The pain that had come in the Roseblush’s wake was wretched, jagged, and unrelenting in its assault of every sense, both internal and external; the pain that followed Auriel’s second unfortunate waking was dull but pervasive, and it left him feeling incredibly heavy, so much that even when his consciousness returned, his eyelids remained encased in lead.
In absence of sight, he relied on touch, and despite his leaden lids, the feelings that greeted him were puzzling enough to merit a tiny scrunch of his brows. He did not lay crumpled in a pool of wet earth, but rather reclined on a downy pad, his head supported by a soft pillow and his skin kept warm by a thick woolen blanket. That skin had been cleaned, and his hair had been loosed from its previous braid for undoubtedly the same reason. Soft linen bandages hugged him variously about his legs, chest, and back, but the near entirety of his left arm was bound extra tight and kept snugly bent by a sling wrapped around his neck. The mere thought of moving the appendage begat a deep, pulsing pain that would have made him groan if he had the strength to part his lips.
In lieu of that groan, the pain instead elicited images of the shadowy bandits from which he’d fled, and for a moment, he was stricken with dread at the prospect of captivity—but within seconds, that dread was all but drowned by the ambrosial scent of roasted root vegetables, which poured in through his nose and massaged his weary head with warm, steamy tendrils. It was a blissful feeling, one far too comforting to have come from such wretched men as those; still, this was not his bed, nor his land, and he had to be wary of his surroundings.
But to be wary of his surroundings, he had to see his surroundings, and luckily for him, that mental massage offered by those sensuous tendrils extended to his eyes. The task was still an arduous one, but nevertheless, he endured, and was greeted not by sunlight, but rather amber flames dancing against dark wooden rafters. It was nighttime, then, or the extremely early morning. How long had he—?
There came a creak within the room, and Auriel’s body tensed as much as the aches would allow. Moving his eyes down from the ceiling proved a much easier task than opening them had been, but the sight that greeted him brought far greater terror than the bandits ever could.
Seated at the foot of the bed in a great oaken chair was a big, barbarous beast, his chest nearly as broad as the bedframe and his limbs as thick as the trunks of trees. He wore a skirt of leather and fur, held in place by a wide belt with two pouches, but his lack of shirt displayed a myriad of scars and harsh, chiseled lines against the deep green of his skin. His hair was unlike anything Auriel had ever seen: rather than thin strands, it sprouted from his large head in thick, coarse ropes, which stretched all the way to his waist and were decorated throughout with feathers, bones, little skulls, and wooden beads. Those same decorations lay in strung rows upon his wrists and around his neck, dense enough on the former to reach halfway up his forearm but sparse enough on the latter to allow for more additions. A short pair of curved tusks jutted out from the bottom of his mouth to set it in a permanent snarl, and his small eyes were dark and beady in the firelight. Those beady eyes were fixed intently on Auriel, and the rest of his face was fixed like hard stone.
Auriel was frozen. Never in a thousand lifetimes did he expect to see an orc in the distance, let alone just a few feet away from him. He wanted to run, wanted desperately to flee, but his body would not move. And even if it did, there was no way the orc would let him go. Not after taking the trouble to bring him here, into his…his…home…?
He cast a quick glance left and right. The room was small but not barren, nor austere: a great circular window took up half the left wall and showed that the storm still raged outside of it; copper-colored drapes hung on either side, tied neatly into bundles with densely beaded cords that matched the ones the orc wore; a few paintings dotted the right wall, along with an earth-toned tapestry, all of which looked vaguely Elvish, albeit greatly unrefined and severely lacking in detail; the thick blanket covering him was in fact a quilt, with patches of different but cohesive wools sewn together with thick but regular stitches.
It didn’t make sense. Orcs lived in dirt huts, or pitched tents, or monstrous strongholds, not cozy woodland cottages. They were prolific in the slave trade, Auriel knew, and a single chieftain could have as many as twenty bedslaves all for himself—but this couldn’t have been his bed. Big and broad as the orc was, there was no way he could fit comfortably on his own, let alone with Auriel in it. Furthermore, all the weight keeping Auriel fixed to the bed was metaphorical; there were the bandages, of course, as well as the sling, but no ropes, nor chains, nor fetters of any kind to bind his wrists and ankles. He wasn’t naked, either; granted, all that clothed him was a thigh-length tunic, but still, there was a tunic. And he’d been cleaned so nicely, from what he could tell—his skin even held a light scent of elderberry.
