Maria felt herself nod, caught in the conviction in his voice, his eyes — but then she blinked down at the carving of his father again. “And your own father?” she asked carefully. “Would he have wanted you to honour those ways too?”
That was unmistakably a wince, tightening Simon’s mouth, and he jerked another shrug. “My father was peaceful orc,” he said. “Hehatekilling. He no like to spar, even with me. There was naught that roused him to rage. My own ease with these ways” — his throat convulsed — “came surely no from him, ach?”
Oh. So Simon was suggesting — it was hismotherwho had given him such things. Yet more to bear, to face, from the human who’d birthed him, and thenabandonedhim.
“But mayhap,” Simon continued, his eyes now fixed to the carving of his father, “I ought to seek new ways, beyond death. Seek beyond the Skai, mayhap. I only” — his shoulders sagged — “need more time. Ach?”
More time. Because he didn’t have time, he meant, thanks to Ulfarr. Eleven days.
“But enough of this, woman,” Simon abruptly said, as he ducked down, and yanked a pair of trousers from the shelf. “Now dress. I shall spend this day with you.”
He would? A flare of warmth surged through Maria’s chest, while that same determination — the certainty — seemed to twine deeper in her belly. She would support Simon. She would help him, in all this. She would show him humans could be trusted. He would see.
So she quickly dressed, and then accompanied him first to the latrine, and then to the Skai shrine. Where Simon again waved her toward the fur-covered bench — but this time, he knelt on it next to her, his head bowed toward Skai-kesh, his huge fist pressed tight against his heart.
And praying to Skai-kesh already felt easy, familiar, so Maria willingly offered today’s fear, and longing, and blessing. Ulfarr, for her fear; Simon’s success with his kin, as her longing; and for her blessing, this tenuous new certainty she’d found today. This… peace.
Beside her, Simon’s prayer went on for some time, his big body utterly still, his elbow brushing against Maria’s. But she felt no desire to disrupt him, so she quietly sat there and waited, caught on the sight of his harsh profile, on the solemn, quiet reverence that had seemed to settle all around him.
Simon’s gaze lingered on Maria’s face afterwards, but he didn’t speak, and only guided her out the door. Taking her not toward the arena, as she might have perhaps hoped — but instead, further down the corridor, into what appeared to be aforge. A large, loud, fire-bright room, full of strange, sweaty, pounding orcs.
“Greetings, Argarr,” Simon said, nodding at an older, heavily scarred orc with a silvery beard and hair. “I wish for a blade for my woman.”
Maria couldn’t hide her astonishment, blinking back and forth between Simon and this Argarr, but she didn’t protest, or question it. And when Argarr waved her toward the rear of the forge, she accordingly went, with Simon striding silently behind her.
The forge’s back corner led into another whole chamber, large and echoing, with rows of shiny, deadly-looking weapons hanging on the walls. And Maria soon found herself placed squarely in the middle of it all, while Simon and Argarr took turns thrusting a variety of swords and knives into her hands, and demanding that she grip them, and swing them about, and even hurl them across the room.
Maria hadn’t wielded a sword since her father had been alive, and even then it had only been foolish playing around, never any kind of serious practice — and this entire experience soon felt completely surreal, especially once Simon and Argarr began arguing in black-tongue, clearly trying to choose between two particular weapons. A long, slim, razor-sharp rapier — Argarr’s choice — and Simon’s choice, a shorter, more powerful dagger, perhaps the length of Maria’s forearm.
Unsurprisingly, Simon won the argument in the end, shooing Argarr and his rapier away. And after giving the new dagger one more satisfied spin, Simon stepped toward Maria, and yanked up her baggy tunic, so he could slide the dagger through a slit she hadn’t previously noticed in her loincloth’s leather belt.
“Here,” he said firmly. “This is now yours, woman. Ach?”
And here, surely, was where Maria could have —shouldhave — protested. Pointing out, perhaps, that she had no real use for a dagger, or that she was very likely to injure herself with it, or that only orcs would remember to include weapons-bearing options in their women’s clothing, while foregoing any actualcoverage…
But no. She was doing this. She was honouring Simon. And Argarr was still watching, no doubt judging, from the door — and in truth, the dagger’s heavy, sharpened weighthadfelt oddly reassuring in her hand. And perhaps even still felt so, brushing cool and quiet against the skin of her hip.
“Thank you, Simon,” Maria heard herself say, and then her audacious body actually lurched toward him, leaning up to kiss his fragrant, stubbled neck. “I would be honoured to wear such a generous gift.”
And gods, surely this was the hysteria, raised to heights never before seen — but there was an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in Simon’s eyes as he led her back toward the door. And when Maria even managed to say a coherent thank-you to Argarr on the way past, Simon grunted his approval, and gave her arse a firm, heat-swarming littleslap.
“This pleased me, woman,” he said, as he nudged her through the twisty dark corridor. “And now, as your reward, you shall begin to better use your nose, as a true Skai should.”
Hernose? Maria frowned up at him in the lamplight, once again thoroughly disconcerted — and that was surely another challenge in his eyes. One that only sharpened as he stepped away toward the wall, setting down the lamp he’d been carrying — and with a purposeful twitch of his fingers, the corridor blinked into utter darkness.
“Simon,” Maria’s voice gasped, unnervingly plaintive, her hands frantically groping out into the black emptiness — but here he was, thank the gods. Still standing close before her, the skin of his bare chest warm and reassuring under her fingers.
“Ach, I am here,” he said, low, almost soothing. “I shall no leave you. I only wish you to smell me.”
To smell him. And very well, Maria could surely manage that — and she kept her clammy fingers gripped to his chest as she leaned closer, and inhaled. Indeed smelling that familiar scent of him, musky and rugged and deep.
“You ken my scent, ach?” Simon’s voice asked, and at Maria’s answering nod, she felt him step slightly backwards, out of her reach. “Now breathe again. You yet smell me?”
Maria obediently inhaled again, her brow furrowing — but yes, his scent was still there, fainter, but there. And when she nodded, she heard a low grunt of approval, felt warm hands heavy against her shoulders.
“Now turn,” he said, guiding her around, so she was facing away from him. “You smell me now?”
Maria glanced uncertainly over her shoulder, but again nodded — to which she felt Simon’s hands drop, his body moving behind her. “Now seek to find me. Seek where my scent is strongest. Ach?”
