Chapter 9 Mara
MARA
The afternoon light filters through our improved shelter, casting dancing shadows that make the space feel less like desperate refuge and more like.
.. home. The thought unsettles me. I've lived in bunkers or half fallen homes my entire life, gray walls and recycled air and the constant hum of failing systems. This ramshackle collection of branches and salvaged materials shouldn't feel like sanctuary, but somehow it does.
Maybe it's the way Nelrish moves through the space now—no longer the dying stranger I stumbled over, but a presence that fills corners with quiet competence.
He checks our work with the satisfied attention of someone who builds things to last, adjusting branch angles and testing joint stability with hands that know their business.
Or maybe it's Eira's bell, chiming softly whenever she moves, adding music to moments that have known too little joy.
"The first lasting snow is coming tonight," I announce, reading the pressure in my bones and the particular stillness that settles over winter air before storms. We’ve had flurries and snow that sticks to the ground, but the dustings have melted and become slush each time. We’re about to have true, thick snow. "I can feel it."
Eira looks up from her latest project—arranging pinecones in patterns only she understands—with excitement bright as flame. "First snow! We have to get ready!"
Nelrish pauses in his examination of our smoke dispersal system, those storm-gray eyes finding mine with curiosity. "Ready for what?"
The question carries no mockery, just genuine interest that makes my chest warm in ways I don't entirely trust. Most people either dismiss Grandmother's traditions as outdated nonsense or eye them with suspicion, wondering if old rituals might attract unwanted attention from forces better left undisturbed.
But he simply waits for explanation, patient as stone and twice as solid.
"First Snow Rites," Eira explains with five-year-old authority, abandoning her pinecones to bounce on her toes. "We decorate and sing songs and make wishes for winter to keep us safe!"
I catch myself smiling at her enthusiasm, remembering my own excitement during those precious rituals with Grandmother. How magical it seemed when snow began falling just as we finished our preparations, as though the world itself approved of our celebrations.
"It's... old tradition," I add, suddenly self-conscious about explaining beliefs that might sound foolish to orc ears. "From before. When people lived above ground and winter meant something different than survival."
Nelrish settles cross-legged near our fire, giving Eira his complete attention. "Tell me about these rites."
The simple request unlocks something inside my chest that's been locked away too long. When did I stop expecting anyone to care about the things that matter to me? When did sharing traditions become vulnerability rather than joy?
"Well, you’ve seen a bit. Like how we decorate the trees around our shelter," I begin, words finding rhythm as memory guides them.
"With red ribbon if we have it, or strips of cloth, or berries—anything bright that stands against the snow. The colors carry our hopes up to where winter can see them. But before the big lasting snow, we want as much color as possible." Eira has been decorating and making wreaths but it’s been smaller amounts than what we’ll do tonight.
"And we sing!" Eira adds, practically vibrating with excitement. "Mama knows all the songs Grandmother taught her. They're about snow and stars and magic!"
I feel heat creep up my neck at her enthusiastic endorsement. The carols Grandmother taught me probably sound strange to modern ears—fragments of older traditions that evolved in isolation, changed by years of retelling until they're something between memory and dream.
But Nelrish leans forward with interest rather than amusement. "Would you sing one now?"
The request catches me off-guard, vulnerability and want tangling in my throat. It's been so long since anyone asked to hear my voice raised in something other than necessity. So long since traditions felt like celebration rather than desperate clinging to lost purpose.
But his expression holds no judgment, only the same patient attention he gives to Eira's explanations of her magical sight. As though my small rituals deserve the same consideration as survival skills or tactical planning.
"Eira knows this one," I manage, voice catching slightly on the first words. She joins in immediately, her clear soprano lifting around my deeper tones:
Snow falls soft on winter's night,
Stars come out to share their light.
Tie your wishes to the tree,
Send them where the wind runs free.
Red for warmth and gold for grain,
Green for hope through winter's pain.
When the longest night is done,
We'll dance beneath the winter sun.
