#book look | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

teenmom8019 · 2 years

Text

Sometimes there were images. Sometimes flashes of colors—green, brown, black and grey. Sometimes there was pain shooting through her fiery red or a throbbing, steady ache. She dreamed of Papa—younger and holding her on his knee and telling her stories, older and blind and frail. She dreamed of those men, beating her, cutting her. When she tried to open her eyes, she dreamed again. Of fire, of a green face with fangs, of moonlight and pools of warm water. How long she slept, she didn’t know, but time began when she woke.

Emilia blinked, trying hard to adjust her eyes to staying open and awake. Everything seemed fuzzy. Her mouth and eyes felt dry and sticky. She could feel pain in various places—a throbbing and stinging above her left eye, aching pain as she drew a deep breath, and the worst pain where her arm was broken and cut. Her lip was fat and swollen, it hurt to open her mouth. She tried to turn her head and look around the room. She was in a substantial bed in a cabin of some sort. A fireplace burned across from the bed. Smooth stones were stacked and mortared together in a mantle big enough that she could walk into. Wooden shelves lined the walls around the fireplace, holding a variety of cups and bowls. A table and chairs, hewn from a light-colored wood, were between the bed and the fireplace. A large cupboard was at the end of the room, and another little table stood by the door. It was a cozy, yet spacious room.

She worked to sit up, realizing she was wearing a dress that was not hers. Brown linen, the color of a sparrow in the winter, was nothing like the beautiful dresses she wore from Papa. A corded tie held the dress around the top of her shoulders, and long, airy sleeves gathered at the wrists. No shift underneath or lining to the dress. She realized her right forearm was bandaged where it had been broken, and other bandages covered places where she had been cut.

She swung her legs around from under the fur blankets to hang over the edge of the bed. She reached up and carefully felt the place where her head throbbed above her left eye. Stitches! Her fingers traced a cut, about an inch or longer, rising over her brow. Small, precise stitches, three of them, held the cut together. She swept her hands over her face, but felt no dried blood. Someone had stitched her wounds and cleaned her up. She gingerly touched her lower lip, feeling how swollen and puffy it was. Her fingers trailed to her neck and collarbone; the locket from Papa was gone.

A distant sound piqued her curiosity. She listened hard, straining to hear everything. Birds tweeting and singing high in the trees, leaves rustling, and a soft but steady thunk sound reminded her of splitting wood for fire. Should she stay here or go outside and look around? Obviously, whoever brought her here and stitched her up could not mean her any harm… right?

Emilia stood up, and the room swam. A horrible pain, like her insides would fall out, shot through her torso, and she quickly sat back down, grunting in pain. Her skin prickled with a clammy sweat and she felt nauseated. She rolled off the bed onto the floor and crawled on knees and one hand over to a bucket next to the fireplace, heaved the contents of her stomach up. It wasn’t much and very watery. She cradled her broken arm against her hurting abdomen. A warm hand pressed gently on her back and another hand brought a cool, wet cloth to her forehead. Both felt nice. Still on the floor on a hand and knees, she turned to look at the owner of both hands and screamed.

The wet cloth fell to the floor with a sickly splat, as a monstrous man stood and backed away, hands up and eyes pleading. His human-ish form was a green-grey, large and heavily muscled underneath a leather vest and woolen trousers. Tattoos and deep scars—some in patterns and strange symbols—covered his arms and neck. His black, shoulder-length hair had a wild look to it, and two prominent lower canine tusks thrust upward over his upper lip. She knew enough to think of his race before she gave way and fainted. Orc!

Emilia woke for a second time, again in the bed. It was night, and a fire crackled merrily in the fireplace. The room smelled of wood pine burning and something meaty and herbed that made her stomach growl. She turned and gasped to see him sitting there in one of the large hewn chairs. He was watching her and gave her a tight smile.

“Sorry I scared you. I’m Jorush. You’ve been in pretty rough shape. I hope it’s okay, but I’ve been helping you out. Once you’re better, I will help you get on your feet and on your way.” His tone was careful and slow.

