with Vrogul? Or was this guilt? And if ‘twas guilt, was it guilt because I’d hurt him, or guilt that I’d pushed him out of his home?
‘Twas his choice. He was the one to steal you away, then leave you alone in his cottage.
Aye, and I was tired of it. The full moon was over three weeks away, and I was stuck here in the village until then.
If I was honest with myself, this wasn’t too much of a hardship.
Because I was coming to love Battleborn Village—the people were welcoming, the buildings were sturdy and cozy, and I was constantly amazed by the sense of community.
The orcs and humans lived together in harmony and helped one another.
The mining village where I’d lived the last two years was full of gossip and whispers and judgement, whereas here…
This place felt like someplace I would like to call home, just as Matthias had suggested.
Frowning, I shook my head at my foolishness and punched the dough extra hard.
You are a prisoner of war, a captive. You cannot make a home here. ‘Tis your duty to escape, to go back to your world.
Then why was I making bread for Vrogul?
Not having any answers, I punched the dough again.
My mission to make his home more appealing worked, and he joined me for the evening meal for the first time. He sat across from me, his gaze on his food, not speaking much. The meal was good and he complimented me on it, but the company…
“Are you well?” I finally asked.
His eyes were sunken, his shoulders slumped, and although I was no expert on an orc’s coloring, he looked paler.
Vrogul glanced up at me, and I saw a pinprick of green in the center of each dark eye.
“Aye, lass.”
He picked up his spoon with a sigh, as if it were heavy.
“Just…” He rolled his neck, then his shoulders. When he winced, I understood. “No’ healing the way I ought to.”
Guilt pierced my stomach. I’d done this to him.
Aye, because he is your enemy!
Was. He was my enemy, there on that beach.
What was he now?
“Can I help?”
The words escaped my lips before I knew I was going to offer them.
His smile was tired.
“Ye have—this meal is delicious. But I think…”
He stood, swaying just slightly, and smothered a yawn.
“I think I’ll go to sleep early tonight.”
When he turned toward the hearth, I saw his injury—dark and inflamed—and frowned. He pulled his plaid around himself and lay down on his side and didn’t move again all night.
Aye, the guilt was eating at me.
I told myself he deserved the pain and infection after what he’d done. Issa had said that the dead humans deserved their fate for standing between the Battleborn raiders and their goal, and in that same vein, Vrogul deserved this.
But that didn’t make me feel less like shite.
He was gone the following morning when I awoke, and I assumed he was sparring with his men, as he seemed to do each morning.
As I tidied the house, I realized thoughtfully that I had made this my place in a short amount of time.
My trews hung from a peg, along with a spare gown one of Issa’s friends had given me, and a long apron.
My favorite foods were in the larder, and I’d claimed one side of the bed.
Was that why Vrogul was avoiding his own home?
Avoiding me?
Or did he rightfully hold me responsible for his current pain?
I was still musing this, my head tucked and my shoulders hunched, as I hurried through the village to fetch water later that morning.
“Rowena!”
The call pulled me up short, and I spun about—ignoring the way the water splashed from my bucket—to see Matthias and Maardok hurrying toward me. The healer looked concerned, but the warrior was glowering.
I resisted the urge to back away.
“Good morrow,” I offered hesitantly.
“This is yer fault,” Maardok growled, reaching me. “Ye need to fix it.”
I glanced back and forth between the two men.
“What is my fault?”
“Vrogul is killing himself—”
“‘Tis no’ so bad,” Matthias interrupted, and thank God he did, because at Maardok’s announcement, an unexpected hole of dread opened in my stomach, and I felt as if my blood had drained out.
“What is going on?” I croaked.
The healer fumbled to pull a packet from his belt, but the warrior answered.
“My brother is no’ sleeping, no’ eating enough. He is wan and frail and—”
“I am sorry,” I blurted, lifting the water bucket in front of me as a sort of shield. “But he attacked me. I had not planned on stabbing him.”