Perhaps enslavement wasn’t the orc’s intention. Perhaps it was something better—or something far, far worse. Maybe the orc didn’t want him sexually, but he might still be devoured in a different way, one that would cast a sinister shadow on the previously comforting scent emanating from the kitchen. It wasn’t totally unheard of, he supposed, but then he also supposed that there was no point in setting a broken arm if the end goal was to chop it up and serve it in a stew.
Even so, the orc certainly looked hungry. He breathed deeply, harshly, his chest puffing with every inhale and nostrils flaring with every exhale. After a few of these breaths, he licked his thick lips with an even thicker tongue, then after a few more, he parted them to speak.
“Min namai Orin iksst. Ditt hath ur-avill herr imhai wah. On lay dii-tra vol…foll…full…ah…” From a pouch on his belt, the orc withdrew a thick, well-worn leather book that looked almost comically small in his large hands. Quickly but clumsily he flipped through its pages, which, even from afar, Auriel could see were densely packed with notes. His dark eyes scanned those notes fervently, even nervously, like a student desperately searching for an answer after being called upon by an instructor. After a few moments of searching, the orc’s eyes lit up, then narrowed to a squint, and with great, slow, deliberate concentration, he finished, “Foll an krawell eenyu?”
His eyes lingered on the page for a moment, then raised up with the rest of his head to meet Auriel’s still-startled gaze. The orc’s expression was considerably less harsh than before, his beady eyes bright and expectant, seeming to seek approval more than a response—Auriel didn’t know how to proceed with either, for he had no idea what the orc had said. His voice was so deep and thunderous that half the syllables had come out garbled, and the other half were spoken so slowly that Auriel couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. It certainly wasn’t common speech, but it didn’t sound quite like orcish, either. From what he’d been taught, the orcish tongue was more guttural, marked by harsh grunts and abrasive throat sounds. Some of both were present in what he’d said, but for the most part, it sounded like something trying to be fluid. In fact, in a way, it was almost like…
“Was that…Elvish…?” Auriel asked in Common Eallan. His voice was hoarse, and only after speaking did he realize just how little he’d had to drink since departing the palace. Anxiety was all he had to keep his stomach from screaming.
The orc’s hopeful, expectant expression melted into one of gentle embarrassment, and he lowered his journal into his lap. “It was,” he replied in the same tongue. His voice was still deep, and his orcish accent rather prominent, but not so much that Auriel couldn’t understand him. “The sound is…very different from the common speak, and even more different from orcish. I said that my name is Orin, and I have brought you to my home. And then I asked how you were feeling?”
“I…I see…well—” Auriel coughed, his throat stinging with every spasm, though it was swallowing after that hurt most of all.
Orin leaned down to retrieve a glass bottle from the floor, then made his way over to the bedside. He had to have been nearly seven feet tall, and his hands could totally envelop Auriel’s skull if he closed them around it. Instead, however, he used one of them to uncork the bottle and the other to place it directly to Auriel’s lips.
“Here. Drink.”
Normally, Auriel would have regarded the bottle with skepticism, but in the moment, discomfort won out over disquiet, and he curled his lips around the bottle like a babe to a teat. He’d expected water, or perhaps some wretched ale, but instead he was met with a sweet, milky tea that not only cooled his mouth and throat but set both alight with pleasant tingles. It was much stronger than any tea he’d had at home, and far sweeter, too; whether from the richness of flavor or the desperation of thirst, he did not know, but he drank heartily and savored every sip.
“You like it, then,” said Orin warmly. “I’m glad. It’s a blend of crownmint and orange blossoms, with a healthy amount of sugarpetal milk mixed in. I was going to give you something warm, but this is best to help with the pain.”