Emilia’s mind reeled, and her tongue stuck fast to the roof of her mouth. She understood what he said; he was speaking Common. She was thinking about the stories Papa had told her growing up, about all the strange races and monsters of the world. Occasionally, an elf or half-elf visited the town, and everyone knew dwarves lived near the mountains. But orcs were feared beasts of brute strength who tortured women and ate babies. They were ugly monsters that didn’t speak except to grunt. They were like bugbears, only less hairy. She had never actually seen either, though.

Slowly, his expression turned quizzical as she continued to stare at him without speaking. Realizing he must think of her as slow or mute, she shook her head and blinked. Papa had always taught her to be kind to all the god's creatures—including monsters—unless they tried to harm you.

“Th… thank you. I… I’m Emilia,” she said, her voice sounding strange and strained to her ears. Her lips and face hurt as she tried to talk.

A small smile returned to his face, his lips pulled tighter against those crazy tusks. His grey eyes sparkled with intensity and she hoped he hadn’t rescued her just to kill her and eat her. She worked to sit up again, pushing through her good arm and her right elbow.

“I hope the dress is okay,” he said. “I wasn’t sure what would fit and there weren’t a lot of options. Your other dress was ruined.”

“Y-yes, thank you.” She now wondered if he had seen her naked and felt a blush steal up her neck and cheeks.

He stared at her for a minute, then blinked rapidly and stood. “You must be starving. I’ve cooked some rabbit soup. Would you like some?”

Surely, this was still a dream, thought Emilia. It made more sense to believe she was dreaming about being in a cabin in the woods with a kind and genteel orc than that this was reality. She put a hand to her head and worked to stand again. Jorush quickly stepped around the table to assist her into the nearby chair. Her stomach flipped funny at his warm, rough touch. He walked over to the fireplace, where a metal stand held a large cast-iron pot on one side of the fire. He ladled her a small bowl of the steaming soup and set it on the table. She picked up the rough wooden spoon and paused. Should she trust him? He seemed to be helping her. She inhaled deeply; the soup smelled so good. She dipped her spoon in the broth and sampled a little of the broth and meat. It tasted even better than it smelled. Her stomach latched onto the little bit she had eaten and growled for more. She looked up and smiled at him sheepishly.

“It’s really good, thanks,” she said, and gobbled the rest of the bowl, even though it hurt her lip to eat.

He looked quite pleased, and his grey eyes danced with sparks in the firelight. She wondered at that; orcs had yellow eyes. She was sure of it. He refilled her bowl and pushed a small cup of hot tea towards her. “This won’t taste the best, but it will help.”

She looked at him with interest. He did not look like the ugly monsters that Papa had described. In fact, there was an attractiveness to him, even with his orc features.

“Do you live here alone?” she asked between bites. She sipped the small cup of hot tea and frowned as much as her bruised face would allow. It was horribly bitter. She downed the rest in a few quick gulps.

“Yes,” he said. The twinkle in his eyes disappeared, and he looked somewhat troubled. He seemed to shift expressions quickly.

She wanted to ask about other things, curious now about an orc who lived alone in the forest rescuing people, but couldn’t bring herself to it. She felt fuzzy again. A long silence filled the room as she finished the soup. Emilia supposed it was an awkward silence, but the warm soup and tea made her sleepy. She smiled at him drowsily and stood to move towards the bed. He rose and put a hand under her arm, the other guiding her at her back, on the short steps to the bed. He was so warm every time he touched her. She crawled into bed and she turned to look at him, already feeling pulled under by exhaustion.

“Thank you,” she said thickly, and succumbed to sleep again.

Emilia woke, and mottled white-gold sunlight streamed through the eastern window behind the bed. The streams glittered with dust motes and fell in patches of light on the floor, the table and the chairs. Three windows let in light from outside—one to the east, and two facing north under a long eave that hung low over the front of the cabin. The east window held a pane of glass in its thick rectangle frame, but the north windows were open to the outside. A tiny yellow finch was resting in the easternmost of the north windows, rapidly tilting his tiny head around to look everywhere at once. A doorway was in the middle of the room on the north side and a stout wooden door made of planks was shut but not latched from the inside.

