I grunt, stepping over the new, raw-pine threshold I set this morning. "It was rotten."
"It was fine," she teases, stirring a pot over the fire. The smell of suru stew fills the air, a scent that now means home.
"It was weak," I counter, my voice a deep rumble. I run my hand over the new, sturdy log I am setting to replace the main roof beam. The hovel is not a hovel anymore. For the past week, Ihave been expanding it. I tore down the entire back wall, a move that made her gasp in terror, and I have been rebuilding it with fresh-cut pine, doubling its size. My hands, my hands, which I am still relearning, know this work. The memory of my father teaching me to notch logs, is a clear, sharp, good memory.
I am a warrior, but I am also a builder. And I am building a den for my mate.
Betty comes up behind me. I do not need to turn; I smell her. The scent of fialon berries and soap and that unique, warm smell that is just Betty. She holds up a cup of water.
I take it, my large green hand dwarfing the small wooden cup. I drink, and then I set it down. I turn, and she is still there, looking up at me, her blue eyes soft in the firelight.
I do not ask. I act.
I lean down and bury my face in her hair, sniffing. It is the old habit. The Urog instinct. But it is not a primal, sensory check anymore. It is reassurance. It is possession. It is love.
"You are clean," I murmur against her scalp.
"So are you," she whispers, her fingers tracing the silver, star-shaped scar on my chest. "You've been working all day. The palisade is..."
"Strong," I finish for her.
The work on the village wall has been… good.
At first, the humans were terrified. I do not blame them. I am an Orc. They have only known Orcs as monsters, second only to the Dark Elves. When I first walked to the broken palisade and saw six of their men, Joric’s father among them, struggling to lift a single, water-logged beam, I had simply waited.
They had stared at me, their hands on their axe-handles, their fear a sour scent in the air.
I had just pointed. "I can."
Their fear warred with their need. Finally, Elder Maeve had stepped forward, her face a mask of grim practicality. "Let him."
I had lifted the log. The one that six of them could not budge. I had lifted it as if it were a twig, and slotted it perfectly into place.
Since then, they are wary. But they are accepting. My strength is no longer a threat they must cower from. It is a boon that protects them.
When I hunt, I do not just bring back a single suru for our pot. I bring back a deer. I bring back three. And I do not bring them to Betty. I bring them to Elder Maeve. I lay them at her feet.
It is the Orc way. You provide for the clan.
And this village, this small, weak, human village… it has become my clan.
Betty pulls back, her small hands resting on my bare chest. "They... they like you, Threk. They are grateful. They are... afraid of you, yes. But they respect you."
"They are your clan," I say simply. "So they are mine. I protect them."
Her eyes soften. "And I am yours?"
The question... it makes my heart stop.
"You... you said yes," I say, my voice tight. The memory of that night, of her fear, her doubt... it is still a cold place in my chest.
"I did," she says, her smile bright and sure. "I said yes, Threk."
I shake my head, my hand covering hers over my scar. "You said yes to the human custom. To your Christmas wish. It was a good word. It settled my mind."
I lead her over to the new, larger table I built. "But it is not enough."
Her smile falters. "Not... enough?"
