And while Gwyn hadn’t properly spoken of it — to Joarr, or to anyone — it almost felt as though that fate was already set. If she truly wanted to embrace this new way, to become Joarr’s true mate, a true Bautul, Orc Mountain’s midwife, a mother to an orc — that house was already lost. That entire life was lost. They would likely end up needing to stage Gwyn’s death, in an unnerving echo of what Joarr’s grandfather had done decades before. And she would never see her own father again, and would he even care, and…
“I want to,” Gwyn belatedly told Joarr, over the thick lump in her throat, as she raised her eyes to his, her hand still on the altar. “To get to know the goddess, I mean. I think it could — help.”
Joarr made a sound that might have been a scoff, but his eyes on hers looked rueful, or maybe even resigned. And Gwyn was still fighting for this — she was — and she squared her shoulders, and attempted a smile up at his face. “And speaking of things that might help,” she continued, “Kalfr said yesterday that Silfast is holding another big brawl in the Bautul pit this morning. And as loath as I am to suggest this, maybe we should make an appearance?”
Joarr audibly groaned this time, though Gwyn didn’t miss his hand reaching to stroke at the tooth around his neck. “Ach, my wise witch,” he said, with a sigh. “You ken you may come to rue this plan, ach?”
However, it turned out that the brawl was slightly less painful than the previous time, mostly because Joarr again refused to wield a weapon, and again sharply ordered — or dragged — any wounded orcs off to the side. And in the end, he drove a raging Silfast to exhaustion, without striking him once. And then he loudly reiterated to the room that the goddess didn’t bear blood in her garden, and that any Bautul wishing to spend time there had to see a healer first.
To Gwyn’s genuine delight, this led to multiple more Bautul orcs in the garden the next morning, wandering carefully through the paths, and blinking at its beauty with wide, appreciative eyes. And thankfully, Kalfr and Eyolf and Iyolf had already learned enough to offer some direction, and Gwyn couldn’t help chuckling at the sound of Eyolf’s proud voice carrying clearly through the air, reminding the new orcs not to step off the path.
“Ach, time for meeting, I ken,” Joarr said, with obvious relief, as he rose up from where he and Gwyn had been sitting and eating breakfast in a tree. “You herd these orcs for me? Throw them into pit if they step on huckleberry?”
Gwyn grinned up at his disgruntled face, while an increasingly familiar warmth seemed to unspool in her chest. Joarr still didn’t enjoy having other people in his garden, she well knew — but he’d still borne it with surprising grace, and had continued to treat the orcs with creditable politeness. Again sacrificing his own wants for others’, which was something Gwyn had kept noticing from him more and more — even down to the way he always cooked her meat to perfection, when she now knew that he much preferred to eat it raw.
“Of course,” she said lightly, and she impulsively leapt up, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “See you soon, love.”
Love. It had slipped out before she’d even noticed, and she belatedly froze in place, her eyes wide — because despite how things were going between her and Joarr these days, she certainly hadn’t gone there yet, and neither had he. Gods, even that loaded wordmatehadn’t again been spoken, perhaps because Gwyn still couldn’t bear to risk it, not yet, not until…
And Joarr was looking just as frozen as she felt, his eyes unblinking on hers. And gods, this was so foolish, Gwyn was pregnant with his son, she was probably going to stage herdeathfor him. And she was fighting for this, for this life, for their son. For their new way.
“I mean,” she made herself say, her face furiously heating, “I — I love you, Joarr. And I hope you” — she swallowed hard — “I hope you have a most productive meeting?”
He still hadn’t moved, hadn’t even blinked, and Gwyn’s cheeks felt hot enough to be painful, her eyes wide and chagrined on his. And maybe this had been more of her infinite stupidity, maybe she should just turn around and climb down this tree, before the humiliation swallowed her alive —
But then Joarr dragged her close, and pressed a hard, bruising kiss to her mouth. His teeth scraping, his tongue twining deep, his claws digging into her back. And Gwyn sagged into it, melted into it, clutching her hands in his hair, drinking up his hunger, his strength, his…affection.
