Page 15 of Halfling
Nodding, Sorcha went back to the pack and heaved it up. Dropping it next to his legs, she ignored his pained look as she rummaged around, undoing all his neat folding and orderly stacks. She pulled out furs and a tunic and two bags of what smelled like food. She blushed when her stomach growled.
Finally her fingers brushed a ceramic pot and she fished it out. He was pointedly not looking at the mess she’d made but did nod when she held up the little pot for him to see.
He leaned to the side, pulling his jerkin and shirt up to give her a better look. The gore wasn’t as bad as it looked, not too deep, just wide and bloody. She didn’t think he’d need to be stitched together—which was best for both of them. Sorcha had never been gifted with needlework.
She cleansed it quickly, unable to help her stare when he grimaced. His wide lips pulled back across big teeth, mostly human in shape. No orcish tusks, but his lower eyeteeth were almost twice as long as a human’s, jutting up like fangs. They set evenly when his mouth clicked closed, hidden again behind lips twisted in discomfort.
Sorcha cleared her throat and began applying ample dollops of the salve. It had a medicinal, herbal smell that made her think of her auntie’s house. Aunt Sofie was the village medicine woman, and great bunches of drying herbs always hung in thick fronds from her rafters. She loved visiting her auntie, the fragrant front room her little sanctuary from the chaos that was her own house, filled to the brim with siblings.
The eldest of seven, she’d spent her life helping her mother care for her younger siblings while their father was off on knightly pursuits, and she often needed a little escape now and then. Guilt rode her hard now, looking back on how selfish she’d been, how she’d taken that time for granted. Her mother relied on her; her siblings needed her.
I have to get back.
The thought sent a stab of longing through her, and she had to fight back the tears as she finished applying the salve.
If she thought about her family too much, her home, her life, she’d break down into a useless puddle of tears. Anger and outrage had been her fuel, seeing her through those long days of suffocating in her own hot, stale breath as bony shoulders drove into her vulnerable guts.
Now, though, the delicate stirrings of hope fluttered in her chest. She’d gotten out of that tent, that camp full of orcs. They’d crossed the river. That had to mean something.
So she needed this orc alive because, for now, he was her best hope.
That didn’t stop her from tucking away an extra knife she found in the pack into her boot, though. She wasn’t stupid. When he was home, her father, Sir Ciaran, had taught her plenty. Like taking opportunities when they presented themselves and gutting an opponent from the soft bits up.
Better to be with one orc out here than tied up in a camp of them.One of them she could handle. Probably.
Sorcha gently smoothed a clean rag over the wound as a makeshift bandage before leaning back and replacing the lid on the little pot.
“We should wrap that. And you should get out of your wet clothes.”
His eyes cut to hers, and she hoped he couldn’t see her blush.
But he only sighed and eased further back against the tree. “In a moment.”
Instead, he began poking through the pile she’d made of his things. She felt a little guilty for that but bit her tongue to stop from offering to put it back. Somehow, she didn’t think he wanted her handling his things even more.
He threw one of the furs her way and said, “Use this to warm up.”
It wasn’t the softest she’d ever touched nor the finest, but in that moment, it was the most wonderful thing in her world. She drew it around her shoulders and sank a cheek into the fur, humming in happiness.
The orc shifted, and his look wasn’t pained so much as…
Well, she didn’t really know. But he’d been watching her raptly before she caught him. He looked away quickly, drawing a small bag closer and digging through it. He next threw her something small.
She caught it with the blanket and thought for a moment that the morsel was some sort of dried meat. In the sparse light, it looked and felt like jerky, but when she took a bite, expecting resistance, her teeth easily sank through the mildly sweet flesh of dried carrot.
“Orcs eat carrots?”
His silent blink had her blushing again. She couldn’t help it, everything she’d heard about his kind said that they ate meat, only meat, and weren’t picky about where the flesh came from.
“This one does,” he said.
Well, a dried root had never been so delicious, and she happily ate another when he offered. They sat in companionable silence, chewing carrots and sipping from a canteen, and Sorcha was relieved when her stomach ceased grumbling.
Content for the moment, she drew the fur closer around her and said, “I’m Sorcha, by the way.”
He looked at her for a long moment, not saying anything, and Sorcha began to worry that maybe he didn’t have a name. Perhaps orcs didn’t have them the same way humans did. She’d just begun to squirm when he finally replied.
“Orek.”
