I take her hands. "In my clan... in the Orc tradition... a 'yes' is only the beginning. It is a promise to begin. It is not the bond."
I need her to understand this. All of it.
"The ceremony," I say, my voice low and serious. "It is... different. It is not just words. It is magic. It is old. It binds the souls, Betty. Not just the hearts. It is a vow before the War God and all our ancestors. It is... forever."
I look into her eyes, willing her to see the weight of what I am asking.
"When I do this... when we do this... there is no turning back. Ever. You will be my mate in this life, and all others. I will be yours. It is a chain. It is a shield. It is final."
She searches my face, her own face pale and serious in the firelight. She sees the absolute, terrifying sincerity in my eyes.
"A chain," she whispers.
"And a shield," I counter.
I look at the ritual I am planning, a piece of a life I almost forgot. The life of Namir.
"As for my life before I became an Urog," I say, my voice quieter, "it has been so long that I doubt my clan or my lineage is still alive. But, perhaps, one of these days, I will go and look for them."
Betty’s hand tightens in mine, a sudden, sharp spasm of fear. "You would not... leave?"
I shake my head, turning my hand to grip hers. "You are my clan now, Betty. You are my home. They are just... ghosts. You are real."
I lean down and kiss her forehead. "Is this what you want? Truly?"
She doesn't hesitate. Not this time.
"More than anything I have ever wanted."
My breath leaves me in a rush. She is sure.
I nod. "Then today... I prepare."
The rest of the day, she is gone. I ask her to help Elder Maeve. I need the hovel to myself.
I work.
I take a pouch of salt from our stores. Salt is pure. It burns away lies.
On the new, clean-swept dirt floor of our larger home, I spend an hour carving a perfect, deep circle. I pour the salt into the groove, filling it until it is a stark, white ring in the dark earth.
I take twine. Strong, thick twine used for hunting nets. I cut two lengths.
I sit before a new fire. I close my eyes.
I bless the twine. I speak the old words in the Orcish tongue, words I had no idea I remembered. They flow from me, ancient and powerful. I call on the War God. Not for victory in battle. But for strength. Strength to protect her. Strength to provide for her. Strength to be the Orc she deserves.
I take my knife. I prick my thumb. A single drop of my blood... Orc blood... falls onto each twine. It soaks in, a dark, binding stain.
My hands are shaking.
I, Namir of the Blood-Rock Clan, Threk the Urog, Threk the Savior, who faced Larda himself... I am nervous.
My heart pounds. This is more terrifying than any battle. This is more important.
This is forever.
I wait until the sun is gone. I wait until the only light in the hovel is the low, red glow of the fire.
