It took around half the fare on the second tray for Auriel to feel the tightness in his stomach once more, and while it did leave him feeling content, it did not bring with it the same drowsiness as it had the night before. In fact, he felt more awake after eating, which in turn made him more aware of how weary he was of the bed—or, more aptly, how weary he was of lying within it. The aches from the fall still throbbed deep in his bones, but now in his legs there burned a restless itch that no amount of careful repositioning could scratch. For at least an hour he tried to fight it—or maybe it had been less than that; there was no clock in the room—but by then, the itch had graduated into throbs, not just in his legs, but also his bottom, and so he slumped in the bed and called out to Orin to proclaim his defeat.
The orc burst into the room seemingly ready for a battle of his own, carried there on thunderous feet and wielding a savage knife in his left hand. Auriel gasped at the sight of the blade, the very edge of which was smeared with fresh blood, and he cowered back when Orin approached. The knife remained upright until about two steps before he reached Auriel’s bedside, at which point he paused, looked at his hand, and lowered it to his side
“Sorry—skinning,” he said with a chuckle, as if that explanation was remotely comforting. Auriel remained tense as Orin crouched to his level, and he stammered his way through his request to get up and walk around. Orin seemed to frown upon the idea at first, but upon seeing Auriel fidgeting in the bed—which was now more from the knife than the discomfort—he nodded and stood upright.
Though the knife remained immobile at Orin’s side, Auriel still hesitated when he extended his hand. There was no blood on his skin, nor dirt or warts or roaches or worms, but even so, the thought of touching him was just…well, it was just very…unnerving, to say the least.
Through the tension in his heart, Auriel felt the aches attack his legs once more, and so he shook the thoughts from his head and placed his hand—exceedingly gingerly—atop Orin’s. With ease, Orin curled their hands together in a firm but gentle hold, swallowing Auriel’s fingers and palm almost completely in the process. With great effort, Auriel maneuvered himself to sit at the very edge of the bed, and with even greater effort, he stood up.
Well, he didn’t really stand up so much as he was pulled up—Auriel had the legs of a newborn fawn, but Orin had the arms of a tree, and the moment he began to stumble, Orin curled his left arm firmly around Auriel’s lower back to stabilize him. The contact made him tense once more, but his legs were thankful for it, and it wasn’t long before Orin began walking him out of the bedroom.
Auriel wasn’t short, per se, but next to Orin, he felt positively miniscule. The top of his head just barely reached Orin’s collar bone, and even at his widest point, Orin’s body was still almost twice as broad. With every step they took, Auriel grew more and more tense, not only from the physical contact with Orin, but also from his physical exposure. He hadn’t noticed it much laying in bed, but the tunic Orin had clothed him in just barely fell to mid-thigh, and the neckline was so wide that it threatened to fall off his shoulders at any moment. His face flushed a deep crimson at the prospect, but never once did Orin’s arm move any higher than his waist, nor did the knife make any attempts to cut the cloth.
The longer they walked, the less tense he became. While clearly work-hardened, Orin’s hands weren’t nearly as rough and leathery as Auriel had anticipated, nor did he smell remotely as foul. There was a distinct air of sweat around him, yes, but it was tinged with herbal scents that made him almost pleasant to stand beside. With two feet more of skirt and one foot less of knife, Auriel might have allowed himself to relax completely.
Opening the bedroom door led to a very short hallway, and after passing another door on the right, they entered the cottage’s main room. Like the bedroom, it was simple, but by no means cold, with ample sunlight pouring in from windows on every wall. Beside the left wall’s window were two sets of shelves laden with bottles, jars, plates, and pots, and below that window stood a rectangular counter with deep scars in its top. A few feet to the right, there stood a table cloaked in a woven cloth with strings of beads dangling from each corner; on either side were two chairs with upholstered seats, one clearly worn and the other practically untouched. Standing further to the right, its back against the wall, was a padded wooden bench, far larger than average and clearly handmade, with a few simple pillows in the corners and a blanket draped over the back. Flanking this bench on the right was a padded chair as large as a throne, and in the valley between them all lay a wide rug of rust and brass with thin leaves woven into the surface. Towering above that rug was a great stone fireplace, currently unlit, with an iron rack above the logs and few uncleaned pots resting on the hearth.
