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The words seemed to ring out all around them, loud and final and impossibly powerful. Bringing all Gerrard’s darkest, most secret fears to horrible, sickening life, and marching them out into the open, like soldiers doing one last hopeless rally, before charging to their deaths.
And Olarr… didn’t try to fight them. Didn’t even take out his fucking axe. Just stood there and gazed at Gerrard in the all-seeing moonlight, with such empty, hollow, guilty,guiltyeyes.
“Yeah, you don’t need to bother denying it,” Gerrard’s voice said, full of useless bravado, cracking with the spreading, sickening grief. “Trained me up real good, didn’t you? You found a doomed human soldier, a decent single-combat fighter, seeking out a respectable death — and you thought you could find a better use for me. You thought you could wind me up, and send me marching toward your enemy instead.”
The words kept escaping Gerrard’s mouth, sounding so damned certain, like part of him had always known this — while another part of him was screaming, raging, wailing and weeping in the corner, and frantically shoving pieces together. Olarr had wanted to kill Slagvor for years. Olarr wanted vengeance for Harja’s death, wanted to finish what Harja had started. Olarr had tried, researched, made multiple attempts against Slagvor, and he’d kept coming up short. He hadn’t been able to find a way to do it, without drawing blame onto himself, without risking the brothers he cared about.
Until he’d found Gerrard.
And Olarr hadn’t killed Gerrard, in that battle. Olarr hadn’t killed Gerrard when he’d hunted him the next day, either. Olarr had been unreasonably generous, irrationally patient, far kinder than any orc — any sensible living being — ought to have been, when facing off against a sworn enemy who’d wanted his death.
And when Olarr had first fucked Gerrard, had that been part of the plot, too? Had that been Olarr scenting what Gerrard had wanted from him, and then — and then bending him over, taking him from behind, so he didn’t need to see him, or smell him? So he could grit his teeth and bear it, get it over with as quickly as possible, and do whatever it took to keep the foolish human attached? To keep him coming back?
But no, no, it had always been Olarr coming back, hadn’t it? Olarr pushing it, again and again. Olarr so often putting Gerrard on his knees, so he didn’t need to see his face. And Olarr helping him plot and plan against Livermore, giving him a silly little project to keep him amused, to give him hope. To keep him constantly training, and fighting, and learning how to defeat a Bautul. Learning how to fight a huge Bautul with an axe. Learning how to fight multiple different Bautul with axes. Learning how to fight Slagvor.
And then, surely — when Olarr had decided Gerrard was ready — he’d have sent Slagvor after him. He’d have set him up, somehow. Maybe he’d have even put out his damned sticks, and when Gerrard arrived at that cozy underground room, it would have been Slagvor waiting there instead.
And if Gerrard had won, Olarr would have had his revenge, without the slightest risk or cost to himself, or his allies. And if he’d lost? Well, then Olarr could move to his next clever plan, maybe his next so-calledmate, and forget Gerrard had ever existed.
And all that time, Olarr had told Gerrard to be prudent, and cunning. He’d fed him so, so much rubbish. Puffed up his contentment and his pride, let him think he was in control, told him they were mates,husbands…
The bile burned higher in Gerrard’s throat, and he wiped a shaky hand at his trembling mouth, fought to breathe the too-thin air. “So I bet Harja was your real mate, wasn’t he?” he whispered, and why was he saying this, with all the far more crucial things he should be shouting right now. “He was your real husband, right? I bet you did the thing properly with him, too. Didn’t just casually bring it up after a fuck, and expect him to just fuckingbelieveyou?”
And no, no, Olarr hadn’t done that. Or had he, he had, hehad— and before Gerrard could possibly catch it, he buckled to his knees, and vomited onto the earth between them. The taste and the sensation just as agonizing as the vile bitter poison flooding his thoughts, his memories, tainting everything he knew with grief and pain and death.
“Ididbelieve you,” he whispered, broken, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. “That was some damned impressive cunning, you prick. I really thought — I thought —”
Another surge of vomit rose, spewed out of his gasping mouth. And once the foulness had finally abated, Gerrard was left gasping and shivering, staring at the rancid, reeking mess he’d made. “I thought you were different,” his fool voice choked toward it, all on its own. “I thought — I thought — youcared.”
