Page 50 of Wed to the Orc Captive

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?”