14. Drazha #2
We were walking a different way than Rowena had taken me.
Sunlight filtered down from that palm’s-breadth of sky, and noises became louder, voices laughing, arguing, sounds of clacking wood and striking flesh and shouts.
My shoulder brushed his, and I sensed the way he tensed, his inhale as the road turned.
And then we broke the circle of trees, and it was another world.
A makeshift market was laid out on oilcloth and wooden tables, pieces of massive beasts, teeth as long as my forearm, pelts in rippling, shadowy colors, a head like a millstone sitting on a table.
And women…orc women, bare arms, necklaces clinking with teeth and prey-tokens, they were laughing and haggling.
Muscles rippled in arms, heads were thrown back to laugh.
I’d never thought of myself as physically weak, but that one standing next to the beast’s head, laughing…
she looked like she could tear me in half.
Wood thudded into flesh, and beyond the market, in a wide circle of earth ringed in stones, two young orcesses sparred with staves.
They moved so fast, rapid clanking and wheeling and dancing in and out.
They weren’t worried about the sunlight on their legs.
Their only concern for gathered eyes was showing off this, this brutal, ferocious strength, back and forth, in and out till a blow landed, and an opponent went down.
The victor— she had a wicked scar tracing down her neck, a blue feather in her hair— she reached to help the other up, her teeth bared in joy. And then she saw us.
And I’d been so taken with seeing all of them that I hadn’t even noticed how they were looking at us.
The joy died in her eyes.
Quiet was spreading out around us, conversation ceasing.
Vrathgar murmured greetings to some old orcs, and they scowled.
One turned away. One spat in the dust. Then someone whistled and a holler went up.
I clung to his arm, instinctively, and I think that was the wrong move, because some of the warriors with the necklaces joined in laughing.
A few of them shouted questions, or something— I couldn’t understand— and Vrathgar sped up his gait.
We were moving towards a wooden walkway, like a bridge wrapping up into the trees— how was this real life?
— and a woman, the tall one who’d stood by the monstrous beast’s head, stepped to block the way, leaning on the wooden rail.
Her weight was back on her arms, casual, her face smiling, but nothing about this felt friendly. Least of all the way Vrathgar halted, rigid, next to me.
She said something in their language, her eyes sliding over me, waved a hand. “Hello.”
I didn’t want to offend them. “Hello,” I got out, and a laugh went up. I clung tighter to his arm. He felt like he’d turned into a block of wood, so tense no part of him moved.
She said something else, and he answered, few words, bitten off. Her mouth pulled into a pout, and she gestured to me again. He repeated.
She slid out of the way, still blocking part of the walkway, but enough that Vrathgar ushered me through. As he passed she ran her hand down his arm.
There were shrieks and whispers behind us, and Vrathgar was moving quicker, limping now.
Had he been hiding the limp? I hurried to keep up, to not faceplant into the boards of the walkway.
I felt light-headed, likely still weak from that fever, but I wasn’t about to antagonize him by asking him to slow down now.
A few minutes' trek, past doorways and homes that snaked around the trees, that were in the trees, lights below and above, and he stopped outside a cottage door, clean white plaster and red shutters on the wide windows latched closed.
He took another breath, like this was another thing to brace for, and I remembered our own customs, carrying a bride over the threshold, expectations for what came afterwards. Would he be too ruffled by the orcs’ reaction to want that, maybe inhibited by his injuries, or still angry with me, or…
Anger never seemed to affect the appetites of the men at home.
“Do you have customs here?” My voice scraped. I flinched at the sound.
A muscle ticced in his jaw. “Probably the same number of foolish customs as your people, wife, with the same number of fools following them.”
So he was angry. I nodded, felt myself go calm. And that's the odd part, isn't it, how much worse the waiting is than when you finally get what you expect. How whatever punishment you've waited for feels like relief, just because you've waited for it.
He pushed open the door.
It was so empty.
A window. A wide, swept hearth. A rack of firewood, and…nothing. One wall curved around the tree's trunk. His pack from the forest leaned against a beam next to a water jar. There were no necessities hung in the rafters, no wreaths of mushrooms or herbs drying.
“There's no bed,” I said.
“No. I seldom sleep here.” He strode inside. Was I supposed to follow him, or— “The door bars. I think you can lift it.”