It sounded so weak, so plaintive, so foolishly fucking pathetic, but Gerrard couldn’t even lift his head, couldn’t stop the water escaping from his eyes. “Would’ve been kinder,” he gulped, “to just kill me from the start, yeah?”
There was a strange rasping croak, grating too loud in his ringing ears — and suddenly — Olarr was here. Olarr was here, kneeling beside Gerrard, his big powerful arms clamping tight around Gerrard’s body, his familiar rich scent flooding Gerrard’s heaving breaths.
“No, warrior,” came his voice, slicing into Gerrard’s already-screaming skull. “No. Please. Do not scent thus, do notthinkthus. It was not all — I did not mean —”
But Gerrard wrenched away from him, shoving backwards, scrambling up to his feet. And somehow his sword was in his hand, and he was gripping it like a dying man, and ramming the blade hard and vicious against Olarr’s throat.
And Olarr… didn’t resist. Didn’t fight it. Just stayed there on his knees, staring up at Gerrard with his guilty eyes, while Gerrard’s trembling sword-blade dug deeper into the sweaty silver skin of his neck. Deep enough that a trickle of blood was already escaping, streaking down Olarr’s heaving chest, but Olarr still wasn’t moving. As if he was going to just let Gerrard go ahead and kill him…
But he knew Gerrard wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. Gerrard was weak, he was a coward, he was guilty of fucking high treason with Olarr, and now all those orcs knew it. His career was over, his plans were over, his goals for going north, helping soldiers and orphans like him — over. Done.
And now — Slagvor was still coming for him. Olarr had sent Slagvor after him. Slagvor, who’d tortured Olarr’s real mate to death, was now coming for Gerrard, because of Olarr. Because of this Olarr, who Gerrard had trusted, who he’d touched and kissed and praised and worshipped.My wise, clever, handsome captain. You look so good. Feel so good. I love fighting you, and fucking you…
The vomit was again surging in Gerrard’s throat, but he coughed it down, spat out some of the foul taste in his mouth. “So was it fun for you, manipulating me like that?” he choked, prodding his blade harder into Olarr’s broken skin. “A nice little reward for all your clever cunning, to have me kneeling and praising you like I did? Being kind to you?Caringabout you?”
Olarr’s eyes briefly closed, and Gerrard barked a hoarse laugh, jabbed the blade even harder. “Real entertaining, I bet,” he continued, his voice cracking. “Just as entertaining as fucking me from behind, putting me on my hands and knees for you, so you didn’t need to see my face. Secretly laughing at me while I begged for you. Maybe thinking about Harja the whole time, so you could actually stay hard and blow your load with a human?”
Olarr’s mouth spasmed, and then opened, as if to speak, but Gerrard barked back down at him, shoved the blade so hard that blood spurted across his knuckles. “Did you think about Harja the whole time?” he demanded. “Or wait, maybe better to think about Slagvor, yeah? Maybe you liked to imagine the day when you’d set me up against him. You’d have locked me in with him somehow, wouldn’t you? Hoped we’d end up killing off each other, maybe, or I’d at least give him some decent wounds on my way down. And then you’d have gotten rid of my body afterwards, so my scent wouldn’t come back to bite you. That would be the prudent, cunning thing to do, yeah?”
Olarr’s mouth spasmed harder, a harsh noise rasping from his mouth, but Gerrard cut it off with another reckless thrust of his sword. “Is that what you thought about, when you fucked me?” his relentless voice pressed on, shouting, lost. “Did that give you comfort, Olarr? Did you like to think about Slagvor breaking me, using me, making me scream and beg for death? Did that make it all worthwhile for you?”
He was feeling sick again, ready to hurl up his guts again, his eyes hazy and stinging, so strong he could scarcely see. Couldn’t see how Olarr was — how he was — shaking, and choking, and —
Weeping. Olarr was…weeping. The water streaking freely from his guilty eyes, as his head jerked back and forth, and ugly sounds like broken blows heaved out of his throat.
“No, Aulis,” he gasped. “Please. Please, do not say such things. Please let me speak, and tell you the full of it.Please.”
Gerrard was furiously shaking his head too, his stomach still wildly churning, but fucking Olarr was still talking, still weeping,weeping. “Ach, I shall not deny to you,” he gulped, “that I… thought of this, at first. Slagvor’s cruelty to our kin had grown deeper and deeper, and I begged the goddess to bring me help, to guide me to a new way. And then — then cameyou.”