And so it was, for with every sip, his aches seemed to calm, if only a little, and after such harrowing ordeals, he’d take whatever relief he could get. He could have easily drunk the entire thing, but about halfway through, his stomach let out the deepest, loudest, most painfullest cry of its life, and Orin promptly withdrew the bottle from his lips.
“I was waiting for that,” he chuckled, replacing the cork. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.” He made it about halfway to the door before pausing, then turning to say, “Well, I guess staying here was implied, considering your…condition…um…” He remained still for a bit longer, his lips moving but not speaking, and then he walked out with an awkward vigor.
Auriel’s eyes did not move from the spot where Orin had previously stood until he returned, bearing with him a large bowl in one hand and a thick hunk of bread in the other. He made it back to Auriel’s bedside, then paused again. He looked to the bowl, then to the bread, then to the chair which still lay at the bed’s end. Gingerly, he set the bowl on the windowsill, and after ensuring it wouldn’t fall, he practically tiptoed toward the chair and dragged it over to the bedside. He winced hard as the wood scraped the floor, and his face remained twisted in a grimace even after it was quiet. Letting out a little sigh, Orin grabbed the bowl from the windowsill, took a seat, set the bread on one thigh, and stirred the bowl’s contents around with a deep wooden spoon.
Within the bowl was a hearty stew containing carrots, onions, potatoes, leeks, and some strange brown hunks Auriel could not readily identify, all of which swam in a thick, dark broth flecked with sprinklings of green. Orin scooped a hefty spoonful from the bowl, blew on it gently, and poised the spoon at Auriel’s lips. He stared down into it, then stared at Orin, whose expression was very similar to the one he’d worn after his failed attempt at speaking Elvish. Staring back at the spoonful and feeling once again overwhelmed by the richness of its scent, Auriel opened his mouth wide, and not long after, his eyes did the same.
If the tea had left his mouth tingling, the stew set it off dancing. It was unlike anything Auriel had ever tasted before, so rich and dense and flavorful…the vegetables practically melted away at first bite, and the broth was so warming, and the brown bits were so tender and juicy and truly perplexing. It didn’t take long for Orin to scoop bigger bites onto the spoon, and while it was far more food than that to which Auriel was accustomed, he ate each bite happily. This seemed to please Orin, who looked on with pride every time Auriel’s lips closed around the spoon. A good thing, Auriel supposed, and certainly not one he wanted to jeopardize. Who knew how much damage that chiseled body could do when angered?
“How would you say it?” Orin asked.
Auriel furrowed his brows as he swallowed. “Say what?”
“What I tried to say to you. My name is Orin, this is my home, how are you feeling—how is it supposed to be said?”
Auriel hesitated. As a prince, he’d been educated in Grand Elvish, a heightened version of the language preserved from archaic speech with more ornamental structure. It wasn’t so different that the common and serving classes couldn’t understand it, but it was different enough to assert a disparity in ranking. He doubted an orc would understand such nuance, but he didn’t want to risk being outed as a prince, lest the prospect of ransom money overwhelm Orin’s seeming good nature.
“It would be…Min namai vei Orin, en hir sen min aulei. Na vol di an kriel?”
To speak in such simple terms left him feeling like an ill-bred scullery maid, but Orin beheld him with a reverence not unlike an impassioned apprentice watching a grandmaster work his craft—or a child listening to a bard spin an epic of kings and dragons. His mouth even hung open a bit when Auriel opened his, and it remained agape for long enough after he’d finished that a gentle pink dusted Auriel’s cheeks.
“That was…so much simpler than I expected,” Orin finally said. “But still, very beautiful.”
“Well, I said it in simplest terms,” Auriel dismissed, biting the inside of his cheeks in an attempt to cool them. “I assume whatever you had attempted to say included more details than that—I just…couldn’t quite make them out, unfortunately. I’d be happy to translate them for you now, though, if you share them with me.”
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“No, there weren’t any other details. That was exactly what I was trying to say.”
“Ah. I see. Well…there you go.”
Orin nodded with a smile. “Right. So…Na foll dee on kryell?”
Auriel blinked a few times, his stare almost as blank as Orin’s smile. Then a light flickered in his eyes. “Oh! Oh, you…you want me to answer—well, um…sore…is the first thing that comes to mind. And then confused would be the next. What…happened, exactly? How did I end up here?”
