The question burns on my tongue, but I hesitate, unsure if I should break this fragile moment of openness with something so practical and mundane. Except nothing about Faugh is mundane, and the mystery of the gold has been nagging at the back of my mind since the moment he set those gleaming coins on my rickety coffee table.
"Can I ask you something?" I venture carefully. His expression remains composed, but there's a wariness in his eyes now, as if he is bracing himself for whatever question might be coming. "I don't want to push, or pry into something that's not my business, but..." I trail off, fidgeting with a loose thread on the blanket draped across my legs.
He shifts slightly, turning to face me more fully, and when he speaks, his voice carries that same quiet certainty it always does, deep and unhurried and somehow making me feel like he genuinely means it.
"You may ask me anything, Chantel," he says simply, with the kind of absolute finality that suggests he has already decided this, perhaps a long time ago. "I will always answer you truthfully."
I take a breath, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding like I am some kind of gold-digger who is only interested in his apparent wealth. "The gold you paid rent with. That's not just savings, is it? That's too much, too specific." I pause, biting my lip. "Where did it actually come from?"
Faugh goes very still. His hand freezes mid-stroke on my calf, and his expression shifts into something that looks uncomfortably close to shame. He breaks eye contact, staring instead at the candle flame flickering on the coffee table, and thesilence stretches so long I start to think he is not going to answer at all.
"It is a dowry," he finally says, his voice low and rough. "And I have breached my clan's laws by spending it."
10
FAUGH
The word sits heavy in the air between us, weighted with centuries of tradition I have spent six years trying to outrun.Dowry. Even speaking it aloud feels like admitting to a crime, and perhaps it is one, at least by the standards of my clan. I watch the way Chantel's face shifts in the candlelight, and I know I need to explain this properly before her imagination fills in the gaps with assumptions that will hurt us both.
"In Orc tradition," I begin slowly, choosing each word with the same care I use when folding her delicate vintage sweaters, the ones with the moth holes she refuses to throw away, "a family accumulates gold throughout their son's life. It is meant as a bride price, a demonstration of worth and stability when an arranged match is formalized." I pause, forcing myself to meet her gaze even though the shame of what I am about to confess makes my jaw tight. "My father had been collecting that gold since I was born. By the time I reached maturity, it was substantial. He had arranged a match with a female from a neighboring clan, someone I had met exactly twice, both times in formal settings where we were not permitted to speak freely."
Chantel shifts slightly, pulling her knees closer to her chest in a way that makes her look smaller, more guarded. The movement sends a spike of protective instinct through my chest, the primal part of me that wants to reach for her and pull her close warring with the knowledge that she needs space to process this information without the distraction of my touch.
"The arrangement was politically motivated. Her family controlled trade routes my father wanted access to. I was simply the transaction vehicle. When I refused to participate in the violence he demanded, when I made it clear I would not become the enforcer he required, he threatened to revoke the gold entirely and dissolve the match, which would have shamed both families." I exhale slowly through my nose, remembering the rage in my father's eyes the last time we spoke, the way he called mesoftandcorruptedanduseless. "So I took it. I took the gold that was meant to purchase a bride I did not want for a life I could not stomach, and I left. I have been living off of it ever since, using it sparingly because I knew once it was gone, I would have nothing left of that world except the memories I am trying to forget."
The silence that follows feels cavernous. I watch Chantel's face carefully, cataloging every micro-expression, every flicker of emotion that crosses her features. She is processing, thinking, and I can practically see the gears turning behind those expressive eyes. When she finally speaks, her voice is smaller than I have ever heard it, stripped of its usual animated energy.
"So that gold was meant for your wife," she says quietly, and the wordwifelands between us like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples outward. "Your arranged wife. The one your family picked out for you."
"Yes," I confirm, because there is no point in softening the truth. "But I have never considered her my wife, Chantel. I havenever considered anyone my wife. That gold was a chain I was meant to wear, and I chose to break it."
She nods slowly. "And now you've spent it. On me. On this apartment. On..." She trails off, gesturing vaguely at the space between us, and I realize with a sinking sensation exactly where her thoughts are spiraling.
