Page 61 of Wed to the Orc Captive

He saluted an old orc man leaning over a workbench in the sun. The gnarled orc glowered, all suspicion. Vrathgar didn’t even look ruffled. “The traditions are old,” he answered. “They were supposed to ensure that the people survived, that we stayed strong. Now they create a sense of belonging. They give the young something to earn.”

The women by the stream rose in my mind’s eye. “Like your young women killing so they can get married.”

“Yes,” he looked uncomfortable. “Though no one has to anymore.”

“Has to kill?”

“Has to marry.”

A laugh tumbled out of me, a little ridiculous, the only sound not shaped by the magic. It almost hurt to go back to speaking, to letting that too-honest hissing out. “So the same people who think I'm a barbarian think I haven't killed enough to deserve you.”

His face was grim. “It's an odd system, yes. And there are situations that fall through the cracks, though people try to make exceptions work. Vyval, Tyralk’s great aunt, she was injured as a child. Her legs and one of her arms didn't really work. Her sisters, her shield sisters, they carried her into the hunt and made sure she got her kill. They dragged her through the initiation and let her crawl the last few feet.” His hand tightened in mine, his mind elsewhere. “There is compassion, it's just…”

“A brutal compassion,” I finished.

He nodded.

“Where is that compassion for you? Why do they treat you like this?”

He shook his head. “It’s not like that. Drazha can be harsh, but she loves her son, and she defends her people. I half grew up around her fire. I’ve eaten the meat that she hunted, from when I was too weak to draw a bow. If they see me as a problem, it’s because I’ve been one. And they’re right to defend their people from threats.”

“Am I a threat?”

He looked down at me, and his eyes lingered. “You could be.” He turned his gaze back to the trail. “Almost there now. Watch your step.”

The path turned downwards, and a riot of color, pinks and reds and shocks of yellow and lavender, flowers tall and carpeting, stood protectively around a cottage made of daub and stone. The little house looked like it was hiding in the flowers. The roof was good straw, and the paint on the walls was fresh. Around the window-frames, more flowers had been painted, like the ones at Grezha’s cottage, in green and yellow and red.

Vrathgar, beside me, didn’t relax at the sight, all the lines of him tense, bracing.

“Is she like Drazha?” I whispered. The image of that fierce face, the ache from my own forehead and shoulder, put a pit in my stomach.

“No.” He said. “No, she’s not going to hurt you.” His steps still slowed on the narrow path towards the house, careful. Flowers were reaching out, crowding the path to a single foot-fall, and he went ahead, drew me behind him, so as not to crush even one.

“Has someone told her? About you getting married?” It occurred to me how odd it was that she hadn’t visited, that this wasn’t the first house he’d come to, injured and broken.

“Maybe,” he said. “People visit here sometimes. My aunt might not have wanted to bother her about it, if she thought it would come to nothing.”

Was that why he hadn’t brought me here before? Because our union was something that would come to nothing?

We reached the low door, painted green. It was barely tall enough for him. He drew breath, and knocked, quiet.

There was no sound.

“Do you think she didn’t hear?”

“She hears.”

A soft scuffling sounded, a quiet clink, like something dropped and recovered. Then silence.

“Mum?” he said, and the Orcish rolled off his tongue. “It’s me. Just me. I’ve brought…I’ve brought someone to meet you, if it’s alright.”

The door opened a crack.

Vrathgar had joked that he got his beauty from his father, but the face peering from the doorway, one golden eye and a slice of chin, was shockingly pretty, large, doe-eyes, delicate bones, an elfin jaw. In this tiny slice of a visage, her irises were like spilled sunshine, like honey poured out, her hair the same deep color as his with threads of silver shining at her crown. She watched us, it felt like too long, like being watched by a wild creature. Whether she was ready to pounce or fly, I could not tell.

The door swung open, and I froze. Deep scars curved from her jaw, pulling over her mouth, up through the socket where her other eye had been. The magic resolved into her words. “Who is this?”

Vrathgar’s touch rested on my arm.“Mother, I come to honor you as I bring home a wife.” Formality laced the words. He spoke in Orcish, so much gentler than I’d heard him speak before. “This is Annora. She doesn’t know our tongue, but the sorceress, Rowena, has shared with her a gift, so she can talk with you now. She will understand you.”