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It had felt like more weakness, more failure, but the more Gerrard considered it, glaring up at the ceiling, the more self-serving that felt, too. Was it really weakness to show kindness, affection, to someone who kept showing him so much kindness in return? Someone who — unlike so many men in Gerrard’s past experience — had kept coming back, even once he’d gotten what he’d wanted? Someone who’d saved Gerrard’s life, and brought him a damned picnic? Someone who’d even tried to reassure him today, in the midst of him being a complete and utter selfish arse?
It was well past sunset now, and the camp had gradually quieted, suggesting that Livermore’s horse had been retrieved — and before he could think better of it, Gerrard shoved himself up, off the cot. Earning himself a narrow sidelong look from Bassey, but he didn’t comment, and Gerrard nodded back as he snatched up his crutches — and the nearby lamp — and hopped out of the tent.
He was going back. He needed to go back.
The trek back through the forest seemed to take so much longer this time, even once Gerrard had thrust the crutches up under his arm, and broken into a jog. Following the same path as closely as he could, climbing over rocks and roots, shoving through foliage, while his breath came shorter and shorter, his heartbeat ringing louder and louder in his ears.
Olarr had to still be there. He had to be. He would have needed at least a night’s rest before turning around and heading back again, right? And the cave would be an ideal place to stay… right?
But there was no obvious sign of Olarr, no huge grey bulk lurking in the trees, and Gerrard was now twitching at every crackle and rustle, the urgency wheeling higher in his heaving chest. Olarr had to still be here, he had been just right around here, somewhere,somewhere— and yes, yes, that was the rock, the trapdoor, and Gerrard lunged for it, fought to yank it up —
But it wouldn’t budge. It was either too heavy, or had some kind of latch on it, curse it. And Gerrard groaned aloud as he wrenched at it, kicked at it, hurled his stupid useless crutches down against it.
“Olarr!” he heard himself shout, his voice hoarse. “Olarr! Are you still there?”
There was no answer, no response, and something wild and dangerous welled inside Gerrard’s chest, threatened to escape. What if Olarr had left. What if he’d left for good, and he never came back…
“Olarr!” Gerrard shouted, even louder than before. “Open up, damn it! Open up, wake up, I need to talk to you!”
There was still no response, and Gerrard kicked at the rock again, felt the dangerous weight in his chest juddering higher, quavering in his throat. “Please, Olarr,” he croaked. “Please, I —”
But then — a sound. Heavy. Behind him. And Gerrard whipped around, raised his lamp — and yes, yes, it was Olarr. Olarr, with his full pack in his hand, and his huge axe slung on his back. And — Gerrard’s eyes dropped, held — both wooden swords hanging off his belt. As if he’d beenleaving.
Gerrard gulped, twitched all over — and then lurched forward, nearly tripping on his feet. Until he was standing there before Olarr, his eyes blinking hard, his throat swallowing again and again.
“I wanted —” he began, but the words wouldn’t come, sticking hard and painful in his throat. “A — a rematch. Please.”
He waited for a frozen, hanging moment, his eyes still blinking, fixed to Olarr’s shadowy face. While the weight again plunged in his chest, the misery surging even higher, about to escape —
“Ach, then, human,” came Olarr’s voice, quiet and resigned. “If that is all you wish, we shall fight.”
19
Gerrard knew he was going to lose this time.
Olarr hadn’t taken him back into the cave for the match, but had instead dropped his pack and his axe where he stood, and silently tossed Gerrard one of the wooden swords. Meaning that they’d be fighting out here, in this cramped little clearing, with only the light from Gerrard’s lamp, and a faint gleam from the waning half-moon above them.
But the terrible visibility didn’t really matter, and neither did the awful terrain, with the roots and stones scattered everywhere — because from the first swing of his sword, Gerrard had known he was just too damned tired to win this. Too unsettled. Too frantic and unfocused to think, to plan, to be cunning.
And instead, he was just — reacting. Blocking and parrying, desperately fighting to keep moving, to stay upright, to avoid the trees and rocks all around. All while keeping his eyes on Olarr in the shadowy light, working to follow his swings, to stay the hell out of his way.
But Olarr just kept coming, swift and merciless, his eyes gone strangely blank, almost empty, as he charged and stabbed and lunged. As Gerrard ducked, blocked, spun behind that tree, scrambled away, until —
He tripped, on a root. Staggered sharp and sideways. And Olarr’s sturdy wooden sword, which had been sweeping for Gerrard’s blade, instead swung straight for Gerrard himself, and struck him full and brutal across the chest.
The impact flashed agony all through Gerrard’s body, slammed the breath from his lungs — and he was soaring back, flying toward a tree behind him. Hitting its solid trunk with another dizzying, disorienting crash, as a choked little whisper escaped from his throat, and his head snapped back, about to strike into —
Olarr. Olarr’s hand. Olarr’s whole body, suddenly hovering close and hazy before Gerrard’s eyes. And now his big hands were hauling Gerrard away from the tree, drawing him downwards, gently setting him on the soft damp ground. While Gerrard’s lungs kept dragging for breath, the pain still screaming through his chest, flashing white behind his eyes.
He only distantly felt those warm hands running all over him, rapid and panicked, yanking off his tunic — but when they gently brushed over that angry new welt across his chest, Gerrard reflexively curled up, fought to turn away. His mouth betraying a thin, helpless croak as water streamed from his eyes, his body spasming against the hard earth.
But wait, wait, those hands were here again, making Gerrard lie flat again, so — so something could — kiss him. SoOlarrcould kiss him, oh, his warm lips and tongue sliding soft and urgent across Gerrard’s chest, caressing against the wound he’d made in Gerrard’s skin, already oozing out dark red blood.
Gerrard’s pain again croaked from his mouth, sounding far too much like a sob — and he only distantly heard the odd sound from Olarr’s mouth in return, almost as if he’d sobbed, too. As his kisses came faster, even more urgent than before, his tongue sweeping again and again and again, lancing fresh pain all through Gerrard’s trembling body.
But as the moments slowly thudded past, it distantly occurred to Gerrard that perhaps the pain wasn’t quite as vicious as before. And the wound didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, either, and Gerrard slowly felt his breaths returning again, his watery vision gradually refocusing. Taking in the sight of the moonlit sky above him, the trees around him, the… the orc, bent over his sprawled body, still kissing and licking at his chest with frantic, desperate urgency.
“Think it’s — all right now,” Gerrard heard himself wheeze, his voice not his own. “Don’t think — anything’s broken. Should be — fine. Thanks.”
