Page 18 of Halfling
Her…travel companion proved to be terse at best. She hadn’t decided yet if it was because he genuinely didn’t enjoy speaking or if he was unpracticed with the human tongue. Either way, his sentences were succinct and never unprompted.
Sorcha found herself filling the emptiness, speaking of the trees and the clouds and the ominous look of some of them.
“Though I suppose rain would help clear away our tracks,” she allowed.
The orc merely huffed in agreement.
He huffed often.
Or, if not often, enough to mark it as a noise that wasn’t just one of irritation. Sometimes it was in response to taking a long draught of air, checking for scents. She knew from a morning of watching him the difference between a good scent huff and a worrying scent huff. She knew the difference between a huff of agreement and one of reluctant amusement.
He had so many, that when he did actually huff at her in irritation, it took her aback.
She followed behind him now, still pondering. The wide expanse of his shoulders looked tense under the weight of the pack, and she couldn’t help feeling one of those pointed ears was always turned toward her.
The silence ate at her, but she didn’t know what to do, how to fill it.
But it, and the rigidity of his shoulders, remained through the day. It wasn’t until afternoon waned into evening, the sun disappearing behind the trees and the air growing cool, that she finally had the opportunity to break it.
“We’re stopping?”
He nodded. “Better not to walk at night. Wolves.”
She chewed her cheek harder, looking in the deepening shadows expecting to find a pack of luminous eyes leering at her from the dark. It was one thing to hear the wolf and coyote packs howl in the night, safe under her blankets behind several locked doors; the sound could be haunting, magical even. It was entirely another to have nothing but a little knife and a mysterious male between them instead.
When she peered back at him, brimming with questions, it was to find him with the pack set down and already beginning to steeple a handful of twigs for a fire.
Making camp. Preparing dinner. These she knew how to do.
“Let me help,” she said in relief, nearly falling on the fledgling fire.
A rumble accompanied his huff this time as she reached for the striker flint in his hands. Before she could do anything else, sparks flew from the rocks and caught on the dry tinder.
Sorcha wrenched her hands back before the fire could grow and catch her sleeve, hoping he didn’t see her embarrassed flush.
Setting herself alight wasn’t helpful.
She cleared her throat. “I can help. You’ve done all the carrying and guiding. I can…help.” She hated how small the words made her sound.
The orc peered up at her from his crouch, and it was an odd sensation to look down upon him, though he wasn’t much shorter than her like this. His hazel eyes had darkened to an amber brown in the coming gloam, peering at her through a thick fan of lashes. Those heavy brows ticked down, and at first Sorcha was sure he’d refuse her.
Then he nodded brusquely and pulled a small pot from his enormous pack.
Fates, how much does he have in there?
She helped gather long, sturdy sticks to hang the little pot and more tinder for their fire. The fringes of night crept ever closer, and unease grew in the pit of her belly, not sure if she imagined the glint of eyes through the trees.
The orc said nothing when she brought back what felt like her weight in wood, though she swore his brow arched.
She wanted a big fire that would last the night.
Sorcha sat down by the growing fire, close enough to watch his task but just out of his reach.
He’d gathered ingredients for a simple stew, pulling more dried carrots, roots, and meat from his pack. Steam rose in enticing tendrils from the pot, but he’d yet to add anything else, instead rummaging in his pack for more.
Eyeing what he’d laid out, Sorcha stood again to retrace their steps, returning quickly with her prize. Both brows ticked up this time when she handed over her find, a handful of wild onion.
“These should do nicely.”