I stepped in and cantilevered the door bar into place.
There was still light, through the gaps in the shutters, from those high globe windows in the ceiling.
He crouched by the pack that had been brought up by someone else, and started pulling out and arranging supplies.
I tried to chase my mind towards what I'd need to do, scouring the copper cooking pot out with sand, hauling water, a fire.
Perhaps I could trade the bag of grain they'd given me for things the house would need, since it didn't seem like I'd have a kneading bowl otherwise. There was one water jar in the rafters.
He was shaking out the bedroll.
“How are your wounds?” I asked. I sounded detached, alright.
“Better,” he said, clipped, then, “...I suppose I should thank you for that.”
I was quiet.
“You sang,” he said. “I assume that's why I'm able to stand.”
Apologies froze on my tongue.
“Alright then.” He kicked the bedding into place.
“Are you angry?” I whispered.
“Do I look angry?” And that was a question with no winning answers.
“I could cook something.”
He shook his head. “I don’t really have things to cook. But we still have a few days’ rations.”
I nodded, and took the bedroll from him, started laying it out neatly, fluffing the edges. He didn't stop me. Questions would delay the inevitable. “Why,” I asked, “did your friend tell us it was better to be at your house?”
“Because it looks less like I’m hiding you.” His jaw ticced again. “Because it’s more likely people accept you as my wife if you’re being treated as my wife.”
A honeymoon. I nodded once more, folded the blanket to place at the foot of the makeshift mattress.
It wasn’t over-luxurious, probably less comfortable here than outside in the long grass and bracken, but maybe better than the prison cot.
“That should do it then,” I said, and, blocking off the part of my mind that thought about ramifications, I pulled off the dress.
It was borrowed. I remembered that. I hung it neatly over a rafter before pulling off the shift.
Vrathgar was staring from his seat on the floor, a shaft of light falling over him, stock-still. I lost my place for a moment, before remembering, hanging up the shift.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and his voice was raw, a different kind of quiet.
“I’m your wife.” I stepped to the edge of the mattress. It seemed wrong for me to lie down first. Or if he wanted something else… “Could you…tell me where you want me?”
“Everywhere,” he said, and I wouldn’t let myself think about the light or what happened next.
I knelt down in front of where he sat, his leg straight out in front of him.
I touched his bare shoulder to steady myself, and his face, still unreadable, at least wasn’t angry.
I leaned in, careful, clumsy, and kissed his mouth with mine.
He stayed still, didn’t answer.
When I opened my eyes he was staring back, his face smooth. He didn’t pull back, let me be the one to withdraw.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered. “Did you want…was I not supposed to take it off?” He’d seemed so cavalier before.
His eyes were jaded. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
I pulled back. The floor was cold. “You don’t want this?” I faltered. “Is this…not the custom?”
“I don’t know about the customs, Annora.” He used my name.
Light. There was light from overhead, flooding in. I crossed my arms, feeling so stupid. He’d only been seeing in the dark before, and now… “Is it because you can see me?” I got out. “Am I off-putting somehow?”
“Is that truly the only reason you can think of that I would say no?”
Was it the singing, or…but if he was angry, wasn’t this something he’d want? Or… “Is this a test? Did you want me to beg?”
Revulsion crossed his face. Not a test then.
I hugged myself. “I don’t understand. ”
“What do you want from me?”
This was beyond me. “I'm trying to give you my body.”
“No.” His eyes were flint. “What do you want from me, Annora?”
My thoughts were only fear.
I scrambled over where I must have screwed this up, how I’d insulted him. He was waiting for an answer. “We’re…” I swallowed. “We’re married. Aren’t we supposed to…”
“Supposed to,” he repeated. Those flames in his eyes were banked, dull.
“No. I am not interested in being a robber baron you have to buy off with gifts of flesh. I am not…” a humorless tsk.
“...a dog for you to quiet with scraps of meat. I don't want to be your monster.” There was no smile on his face. “See?” he said. “Even now, you’re flinching.”
I had lost all grasp on this situation, on how to help. “What can I do?” I whispered.
“What can you do?” He looked incredulous. ”You can believe me when I say you don't have to do this, yes? Let's stop with you buying me off with skin.” He turned his face away. “Forgive me for not seeing the comfort in being your least monstrous option.”