Kursk flushes—green skin reddened. He clears his throat. I squeeze his hand.
Later, inside the library, I pull Kursk aside while others are chatting. The smell of old leather, wood polish, ancient ink fills the space. I remove a box from a shelf—fragile, dusty books in orcic script, brittle pages, runes etched in midnight ink.
“Bet you didn’t picture this,” I say, holding up one of the books. It smells of mold and smoke. Pages crack when I open it.
He smiles, soft, tired. “Not in my wildest.”
I place it on a newly built shelf—wood I cut yesterday, sanded, varnished. I nail it in—hammer’s strike echoing in my bones. There’s a weight to it when I set the book in place, as though history is taking root.
“Kursk,” I whisper. “Let this be a place for truths people fear.”
He nods. He watches me.
In the corner of the reading room, I see Peggy Sue debating with townsfolk about what really happened; Burnout playing quiet guitar by the entry; Booger helping children finger through books, pointing at runes, telling small stories. They remember.
But most don’t. Half believe only part; half tell the story as a myth; some dismiss it entirely.
I take a breath. I let the sound of turning pages, hushed voices, candle flame fill me.
I glance at Kursk. He stands near his bookcase, scarred chest visible, tusks catching light. Alive. Home. Changed, but here.
I wrap an arm around him, close enough that his scars press cold through cloth.
“Welcome home,” I whisper.
The library hums with soft life.
The library is quiet after dusk, soft lamps glowing like embers in the windows. The vigil ended hours ago, but inside, in the reading room, a handful of us remain. Kursk and I sit at a long wooden table near the back, knees touching beneath the scratches and old varnish. His hand warms mine. Peggy Sue at the end of the table is pretending not to look, flipping through a book, though I catch her eye glanced our way. She smiles, small and proud.
Booger leans against a shelf, headphones around his neck. Burnout sits nearby with a guitar, tuning strings. He says he wrote something new. I raise an eyebrow.
“Kiss of Communion,” he says, voice low. He strums a chord. The note is bittersweet. The guitar resonates in this old room — wood, old paper, candle wax scent. The hum of the negative space where chaos used to be still rings in my ears.
Booger nods. “All those nights… this feels like it.” He plays, just a few bars. Rhythm gentle and heavy: loss, love, survival. His voice cracks just a little as he sings lines I know he meant for Kursk. I press my thumb against Kursk’s hand. He doesn’t look up yet; his eyes focused on some point past the shadows.
Then there’s laughter — children’s laughter out in the yard. I glance toward the windows; lanterns hung outside glow through old glass. Kursk stands.
“Kids?” he calls, stepping outside. Soon, local children — some plucky, some shy — assemble on the lawn. He leads them.
“Orc wrestling!” he announces to them. They look at each other, then at him. He demonstrates: wrestle but no injure. Tackle softly, fall with honor. Make noise, roar like orcs, but keep to laughter too. The children mirror him; they made up rules: don’t grab tusks, don’t bite, push to the ground, but help each other up.
I watch them circle each other, small orcs in sneakers, grass stained, knees bleeding a little, giggling. Kursk referees, his roar mock-but-proud. One small boy wins; everyone cheers. Kids tug at each other's shirts, pull hands. They want his approval. He gives it, smiling, cheeks flushed green and gold in the lantern light.
Then silence when footsteps disquiet the hush outside the small cemetery at the far edge of town. Calvin’s body was discovered fused to the scattered remains of his smart home. Once technology and greed became his cage, now rubble. Now silence. It’s quiet here; the burial is quiet. Just a few townsfolk: the registrar, Peggy Sue, Burnout, Booger. Kursk and I stand at the back, hands clasped.
The priest—or equivalent—speaks little. There is no grand ceremony. Just saying that he rests now, that what happened was terrible, that some truths we must bear. The wind carries woodsmoke and damp soil, the scent of fresh turned earth. I taste acid grief.
I glance at Kursk; he looks away. Strong jaw, set jaw, but eyes full. My grip on his hand tightens as the shovelful of earth falls. Calvin’s name whispered. Few attend. The sky dim. Even the birds are muted.
After, we walk back through the town, quiet streets lit by lamp posts. Kids in pajamas peer out windows; shop lights putter on for the late hours. We return to the library. Burnout is humming the tune of “Kiss of Communion” under his breath. Booger is helping put chairs away. Peggy Sue closing windows.
Inside, I pull out boards and nails and sanded wood from the storeroom. I trace my fingers on the ancient orc texts shelf — the one I built. I adjust a book just so: leather spine cracked, orcic runes faded. The scent of old binding glue, dust, parchment in my nostrils. Kursk stands close; I feel him there: warmth, solidity.
He leans in, voice quiet. “Thank you for this—” He touches the shelf lightly with his callused hand. “For making space.”
I smile. Bittersweet. “It’s yours too. All of this.”
He doesn’t say more. His eyes flick toward the window: stars threatening rain. The world outside feels fragile and safe all at once.
