9. Hayden

9

HAYDEN

I tend to my wound, hissing in pain. The snake hit me with its hard tail as I retreated. Fortunately, it was not at full force. If not because of that mysterious orc, I’d be dead by now.

My mind is in turmoil as I flee through the forest, putting as much distance as I can between myself and the orc who just saved my life. Cagan, I think his name was. I've seen him watching me before, always from a distance, his eyes curious and intense. But why? What could he possibly want from me?

I try to make sense of his actions, his unexpected kindness. He risked his own life to protect me from that monstrous snake, fought with a savage ferocity that both terrified and thrilled me. And the way he looked at me afterwards, his gaze a mix of concern and something else I couldn't quite decipher…

Part of me is tempted to go back, to thank him properly and maybe even learn more about this enigmatic orc who seems so interested in my wellbeing. But fear and mistrust win out. I've been alone for so long, relying on no one but myself. I can't afford to let my guard down, to trust a stranger just because he did me one good turn.

"I won't go back there," I mutter to myself as I navigate the familiar paths of my forest home. "It's too risky. I don't know his true intentions."

But even as I make this vow, I can't shake the memory of Cagan's playful smile, the way his eyes seemed to dance with warmth and mischief when he looked at me. It's a stark contrast to the brutal warrior who dispatched that anaconda with such ruthless efficiency.

The next day, I find my resolve crumbling. I'm restless, my thoughts consumed by the orc I'm trying so hard to forget. Something deep within me is urging me to return to the spot where he saved me, to see if he's there. It's foolish, I know. But I can't seem to help myself.

When I finally give in to the impulse, the sun is already high in the sky, way past my usual foraging time. I tell myself it's just curiosity, a need for closure. But if I'm honest, there's a flutter of excitement in my stomach as I approach the fateful clearing.

I freeze when I see him, my heart stuttering in my chest. Cagan is there, his broad form hunched over something on the ground. As I watch, he stands and stretches, and I realize what he's doing. He's drying strips of meat in the sun - the snake meat.

Cautiously, I step closer, marveling at the neat, precise cuts of the snake flesh arranged on the flat rock. He gutted and cleaned the carcass, I realize with a start. And he did it for me.

Cagan spots me then, his face lighting up with a grin that makes my pulse skip.

"Hey there," he calls out, his deep voice carrying easily across the distance between us. "I prepared this for you. Thought you could use the extra food."

I stare at him, my tongue tied and my mind racing. Why is he doing this? What does he hope to gain? I'm acutely aware of the space separating us, the way we're shouting to be heard. It feels safer this way, maintaining a buffer. But also strangely awkward, like we're play-acting at normalcy.

"It's fine," Cagan assures me, seeming to sense my hesitation. "You can take the meat. No strings attached."

I shake my head, a refusal forming on my lips even as my traitorous stomach lets out an audible grumble. I flush, embarrassed and annoyed by my body's betrayal. It's true that I haven't had proper meat in weeks, subsisting mostly on foraged plants and the occasional small game. But accepting food from Cagan feels like a step too far, a debt I'm not ready to incur.

I take a step back, ready to flee back into the forest and put this whole confusing encounter behind me. But something in Cagan's eyes stops me. It's not pity or condescension I see, but genuine care and a hint of pleading.

He wants me to take the meat, I realize with a jolt. Not because he thinks I'm weak or incapable, but because he wants to help. Because for some unfathomable reason, my wellbeing matters to him.

I waver, torn between pride and pragmatism, suspicion and a strange, nascent trust. I don't know what to make of this orc, with his gentle smiles and fierce protectiveness. I don't know if I can afford to let him in, to rely on anyone but myself.

But as my stomach clenches again, hollow with hunger, I feel my resolve crumbling. Maybe, just this once, it's okay to accept a bit of kindness. Maybe Cagan's offer of help doesn't have to come with hidden expectations or dangers.

And maybe, if I'm very lucky, this could be the start of something new and wonderful. A connection, a friendship, a lifeline in a world that has taught me to be wary of others.

It's a risk, I know. But something tells me it's one that just might be worth taking.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I turn to face Cagan fully. "Leave it," I say, my voice ringing out clear and firm across the clearing. "Go."

He stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I brace myself for an argument, for the cajoling or pressure I'm so used to from men trying to get their way. But to my surprise, a slow smile spreads across his face, warm and genuine.

Cagan nods, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sure," he agrees easily, his tone light and unbothered. "Just be sure to eat, okay?"

I blink, taken back by his ready acquiescence. Is that really it? No attempts to change my mind, no wounded pride or angry demands? Just a simple request for me to take care of myself?

Before I can formulate a response, Cagan is turning away, his broad shoulders squared as he starts to walk off. "I'll leave you to it, then," he calls over his shoulder, his voice carrying a note of cheerful nonchalance. "Enjoy the snake meat!"

I watch him go, my mind reeling with confusion and a strange, fluttering warmth in my chest. He's leaving, just like that. As if his only reason for being here, for going through the trouble of butchering and drying the anaconda, was to make sure I had enough to eat.

It doesn't make sense. Orcs don't just give without expecting something in return. Especially not men, and definitely not orcs. There has to be a catch, some hidden motive or agenda I'm not seeing.

But as Cagan's figure disappears into the treeline, I can't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he's different. That his kindness and concern are genuine, born of a pure and uncomplicated desire to help.

I turn back to the strips of snake meat, laid out neatly on the sun-warmed rock. The sight of so much food, freely given and carefully prepared, makes my mouth water and my stomach clench with longing. It's been so long since I've had a proper meal, let alone one I didn't have to fight or scavenge for myself.

A sudden, insidious thought worms its way into my mind, making me freeze with my hand outstretched. What if it's a trick? A trap, designed to lull me into a false sense of security? What if the meat is poisoned, or enchanted with some foul magic?

I snatch my hand back, my heart pounding with renewed fear and suspicion. I can't trust this. Can't trust him. It's too good to be true, too easy and convenient. There has to be a price, a hidden danger lurking beneath the surface.

But even as I try to convince myself to walk away, to leave the tempting offering untouched, a small voice in the back of my mind protests. It whispers of Cagan's gentle smile, the way his eyes had shone with genuine warmth and care. The selfless way he had risked his own life to save mine, expecting nothing in return.

"He's not like the others," the voice insists, soft but insistent. "He doesn't want to hurt you. He just wants to help."

I waver, torn between the ingrained paranoia that has kept me alive all these years and the tentative, fragile hope blossoming in my chest. I think of Cagan's parting words, the simple, earnest request for me to eat and take care of myself.

Maybe it's not a trick. Maybe, for once in my lonely, hardscrabble life, I've stumbled upon someone who genuinely cares. Someone who sees me for me, not a pawn or a prize to be won.

I take a deep breath, my decision made. Slowly, carefully, I reach out and pick up a strip of snake meat, bringing it to my nose to sniff gingerly. It smells rich and savory, with no hint of anything amiss. And beneath the smoky aroma of the dried flesh, I catch a faint whiff of something else. Something warm and comforting, like the memory of a kind smile and gentle eyes.

"Okay, Cagan," I murmur to myself, a tiny smile tugging at my lips as I take a tentative bite. "I'll trust you. Just this once."

The meat is tough and chewy, but it tastes like heaven on my tongue.

And as I settle down to enjoy my meal, I can't help but wonder what will happen in the near future. For me, for Cagan, for this strange and tentative connection forming between us.

Hmm… I'm not as alone as I thought. And maybe, with a little luck and a lot of courage, I won't have to be alone ever again.