“Would you like to go outside?” Orin asked. He stopped beside the table, but his arm did not lower. “That’s where I’ll be going.”
He wiggled the knife in his hand, and Auriel immediately regained all the tension he’d lost. “I’m not sure. I doubt I’d be of much use where…skinning…is concerned…”
“Not with a broken arm, you’re not,” Orin agreed. “But it’s a nice day, and there’s lots of nature to observe out there. Far more than in here, anyway.”
“There is, but…well…” Auriel brought his mostly-bare legs closer together, and a blush returned to his cheeks. “I’m not really…in a good state…to go outside…”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I—”
“Are you feeling sick?”
“No, I—”
“Do you need to lie back down?”
“No!” Auriel snapped. “Divines, no, I just…I’d like something else to wear, that’s all. Preferably something that offers more…coverage…down there…”
Orin held his gaze for a moment, then turned his whole head to look down at Auriel’s legs. “Oh…I see…” He raised his head once more and said, “You’re worried about bugs getting into your bandages and biting up your legs.”
Well, he wasn’t before, but he certainly was now.
“I could get you some pants,” Orin continued, “but they’ll be big on you. I’m not really sure how to remedy that.”
“What, you don’t have any cords you could tie them with?”
Orin gasped. “I do!” Rather unceremoniously, he plopped Auriel down onto the unworn chair, then disappeared into what Auriel assumed was his own bedroom. A few rustles and clatters later, Orin returned, bearing a ball of cord in one hand and a ball of cloth in the other.
He helped Auriel up out of his seat and into the pants, which one could easily mistake for a skirt even with his legs spread. The waist wrapped twice around his own, and nearly a foot of extra fabric pooled around his feet. Orin made quick work of the former by binding it snug with a length of cord, but to combat the latter, he simply hacked off the excess with that dreadful blade until it reached a more appropriate length.
“What are you doing?” Auriel gasped. “You’ve ruined them!”
“No, I’ve fixed them,” Orin said simply, tying smaller lengths of cord around the ankles to control the fullness. “I was going to turn these into rags soon, anyway. I never liked the way the material felt—too scratchy.”
It certainly wasn’t the fine fiber to which Auriel was accustomed, but he wouldn’t necessarily call it scratchy, either. Could orcish skin really be so sensitive, he wondered? It seemed unlikely, but it would explain why Orin didn’t wear a shirt. Then again, the shirt that Auriel currently wore had also come from Orin’s wardrobe. Maybe he was just that sensitive to the texture.
“There we are,” Orin said, rising from the floor. “Oh, wait, you need shoes.” He took two steps toward the hall, then looked over one shoulder and added, “Right?”
After receiving a nod, he continued on his journey and returned a few moments later with Auriel’s shoes, albeit a bit dingier than he’d last recalled seeing them. Still, they fit fine, and the pants fit well enough to where he could walk far more comfortably than before. He waved off Orin’s arm when it came toward him, which made his shoulders sag, but nevertheless the orc led him out the front door without verbal complaint.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Its tone was not nearly as rich as it had been in Geletra, but the sun’s golden hands still caressed Auriel’s skin all the same when he stepped into their embrace—except it didn’t quite feel the same. No, this sun was warmer, gentler, hanging high above a foreign land and somehow more welcoming than the one he’d seen and felt all his life. The same was true of the air all around him: on the breeze there came not just the subtle damp of last night’s rain, but all the rustles and chirps and whispers of a forest whose trees seemed to wave and birds seemed to smile. He would’ve thought it a dream, but this was the most awake he’d felt in years, and the most—
“I’ll be in there, if you need me.”
At once, Auriel returned to reality and saw Orin pointing his blade toward a small but by no means ramshackle hut standing a few yards away. Orin began walking toward it before he finished speaking, and when Auriel tired of watching his back—his bulging muscles were equally fascinating and terrifying to see in motion—he turned his attention to the rest of his immediate surroundings.
