“I understand,” Taegan replied, though he could only really guess as to what his father was truly feeling. Although the terms of the treaty originally may have been his idea, Taegan knew his father had been as stunned as he was when the Bonebreaker clan accepted their offer. Part of him wondered if the king would have made the same offer had he honestly thought they would accept.
Ruven did not reply, but instead gave him a gentle pat on his shoulder before turning back to his work.
“That is all,” he said, looking away from Taegan. “I’ll see you both at breakfast tomorrow, before we see off the procession.”
“Of course. Good night,” Taegan replied, and as if on cue the door opened back up and his father’s attendant let him out.
The strange conversation replayed in his head as he made his way out of the castle, through the grounds, and out to the front gate. The gate was open, and two guards stood watch beside it. They saluted as he passed, making no move to question him. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky a deep gradient of orange, pink, and purple. Taegan paused at a fountain just outside the gate and sat down along its edge—he did not see Zorvut, but here was as good a meeting place as any.
The sense of him was faint in the back of his head, but he could feel Zorvut approaching. He closed his eyes, and if he concentrated, he could feel that sense of him getting closer and closer. When he finally opened his eyes again, he could see Zorvut’s form approaching from the cobblestone road. He stood and met him halfway; Zorvut waited for him to approach, then turned to lead him to the encampment.
“The celebration will be... rowdy, compared to the feast yesterday,” Zorvut warned him as they started to head through the city. “You should stay close to me.”
“I intend to,” Taegan replied, peering up at his face as they walked. The further apart they were, the harder it was to feel his emotions, but now that they were next to each other, there was a tinge of sadness leaching from him that Taegan had not expected. He hesitated, unsure if he should say anything. “How was your afternoon?”
“Pleasant,” Zorvut said. After a moment, he seemed to recognize the bluntness of his answer, then added, “I said some goodbyes to some friends. The encampment leaves in the morning, and I doubted there would be time between the celebrations and then to do so.”
Privately, Taegan wondered if Zorvut had his own Kelvhan somewhere in the camp that he had had to send away. Part of him was curious, but part of him did not want to know—it was not quite jealousy, but something like it. They had each put away their old lives to fulfill the duties set upon them, so perhaps it would be better to let the past lie, especially when it was still in such close proximity.
They made their way down the main road into the surrounding city. While most elves they passed went about their business without much acknowledgment, a few stared openly at Zorvut. A handful waved at Taegan, recognizing the prince, but none called out to him the way they sometimes would whenever he was out on an excursion. The lay folk that lived in the city outside the castle walls often proved to be more amicable and friendly than the endless cycle of visiting nobles within—something about being even this small distance from the tradition of austerity and reservedness made for a very different experience of elfhood. He politely returned the few waves of greeting and recognition he received until they reached the city’s open gates, where the sounds of music and celebration could already be heard.
The orc procession had set up their encampment along the wall of the city, spreading alongside it rather than away from it, so tents and bonfires stretched far from side to side as they exited the gate. It was surprisingly colorful; Taegan had expected to see tents in neutral browns and perhaps greens, to blend in with the orc’s mountainous home terrain, but every piece of cloth he saw was instead some vibrant shade of red, green, blue, or purple, with no neutral tones to be seen anywhere. Groups of orcs had gathered around small campfires—though it was still quite warm out, the fires seemed to be central gathering-places rather than sources of actual heat. Some were cooking, some were drinking, some playing music or dancing—but as they passed each group, a roar of cheers would rise, many of the orcs raising their tankards or giving a hearty wave to Zorvut as he passed.
Taegan wondered how much he really knew about Zorvut—he was unlike any orc Taegan had heard of, so he had worried perhaps Zorvut was an outcast being offloaded for convenience. But the friendly reception they received, despite some less-warm looks directed toward him, made it seem that Zorvut was overall well-liked. He had had his initial thoughts about who Zorvut must have been, but it was seeming more and more apparent that he did not truly know anything about him at all.
Zorvut must have sensed his conflicted feelings, as he turned his head to glance behind at Taegan even as they walked. “Stay close,” he repeated simply, though his eyes lingered on Taegan for a moment before he turned his head back.