“Well…I was returning from town when I saw you laying on the road. Half your head was in a puddle, so I worried you were dead, but when I realized you weren’t, I scooped you up and brought you back here. Your clothes were badly torn, and your skin was all scraped up and bruised—small as you are, it’s a wonder that only one arm was broken. You clearly fell hard, and you’ve been out for three days, and I, uh…uh…uh…” He pressed his thick lips together in a goofy pout, then dropped the spoon rather unceremoniously into its bowl. “…I don’t know your name!”
Orin faced Auriel as he said this, but he didn’t seem to be looking at nor speaking to him directly. His eyes remained in this unfocused state for a time, then his shoulders slumped, and they shifted into apologetic softness. “How rude of me,” he said, as if he were scolding himself—though truthfully, Auriel hadn’t noticed he hadn’t asked until Orin had pointed it out. “Especially when I made you say mine—what is it? What are you called?”
“Oh, it’s Au…ah…ah, a-ahem—mmm! My apologies. My throat’s still a little dry. But my name is…Reylin.”
“Reylin…” Orin whispered, almost like a prayer. Then, eagerly, “What does it mean?”
“Sunbeam,” said Auriel firmly, knowing full well it was Grand Elvish for “coffee pot.”
“Reylin,” Orin repeated, only a bit less quietly this time, and with a smile bouncing on his lips. “It suits you. It was hard to tell at first, but once I got all the mud out of it, I could see your hair was very bright. And now that they’re open, I can see your eyes are bright, too.”
“Yes, well…thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They stared at each other for a bit.
Auriel licked his lips in an attempt to refresh them into forming words, but the action seemingly reminded Orin—well, both of them, really—of the bowl of stew in his hand. Clumsily, he scooped another hearty spoonful, though he brought it to Auriel’s lips with enough composure to keep the broth from dripping off the sides. Despite his mouth’s watering, after seeing that he’d consumed over half the bowl’s contents, Auriel drew back a bit from the spoon.
“O-Oh, that…that won’t be necessary, thank you.”
Orin furrowed his brow. “It’s very necessary,” he disagreed. “Your one arm is broken, and the other is bound to be sore—you said so yourself just a moment ago.”
“I did say that, yes, but that’s…I-I meant that I’m finished. I don’t need to eat any more.”
Orin’s brows remained in place, but his eyes flitted down very obviously toward Auriel’s tunic-covered middle. “Yes,” he said flatly. “You do.”
He didn’t know what to say, and he knew even less what to do. He’d already eaten nearly twice the amount that would’ve been acceptable back home—what did Orin expect, for him to finish the whole bowl? He’d never done such a thing in his life, and why would he? To clear a plate or empty a bowl was so unrestrained, and therefore unrefined, and Auriel was…he was…no longer at home. He was in Orin’s home. An orc’s home. One that could very quickly turn into a mausoleum if said orcish owner were to be displeased. And besides…it did smell good…and it did taste good…and he was injured…
Once again, Auriel licked his lips, but this time, he opened them after, and he was promptly greeted by all those rich flavors and warm sensations he’d experienced just minutes before.
Orin’s soft smile returned, accompanied by a soft, approving nod. “That’s it…good boy,” he said warmly, then very hurriedly followed it with, “S-So you like it, then?”
“Yes, yes, very much so,” Auriel assured in a similarly hurried manner. “I’m sorry for the hesitance, I just…never mind. But tell me, what are those brown bits in there?”
“The brown? Venison.”
“Venison? What sort of vegetable is that? Is it native to the area?”
“It’s…not a vegetable. It’s deer meat.”
Auriel’s heart and jaw both dropped, with the latter sending a bit of broth dribbling down his pallid cheeks. Orin looked down and cast a hasty glance from side to side, then lit up when he saw the hunk of bread on his thigh, which he put to Auriel’s mouth to sop up the broth. Despite its neglect, the bread was still warm, and it had a rich, earthy scent that Auriel might have appreciated more if not for that startling revelation.
“Reylin? Reylin, are you all right?”
