38 #2
One in ten, Dathor had said. He had said they could use it.
But they did not have much to do with the formation of the way the world was to be organized in the wake of the revolution, in fact.
They stayed to themselves and kept to the Peak.
But it came to pass anyway. There was a whole new generation of half orc, half elf children, many of them the sons and daughters of noble elf women and their orc husbands.
The country could not go back to the way it had been.
Some things were inevitable.
Eventually, the alliance between Dathor and Celedin needed some sort of resolution. Dathor and Celedin began to debate it over breakfast in the morning, gesturing with spoonfuls of honeyed grain mush.
They both agreed that they wished to be the steward of Foxglove Peak.
They both agreed that they would fight the other over it.
They both agreed that the could not bear to see the other presiding over the place.
Aerhril was probably pregnant, but she had not said anything yet.
She had not bled in six weeks, and she was in full support of Dathor being the steward, of being at his side, of passing this place on to their children.
And at this point, she had to note that Celedin was still not doing any manual labor of any kind.
She wasn’t doing much more than making tea and grain mush (her tea-making skills had improved).
Hafindel was helping, but Hafindel could hardly be considered a servant at this point anymore. She did not take orders and came and went as she pleased.
If Aerhril had noticed the way that Hafindel sometimes looked at Celedin or the fact that the woman was sometimes seen coming or going from Celedin’s chambers, well, she had not mentioned it.
Aerhril thought that Celedin would be ruthless with Hafindel, anyway, for she wasn’t of the right class, and there was no way he would lower himself to marry a former maid.
She did not see it all ending very well.
“We’ll fight,” said Dathor.
“Not fair,” said Celedin. “I’m no match for you in a fight. Let’s duel. With pistols.”
“No!” cried Aerhril in horror. “You are forbidden from shooting each other.”
Dathor shrugged at Celedin. “You heard the woman.”
“The way you allow her to order you about makes you seem far less of a man,” said Celedin to Dathor.
“Does it?” said Dathor, leaning forward, all of his hulking frame coming with him. “Does it, really?”
Celedin shook his head. “A game of cards.”
“No, we will not rely on chance to decide who gets the Peak,” said Dathor. “It must be about who deserves it.”
“Well, I deserve it. It’s been in my family for generations.”
“You and I share blood,” said Dathor. “So, by that argument, it’s mine as well. And I have actually been working to keep the place in order, whereas you sit around doing absolutely nothing.”
“Your behaving like a servant only proves that you should be one,” said Celedin.
They glared at each other.
“Let us think on it,” said Dathor. “Let us think on what we should do to determine who gets it.”
“All right,” said Celedin.
“All right,” said Dathor.
THE TRUTH WAS that Dathor had tired of fighting Celedin. Perhaps he had tired of fighting in general. Perhaps his entire life had been nothing but fight.
Not even fight, really.
Defense.
His life had been his response to a series of attacks from all sides.
Attacks, most especially, from the people closest to him, his family, who were supposed to protect and love him.
His life had been exhausting and painful.
He had grown used to being always at the ready, always primed for a strike.
When he had been young, he had sung himself a song, one that promised if he were to do something truly spectacular, something very brave, something like being the brilliant strategist who ended the war between the orcs and the elves, that this would somehow mean that all his suffering had been worth it.
He sang himself a song that he was being forged into a weapon, that this would all mean something, that he would mean something.
And none of that had actually come to pass.
He was tired.
Perhaps he no longer cared about any of it. Perhaps he did not need to be the steward of the Peak. Perhaps everything would be all right as long as he got to love Aerhril, as long as they could stay here, in their beloved home.
These thoughts had been swimming in the abyss that was his dark subconscious for some time, but when Aerhril told him she was carrying his child, they all came together, crystallized, rising from the deep water to gleam like a bright beacon.
He would rather simply co-exist with Celedin than beat him, in the end.
Of course, Dathor was not about to admit that to Celedin. His cousin would not take it in the spirit it was offered. He would take it like a surrender.
Perhaps it was a surrender, but it did not mean that Celedin had won.
Dathor, as much as he had no desire to fight Celedin, would never allow Celedin to win.
But, even so, he made no real overtures to take the Peak away for himself or to oust Celedin.
He settled for smaller little triumphs, demanding that he and Aerhril sleep in the steward’s chambers, for instance, and Celedin ceded quickly.
Taking long, long baths in the deep tub there, baths so long that the water went cold, and still he lingered, glorying in the ability to do nothing at all but soak.
He brought orcs to live there. Neither Igbar nor Takte were quite welcome with Elrion anymore, so they came to live at the Peak, and Dathor insisted they join them at the table for meals, and Celedin fought him on that, and Dathor refused to back down, and eventually, Celedin relented.
Sometimes, over the coming years, orcs who had nowhere to go would find their way to the doors of Foxglove Peak, and they were always welcomed, given food and clothing and warm bed, always.
Celedin hated this. Dathor could not give a damn about Celedin’s comfort.
Dathor did not bend Aerhril over every piece of furniture in Foxglove Peak, did not fuck her in every room after they rid the place of the orc army, but he was overly demonstrative, touching her constantly, taunting Celedin with it, and Celedin hated that, too, but eventually seemed to make grudging peace with it, especially after he grew overly interested in that maid Hafindel.
At some point, Dathor was contacted by his younger brother, the human one, the one who had killed his mother coming out of her, the one who might have been the son of his mother’s husband or possibly her husband’s favorite, the one Dathor’s stepfather had treated like a son.
Who the child’s father was, Dathor would never know.
Dathor had killed them both, the husband and the favorite, drowned them and made it look like an accident, not that he would ever admit that out loud. He knew better than to confess to murder, ever, to anyone, not even Aerhril.
She was trustworthy, and he knew she would keep it a secret if he asked her to, but he would not do that to her.
He wished to tell her because it would unburden him to admit it to someone, but this was no service to her, especially if he told her she could tell no one.
Then, she held the burden, and she must bear it, and she had not committed the action.
No, he kept that and bore it himself. It was his, not hers.