Chapter 9

SITA

I t’s late by the time we return to Gurrek’s house, and I know it was slow going with my additional weight on his back. I feel nothing but guilt as he lowers me to the ground, the sole of my shoe still flopping around.

After dinner, when he cooks up the delicious mushrooms we found today, Gurrek tries to repair the shoes with thread and a needle—but the shoe simply rips open again when I put it on my foot. They’re hopeless.

Gurrek sighs and rubs his forehead, like this has brought on a headache. I have another pair of shoes, but they’re just as old and useless. I’ll probably need new ones.

Great. Just like the chair. I don’t want to have to ask Gurrek for new ones, but it might become necessary when it snows.

As usual, he heads to bed soon after dinner. Perhaps he draws or writes in the evenings when he’s locked up in his room. I make up a theory that Gurrek writes poetry, merely because I’m amused by the idea of an orc writing poetry. I wonder what it would be about. His hammer?

I heard an odd noise coming from his room the other night—something that sounded like a moan. My face had heated imagining what he was doing behind that closed door. I suppose he is a male with needs, but instantly I pictured what Gurrek would look like, touching himself on the other side of the wall from me.

My whole body had heated up, from my face to my pelvis.

When I’ve finished tidying and cleaning every crevice of the house, I go to bed myself while thinking about our lovely walk in the woods today. Though we couldn’t carry on conversation, it felt almost comfortable, and I think that’s the most I can ask for in this relationship.

The following morning after breakfast, Gurrek drops me off at Merka’s house. Unlike my husband, who always has a tight frown on his face, Merka almost smiles when she sees me. I think we could become friends, despite all the barriers of language and culture between us. Living this quiet and lonely life with Gurrek, I appreciate that more than I can express.

That day, working at the looms, I learn phrases like “good job” and “excellent work.” Merka praises me often, which buoys my spirits, even though I’m sure half the time she’s merely trying to encourage me.

At lunchtime, we practice more Orcish. The old woman brings out some lunch and we role play the meal—when it tastes good, when it tastes bad, how to thank someone for cooking for you. There are many cultural phrases like this, I’m learning, that don’t appear to have a direct translation. That will make it difficult for me, but Merka seems intent on breaking it down to the smallest pieces possible.

Then we resume work, and she teaches me more detailed lines and patterns on the loom. I mix them into the blanket I’m weaving, experimenting with different colors as I go. It looks a little wild, but maybe that’s okay for my first try. I choose colors like the leaves we saw yesterday to go with my deep green base color, and the yellows, oranges and reds are lovely and vibrant against it.

When we’re finished for the day, once again Gurrek is waiting for me, leaning back against a tree. I say, “ Thank you for coming ,” and he raises an eyebrow at Merka. She grins, then pats me on the shoulder before Gurrek and I depart.

Once we’re home, rather than starting on dinner right away, Gurrek retreats into his room. He returns a moment later carrying a sack, and with a stiff arm, he offers it to me.

Curious, I open the bag. Waiting inside... are a pair of brand-new boots, solid and shiny, with thick leather soles. I gasp as I pull them out, and find that they’re lined with a thin layer of fur.

Gurrek got these? For me ?

I stare up at him, astonished and dumbfounded at the quality of the leather, the thickness of the sole, and open my mouth to utter one thousand thank you s. Instead, I find he’s already turned his back to me and has begun busying about the kitchen. But I’m so overwhelmed with gratitude that it doesn’t bother me. Instead, I peel off my threadbare shoes, then slip on the new ones.

“ Beautiful ,” I say aloud, tying the laces on my left shoe, then the right one. When I stand up, I gasp again, stunned at how tight they are, and so supportive . Not to mention warm and plush on the inside.

I catch Gurrek glancing at me from the side of his eye. He says something in Orcish, and I only catch a few words—one of them being “ good .”

I nod rapidly. “ Good ,” I say agreeably, flexing my feet. “ Very good .”

Just the slightest hint of a smile pulls at his broad, thick lips, which has the rather adorable effect of lifting his left tusk up to his cheek. I’ve gotten used to how he looks, I realize, even though he’s so distinctly not-human.

“ Thank you ,” I say, clasping the boots as I take them off my feet. The leather is stiff and new, so it will take me a little time to break them in. I set them neatly by the front door beside Gurrek’s boots, which are twice as large, and pet mine one more time before returning to the table.

“ You’re welcome ,” Gurrek says. Then he resumes what he’s doing in silence.

I don’t mind it anymore. He’s a quiet orc, which reminds me of my mother. Van is always the one talking while she and I listen. He takes after our father that way.

I think how my family could never have afforded shoes like this, not in our wildest dreams, and my cheeks feel tight. My mother and brother will never know what it’s like to have a brand-new pair of fur-lined shoes, made just in their size.

That night, I stay up much too late remembering home and wondering how Mother and Van are doing in my absence. Has Van taken my old job? Did he quit school?

I hope that what the orcs sent will be enough to care for them for many months to come, so I can at least assuage some of my guilt for eating delicious food and wearing new boots.