Auriel continued to stare forth for a time, then nodded slowly and drew back from the leavened napkin. “I…I am, yes. I’m sorry if I worried you, and also for the mess. I’ve just never had…deer meat…before. Or…any meat, for that matter.”
Orin’s tense shoulders dropped, one from relief and the other from dismay. “Never? Really?” Before Auriel could reply, he gasped, and his eyes looked as though they’d fill with tears as he murmured, “Oh, no…I forgot…the Elvish stump curse…the Krina…oh, gods, what have I done…?”
“I…could ask the same thing. What are you—?”
“The Krina!” Orin exclaimed in despair. “Your forest gods—they turn elves to stumps if they eat forest creatures. Oh, forgive me, Reylin—please, please, forgive me…” With his head downcast, Orin sniffled and brought the bread to the corner of his eye.
Auriel couldn’t decide what was more astounding: an orc wiping tears with bread or the claim that orc had just made. Either way, he could only gawk—until Orin sniffled and made to blow his nose in the bread, at which point he was roused from his daze and sat up as best he could.
“I’m not going to turn into a stump,” Auriel said kindly, though it took everything in his power to keep from laughing. “I don’t know where you heard that from, but it’s not true.”
Orin sniffled again but set the bread in his lap. “It’s not…?”
“No. Not at all. First of all, it’s Criisna, not Krina. And they’re not gods, so much as guardian spirits, and rather minor ones, at that—certainly not powerful enough to turn an elf to a stump for eating a bit of meat. And as for elves eating meat, it’s by no means unheard of. It’s just…frowned upon in certain circles, one of which I…happened to be in. But it’s not a universal practice. In fact, there are tales of wood elves who hold the plant life in their forest so sacred that they refuse to eat anything but meat for fear of angering their eldritch gods—which, sometimes, also means eating each other, as well as those who cross their paths. I pray they’re just tales, but they have found bones in the south that…”
The longer he’d spoken, the more relaxed Orin had become, and gradually, the sorrow in his eyes had given way to that same childlike wonder they’d held when Auriel had spoken in Elvish—who knew the prospect of cannibalistic wood elves could be so charming?
“The point is,” Auriel continued, “you haven’t killed me. In fact, you’ve done…quite the opposite. I’d most certainly be dead without you.”
Orin gave a small nod. “I’m glad—that you’re not dead, I mean. And to help. Which reminds me—how did you end up in that ditch? Do you remember?”
He remembered all too well the events preceding his waking, but he could hardly tell Orin the truth. He’d already given a false name, and now the false narrative had to follow—but what would it be? Who would it be? The whole goal of running away was to leave his past behind, to reinvent himself anew, yet now, faced with the prospect, he had no words.
Luckily, Orin had no shortage of them, offering both an “Oh!” and an “I almost forgot!” before rising from his seat and crossing the room to retrieve the bag Auriel himself had completely forgotten. Unsurprisingly, nearly all of it was stained with the memory of mud, but the contents inside looked largely unsullied; even the silk thread spools and accompanying embroidery had retained most of their luster.
“I cleaned them as best I could,” Orin said, reclaiming his seat, “though some of the jewelry was bent in the process. Or from the fall. Either way, it is…sadly not as it was before.”
“Better it than I,” Auriel mumbled, running his thumb across the thread portrait of Marigold. His eyes lingered there for a time, but then they widened and shifted quickly to his other hand. By some miracle—or, more realistically, by Orin’s ministrations—his mother’s ring remained on its usual finger, totally clean and resting easily among the folded linen.
Orin leaned as far forward in his seat as he could, his dark eyes firmly fixed on Auriel’s hands. “Did you make that?” he whispered with reverence.
“I did,” Auriel replied, returning his gaze to the matter in hand. “It’s a little bird who used to visit my window at night. I named it Marigold.”
“She’s lovely,” Orin said. “So is that what you do? You’re an embroiderer?”
There were worse professions, he supposed.