She sat up and looked around the room; the finch darted away. Jorush was nowhere to be seen, and the fire had died out quite some time ago. Her stomach growled loudly. Pushing to swing herself to the edge of the bed, she wondered if there was any more soup in the black pot on the fireplace. She hesitated, remembering yesterday—or the day before, since she wasn’t sure—when standing had been so painful it made her ill. She eased off the bed, then straightened to stand.

The pain wasn’t as bad this time, but still hit her in a wave. She hunched over for a minute, waiting to see if it would pass or if she needed to climb back into bed. The pain abated, and she straightened back up, moving toward the fireplace to check the soup pot. She lifted the lid and saw a small portion of the soup remained. Looking at the wall above, she saw the long shelf held an assortment of wooden utensils, cups, and bowls. She got a spoon and bowl and scooped the remaining soup into her bowl and sat down.

It didn’t hurt as badly to eat today; she touched her lip and thought it didn’t feel as swollen. She wondered where Jorush was… hunting, maybe? For living alone in the woods, he still had quite a few things that could only be bought—such as the pot and her dress—so he must travel into a town sometimes or trade with a peddler. He had said there weren’t a lot of options for the dress, so maybe a small town was within a day’s travel. Perhaps they were near to Tarryton, the secluded village where she had lived with Papa. Not that he could buy or trade there even if it were close; orcs were not allowed in Tarryton.

Emilia finished the soup. Jorush still had not returned, so perhaps she would look around. She rose slowly, adjusting to the pain, then walked over to a compact cupboard she had not noticed before. Glass doors revealed a nice little collection of books. He reads? She stared at the titles on the spines; most were written in Common. Some were books of maps and history, others were storybooks she knew. One was a favorite that Papa had read to her over and over as a girl. Another book, bound in thick leather, had runes of some sort—she thought maybe dwarvish—stamped into the cover. Next to it, a spine with a graceful flowing script was etched and foiled into the leather. Emilia couldn’t read any languages except Common, but felt sure that this was Sylvan. Why did an orc have an elven book? She leaned down, peering closer at the book behind the glass. The script, or perhaps the book itself, made her feel odd, as if something inside her skin was warm and vibrating. She felt a strong urge to open the case and touch the book.

She quickly stood up and turned away from the books, startled at seeing Jorush standing in the doorway of the cabin. He was watching her with the most perplexed expression on his face. She had not heard anyone approaching the cabin and wondered how he was so silent. How long had he been there watching her? He wiped his face of the emotion and replaced it with a smile.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Emilia folded her right arm into her torso and held it with her left hand. “Better, thank you. I was hungry and ate the soup,” she said, ducking her head.

His smile warmed; he looked pleased again. “Good. It will help you get your strength back.” He pulled a strap from around his shoulder and showed four dead grouse tied to the strap. “I’ll start working on more.”

She sat down at the table, watching him as he worked. He skillfully scalded, plucked, and cleaned each bird, then carved them up into large pieces. He dumped the water and got more from somewhere outside to boil again on the fire. Emilia felt even more confused. Was he cooking for her benefit, or did he usually cook his food? Maybe Papa had been very wrong about orcs being uncivilized creatures.

Jorush came back in and added the cut up grouse to the pot on the fire, then began adding a few herbs before placing the lid on the kettle. No vegetables, she thought, so maybe not a complete gourmet. She giggled at her own joke, then saw he was staring at her, perplexed again.

“What’s funny?” he asked, as he pulled out a chair to sit.

Emilia stifled her giggles and cleared her throat. “Sorry, it’s just… well, you don’t fit any of the descriptions I’ve ever heard about orcs.”

His face clouded, and he stared for a bit into the fire. Emilia wondered if she had blundered badly, kind of wishing she hadn’t said anything, but also wanting to know the mystery behind this orc.

“First off, I’m only half-orc.” He spoke as if weighing each word. “My mother was orc, but my father was human.” Emilia caught the use of past tense. “The tribe that I grew up in was savage and bestial, and would likely satisfy the descriptions you speak of.” He threw her a side glance. “I rejected that life long ago.”

