Page 34 of Wed to the Orc Captive

“You don’t need to stay,” he said. “There’s a greater chance that someone finds you ahead, if you reach the slope. If you take the necklace, they’ll know what it means. You can send them back to me.”

“You’re lying.” Why was I so angry? “Something will eat you.”

“There’s always something that could eat me.”

“That doesn’t help!”

“Annora.” When had he started using my name? “We don’t both have to die.”

And that was infuriating.

I was not letting go of him after I’d gone through all this not to kill him. I was not letting go of him after I’d killed to keep him alive.

“Let me sing to you.”

“Annora—"

“You want me to leave you, you have to let me try.”

He reached up, as I leaned over him, and touched my cheek, the tears I didn’t realize that I’d cried. He looked so detached, so tired. “You have acquitted yourself well. You’ve been valiant. Now you go.”

“I did not marry you,” I hissed, “to leave you dying in a forest.”

The side of his mouth quirked. “I’m pretty sure you married me to leave me dying beside a stewpot, barbarian.” The smile vanished. “You need to run.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

He wasn't even lifting his head. “You want me alive.”

My fingertips dug into the earth. What did he want me to say? That I was a weakling? That I was a coward? “Please.”

His lips were parched, cracking. “If the wizards’ abominations come, I can’t help you.”

“If the aberrations come neither of us will care, because we'll both be dead.” I was shaking.

He shook his head. “Why are you asking me for permission? I’ve never been your jailer.”

Why was I asking him permission?

I started to sing.

I was already weak. My voice creaked and popped. It was a madrigal, stolen snatches of a church melody, pieces that were supposed to echo and build on each other. I tried to sing strength, to sing healing, while my head swam, while my parched throat rasped and ached. I think maybe my hands warmed a hair. Something was off. The birds had gone silent.

He opened his eyes, those iron-forge flames looking into mine. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish…I could have gotten you safe.” His eyes closed.

“No! No no no…” The clearing was spinning, blurring around me. “No!” I had to fix it, the wounds, the infection, the fever. There was sweat on his brow, but his skin was cold. My fingers hurt as I tore at the bandaging, my wrists, every bone and joint. I tried to sing, a nursery-song, the one my mother used on scraped knees and elbows. I tried to shove the image of her face away from me, because why couldn’t she do it, and why had I been born when she could have been free? Why had she doomed us both to darkness and silence, left and left him living? I wanted to scream, but I needed the orc alive, I needed him with me, and songs for scraped knees and aching hearts didn’t purge infection from wounds, didn’t drive the blood-sickness back.

I needed him back. I needed to find out if I’d made the wrong choice. I needed to hear him speak and laugh and watch him talk to others with that confident sneer like when he ordered around the overseer. I needed to hate myself climbing into his bed again and forget I had a self to hate in his arms.

He was supposed to live. I was supposed to save him.

I sang. I was wailing, begging, the song tumbling, higher and higher. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back.

And then I was seeing things.

An orc, grizzled and ugly, walked out of the trees. At first he seemed like he was floating, and then he was too solid, too near.

The Gol Droth. Vrathgar’s family had found us again, and they were going to take him back, going to tear us away. They’d cut off my ears and I wouldn’t even get to hold him as he died. If Vrathgar was awake, he’d fight them. He’d pull out his swords.