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1
Itwas the night beforeYule, andLydiawas off to meet an orc.
Shedrew in a deep, fortifying breath of the crisp cool air as she walked, her boots crunching in the light snow beneath her feet.Itwas a clear, quiet night, and the forest seemed to glitter in the bright moonlight from above, sparkling white and silver.Whisperingof peace and calm and ease, in utter contradiction to the ever-rising hammer ofLydia’sheartbeat.
Shewas going to meet an orc.ForYule.Alone.
Andgods, it still felt impossibly unreal.Fora shy, awkward, widowed washerwoman to be rushing off into the night, meeting in secret with an orc.Anorc who had to be a good decade older than her own forty-odd years, his tall rangy body covered with battle scars, his hair and beard gone fully silver.
Andhis name wasSigtryggr, of all things.Sigtryggr, ofClanSkai.
“CallmeTryg, for short,” he’d informedLydiawhen he’d first appeared in her tiny kitchen, flashing her a wry, sharp-toothed grin. “Sigtryggr’stoo much of a mouthful for even my own kin to bear, ach?”
Lydiahad been desperately attempting to stave off the forthcoming fainting spell — there was an orc, in herhouse— and even more alarming, said orc was eyeing her with keen, glinting interest.Hisgaze holding first on her grey-streaked brown hair, and then her round, perpetually flushed cheeks, before sliding down to her soft, plump body beneath her shabby work dress.
Lydiahad frozen under the scrutiny, because it had been so, so long since someone had looked at her like that.Sinceher husbandTom’spassing, perhaps, a good decade before.Andyes, in the years after, there’d been a few men from the village sniffing about, but once they’d learned that she was unable to have children, they’d almost instantly scurried off again.Andever since, she’d just kept her head down, just doing her work, living her quiet, dull little life, like the uninteresting, uninspiring washerwoman she was.
Andclearly the orc had also realized his mistake, because he’d abruptly swung a heavy sack off his shoulder, and plunked it onto the middle ofLydia’swashing-table. “I’mtold you’re the best woman to ask about laundry, in these parts,” he’d said, raising an angular silver eyebrow toward her. “An’ that you’ll get it done quick, with no fuss.”
Right.Laundry.SoLydiahad gulped down a choked breath of air, and reached to open the sack with shaky hands.Indeedfinding it full of ordinary-looking tunics and trousers, and a few strangely sweet-smelling bedlinens, as well.
“Erm, um, yes,” she’d somehow sputtered, though her hands had still been trembling. “You— your usual washer isn’t on hand anymore?”
Atthat, the orc —Tryg, he’d said — had chuckled, the sound deep and disarmingly warm. “Well, there’s been a bit of fuss over the laundry, back home,” he’d replied, “and m’boyTryggr’sbeen dragged into helping out.Don’twant to add his oldPa’sdirty washing into his pile too, you ken?”
Ithad takenLydiaa long, halting moment to digest all that — first, the surprising fact that anorcwould have such consideration toward his son’s workload, and secondly, the fact that said orc had apparently given his son nearly the same bizarre name as the one he himself possessed.Andthird, the way the laundry’s sweet scent had begun coiling strange and deep in her belly, twisting together in highly unnerving ways with thisTryg’swarm, patient smile.
“Soyou’ll take it, then?” he’d said, his voice dropping a shade lower than before. “I’llpay double.An’ in advance.Ifthat helps.”
Well.Thatwas no small offer, andLydiahad finally, shakily nodded, and taken his proffered coins.Andthen she’d spent all the next day frantically washing, airing, and pressing his clothes, breathing in their sweet scent, all while glancing again and again over her shoulder toward the door.
AndwhenTryghad reappeared at the door, two days later, there’d been an odd, excited-feeling leap inLydia’sbelly.Especiallywhen he’d exclaimed with all apparent delight over his sack of neatly folded laundry, and then flashed her a stunning, sharp-toothed grin.
“That’sgood, sweet thing,” he’d told her, his black eyes glinting warm and approving. “Realgood.Thankyou.”
Lydiahad flushed and waved it away, though she hadn’t seemed able to pull her eyes from his angular, bearded face.Fromthe way his silver head was slowly tilting, as a long, sinuous black tongue briefly brushed against his lips.
“Don’ts’pose,” he’d said, his voice all soft liquid heat, “there’s anything elseIcould offer you, as thanks?”
Lydia’sheart had been racing again, her own tongue brushing her lips.AndwhenTryghad stepped closer, and slowly slipped his clawed hand against her waist, she’d shuddered all over, and met his warm, patient eyes.Eyesthat had twinkled with easy indulgence as he’d drawn her even closer, and bent his head into her neck.
Ithad somehow ended withLydiaon her back on the washing-table, whileTryghad knelt on the floor before her, feasting with shameless, shocking abandon between her legs.Hurlingher full of stunning, staggering pleasure, unlike anything she’d felt in years.Decades.Pleasurethat felt far too vivid, too powerful, to be real.
Andafterwards,Tryghadn’t made demands, or even requested any sort of reciprocation.Instead, he’d stood up, straightened outLydia’srumpled dress, and slung his sack of clean laundry over his shoulder.
“Thanksagain, sweet thing,” he’d said, with a wink, and another one of those grins. “MayhapI’llbring by more laundry next week, ach?”
Lydiahad been left entirely unable to speak, but she’d somehow managed a curt, desperate nod.AndwhenTryghad indeed returned the next week, they’d done it again, and then again.Andif her efforts at pleasing him in return had been awkward at first, or fumbling, or inexperienced, he hadn’t at all complained.Andinstead, he’d only kept blatantly demonstrating what he liked, rewarding her eager attempts with praise and affection and pleasure.
Butafterwards, he would invariably throw that sack over his shoulder, and stride out again.LeavingLydiastaring silent and forlorn after him, alone in the empty, echoing kitchen.Untilshe’d begun to feel almost sick with hunger and longing, with the strange, steadily rising urge to ask him to stay.Tobeg him to hold her close and safe, deep into the night.Toplead for promises that he surely had no interest whatsoever in making, let alone keeping.
“Haveyou ever been married?” she’d blurted out one day, asTryghad turned to leave again. “Or… attached, somehow, to a woman?”
Ithad been a reasonable question, she’d thought, especially given his obvious fondness for his son, who he often mentioned — but he’d actually chuckled as he’d turned around again, giving a regretful shake of his head.
“Ach, no,” he’d replied, with a crooked little smile. “I’vealways loved you women, with your sweet scents and squeals — but you’re always far too jealous, ach?Neverknow how to share, you ken.An’ even if you claim you do” — his lips had thinned, his eyes angling away, as if with some bitter memory — “you yet rage and weep when you hear you ain’t the only one.Letalonewitnessing it.”
Oh.Ohhhh.Tryghad —other lovers.Lydia’sstomach had horribly plummeted, her mouth quivering, because — oh.Shewas just — a side activity for him.Adiversion, perhaps.Andtruly, what else had she expected?Shewas a plain, poor, boring washerwoman, with a wrinkled brow, a flushed face, and perpetually red, chapped hands.Ofcourse this hadn’t meant anything to him.Ofcourse.