Half-orc! So that explained the eyes and softer features, and perhaps even the genteel behavior and education. There was much left unsaid in his tone, however, more to the story of his parents and former life. She wanted to know his entire story, but thought it best to exercise a touch of caution; this obviously was not something he enjoyed speaking about.

“I’m glad you did,” she breathed, leaning forward and smiling. He looked at her, surprised and frowning at her response. “Have you always lived here, then? After you left the tribe, I mean,” she asked.

“Mostly, yes. I love the forest and always have. Even when I was very young. My tribe lived in the hills that skirt the forest, far to the north, dwelling in tents and a few caves in that area. We only went to the forest to hunt, and even then only when we had to, since the elves that live in the forest despise orcs. Extra food wasn’t worth the war. Much easier to raze the nearby farms,” he shrugged apologetically. “But I escaped whenever I could. The forest drew me in, called to me. The peace the forest provided was a stark and inviting contrast from my life with the tribe.” He stood up, took a tea kettle off the shelf and filled it with some water from a bucket. He set it on the little stand on the other side of the fire to boil.

As he sat back down, he glanced at her, and she checked her expression, hoping he saw her concern and interest. He turned back to the fire and continued.

“When I was about seven, I met a man in the forest. He was a half-elf ranger. I thought he would kill me at first, with his bow and arrow, but he didn’t. I was curious and he let me watch him—hunting, working, living off the forest in ways I never imagined possible. He seemed so… free. After a while, I spoke to him, and, over time, we became friends. He taught me things he knew about the forest, about animals, even how to read and cook. He was more of a parent and guide to me than either of mine had been. The more time I spent with him, though, the more I despised my people, my family, and what I was. He could tell how conflicted I was, so he left when I was ten, thinking it for the best.”

As he spoke, it began to rain outside. Heavy drops fell on the roof with wet and loud splats, and dripped along the long eave. The smell of the forest—dirt and leaves, bark and pine needles, moss and rocks—intensified and filled the cabin. It mixed with the smell of the cooking grouse—all meaty and gamey—and something within the cabin, musky and earthy. Something stirred within her. His talk of the forest, the smell of it filling the cabin; the forest was alive and as much a part of the room as they were. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as she listened.

“Without him, I felt lost,” he said, continuing about the half-elf. “Meanwhile, my life with the tribe continued spiraling downward. My father, who never loved my mother, found comfort in the arms of a human woman. His infidelity was discovered and punished, along with his lover. Gruesome penalties that resulted in their deaths. My mother was then free to remarry, which she did, to a tribe leader. She delivered another son before dying in childbirth. With no family left to defend me, I had to prove my worth as a young warrior or be banished. I left. The forest has been home ever since.”

Emilia opened her eyes and found him staring at her again. Rather than look away, she felt drawn in, losing herself in his grey eyes. His pupils were large and black, reflecting the fire to the side of the room, and his body was no longer relaxed in the chair. The room quivered with tension, Emilia forgot to breathe as she stared back.

Abruptly, he rose and tended to his cooking. Emilia exhaled and blinked. What just happened? She felt confused and tired again. He took the little cup off the shelf, threw in some dried yellow flowers, then poured hot water from the teakettle in it and set it on the table. Pulling a large wooden bowl and spoon from the shelf, he scooped the chunks of meat out of the pot. He turned and set that bowl on the table, then grabbed another bowl from the shelf. He looked up at her, watching him, and gave her a lopsided grin. She smiled back, her stomach doing that flippy thing again. He slid the little cup of bitter tea towards her, urging her to drink, then began deboning the meat.

"Can I help?” she asked, sipping the horrid, bitter tea.

“Sure,” he said, moving the bowls between them and smiling again.

They worked together in silence for a few minutes, then he asked, “Do you have a family that is looking for you to get back?”

“No. No one will be looking for me,” she lamented. “My Papa died about six months ago. He was the only family I had.” No need to tell him all the details. The answer was truthful, she thought, as she pulled the bones from the dark, greasy meat. She licked her fingers; the juices were delicious.