For the next week, we follow the same pattern: Gurrek takes me to Merka’s house before heading to the forge. I’m there all day, practicing the loom and then learning Orcish, before Merka sends me home again. It feels like going to school when I was a child.

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to sneak into the forge again. I would like to watch Gurrek work. And after he bought me those new boots, which are far nicer than the minimum requirement for a pair of shoes, I want to contribute. Maybe if I could help, he might stay up an hour later after dinner. If I could be useful, he might talk to me like his peer, rather than like a pet or a child. Though I have more words at my disposal now, we still cannot necessarily talk, and Gurrek rarely tries.

One evening, after I’ve cooked dinner—though Gurrek hovered over me the entire time—he beckons me to follow him to my bedroom. Curious, I dry my hands on a towel and follow him through the door.

Now, instead of a pile of furs on the floor, there is a simple wooden bed frame covered with a goose down mattress. Opposite stands a dresser, also built straightforward and sturdy and pushed up against the wall. I gape at these two new objects, the wood bright and new, and then turn to Gurrek.

“For me?” I ask, my voice pitched higher than I intended.

I thought I would sleep on the floor forever, like a dog. I’m not sure how to feel—grateful that I’ll have a comfortable place to rest my head at night, and he won’t ask me to sleep with him. But what an expenditure! I can’t imagine how much new wood furniture like this must have cost.

Gurrek never wanted me, and despite that, he’s trying to make it comfortable for me here. He may be cold and silent, but despite that, I thank him profusely.

He doesn’t answer my gratitude with anything more than a nod. Then he leaves the room and gets to cleaning the kitchen as if it never happened.

I curl up that night, cozy in my new, soft bed, thinking of the one I had back home. It kept coming apart at the seams, and every time, we would stuff it full again, sewing up the corners whenever down leaked out.

It’s strange how it makes me feel even more homesick, to not be sleeping on the floor. Now I know this is permanent—that’s what this bed says.

And I’m truly not going home, not ever again.

A few days later we go on another nature walk, but this time I have my new boots, and I can keep up much better with Gurrek on the rough terrain. We gather more mushrooms, and now I feel far more confident about picking out the good ones and avoiding the poisonous ones. We glimpse a few animals during our trek, and I ask Gurrek what each is called. This time, he’s a little less annoyed as he repeats the words for me. I learn dove and fox , and I’ve started to appreciate how complex but also beautiful Orcish is.

When we get home, I take a long bath in the tub and massage my feet, which are sore from breaking in my new boots.

Gurrek and I spoke more today than we have any time previously, and it gives me hope—but hope for what, I’m not sure. At least with Merka, the more I learn, the faster I learn, and that allows me to believe that someday I can hold a real conversation with Gurrek. Maybe then I can tell him all the things I’m thinking, and find out what he’s thinking, too. Otherwise, he is no more than a monolith, indecipherable and still as a stone.

I wish I had something to go on, because as the days crawl past, the silence grows painful. I miss my village more with each passing hour, thinking of how I used to meet my friends every so often to laugh and gossip, how Van would talk my ear off about his latest passion.

Here, though, every night is the same routine of a silent dinner, and then Gurrek stalking off to bed soon after. I almost wish I lived with Merka, instead, so at least I would have real company in the evenings.

But even as Gurrek keeps me locked out tight, I still remember him in the forge that afternoon. The image of his body, streaked with sweat and glimmering in the firelight, makes my thighs tremble. Shamefully, I think about that image as I lie on the new bed that Gurrek had made for me and reach down between my legs.

Nights like these, I find my clit, and down below it, I discover I’m already getting wet. Thinking about him without those leather trousers or that apron does this to me.

My finger coasts over my pearl, testing it out, and I’m already sensitive. If I didn’t know Gurrek finds me repulsive, it would be easy to imagine his finger there, teasing me, petting me. I rub faster, my pleasure surprisingly heightened, and arch my hips into my hand. My rhythm goes wobbly as I get closer and closer, having a harder time controlling my movements. Gurrek would have no such trouble, though, as he leaned over me, his hand bringing me nearer to the edge.

I clamp down on my tongue to hold in a moan when I finally get there, and it’s so good that I even drip a little onto my bed.

Damn.

I feel ashamed as I climb under my blankets, imagining Gurrek this way. He would never touch me like that. He would never even dream of it.

That’s why I chose him, after all. But now, I wish it was different—that maybe there could be some kind of closeness, some kind of affection, between us.

But it’s not meant to be.

The following evening, I find Gurrek out back, trying to chop wood for the fire. I come out and offer to help, but he’s doubtful as I gesture to the axe, then mimic chopping. He spends all day in the forge making the same gesture over and over, and it can’t be good for his wrists.

“Too heavy for you,” Gurrek explains patiently.

I frown at him. I may be smaller, but I’ve still chopped wood before. I take the axe from his hands, preparing for the weight of it—but I’m not prepared enough. The axe is so heavy that I nearly fall over forward when I grab onto the handle. Gurrek reaches out to steady me, and laughs as he takes the axe away, hefting it up easily over his shoulder.

“Axe for an orc wife,” he says. “Not a human wife.”