“Yes,” Auriel affirmed. “I am. I’ve been doing it for over ten years now, though not formally. You see, the arts are very coveted within the Confederation, and the process for teaching and learning and working and selling is very strict. Real embroiderers go through the Threadworker’s Guild in Sola Anlae, starting as child apprentices and working their way up to mastery through rigid training, after which they’re allowed to teach and work with proper distinction. I did not go through the guild, rather I was taught by a private instructor who operated outside the guild system—which is still allowed, it’s just not nearly as respected as the Guildspeople are. It’s nigh impossible to be hired by a reputable establishment or noble client if you’re not a member. However, outside the Confederation, Elvish artisans are in high demand regardless of formal training, so I decided to stake out on my own in an effort to explore new markets. Unfortunately, my carriage was attacked by bandits, and in my attempt to flee, I fell down that hillside. And now…here I am.”
Once again, Orin’s eyes were alight with wonder, but this time, his lips had also spread into a wide, open-mouthed smile. “That’s amazing,” he breathed. “Not…that you were attacked by bandits, but…” He let out a deep, nearly wistful sigh, closing his mouth but retaining his smile. “I’ve always been fascinated by the Elvish arts. Well, Elvish everything, really. The history, the culture, the language—there’s just something so…magical about it all. But the arts in particular have always fascinated me. And the language. Actually, probably more the language, now that I think about it. But both are of great, special interest to me. I’ve always wanted to learn, but…well…” Slowly, his expression fell into neutrality, and his eyes drifted to the rain-streaked window. “…it’s hard to find material, let alone someone who can teach it—and even harder to find someone who will teach it. Especially to someone—”
“I could teach you.”
Orin’s eyes flickered, and he turned to Auriel. “What?”
What, indeed, had possessed him to say something so heinous? Was it something in the food, or the drink, or the air? Was it the fall that had caused him to lose all sense? Or was it the accepted loneliness in Orin’s voice? The distant yearning in his eyes? The way his big green hands clasped and kneaded each other in an embrace that did not seem quite soothing?
“I said…that I could teach you. The arts, I mean. And the language. And the culture and the history—I’m by no means an expert, but…I certainly have the right ears for the job, don’t I?”
He chuckled, but Orin simply stared, as if he was waiting for Auriel to retract his offer. A very large part of him wondered if he should. This was an orc. He was in the home of an orc. A strange, silly, bumbling orc with expressions of longing and solitude not unfamiliar to Auriel’s own, but still, an orc! Orin was a member of the most destructive and dangerous race known to elvenkind—the one known to enslave and entomb elvenkind—and Auriel was offering, willingly, to teach him the very skills that would make him more apt to do both? Did he really hate his own people that much?
More importantly, did he really trust Orin that much? The broken arm would have trapped him there for at least a few weeks, but teaching would keep him there for months—perhaps even years! Was he really prepared to stay—to live with an orc for that long of a time after barely knowing him a night?
But then again…what was the alternative? He knew nothing; he had nothing. Here, he’d have food and a bed and above-average medical care—not to mention an excellent deterrent for bandits or other woodland ne’er-do-wells in the form of Orin’s freakishly broad body. Perhaps getting friendly with an orc could be a good thing—provided said orc didn’t get too friendly in return…
“You saved my life,” Auriel finally said. “And bathed me, and clothed me, and fed me by hand—it hardly seems fair for you to do all of that without me offering something in return, so if you like…I’ll teach you.”
The corners of Orin’s lips twitched into a smile, and he nodded with vigor. “I’d like that,” he said. “I would’ve been fine with keeping that little bird, but…I’d like that.”
“You can have Marigold, too, if you want it.”
His eyes brightened. “Really?”
“Really,” he affirmed. “Take it. It’s yours.”
Orin looked to the bird, then back to Auriel, then back at the bird, then back at Auriel, then slowly, deliberately, he extended his big, bulging arm, pinched the tiniest corner of the cloth between his thumb and forefinger, and drew it away from Auriel at a snail’s pace. With the utmost care, he held the fabric scrap in both hands, and his smile quickly broke into a big, toothy grin.
“Thank you, Reylin,” he said with all the warmth of a sun-washed meadow. “I’ll keep her safe, I promise.”
“You’re very welcome,” Auriel said, and hoped that he would be kept the same.
