He tapped her eyes again, a single hard grunt coming out of his chest.
She knew him. This was her Orki. Her Orki could talk, and this male did not—but it had to be him. She always envisioned him as quiet, confident, sure, a living representation of the spear he carried. Long, lean, targeted. Annabell knew this male.
"Don't look. Is that what you are saying?"
The hand on her neck radiated heat and control. He was in charge. With gentle pressure, he encouraged her to sit facing the wall, away from the temptation of looking at anything and anyone. Heaving and huffing, the great war beast dropped right behind her in a wall of heat. Blocked in, Annabell was too small to see over the back of the great big thing.
She tightened the blanket he'd given her around herself, wishing there was a way to make it into a dress. She had no notion why he'd taken her clothes or if he still had them. At least she had her stockings and her boots.
Catching her when Annabell reached down to trace her finger over the red stitching in the leather of her boots, the war beast licked her hand, its tensile tongue rubbing up her arm to Annabell's face. Head tilted, the giant beasty eyed Annabell with interest, waiting to see what she would do, winking at her with the thin skin of its inner eyelid. Annabell's fingers twitched with the urge to scratch the brow ridge like she would Benjere's dog. Sniffing at Annabell, it yawned before nudging her shoulder with its muzzle in a friendly, pay-attention-to-me way. Seeing the lapping end of its tongue headed in her direction again, Annabell dodged. She'd never liked dog spit, and this big, blunt-nosed, pointed-eared, spiky thing, with its need to lick her, was no different.
"I think I remember you." She wasn't sure if it was a he or is she. There was some vague lesson pushing at her thoughts. Had Papa said the Orki hunting parties only rode females because the males were smaller and thinner?
Having evaded the animal's licking, it puffed air in her face. The hot breath of a meat-eater hit, invading her personal space. "Moons, what did you have for dinner? Ugh. That is not an agreeable smell. You have a name, don't you? I used to know Orki. I can't remember anything now. There is nothing in my head but woe."
The admission made her throat clench and eyes burn, but she kept the tears and the emotions at bay. The Orki male returned, carrying an armful of things, including food. Nudging the war beast out of his way with his hip, he sat down next to Annabell.
Holding up a jar that looked tiny in his hands, he popped the lid. Annabell recognized the scent of the healing ointment and held out her hand for it. Mama had made this too, but she always said that the Originals made it better. They had ingredients she didn't. Papa brought some home once, but it got used up on the boys' constant injuries. Eager to try it, she spread it on her sore face and down her arms.
He watched her do it, one eye ridge raised in a curious expression as she protected her modesty with long practice of living with boys, pulling her fur beneath her arms and spreading the salve everywhere she found a bruise or scratch.
One of the food items was a wrapped piece of fruit and nut cake. Thin vellum paper crinkled when she unfolded it. Sweet with wild honey, the scent of it activated sweet forgotten moments of her childhood.
She'd shared a cake like this with her papa. With his understanding of history and the Peace Contract, her father hosted Orki as the town's envoy when they came into the village. Papa took one or the other of the oldest boys and Annabell with him. Annabell always got to go. She became known as his junior negotiator. Welcomed by everyone, her smile and giggles brought better trade. Nervous around the planet Originals, the village merchants felt more comfortable having a happy child there. Papa boasted she could make a friend of anyone.
Surfacing with clarity, the rich memory felt close and real, squeezing at her heart. She had forgotten that. Taking a tiny bite, the flavors of fruit, nuts, and honey hit her tongue, causing more memories. Edgy with emotions, her eyes watered. She hadn't tasted this kind of cake since her father died.
The sweet piece of cake filled her, bulging her belly after too few bites. Her stressed system lacked the reserves to deal with the hardy food. Not wanting to get sick, Annabell held it in her hands and inhaled the memories and feelings it gave her. The happy nostalgia of it shone, sunshine on her skin.
There was also a thick piece of smoked and dried meat. Pinching the end off, she managed three bites, then four, chewing each one carefully. The raiders allowed her time for food and water at the tables one time, after coming up out of the storage cellar in the bakehouse. Surrounded by enemies, the ghost of the dead, and the wounded eyes of the other women, she had not eaten very much.
Next to her, his skin radiant in the torchlight, her rescuer also ate. She could feel his body heat, though he made no attempt to touch her. He put small pieces of food in his mouth, taking extra time to chew while he watched her. His throat moved, the stamped metal bobbing at the base. She had thought at first that it was a too tight necklace, but watching it move with his chewing confused her.
Was it a medical device? There were all kinds of innovations in technology she knew nothing about, but the Orki themselves had access to things no one understood. Primitive on the outside, with a grunting animalistic language, riding dangerous predators for transportation, they did not look like an intelligent race. Stone age barbarians with resources and abilities to destroy armies hundreds of times their size. To know nothing about them was to think their skills were exaggerated.
She had no idea what that metal could mean, other than it was alien to her experiences.
He said nothing, but she could hear a very faint rumble from him, the hum in his chest. Focusing on it instantly relaxed some of the tension in her muscles making it easier to eat.
That noise affected her brain. How did he do that?
He could make it louder—forcing it upon her ears—turning her muscles to mush, draining thoughts of all resistance. Not that she wanted to resist.
She said, "I'm not going home, am I?"
He held her gaze, watching her close enough to read her mind. Made that chest sound.
"I don't know if I want to. There is nothing there for me. But does this mean, I am your... your..." She tried to think of the words, recall what Papa had taught her. The words were close. Hovering like wispy butterflies. Floating away when she reached to trap them in her hands.
She should remember.
Every seventh son carried the tradition of history, of memory, to pass it onto his seventh son.
It was another superstition. An unproven myth.
"The seventh is blessed and lucky. They hold things, remember things, can carry the words of the past and change into the future. Seventh is blessed. I was so excited when your papa asked to marry me. I knew I would have a good life,"Mama whispered.
Annabell clearly remembered it. Mama standing over her wood board rolling pie dough, and Papa right beside her kneading the next batch.
