Page 64 of Halfling
Anghus reemerged from the cold-house they’d dug in the shade of the forest carrying a tray laden with meats and bread loaves. “We’ve got cold cut chicken or—”
“Mama mama mama mama!”
The squeal of the children cut across the clearing, and the three adults looked sharply up to where the children ran from the barn. Brigid cut across the clearing like an arrow with Darrah cuddled to her chest and her brother toddling behind.
“What is it?” asked Anghus, frown darkening his face.
“He’s awake!” cried Brigid, collapsing into her mother’s skirts.
“Green man!” added Bram, clinging to his father’s boots.
Heart seizing, Sorcha shot across the clearing faster than she thought her tired body capable, yet it wasn’t fast enough for her.
She startled all the animals, snorts and bleats of offense harmonizing with the fastthump-thumpof her heartbeat.
Sorcha skidded to a stop before the open stall.
Orek peered back at her with a dazed expression, his brows knit in confusion. Pieces of hay stuck out of his loose braid, and she didn’t know if he realized he wiggled his blunt green toes.
He gazed at her for a long moment, those hazel eyes gone a rich amber in the lower light of the barn. His nostrils flared, taking in the myriad of scents, quickly followed by a twitch when he breathed in the smell of hay and animals.
“Sorcha…where are we?” he said, voice rasping with disuse.
It was the sound of her name on his lips that finally broke her. Collapsing on her knees beside him, Sorcha threw her arms around his shoulders, careful of his stitches. She buried her face in his thick neck and couldn’t stop the tears as they spilled in fat drops from her eyes.
The worry, the fear, it all poured out of her onto his unwitting shoulder.
She heard him make a baffled sound followed by soothing noises over the din of her sobs. A huge warm hand gently clasped the back of her head, and another gently covered her hand.
“It’s all right,” he rumbled, and she felt the words vibrate against her lips.
That only made her sob harder, which pulled a panicked sound from his throat.
More shushing noises, more soothing hands, and after a few long moments, Sorcha was able to master her tears. When she finally leaned back, it was with a feeling of being scooped out and scraped clean. In a good way. She’d left an ocean of saltwater on her poor, baffled companion, the tears still tracking down his naked chest.
He looked at her with concern, like the slightest movement might send her howling again.
With the worry purged in the face of him awake, effervescent relief came flooding in the hollow left behind.
Face cracking with a smile, she cried, “You’re awake!”
16
Orcs were many things—cantankerous, rowdy, brutal, covetous, loyal—but one thing they decidedlyweren’twas fussy. Even those parents who wanted and loved their orclings didn’t coddle them, instead encouraging them to brawl and explore and shout. Scars were worn with pride, and a decent story always had at least one epic fight in it. Disagreements were solved with fists, and arguments won by who was the loudest.
Having grown up in what he believed to be a typical orc clan, Orek wasn’t prepared for the fussing.
For three days, Sorcha fussed over him.
She hovered nearby, often checking on him, always asking what she could do, what he needed. She plied him with food and fluffed his blankets and fiddled with his bandages and applied ointment and cleaned his weapons for him and brought him his meals. When he told her not to worry herself, that he could feed himself and clean his own weapons later and was capable of moving the blankets, she only grew more upset. So Orek learned quickly that the best thing to do was let her fuss.
And truly, it wasn’t a burden.
He’d never been fussed over before.
Never beencared forbefore.
Once he stopped resisting, Orek enjoyed it. The undertone of guilt and bafflement never quite left him, but he couldn’t argue with making Sorcha happy. And caring for him for some reason made her happy, or if not happy then content, or if not content then more at ease.
