Page 23 of Built Orc Tough
We work like we’ve done this a hundred times—no shouting, no arguing, just motion. Our hands slick with rain and grit, our breath syncing up in that strange, silent rhythm of shared chaos. We don’t even have to look at each other to know what the next move is. We just move.
By the time we’re done, the front room looks like the aftermath of a very elegant apocalypse. But the back room—dry, warm, a little musty—is intact. The candles still work. The herbal bundles hanging overhead sway slightly from the draft, but they hold.
I strike a match and light a few. Ivy’s toweling off her arms with a dishcloth that’s seen better days.
“Charming,” she mutters, collapsing onto the floor like her bones have declared mutiny. “Love what you’ve done with the damp panic aesthetic.”
I grunt as I settle next to her, not quite close, not far either. “Could’ve been worse.”
“You say that like it’s not your fault we didn’t replace the roof beam.”
“It wasn’t the beam. It was the flashing.”
“Oh, excuse me,Mr. Weatherproof.”
She laughs. Really laughs. And it’s rough around the edges, like she doesn’t do it often, but it still manages to punch a hole in the quiet that doesn’t feel like a loss.
The candlelight dances on the herb-laced shelves and the floorboards between us. I set the last candle down on the little side table we use for assembling special orders. Shadows flicker. Ivy’s face softens in the glow, and for a moment, I don’t see the thorns, just the ache behind them.
“This town has a lot more storms than I remember,” she says after a while, still staring at the flame.
“Not just the weather.”
She looks over at me. And something shifts.
I clear my throat. “You ever get used to it? The... rebuilding?”
She shrugs. “Not really. But I’ve gotten better at pretending I know what I’m doing.”
The rain is still going, steady and hard, like a heartbeat above us.
Then I say it, because if I don’t now, I never will. “I used to fight in the pits.”
Her head turns fast. “What?”
I nod, eyes fixed on the flickering candle. “Gladiator circuit. Long time ago. Before I found this—before the herbs. Before I figured out I could help people without breaking things.”
Her eyes go wide, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t recoil. She just says, “That’s... a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say, dry as bone. “It was. I got out after I realized I was starting to enjoy it too much.”
She’s quiet for a second. Then: “Well, I used to think floral arrangements could save marriages.”
That gets a real laugh out of me, low and worn. “More optimistic than me.”
She grins. “Less bloody, anyway.”
The silence after that isn’t empty. It’s heavy. Full of things we’re not saying but both thinking.
“You ever think about leaving?” she asks quietly.
“Used to,” I say. “Every week.”
“And now?”
I turn to her. “Depends who stays.”
She looks down, biting her cheek. Then she says it so soft I almost miss it. “Maybe staying’s the braver thing.”