The hut did not stand alone, rather it had a twin of only slightly smaller size standing just off to the side of Orin’s cottage. It felt odd using the word “cottage” to describe an orc’s home, but looking at it from the outside, one would easily believe that a nice young couple or an even nicer old couple dwelled within it. But no, there was a big, bumbling orc with the body of a beast and the wonder of a child living there instead—as well as Auriel. He lived there too, he supposed, though after seeing Orin wield that jagged weapon so freely, the less inclined he felt to stay his welcome.
He cast one final glance over his shoulder in the direction of the first hut, then shook his head and made his way over to the second one nearer the cottage. Part of him had expected a miniature armory, with spears and shields and blowguns lining every inch of the walls, but he supposed a washroom made much more sense now that he knew Orin bathed. Or, at least, he assumed Orin bathed, considering the lack of foul stench emanating from his skin, as well as the care with which Auriel had been cleaned after his fall. He doubted Orin had gained that experience from bathing other elves he’d found lying facedown in the mud.
By no means was it grand, but it certainly wasn’t squalid, either. The wooden tub was deep and long—Orin-sized, he supposed—with a thin muslin sheet lining the inside. A bucket holding brushes and rags of varying sizes sat to the right of the tub, while a second bucket holding soap and a few other bottled sundries sat to the left. A few feet away there stood a small iron fire pit topped by a large black cauldron.
As he stared into the cauldron and saw his reflection in its shadowed waters, Auriel realized he hadn’t had a bath in nearly a week—not a conscious one, anyway—and, as such, found himself yearning for the warm, herbal soaks that had for so long been his only joy in this world. But this space could never offer the same comfort as his former washroom, and with no prayer of striking a flame in the pit, let alone lifting the pot to the tub, he turned his back and moved on.
Still leery of the second hut and the theoretical horrors that lay within, Auriel walked around the side of the cottage to find a simple stall that housed a sturdy wooden cart and an even sturdier brown horse. It was nothing beautiful, certainly more a mount than a steed, but its mane was smooth, and its coat had a light but present shine. Its beady black eyes had a shine of their own, a wary one that seemed to belie the pleasant swish of its tail. Auriel leaned forward a bit to inspect the horse further, and finding no lesions or other signs of sickness, he extended a hand. But before that hand could touch its crop of hair, the horse flared its nostrils in a manner most severe and expelled a breath so hot and wet that Auriel flinched back a few steps in fright. When it became apparent that the creature had no intention of bursting forth from its stall to trample him, Auriel narrowed his eyes into a scowl and flared his nostrils back before storming off in a flustered huff.
Fortunately, the fluster was short-lived, quelled by the universally calming sound of water running gently over rocks. In following this sound, he traveled further from the cottage than he probably should have, but not so far that he couldn’t find his way back nor call for Orin in a moment of peril. But peril would not find him here, he knew—or, if it did, it would quickly dispel itself upon viewing the viridian idyll as Auriel currently did. This brook did not babble so much as whisper, flowing over stone like the breeze did the leaves to marry with all the buzzing and chirping in a mellifluous natural melody. Gingerly, Auriel lowered himself upon a long, flat stone beneath which the water flowed, and once the initial stings and aches subsided, he removed his shoes, lifted up his pant legs as much as the tied cords would allow, and dipped his feet into the sun-warmed water. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep the fresh, humid air, but despite the peace and serenity all around him, he still struggled to find any of either within himself.
Was there still an army left in Geletra, he wondered, or had his father spread every soldier across eastern Ealla in search of the missing prince? And was it just the Geletran army, or had the forces of Sola Anlae also joined the hunt at Celethir’s behest? Had Seyfrus believed the content of Auriel’s farewell letter, or did he think it forged, part of a much grander scheme to disrupt the royal hierarchy and force Celethir to marry another? And what of Denovin, that poor guard whom Auriel had abused so cruelly? Had he been beaten, imprisoned, exiled, killed? Did he even remember anything that had happened that night, or did the Roseblush leave his memory as blurry as it had his vision, and so he in turn was left to rot or starve or perish without ever understanding why?
