Chapter 7 Mara
MARA
The way Nelrish talks to Eira sets my teeth on edge—not because he's cruel, but because he isn't. I've spent five years learning that orcs take what they want without asking, use humans like tools, discard broken things without thought.
Yet here sits one speaking to my daughter like she matters, like her words carry weight worth considering.
It doesn't fit. None of this fits.
I busy myself with the small pot I salvaged from our flight, checking the root vegetables I managed to forage yesterday while he lay unconscious.
Turnips and wild onions, nothing fancy, but they'll make decent broth with the rabbit I caught this morning.
My hands move through familiar motions while my mind wrestles with contradictions I can't reconcile.
Maybe it's the injury. Pain and weakness could make anyone more agreeable, more dependent on kindness from strangers. But he's been awake for an hour now, alert enough for conversation, and still he watches Eira's decorating project with what looks suspiciously like genuine interest.
"The pattern you're making," he tells her, gesturing toward the careful arrangement of berries and twigs, "it reminds me of star charts my people use for navigation."
"Really?" Eira's eyes light up with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for new discoveries. "Do the stars tell you where to go?"
"Sometimes." His smile transforms his entire face, softening features that should intimidate into something almost... warm. "Though they're better at telling you where you've been."
The observation carries unexpected depth, the kind of philosophical bent I wouldn't have credited to any orc, let alone one who claims to be a simple scout. I steal another glance at him while stirring the broth, noting details that escaped me during yesterday's crisis.
He's handsome. The admission comes unbidden and unwelcome, but I can't deny what my eyes insist on seeing.
Sharp cheekbones offset by the civilized length of his tusks, storm-colored eyes that actually listen when people speak, dark hair shot through with premature silver that speaks to responsibility shouldered young.
Even weakened by poison, he carries himself with unconscious authority that makes the cramped shelter feel smaller.
When did I start noticing such things? When did survival allow space for thoughts beyond the next meal, the next safe place to sleep?
"Mama makes the best soup in the whole world," Eira announces with fierce loyalty, apparently deciding our guest needs to know this crucial information.
"I'm sure she does." Nelrish's attention shifts to me with uncomfortable directness. "The smell alone suggests considerable skill."
Heat climbs my neck at the simple compliment.
In the bunkers, only specialized workers were allowed near the food.
Our leaders did not trust easy, not willing to give any opportunity to be poisoned.
Learning to work with actual ingredients came later, born from necessity when foraged meals became our only option.
But pride in small accomplishments feels dangerous when shared with someone whose intentions I can't read.
"It's just broth," I deflect, ladling the steaming liquid into three metal cups scavenged from abandoned settlements. "Nothing special."
"Everything's special when you're hungry enough." He accepts the offered cup with careful hands, still steadier than they should be given yesterday's condition. "Thank you."
The gratitude sounds genuine, but then orcs are skilled at deception when it serves their purposes. I settle cross-legged at what I judge to be a safe distance—close enough to provide assistance if needed, far enough to run if this civility proves false.
Eira abandons her decorating to claim her own cup, settling between us with the unconscious trust of childhood. The arrangement forms an awkward triangle around our small fire, intimate in ways that make my pulse quicken for reasons I refuse to examine.
"Look, it's snowing harder!" Eira points toward the shelter entrance, where fat flakes drift past our improvised doorway. "Perfect for the rites!"
She sets down her barely-touched broth and scrambles outside, apparently immune to cold that makes me pull my coat tighter. Within moments, I hear her voice raised in delight as she discovers some new wonder winter has provided.
"She's remarkable." Nelrish sips his broth with careful appreciation, watching through the gap where Eira disappeared. "Most children her age would be frightened by everything you've both endured."
"She's stronger than she looks." The words come sharp with protective instinct. "She's had to be."
Something shifts in his expression at my tone—understanding, perhaps, or recognition of familiar pain. "Children shouldn't need such strength."
"No." I test my own broth, using the ritual to avoid meeting his eyes. "But the world doesn't care what children should or shouldn't need."
"True enough." His voice carries agreement edged with old grief, making me wonder what losses shaped his perspective. "Still, she maintains joy despite everything. That's rarer than strength."
The observation hits closer to truth than comfortable. Eira does find wonder in small things—snowflakes and berry patterns and conversations with strange orcs who should terrify her. Sometimes I envy that resilience, the way she adapts to circumstances that would break most adults.
"My grandmother used to say joy was the most rebellious act possible," I find myself admitting. "Refusing to let hardship steal what makes you human."
"Wise woman." Nelrish's smile returns, smaller this time but somehow more genuine. "Is that where the winter rites come from? Her teachings?"
