Joarr’s mouth twitched up, though his eyes had narrowed, his head tossing his hair over his shoulder. “I give much for this goddess. Even as she keep seeking tocurseme.”
Gwyn eyed him for an instant too long — did he truly believe that? — and then grasped his arm, and tugged him toward the altar. He didn’t resist, but his eyes had gone even narrower, his forearm very taut under her grip.
“Seek her with me, for a minute,” Gwyn said, over her shoulder. “Stella showed me how, yesterday.”
With that, she assumed the pose Stella had taught her, one hand on the altar, one over her heart. While Joarr fully frowned down at her, his eyes glinting, his arms now crossed over his chest.
“Youno follow this goddess,” he snapped at her. “You no even ken she is truth. Ach?”
Gwyn shrugged, and felt her face oddly flushing. “Not really,” she confessed, as she glanced guiltily toward the wizened tree. “But this is important to your clan, and therefore, important to you. And if it’s important to you, I want to —”
She broke off there, twitching — gods, where had she even been going with that — but Joarr’s eyes had seemed to still on hers, and she could see him exhaling, his chest hollowing. And finally he shrugged too, and shifted into the pose, bowing his head toward the tree.
Gwyn blinked, but then bowed her head too. And then just stood and listened, as Stella had suggested. Sinking into the rustle of the wind through the leaves, the bright calls of birdsong, the deep quiet beneath it all. And, beside her, Joarr’s slow, near-silent breaths, moving with the slight brush of his arm against her.
When he finally twitched away, a few minutes later, his eyes were looking rather hunted, his hand dragging through his hair — enough that Gwyn instinctively reached for him, and hauled him close. And was rewarded with the feel of his body sagging against hers, his claws clutching against her back.
“I thinkyouneed some fun, after all this good Bautul behaviour,” she said, muffled, into his chest. “Tell me, apart from the garden, what didyoudo for fun, back before you were a Bautul?”
Some of the tension had snapped back into Joarr’s body, his chest unmoving — but then she felt him shrug. “Sparring, I ken,” he said, far too casual. “In Skai arena, mayhap.”
“Then let’s go there,” Gwyn replied, drawing back so she could meet his eyes. “I’d like to see it. Please?”
He visibly grimaced, but finally nodded. And soon they were back in the depths of the mountain, and walking into yet another huge, echoing room that again seemed devoted to fighting. This one also had the stone carved seats rising up on each side, looking down toward a large circle below, which included a tall raised dais at its centre — but rather than fighting a massive brawl, like in the Bautul pit, the orcs here were all sparring one-on-one, within clearly delineated rings. And while it still seemed rather vicious — Gwyn winced as one orc kicked another straight in the groin — there was no visible blood, and no obviously wounded orcs, either.
“Joarr!” called a deep, vaguely familiar voice, and when Gwyn turned to look, she realized it was Simon, grinning toward them, while also swinging punches toward another orc — in fact, the captain’s right hand, the sharp-looking orc named Drafli. And cheering from the sidelines was Simon’s mate Maria, together with a young orc Gwyn didn’t recognize, and again the genial-looking Baldr, who was again sporting freshteeth-markson his neck.
“And Gwyn!” Maria called eagerly, waving her over. “Come meet Bjorn, and watch with us. Simon’s almost beaten Drafli,again.”
Baldr instantly returned this with a loud but good-natured growl, and beside Gwyn, Joarr made a noise that might have been a chuckle. And when she glanced up at him, he was indeed looking reluctantly amused, and even nudged her over toward them.
Gwyn willingly went, greeting Maria and Baldr with a genuine-feeling smile, and then introducing herself to the little orc. His name was Bjorn of Clan Skai, he proudly informed her, and Maria and Simon were his parents, and his father Simon was not only the biggest orc in Orc Mountain, but also the best fighter, too.
“Is that so?” Gwyn said, glancing over toward where Simon indeed pinned Drafli’s thrashing form to the floor — but instead of going further, like the Bautul had, he instantly backed off again, leaping up to his feet. “Is Simon fast enough to even defeat Joarr, do you think?”
This was met with a chorus of jovial replies, and loudest of all was Simon’s rolling laugh as he strode toward them, and clapped Joarr on the shoulder. “My brother likes to think he is faster than I,” Simon said, his dark eyes dancing. “But it has been so many moons since he last faced me, or saw my ways. I ken his defeat shall thus be harsh and swift, ach?”
Joarr scoffed at that, and then spun and stalked into the ring, shaking out his own long limbs, snapping back something in black-tongue. To which Simon only laughed again, and then followed him in with slow, prowling steps.
They turned to face each other, and Joarr twitched a taunting smile, brows raised — and in a sudden flash of furious movement, he flew straight toward Simon. His hair streaking out behind him, his claws aiming for Simon’s eyes, his knee slamming toward his groin —
But Simon ducked away, just as quickly as Joarr had ducked away from Silfast the day before. And as Gwyn watched the two of them settle into the match, dodging and weaving and flying at one another with ruthless, astonishing precision, she couldn’t help noting the difference between this and the Bautul battle from yesterday. How this one felt — somehow — almostfun?
It was certainly helpful to have Maria and Bjorn and Baldr watching too, all alternately shouting cheerful complaints and praises. And even laughing good-naturedly as Joarr taunted Simon, at one point actually leaping to stand up on hisshoulders, where he tried — and failed — to land a series of kicks on Simon’s head before falling off again.
In the end, it turned out that no one won, because Simon was laughing too hard, his hands on his knees, while Joarr danced away from him, eyes glittering, his feet doing something that looked like an honest-to-godsjig. While beside Gwyn, Maria hollered an impressive series of curses toward him, and Baldr laughed so hard he collapsed into Drafli, who was reluctantly smiling beside him.
It was ridiculous enough that Gwyn couldn’t stop laughing either, and she was still grinning once she and Joarr were back in the corridor again. He was all sweaty and panting, his skin shining in the light of the lamp, but his steps were easy and relaxed, his eyes warm and bright on hers.
“That was fun, right?” Gwyn asked him, clearly stating the obvious, but perhaps just wanting to hear him say it. “Maybe we can do it again soon?”
And wait, surely she was again implying more time, more days, more hope — but his smile down toward her felt open, true,willing. “Ach, mayhap,” he said, voice low. “I have… missed this. I… no saw how this would be, among them.”
Oh. He’d thought, maybe, that he wouldn’t be welcome with the Skai anymore. And there was an odd tightness in Gwyn’s throat, and she slipped her arm around his waist, pulling him close as they walked. “They were obviously delighted to have you there,” she said. “And they were so welcoming to me, too. I’d love to see them again.”
Joarr had settled his heavy arm over her shoulder, his claws clutching gentle through the fabric of her dress. “Ach, witch,” he said. “You ken I —”
But he abruptly broke off there, his mask flicking over his eyes — and then he audibly exhaled, and drew her to a halt. “You ken I shall greet your kindness with yet more work,” he said, his voice far flatter than before. “If you should wish to see yet more women today?”