When he finally pulled back again, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes glittering, his trousers visibly tented. “After, witch,” he murmured, as he reached a hand, and scraped its claws purposefully against her neck. “Make you screech and wail for me, ach?”
Oh. Well. Gwyn’s full-body shiver was surely visible, her face still hot and flustered — but that was just what he’d wanted, the bastard, as he shot her a teasing, genuine grin, and then leapt down out of the tree. Leaving her standing there alone, breathing hard, her determination swirling even louder than before.
She would face this. Fix this. Fight for her future. Find her own way.
So she climbed down to the ground, and met the Bautul orcs with staunch cheerfulness, and set them to work on their current projects. Eyolf and Iyolf with the new orcs on the goddess’ tree — they were in the process of carefully cutting off the dead limbs — and Kalfr on more of Gwyn’s own plants, placing them in the best possible locations around the clearing’s edges.
“Oh, and have you seen Stella today?” Gwyn asked Kalfr, as she finished smoothing earth around her newly replanted fennel, and then brushed off her hands. “Do you know if she’s stopping by?”
Gwyn had been coming to rely on Stella’s kind, calming presence each morning — her friendship had been a true gift, and a true help as well. And of all the Bautul orcs, Kalfr had generally seemed the most aware of Stella’s mood and whereabouts, perhaps on Silfast’s orders — though, from what Gwyn had seen so far, it rather seemed that Silfast disliked Kalfr almost as much as he disliked Joarr.
“Ach, I smell her now,” Kalfr said now, his voice low, his dark eyes angling toward the mountain. “But I know Silfast is yet enraged over how Joarr defeated him in the pit yesterday, and thus did not wish Stella to come here.”
Right. Gwyn swallowed down her waiting reply — her opinions on Silfast had certainly not improved these past days — and thanked Kalfr before heading off to meet Stella at the door. Stella was indeed looking rather morose, her shoulders hunched — but she visibly straightened as she caught sight of Gwyn, and gave her a wan smile.
“Sorry I’m late, Gwyn,” she said. “Just one of those mornings, you know?”
Gwyn roundly dismissed the apology, and then accompanied Stella to the cool shade of the hut, and pulled over the stools Joarr had scrounged up from somewhere. And as had become their regular habit, they reviewed the day’s list of herbs together, and made plans for their preparation and delivery. Peppermint for Hannah’s nausea, motherwort to send off to Inga, heavily diluted henbane for several injured orcs’ sleep, more chamomile for Tengil’s teething.
Stella had shown a genuine aptitude for it all — not only in remembering various herbs’ names and uses, but also their preparations, dosages, and possible side effects. She also seemed to truly enjoy the work, and despite her chronic-seeming fatigue, she hadn’t once complained, or failed to finish a task.
But today, she was looking almost alarmingly pale, and her trembling hands suddenly slipped on the mortar and pestle, scattering ground henbane across the floor. And though Gwyn swiftly rescued them — and most of the henbane as well — Stella’s hands were still trembling, her eyes rapidly blinking. As if she were about to beginweeping, over a few dropped herbs?
“Hey, it’s all right,” Gwyn said, her voice soft. “No harm done. Maybe you’d like to take a break? Go watch the orcs work for a while, or go back inside?”
“No, I’m fine,” Stella replied, unexpectedly sharp. “I only need a moment. I amnot” — she dragged in a thick breath — “ready to go back in there yet.”
Oh. It was perhaps the first negative comment Gwyn had ever heard Stella speak, and after an instant’s considering that, she intently returned her attention to the mugwort she was chopping. “It’s so dark in the mountain, isn’t it?” she said, as lightly as she could. “It really bothered me at first, but it’s gotten a lot better with time. Starting to feel more like a cozy den, instead of being trapped in a crypt.”
She attempted a quick grin toward Stella as she spoke — and then froze in place, her smile instantly fading. Because Stella’s hunched shoulders were shuddering, her dark head still buried in her hands — and suddenly she was sobbing, the painful sounds tearing from her throat.
