Page 7 of Wed to the Orc Captive

My head went light, and my vision blurred a moment

She was speaking. “So you’re marrying an orc. Alright. Is it that different from a man?”

I looked at the sachet on the table in front of me. Bogdana used herbs to heal every day. She knew which ones helped, and which ones killed.

“Women have been marrying against their will for longer than we have memory. He’s larger than you, he’s stronger. So what? So is almost every boy in this village. You expect him to be violent? Tch. I’ve treated enough brides. The odds are rarely in your favor.” I looked up. It was like I’d never seen her face before, the harshness with the serenity, the level cold as she bade me to kill. “They all eat. They all drink. When it’s you or him,” she tapped the little bag on the table, “you choose yourself. You choose your mother’s daughter. You choose the girl I almost got to teach.” Her mouth tightened. “Usually I’d recommend something slow, something that could pass for fever. But you need fast. This…give him this, and he will not have time to hurt you again.”

I picked up the pouch. It was so light, so normal between my fingers, for something that would kill. “Thank you,” I said. I was light-headed, too. How long did I keep the orc alive? How long to travel to Mereborough? Did I wait till he talked to other orcs? Till we were alone? What was I supposed to do?

Another cup pressed into my hands. “Drink this. It’ll stop your womb, so you won’t risk a child for some time.”

“Bogdana,” I said. “Did my mother…did she have this choice? Did you offer her?”

Bogdana didn’t answer me, the flat look in her eyes answer enough. Sickness flooded over me. She looked at the cup in my hands. “Best take that, girl.”

Better take this, because my mother didn’t.

I forced down the tonic, bitter and acrid. I didn’t want to think about a child born from this.

She cursed again, under her breath. “I’d give you something for pain, but I’m out of mandrake, and henbane has a bad risk. I won’t put that on you.” She lay a bundle on the table. “In case I can’t tend to you tomorrow, you put this on your wounds, to help flesh knit together where it tears. Wet it a little, and try to replace it each time you see to your needs.”

I stared at the thick strips of dried water plant. “This is what you use for mothers.”

She looked back at me, unflinching. “Yes.”

I was going to throw up.

“Easy.” Bogdana held my hand, pushed my hair back from my face. “Easy. It’ll pass.”

Time was odd, in that cottage full of life and death. It felt like I’d barely arrived here, like I’d been here hours, with the old woman holding me, bidding me breathe. The light had changed through the windows. I drank water and soup, and she talked, the way to Mereborough, the recommendations for intimate injury, how to clean wounds to avoid infection. She talked about women I barely knew, names obscured, faces unknown, second marriages, children, thin and paltry hopes that some other girl might have wanted.

The bells sounded.

The priest came to the guardhouse. I don’t know why I thought they’d drag the orc to the church. But a priest was a priest; I would be just as married at the guardhouse.

Bogdana’s sachet hung around my neck, under my bodice. The knot of braided twine was threaded next to it on the cord.

The orc was awake, leaning back against the wall. A new stain spread dark under one eye, from his fall yesterday, but he was awake. He regarded me with the same smirk.

“Ah, good, we have the bride.” Overseer Marsen looked sweatier than usual. “Bogdana! You'll bear witness?”

I stood by the bars, losing myself in disconnected thoughts, the wood grain, the rust on the iron nails. My groom hadn’t moved from his place against the wall, that awkward tilt of his shoulders implying injury, his face implying no such thing.

“I was told you volunteered.”

It took me a moment to realize he spoke to me. I found my voice. “Yes.”

“Unexpected.”

Offending him would help nothing. “Yes.”

The overseer cleared his throat, did it again. “Alright, we’re all here.”

We weren’t alone, I realized. There was a small crowd outside the door, watching, listening. Whatever this was, it was witnessed.

“Orc,” the overseer said, his voice louder than needed. He was speaking for the gathered throng. “You have been granted the opportunity to save your wretched life by joining in union with one of ours. Such mercy will never be offered to you again. Will you accept our offer of peace?”

The orc laughed. It was a quiet sound, low and breathy. Around me the Overseer and his guards shifted, unnerved. My groom looked at them, me. “There are peoples that frown on oaths made under a death threat. Did you know that?” Contempt twisted his smile. “But yes, fine. I’ll marry your witch. Have it as you wish.”