I knew the defense was weak—I could still be smashed to a pulp by Maardok’s giant fists.
“No’ the stabbing, lass,” the warrior scowled dismissively. “The infection.”
“The what?”
Matthias stepped in, patting the air in a comforting motion.
“Vrogul’s wound is infected and he’s no’ treating it well enough. He’ll no’ die—he just needs to allow us to treat him. His wound needs a good cleaning and this poultice applied. But every time I try, he finds an excuse to avoid me.”
“Which is why ye need to do it,” Maardok announced.
My gaze was swinging back and forth between them, horror growing as I understood what was happening to Vrogul.
“Me? He has been avoiding me for days.”
“Only because ye allow it.” The warrior snatched the packet from Matthias and thrust it toward me. “Corner him, lass, and force this on him. He’ll listen to ye.”
Hesitantly, I took the packet, staring down at it in confusion.
“He keeps telling us he’s too busy to worry about it,” Matthias said more quietly. “He needs a good night’s rest and some healthy food in his belly.”
He nodded to the packet. “Those herbs will draw out the infection.”
Maardok held out a leather flask, waggling it.
“And this will clean it. Pour it over the wound.”
Swallowing, I slid the packet into my belt and reached for the flask.
“I am no healer.”
I was scared, aye, but the thought of Vrogul being in pain…
“I am not the one to manage this.”
“Ye’re the only one who can manage this, lass.” The healer smiled in encouragement. “If ye go to him, he cannae avoid ye.”
Maardok nodded firmly and stepped back, then jerked his chin toward the distant training grounds.
“My brother’s there, pushing himself too hard. Come along, I’ll escort ye.”
Numb, I followed, my steps uncertain as I balanced the water bucket and the flask. Were the males right? Would Vrogul listen to me? I remembered the way he’d looked last night across the table, how distracted and drained he’d appeared…and I knew, if there was hope that I might help, I would try.
And at no point did I consider that, as my enemy, I ought to wish for his death.
Battleborn Village was changing me.
Vrogul
I hated appearing weak.
Appearing weak? Ye are weak. Sit yer weak arse down, ye fooking dobber.
Panting, I gave in to the inevitable, saluting Trevik with my weapon and sinking down onto one of the logs which ringed the training grounds.
“Good hit, lad. Go challenge Bogtam.”
My youngest warrior hesitated, looking concerned.
“D’malk, ye dinnae look good—”
“I’ll look better if ye stop questioning my orders,” I said sternly. “Go!”
He went, and I tried to keep my exhale from looking like a sigh as I sheathed my sword and scrubbed a hand down my face, wincing as the movement pulled at my still-healing wound.
‘Twould heal better if ye allowed yerself to sleep on a real bed.
And risk touching Rowena when she didn’t want it? Or worse, risk losing control?
Deep in my chest, my Kteer thrummed. The damn thing hadn’t been quiet for days, keeping me on edge. I hadn’t slept well, hadn’t eaten well, all because my Kteer was urging me to…what? I couldn’t tell, but I felt irritable, itchy, uneasy.
Something had to give.
I needed—Rowena! My gaze jerked up, unerringly finding her as she crossed the training field. ‘Twas as if I’d felt her approach. Or mayhap my Kteer did.
Slowly, I forced myself to stand, my heart pounding harder as I realized she was approaching me.
My brother strode at her side but veered off to coach a sparring pair without acknowledging her.
My gaze tracked her across the field, and when she stopped in front of me, I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“Sit down,” she commanded harshly.
My brows rose as I obeyed. Even sitting, I didn’t have to tip my head back to study her as she stepped up to my right side. When I inhaled, I caught the scent of her uncertainty. Fear? She was trying to mask it with her fierce frown.
“What is this?” she barked, lifting a wet rag from the bucket at her side to wipe at my wound. “You have let dirt get into it. ‘Tis infected.”
I hid my wince as she poked at the injury.
“‘Tis naught.”
“‘Tis not naught,” she shot right back, not meeting my eyes. “Everyone is worried about you.”