Chapter 9 Mara #2
"Most of what humans know about orc beliefs comes from our warriors, who speak primarily of war and victory because those are the contexts where our peoples meet.
" His tone remains carefully neutral, but I catch undertones of old frustration.
"We have mothers who pray for children's health, farmers who ask for good harvests, artisans who seek inspiration. Same as any people."
The simple statement reframes everything I thought I understood about the clans.
Propaganda and limited contact created images of one-dimensional monsters rather than complex societies with a full range of human.
.. orc experiences. Hopes and fears and daily concerns that transcend territorial disputes.
"Show me more," I request, settling beside the circle he's drawn. "About the symbols. What would you mark for this winter?"
He glances toward me with an expression I can't quite read, as though weighing how much truth he's willing to share. The firelight catches the silver threads in his black hair, highlighting features that speak to strength held carefully in check.
"Shelter," he says finally, adding curved lines that suggest protective walls. "For three people rather than one clan."
The addition makes my breath catch in my throat. Three people. He's including us in his hopes for winter survival, marking protection for strangers who have no claim on his concern.
"Health," he continues, drawing interwoven spirals that seem to move in the dancing light. "Freedom from poison and sickness for all under this roof."
Another symbol joins the growing collection, this one resembling interlinked rings. "Unity. That cooperation serves us better than suspicion."
The last marking hits like an arrow finding its target, cutting through careful distance I've maintained since discovering his true nature. He's not just teaching us about orc traditions—he's sharing hopes that include us, expressing desires for connection that mirror my own growing feelings.
"Can I add something?" Eira asks, reaching for the stick with eager hands.
Nelrish passes it to her without hesitation, watching as she considers the circle with serious concentration. After a long moment, she begins drawing her own symbol beside his—a simple but recognizable representation of a tree with spreading branches.
"What does that mean, little artist?" I ask, using the pet name that always makes her glow with pleasure.
"Family," she announces with satisfaction. "Not just blood family, but chosen family. People who take care of each other because they want to, not because they have to."
The words strike me, cutting straight through every defensive wall I've built around my heart.
She sees what I've been afraid to acknowledge—that this strange collection of people huddled in improvised shelter has become something precious, something worth protecting beyond immediate survival needs.
I glance toward Nelrish and find him watching Eira with an expression of such gentle warmth that my chest tightens painfully.
No calculation in his regard, no assessment of her potential usefulness to larger plans.
Just... fondness. Genuine affection for a child who isn't his responsibility but has somehow become important anyway.
When did I stop believing anyone could care about us without ulterior motive? When did kindness become suspicious rather than welcome?
But watching him with her... the careful way he answers her questions, the patience he shows when she interrupts his work with observations only five-year-olds find fascinating, the pride that crosses his features when she demonstrates her growing magical abilities.
.. None of it feels calculated. None of it serves an obvious strategic purpose.
It just is. Natural as breathing, warm as hearthfire.
"Your turn," Eira announces, offering me the drawing stick with ceremonial gravity.
I accept it with hands that tremble slightly, considering the circle and its growing collection of hopes. What would I mark for winter survival? What desires dare I admit, even in symbolic form?
The stick moves almost without conscious direction, drawing flowing lines that resolve into representation of the rising sun.
New beginnings. The possibility that spring might bring more than simple survival—that it might offer transformation, growth, chances to become something other than what survival has demanded.
"Hope," I say quietly, completing the mark with the final curved ray. "That winter teaches us things worth learning instead of just testing our endurance."
Nelrish's eyes find mine across the fire, and something passes between us that makes the air feel charged with possibility. His gaze holds steady, storm-gray depths reflecting flames that seem to burn in more than wood and kindling.
For a long moment, the world narrows to just this—his attention focused entirely on me, my heart beating loud enough that I wonder if he can hear it, space between us humming with awareness I haven't felt in years.
Want. Pure and simple and terrifying in its intensity.
I should look away. Should break whatever spell is weaving itself around us before it becomes too strong to escape. Should remember that attraction and trust are different things, that desire can lead to poor decisions when survival hangs in balance.
But his expression holds no demand, no pressure for response I'm not ready to give. Just acknowledgment of connection that grows stronger with each shared moment, each small revelation that proves we're more alike than different.
The recognition should frighten me more than it does.