The melody flows between us, simple but haunting, carrying echoes of celebrations that happened in a world we'll never see. Eira's voice catches the high notes while mine holds the harmony Grandmother taught me, two generations of women keeping flame alive in darkness.
When the last note fades, silence settles that feels different from before—charged with possibility, thick with connection I hadn't dared hope for.
Nelrish's eyes shine with something that might be wonder. "Beautiful," he says quietly. "The melody carries old magic, even without power behind it."
"You felt that?" I ask, surprised by how much his recognition means.
"Magic leaves traces long after it's gone." His voice carries the weight of experience I'm only beginning to understand. "Your songs hold echoes of what they once were, even if the power itself has faded."
The observation sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with cold air. He sees things I thought were lost forever, recognizes value in traditions I've guarded like precious secrets.
"Do orcs have winter celebrations?" Eira asks with the directness only children possess.
Nelrish considers the question seriously, as though her curiosity deserves thoughtful response rather than dismissive adult answers. The respect he shows her never fails to surprise me—he speaks to her like she's worthy of real conversation, not just someone to be managed or entertained.
"Different ones," he says finally. "Simpler. We build great fires on the longest night to honor the Lunar Goddess, ask her blessing for safe passage through dark months ahead."
"The Lunar Goddess?" I prompt, genuinely curious about beliefs I've only heard referenced in angry human rhetoric about orc barbarism.
His expression shifts toward something approaching reverence.
"She guides us through darkness, literal and otherwise.
Lights paths when all other navigation fails.
" He pauses, studying flames that dance between us.
"We offer her prayers and sometimes small gifts—weapons or crafted items, things that required skill to create. "
"What kind of prayers?"
"Gratitude, mostly. For moonlight during raids, for protection during vulnerable moments, for wisdom when leadership requires difficult choices.
" His voice drops lower, carrying undertones of personal connection rather than rote recitation.
"She's supposed to watch over warriors who fight far from home, keep them safe until they can return to their clans. "
The explanation reveals layers I hadn't expected—faith that acknowledges uncertainty rather than demanding guarantees, traditions focused on humility rather than conquest. Nothing like the bloodthirsty savagery human propaganda claims drives orc spirituality.
"Could you... could you teach us about it?" The request escapes before I consider whether asking about orc religious practices crosses lines I should maintain. "If it's not forbidden to share with outsiders."
Something flickers across his features—surprise, perhaps, or pleasure at my interest. "Nothing forbidden about sharing knowledge that brings no harm."
He reaches into the fire with careful fingers, selecting a partially burned stick whose end glows ember-bright. Moving to clear ground beside our shelter, he begins drawing lines in the dirt with deliberate precision.
"Winter solstice circle," he explains as the pattern emerges. "We mark four directions, then add symbols for things we hope to preserve through dark months—family, shelter, health, enough food to last until spring returns."
The design takes shape under his patient guidance: cardinal points connected by flowing curves, with smaller symbols clustered around the perimeter like stars surrounding the moon. Each mark carries meaning he explains in a quiet voice that turns instruction into something approaching intimacy.
"North for endurance, because winter tests every strength we possess. South for warmth, both in hearth and heart. East for new beginnings that come with spring's return. West for wisdom learned through surviving hardship."
Eira crouches beside him with fascination written across her face, drinking in every detail like water after drought. "What are those little marks around the edges?"
"Hopes," he answers simply. "Specific things we want winter to protect or provide. Your mother's first snow rites and our solstice circles aren't so different—both ask for safe passage through dangerous seasons."
The parallel strikes me with unexpected force. Human and orc traditions born from the same fundamental needs: warmth, safety, hope that light returns after darkness passes. Different methods reaching toward identical goals, shaped by separate histories but serving similar purposes.
"I never thought..." I begin, then stop, unsure how to finish the observation without revealing assumptions I'm not proud of holding.
"Never thought orcs pray for safety instead of conquest?" The question carries no accusation, just understanding that cuts too close to truth for comfort.
"Something like that," I admit, heat creeping up my neck again.