After they had passed a long row of tents, their destination became apparent. Several makeshift benches and tables had been arranged in a small clearing, shaded by large awnings of fabrics in a range of colors and patterns, stitched together and strung up on poles. Taegan recognized Hrul Bonebreaker sitting at what seemed to be the largest table with a barrel of ale set up next to him. Zorvut’s family members were scattered about the area, but a cheer rose up from many of them as they approached. A jaunty tune began to play, and Taegan could just spot a troupe of musicians set up behind the awning—surprisingly, while one was clearly a half-orc, the two accompanying him were humans. Traveling performers must make do wherever they go, he supposed.
Zorvut led him to a table near Hrul’s bench, presumably where he had already been sitting. Some food and drink were strewn messily across the long mead hall-style tables, and he could smell spices and smoke from a little way away, where he assumed more food was being prepared.
“We’ll stay here for most of the evening,” Zorvut said as he sat down next to him. “But there will be a lot of people coming and going. Some will bring gifts and some will just come to show respect. To be honest, most will probably be addressing my father rather than us.”
“I understand,” Taegan said, and Zorvut handed him a goblet; Taegan gave it a hesitant sniff when he took it. It was not wine, but had a slightly fruity effervescence.
“It’s cider—the closest thing to wine I could get my hands on,” he said, noticing Taegan’s uncertainty. Taegan raised the goblet to his lips and took a long drink. It was not his first choice, but it would do.
As Zorvut predicted, little interaction seemed to be expected of them. There was a steady stream of orcs coming and going, far more than Taegan would have expected, but the majority seemed to go straight for Hrul, only a handful addressing Zorvut directly and even fewer addressing Taegan at all. Some presented gifts to them—a fresh blackberry pie was the highlight, but most were small trinkets, carved wooden figures or bone amulets, a few weapons, knit scarves, and cloth wall-hangings. The more elaborate gifts all seemed to end up on Hrul’s table. Taegan did not quite understand why Zorvut’s father received so many of the gifts, rather than Zorvut himself as the one whose wedding was being celebrated, but mostly he was glad that little seemed to be expected of him other than to simply be there.
By the time the sun had fully set and torches were lit all along the wall, it was apparent a small area had been set up for dancing. At first, only a handful of orcs seemed to dance at any given time, but as the night progressed, more and more arrived and danced along to the music that had become decidedly more upbeat and rapid.
“Do you dance?” he asked Zorvut after he had watched for a little while. The orcish way of dancing seemed to involve quite a lot of stomping, clapping, and jumping, a stark contrast to the measured movements and elaborate ceremony of the elven dances he knew. He could feel Zorvut tense at the question, though his expression remained neutral.
“A bit,” he replied. “Although it’s not my first choice of activity.”
“I won’t ask you to dance,” Taegan assured him. “I only ask out of curiosity.”
“Well, they will expect us to join at least one dance before the night is over,” Zorvut confessed, glancing over at him. Taegan blinked—while hecoulddance, he was not sure if he could stomp and jump about in a way that might remotely resemble the dancing going on at the moment.
“That’s a shame,” he sighed. “Do you want to get it over with now?” Zorvut chuckled, much to Taegan’s surprise.
“It is you who keeps surprising me,” he said, a faint grin forming around the slight protrusion of his tusks. “Alright, then. Let’s get it over with.” He stood and held out his hand to Taegan. His face felt flushed, though he was not sure why Zorvut’s response made him feel embarrassed. Pushing the feeling down, he took Zorvut’s hand and allowed himself to be led to the clearing. As they walked, the crowd parted around them—many of the orcs they passed fell silent, watching them closely, but from Hrul’s table a loud shout broke through the quiet.
“They dance!” the warlord declared, raising his tankard high, overflowing with ale that spilled onto his arm and the table. “Bards! Give us something merrier, for my son and his elf.”
The music paused briefly as the three musicians seemed to consult with each other, then they broke into a loud and rapid beat that elicited a cheer from the surrounding orcs.
Taegan clapped along to the rhythm and gave a little hop, trying to emulate the way the orcs around him were dancing. Across from him, Zorvut began to dance, his movements similar but more fluid, more familiar. As he circled around Taegan, he murmured, “Just keep doing that.” Taegan nodded gratefully, his meager imitation unnoticeable as Zorvut danced along with the crowd.