"Chantel—"
"No, it's fine," she cuts me off, her voice taking on that brittle, falsely bright quality she uses when she is hurt but trying to pretend she is not. She uncurls from the couch, standing abruptly and wrapping her arms around herself in a posture that screamsdefensive. "It makes sense, actually. You rebelled against your family, you're living this whole new life, experimenting with the forbidden human roommate situation. I get it. I'm just... I'm part of the rebellion phase, right? The thing you do when you're figuring out who you are outside of what they wanted you to be."
The words hit me like physical blows, each one landing with precision against the softest parts of my intentions. I rise to my feet as well, my height advantage suddenly feeling like a barrier rather than a comfort. "That is not what this is," I say firmly, but she is already shaking her head, backing away slightly, and the distance she is creating between us feels insurmountable despite being only a few feet.
"It's okay, Faugh," she insists, and her smile is the worst thing I have ever seen, small and sad and entirely unconvincing. "You don't owe me anything. We got caught up in the moment, the adrenaline from the gallery, the storm, the whole dramatic atmosphere. But you don't have to pretend this is something it's not. I'm not going to be some messy complication in your clean, organized new life."
I feel my hands curl into fists at my sides, frustration and helplessness warring in me. "You are not a complication," I biteout, but the words sound inadequate even to my own ears, too simple to carry what I actually mean, what I actuallyfeelwhen I look at her. "You are?—"
"I'm tired," she interrupts, her voice cracking slightly on the word. "I think I need to sleep. The couch is yours tonight; I'm taking the bedroom." She doesn't wait for a response, doesn't give me the opportunity to argue or protest or do anything at all except stand there in the candlelit darkness, watching her slip away from me like water through my enormous fingers.
She turns and walks away before I can formulate a response, disappearing into her room and closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than if she had slammed it. I stand alone in the flickering candlelight, staring at the closed door, and feel the sharp sting of failure settle into my bones.
The storm continuesthrough the night and into the morning, though the thunder has subsided into a steady, relentless downpour that turns the streets outside into shallow rivers. The power remains out. I barely sleep, spending most of the dark hours sitting on the couch and staring at Chantel's closed bedroom door, turning the conversation over and over in my mind and trying to identify the exact moment I lost control of it, the precise second where her thoughts veered into territory I could not follow.
When she finally emerges in the morning, her hair is pulled back messily and her eyes carry the telltale puffiness of someone who has been crying. The sight makes every protective instinct I possess roar to life with the demand that I fix this immediately, that I pull her into my arms and refuse to let go until she understands exactly how wrong her assumptions are. But her body language is closed off, defensive, and I know that pushing too hard right now will only drive her further away.
"Good morning," I offer carefully, my voice deliberately neutral and measured—the same tone I might use when approaching a startled animal, gentle but controlled. "I have made coffee using the camping stove. It is not ideal, but it is functional." I gesture toward the pot I've set on the portable burner, which sits on the counter between us like a fragile peace offering. The rich, dark brew steams gently in the candlelit dimness of the kitchen, and I can see the exact moment she notices it, though she says nothing in return. I wait, patient and still, knowing that any sudden movement or pressure from me will only reinforce whatever walls she has constructed during the long, sleepless hours we have spent apart.
"Thanks," she mumbles, moving past me to pour herself a cup without making eye contact. The kitchen feels impossibly small with both of us in it, the air thick with everything we are not saying. She leans against the counter, wrapping both hands around the mug as if drawing warmth from it, and stares determinedly at a point somewhere past my left shoulder.
The silence stretches uncomfortably. I search for something to say, some neutral topic that might ease the tension without forcing a confrontation neither of us seems ready for. "The weather report suggests the power may not return until this evening at the earliest," I finally settle on. "The infrastructure in this neighborhood is outdated."
"Mm-hmm," she responds, taking a sip of coffee that is still far too hot based on the way she winces slightly. Still, she does not lower the mug, using it as a barrier between us.