These questions and more swirled about his mind in a maelstrom that the surrounding tranquility did little to ease, especially the thoughts of his father. If Celethir flung himself from a balcony or drove a dagger through his heart, Auriel would revel in his anguish, but if Seyfrus did the same…but then, it was Seyfrus who drove him away in the first place, so in one way, he’d brought the suffering upon himself…but Auriel was still the one to ultimately leave, so in another way, he had brought the suffering upon his father…but his father had also brought suffering onto him, so in that way, their actions were balanced…
“Do you like your father?” Orin had asked, and so plainly, too. What kind of question was that? And why didn’t he know the answer? What would Seyfrus say if he were asked the reverse? Auriel knew that Seyfrus loved him, but to like someone, one has to know someone, and in that regard, they were practically strangers. Or, at least, Auriel was a stranger to Seyfrus—hiding a lifetime of one’s true thoughts and feelings definitely creates a distance in acquaintance. And who knew how much Seyfrus had been hiding in return? Certainly not Auriel. Perhaps not anyone—not even himself. That was the curse that plagued his people: They take such great care in painting their facades that they don’t even notice how much of their actual selves has been spilled across the floor. It took talking to an orc for Auriel to realize it—maybe it would take Seyfrus losing his son for him to do the same.
Auriel drew in another breath, far deeper than the initial one had been, and rubbed his eyes with vigor through the exhale. He had to stop doing this. He couldn’t keep circling back to the same questions and lamentations over and over again if he hadn’t made any progress in finding answers nor closure. Still, the question of the search parties was new, as well as pertinent. A leisurely rider could reach Travna from Geletra in about five days, while a determined one could reach it in four. Auriel had been missing for seven at this point, so assuming that they’d left the morning after he had, they could still be in the area. Would they come here, he wondered? Or would they take one look at Orin and run for the hills? Auriel never imagined he’d want Elvish soldiers to leave him with an orc, but being brought back to marry Celethir was a far worse fate than staying here with Orin—at least, he hoped it was. It depended heavily on what he was “skinning” in that second hut.
The rubbing completed, Auriel opened his eyes, hoping to distract himself from his worrisome thoughts with the nature he’d claimed to love so deeply. It was a far cry from the well-manicured gardens of the palace, but in its own simple, wild sort of way, he supposed it was rather picturesque. The grass was untrimmed but still quite lush; the bushes were unsculpted but nevertheless dense; the flowers had no particular arrangement, but none of them seemed out of place or mismatched. Of course, it wasn’t all beautiful. There were also scattered branches and packed leaves and felled tree trunks here and there, most likely casualties of the previous night’s storm. But the birds had seemingly survived, and a group of them currently chittered and chattered amongst themselves atop one of those fallen trunks a few yards away. Auriel stared at them for quite a long time, but they never looked his way. Part of him hoped that they would join him as Marigold had done, but then—
Marigold! What had become of her, he wondered? Did she still come to his window at night, hoping to talk, or had she moved onto another sad prince all alone in his tower? Or, perhaps she had followed him here, watching over him like the guardian spirits of yore whom Orin had mistaken as stump-cursing gods.
He squinted hard at the group of birds, trying to see if she’d taken a place among them, but about halfway through his analysis, a different kind of winged creature caught his eye: a butterfly, its wings painted in malachite green and outlined in copper brown. He’d never seen such a coloring before and was captivated enough to follow it as it flitted toward the water, then away from the water, than toward the birds, then away from the birds, to eventually land with the utmost grace atop an orange flower just a foot or so away.
On a whim, Auriel extended his arm and uncurled two fingers in the butterfly’s direction. It took a few moments for the butterfly to acknowledge him, but once it did, it made the leap from flower petal to finger pad quite eagerly. Slowly, carefully, Auriel drew his arm toward his chest and brought the butterfly mere inches from his eyes, so he could see its wings in greater detail. Up close like this, the green was even more vibrant, and the thick copper bands added a robust quality to an otherwise delicate form.
The butterfly seemed to cock its little head as Auriel stared, but when Auriel did the same, it leapt up from his finger and touched down on his cheek, just below his eye, but only lingered there a moment before fluttering away in the direction of the cottage. It had been startling, of course, but rather than shudder at the feeling of those light little legs on his skin, he smiled and even allowed himself to laugh. The flock of birds had long since departed, but Auriel hadn’t noticed. He wasn’t looking in their direction anymore.