Page 25 of Halfling
Sorcha came up behind him to see the poor creature. Perhaps a few weeks old, its eyes were open and staring wide at them in its black mask markings. It held still in the face of bigger animals, but its little body quivered with terror.
With another soft hum, Orek walked around the tree and found a hole high enough up that he had to get on his toes to peer inside.
“There’s a den,” he said. “More kits but no mother here. He must’ve fallen out.”
Already small, the kit looked positively tiny in his huge green hands, but he held it with the utmost gentleness, turning it about to examine. His thick brows came down in a frown.
“What?” she whispered, drawing even closer.
“His leg is broken.”
Indeed, she saw how the kit held its front right leg awkwardly and away from them.
“Can we reset it and put him back with his siblings?”
“He won’t be able to walk if the mother moves the den. And even if she doesn’t…”
Sorcha pinched her lips together again, heart hurting. She knew it was this way sometimes; it was a mercy to put a horse down, even foals if they were injured or not right. She never wanted to, but she wanted them to suffer even less.
Her question of what they should do stuck in her throat.
With a grimace, Orek took the kit’s little leg between his fingers and in a swift move reset the bone. The kit yowled in pain, and Orek made calming, shushing noises as he stroked its little body.
When the kit calmed a little, he pulled his jerkin away from his chest and placed the baby between the leather and his tunic. Kept warm but somewhat immobile, the kit’s nose twitched and it made a little squeak, but it didn’t fight to free itself.
Sorcha’s mouth opened in astonishment, but no words left her lips.
“I will care for him,” he said. “Perhaps I can return him later. They heal quickly.”
She blinked at him but finally nodded. Another blush dusted his cheeks as he led them back to their original path through the forest, the kit tucked into his jerkin.
Sorcha couldn’t help wondering how the orc felt now acquiring two strays in almost as many days.
6
The raccoon kit proved to be even more demanding of a travel companion than Sorcha, though like her, a warm meal and cozy rest did it good. When they stopped for the night, the kit still shivered in fear, though it’d made little noise through the rest of the day. Orek spent most of the evening feeding it choice bits of their meal.
The kit seemed old enough for solid food, but Orek first soaked the corner of a rag in broth and let it suckle on that. The kit squeaked happily and flexed its little claws in grabbing motions, demanding more. Orek pulled bits of meat and carrot from his bowl of stew, waiting until they were lukewarm to bite them into smaller portions.
“Ah ah,darrah,slowly,” he chided the greedy little thing as it grabbed food from his fingers.
It scarfed down the tidbit happily, rumbling and squeaking with its black eyes sparkling until, finally full, the kit settled down to sleep.
Orek didn’t quite know what possessed him to take on the young creature. He’d seen his share of animals in distress; he helped where he could, feeding mothers with kits or cubs or fawns, ending the suffering of the diseased or wounded, or reuniting lost babies with searching mothers. Yes, he hunted for the clan, but that didn’t mean he acted cruelly or treated everything as prey.
The kit was so young but had a strong spirit. Already it was learning to trust, and Orek could admit the warm weight of it against his chest was a pleasant one.
“Sleep well,darrah,” he crooned to the kit, finally tucking into his stew.
Sorcha watched on quietly from the other side of the fire, an enigmatic smile hovering on her lips. He didn’t know what it meant and blushed each time he saw it.
Truly, he’d never blushed so much in his life as with this female. It was pathetic.
“What will you name him?” she asked softly.
He looked at her in surprise. He hadn’t considered naming the kit, hadn’t named anything in his life. Something with a name was easier to grow attached to.
Orek peered down at the sleeping kit. Running a finger down its head and back, the kit yawned and squeaked happily, rooting into the warmth of Orek’s chest.