I don’t think he intends it, but the words are like a slap across the face. An orc wife could help chop wood. An orc wife could help carry it inside.

A human wife is much too small and pathetic.

I don’t touch myself that night. I’m not at all what Gurrek wants. That kind of romantic future would never be possible with him, and I’m a fool for even fantasizing about it.

I think Merka detects the dip in my mood the next day because she asks how I’m doing. But when I try to wave her off, she’s even more determined and encourages me to talk about how I feel. It’s difficult to learn these types of words, the ones that can’t be pointed at, but we’re working through it together.

“I feel sad,” I tell her finally.

“Why?”

I search my limited vocabulary for how best to answer. “One friend,” I say, pointing at her.

Merka nods and smiles. “A friend.”

While I appreciate knowing she feels the same way, it’s not what’s missing in my life.

I set my jaw. “One friend, but no husband.”

Merka’s eyebrows fly high into her hair. Then she cocks her head.

“No husband? Gurrek is your husband.”

I shake my head. “No, he isn’t.” Of course he’s not. I’m a nuisance that was thrust upon him, little more than a pet he needs to care for. I will never be a woman to him.

Merka gives me a long, searching look, then lets out a heavy breath. She looks off to the west, where we can see the back porch of Gurrek’s house through the trees.

“He is your husband,” she says after a time. “Even if he doesn’t know it right now.”

But she’s wrong. He’ll never be that person for me, and I’ll never be that person for him. We’re stuck with each other, very much against his will. He makes that clear enough every night when he stalks off to bed right after sunset without saying another word to me.

“Do you need help?” Merka asks.

“Help?” I echo. How could she possibly help me?

She nods rapidly. “Yes, yes. I can help. Here.” After fetching us lunch, she sets it all down in front of me.

“ Gakka az nayag ,” she says, and has me repeat it a few times. “This means the dishes are all delicious together.”

Once I’ve memorized it, we move through other objects that I would encounter at home and would mean something to Gurrek. I learn the Orcish word for “forge,” and Merka instructs me in how metal is melted and then hammered into a blade. It’s a lot to absorb, but she lets me make notes as she teaches me, and that helps me to remember.

“ Darzan agak .” She lifts a hammer from her own set of tools. This is an important one, given Gurrek’s occupation. It’s a rather long name for a simple object, but I commit it to memory.

Armed with my new knowledge, I’m excited when I step out and see Gurrek is waiting for me in his usual place propped up against the tree.

“How was work?” I ask him as we head home.

He always gives me a strange look when I use whole sentences, like he can’t believe Merka’s lessons are working, and he’s surprised to learn I can speak at all.

“Fine,” he says with a grunt. We walk in silence until we reach the house. Then Gurrek pauses. “How was your day with Merka?”

I light up at the question. He never asks me such things, as if he assumes I won’t be able to understand him, so why bother?

“Good! I learned many things. My blanket is...” I search for the right phrase. “Baby? Almost adult.”

At first, Gurrek is astonished, and then he laughs. It is a wonderful, rare sound, and I feel like I could float off into the sky.

“Baby?” He opens the front door, still chuckling. “Baby blanket.”

“Baby blanket,” I agree. “Almost adult blanket.”

He snorts, and I’m pleased that for once, I could amuse him.

It’s Gurrek’s night to prepare dinner, but I help as I can now that I’ve learned how he goes about things in the kitchen. I make sure to never get in the way, simply providing what he needs the moment he needs it. I know when he adds salt to the potatoes, when he wants the meat flipped or turned, so I do it for him. Sometimes he rewards me with a nod of approval and moves on to his next task faster.

When it’s finished and we’ve seated ourselves at the table—which has been lowered significantly, not without a lot of work on Gurrek’s part—I gesture at the spread in front of us.

“ Gakka az nayag !” I say with enthusiasm.

Instead of the pleased reaction I’m expecting, though, Gurrek’s hand freezes over the tongs, and his eyes go huge and wide.

“What?” he asks, brows furrowing. “Say that again?”

But now I think I’ve made a mistake. I remember back to what Merka said earlier today, and repeat it a second time, exactly as she did.

“ Gakka az nayag ?” I attempt, and the dark green shading on Gurrek’s face grows even darker. He looks away and coughs into his arm, dropping the tongs.

“Did Merka teach you this?” he asks, still unwilling to look at me.

What have I just said?

“...Yes?”

Gurrek lets out a huff, then returns to serving the food. He still hasn’t stopped blushing, though, if that color to his face is what I think it is.

“What did I say?” I ask, my voice trembling with humiliation.

He just shakes his head. “I will not say,” he growls. I shrink further down into my chair. “Merka should be ashamed.”

So much for helping me get a husband, I think, as we eat in a painful silence. All it’s done is push him even further away.

After Gurrek has gone to bed that night, I slink back to my room, climb under the covers, and rub my eyes as tears come.

It’s the first time I’ve cried since leaving home. They are tears of hopelessness, of mourning, for my family. For people who loved me, who cared about me, who gave me a true home. For friends, for my village, for a feeling of belonging.

I will never experience that again. I will be a stranger here forever, in Gurrek’s home, with no one to call my own.