The question shouldn't surprise me—Eira mentioned grandmother's poems while he listened—but something in his tone suggests more than casual curiosity. Like the traditions themselves matter to him beyond simple politeness.
"She remembered things from before," I explain carefully. "Stories her own grandmother told about how people used to celebrate. Most of it's probably wrong now, but Eira loves the rituals."
"Before the crossing?" The phrase emerges loaded with significance I can't quite place. "Before my people arrived in our world?"
Our world. The possessive pronoun carries implications that make my stomach tighten. How long until Earth becomes exclusively theirs, until humans exist only in whatever spaces orcs allow us to occupy?
"Yes." I keep my voice level despite the direction of my thoughts. "When humans lived above ground and winters meant festivals instead of survival."
"I'm sorry." The words come quiet, heavy with what sounds like genuine regret. "For what my people's presence has cost yours."
An apology. From an orc. For conquest and displacement and the systematic destruction of human civilization. I stare at him over my steaming cup, searching for signs of mockery or manipulation, finding only tired sincerity that I don't know how to process.
"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Why are you sorry? Your people won. This is your world now."
"Winning and being right aren't the same thing." He meets my scrutiny without flinching. "And victory tastes bitter when built on others' suffering."
The philosophy unsettles me more than threats would. I understand orcs who take what they want through force—their motivations are clear, their actions predictable. But one who questions conquest while benefiting from it? Who apologizes for choices he presumably supports?
Either he's the most skilled liar I've ever encountered, or everything I thought I knew about his people is dangerously incomplete.
"Mama, look what I made!" Eira bursts back into the shelter trailing snow and excitement, clutching something in her mittened hands. "A tree for the rites!"
She's drawn a crooked evergreen in the snow outside our doorway, complete with carefully hung pinecones that dance in the falling flakes. The sight tugs at memories of grandmother's stories—decorated trees bringing luck and hope through winter's darkest months.
"It's beautiful, sweetheart." I force my attention away from Nelrish's thoughtful expression, focusing on safer ground. "Very artistic."
"The pinecones are like ornaments," Eira explains to our guest, apparently assuming he needs education in proper decorating techniques. "They'll catch the snow and hold winter magic until spring comes back."
"I've never appreciated winter as much as you do." His observation carries wistful undertones that surprise me. "Your grandmother taught you to find beauty in harsh seasons."
"She said winter was just sleeping time for the world," I find myself elaborating, drawn into sharing despite my better judgment. "Everything rests and gathers strength for what comes next. The cold isn't punishment—it's preparation."
"Preparation." He repeats the word like it contains particular significance. "Yes, I can see the wisdom in that perspective."
Something in his tone makes me study his profile as he watches Eira adjust her snow-tree decorations. There's longing there, carefully controlled but present nonetheless. Longing for what? The simple joy my daughter radiates? The certainty of traditions that promise better times ahead?
Or perhaps longing for belonging somewhere—the kind of deep roots grandmother's stories always emphasized, connections to places and people that survive temporary hardships.
"Where will you go?" he asks suddenly, attention shifting back to me with uncomfortable directness. "When I'm well enough to travel. Back to the bunkers?"
The question highlights exactly how precarious our situation has become.
Where do we go? The settlement that sheltered us lies in Redmoon hands now, assuming anything remains beyond ash and broken stone.
The bunkers represent safety of a sort, but also the slow death of lives lived entirely underground.
"I was headed back," I admit before catching myself. Too much honesty, especially with someone whose loyalties remain unclear. "Now... I'm not sure."
The admission reveals more vulnerability than wise. I shouldn't be telling an orc—even one who seems different—that we have nowhere to go, no clan or community to protect us. That we're exactly as alone and defenseless as we appear.
But something about the way he asked, the careful concern in his voice, made truth easier than lies. Another warning sign I should probably heed.
"The bunkers are safe," he observes, tone neutral enough to avoid seeming like advice. "But safety isn't the same as living."
"No." I sip my cooling broth, using the pause to study his expression. "It isn't."
The snow continues falling beyond our small shelter, muffling the world in pristine silence broken only by Eira's humming as she tends her makeshift decorations.
First snow, carrying with it all the promises grandmother's poems described—clean slates and new beginnings and winter magic that gives back what it takes.
But promises require faith I'm not sure I possess anymore. And magic seems like luxury when survival demands such constant vigilance.
Still, watching Nelrish watch my daughter with something approaching wonder makes me think perhaps some gifts come disguised as complications. Perhaps some strangers carry more hope than threat, even when logic insists otherwise.
Perhaps I'm finally losing my mind from too many years spent balancing trust against suspicion, kindness against caution.
The broth warms my hands if not my doubts. Outside, winter deepens around us, beautiful and merciless in equal measure.