I didn't know he could be funny.
We find a spot at the edge of the gathered crowd, close enough to participate but far enough from the center that I don't feel surrounded. Falla positions himself between me and the bulk of the gathering, a living wall that blocks most of my view of the other orcs.
It helps.
I focus on breathing, on the ground beneath my feet, on the familiar line of Falla's shoulders in front of me. Concrete things. Real things. Not the memories trying to surface.
Drogath appears at the center of the gathering, and even from here I can see he's dressed for maximum dramatic effect. Elaborate robes, face paint, arms spread wide like he's about to deliver a sacred pronouncement.
"Maybe this won't be so bad," I whisper.
"He hasn't started talking yet."
Drogath starts talking.
"WELCOME, FROSTFANG CLAN!" His voice booms across the settlement center, somehow both reverent and theatrical. "Today we begin the SEVEN SACRED DAYS of Verdant Fortune! The great human tradition honoring the legendary Padraig the Verdant Slayer!"
Falla's shoulders shift in what I've learned to recognize as suppressed irritation.
"None of that is real," he mutters.
"What?"
"Any of it. Padraig the whatever. He found it in some old human book and invented an entire mythology." Falla crosses his arms. "But try telling him that."
Drogath continues his pronouncement, explaining the seven days ahead, the trials of partnership, the blessings of prosperity. His words wash over me in a wave of invented tradition and dramatic gestures that would be funny if I wasn't so tense my muscles ache.
Around us, other pairs start forming—couples standing together, friends partnering up, everyone looking varying degrees of enthusiastic or resigned. I spot Ursik near the front, practically vibrating with excitement next to a female orc who looks equally eager.
"He's really into this," I observe.
"Ursik's into everything." Falla's tone carries the particular brand of exasperation that comes from long friendship. "Last month he tried to climb the ice falls because someone said it was impossible."
"Did he make it?"
"Halfway before Kai had to rescue him."
The conversation helps, giving me something to focus on besides the crowd and the memories and the growing sense that I shouldn't be here. Falla seems to understand this, keeping up a steady stream of dry observations about the gathered orcs, their partnerships, Drogath's increasingly elaborate hand gestures.
Then Drogath claps his hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the murmur of conversation.
"The FIRST TRIAL!" He gestures dramatically at several tables being carried into the center. "The Verdant Marking! Partners will paint upon each other the sacred spirals of prosperity, marking themselves for the blessings to come!"
Assistants begin distributing bowls of green paint—thick, vivid, the color of new spring growth. Bright enough to stand out against the orc's dark skin. Brushes appear, some made of bundled grass, others carved wood with bristles I can't identify from here.
My chest tightens.
"Just painting," Falla says quietly, sensing the shift. "That's all it is."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Around us, pairs begin painting each other—spirals on wrists, cheekbones, temples. The spirals are actually quite beautiful, elegant curves that catch the light. Laughter rises as someone accidentally smears paint across their partner's nose. Another couple debates the proper spiral direction with mock seriousness.
It's innocent. Playful. Completely harmless.
I know this. Logically, rationally, I understand there's nothing threatening about festival paint and cheerful partners marking each other with symbols of prosperity.
But logic doesn't stop the memory from slamming into me.