“I’m sorry.” Silence, again. Then, “You have no husband or betrothed?”

“No. Although one man who did this to me had asked for my hand in marriage from Papa before he died. I had refused him, though, so maybe this was his way of revenge.”

A snap and growl made her look up. He was holding a leg bone and had snapped it in two in one hand. His grey eyes were black and angry. For the second time, she felt afraid of him.

“Men.” He snorted and threw the bone pieces in the bowl. “Men can be just as much monsters as orcs, sometimes even more.”

He took the bowl of meat, now de-boned and added it back to the pot on the fire, stirring with the wooden spoon. His mood swings were unnerving. Even with him getting so angry that it scared her, though, she did not feel the urge to flee.

He pulled the serving bowls and spoons down from the shelf and dished up the soup. He set them on the table and sat down to eat with her. She realized this was the first time she had seen him eat. She felt ridiculous for having wondered if he ate his food raw or cooked, or if he ate with utensils.

“I’m sorry I ruined the atmosphere,” she said. “I should not have brought that up.”

He stared at her. “You have every right to say as you wish. Never mind my temper. It often gets the better of me. If you need to talk about what happened to you, I can listen.”

He was impossible to predict; one minute, a growling beast, the next minute a perfect gentleman.

Later, the rain let up, and Emilia watched the late afternoon sun glimmer on the leaves outside the window. The twigs and branches were dark and clean from the rain. Everything in the forest was washed anew.

“Is there someplace I could wash or bathe?” she asked.

He turned from his work; he was sharpening a knife on a leather strap across his thigh. “There is a creek and a pond nearby. I usually bathe there. But if you are used to a hot bath, I can find something for you to use.”

“No, the creek will be fine.”

He thumbed the edge of the blade to test its sharpness, then put the knife in a leather holster that strapped to his belt at his waist. He stood up and walked over to the far end of the cabin, where a beautiful long bow hung from the wall. Made from one long, sinuous piece of dark red-brown wood, the middle of the bow was carved with a smooth eyelet opening big enough for his thumb. Two narrow strips of gold plate covered the outside of the bow etched with leaves and trailing vines. The ends of the bow tapered and curved outward slightly. They were tipped in gold, with the very ends pressed into the shapes of tiny leaves. The quiver of arrows matched the bow; a long leather case was topped with gold filigree work resembling cutouts of leaf shapes. The leather was etched with leaves and vines, just like the bow. A narrow strip of gold circled the bottom. Jorush slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder, then the bow fit snugly into a thick leather strap on the side of the quiver, hanging slanted across his back. Even though it looked like it belonged to an elf rather than an orc, the bow suited him.

“I can take you now to the creek and show you where you can wash,” he said.

Why was he taking the bow? Was he going to hunt while she bathed? Were the woods dangerous? She wondered if the half-elf friend had given it to him.

Outside, the slanting sunlight cast long shadows everywhere, touching golden green beams on the trees and the forest floor. Droplets of rain trembled and sparkled on each leaf, gathering slowly and falling to melt into the saturated earth. The smell of it all was amazing—the clean after-rain fragrance in the air, the soggy scent of wet dirt and plants, mingled with the cool freshness of the approaching evening. Emilia’s feet were bare, so she stepped carefully as she followed him along the pathway. To a passerby, it would not have seemed a path, but she saw the way as he walked it. Soft green moss occasionally brushed her toes, and she let her hands skim over feathery ferns and scratchy shrubs as they walked. Birds flitted above in the trees, and tiny finches and wrens scattered ahead of them in the underbrush. As quickly as she had felt immersed in the forest, the trees stopped and yawned an opening to the sky.

The sound of water breaking over rocks echoed through the clearing. A small stream, spilling fast over rocks and stones that jutted from the earth from one end, gathered in a deep bowl in the middle, stopped up by a mass of logs on the other end. Water spilled over the logs on the top and continued out the other end of the clearing.

As they came near, Jorush stopped, but Emilia continued to the edge of the water. She wriggled her toes over the small pebbles and rocks, letting the cool water wash over her feet. She turned to look at Jorush. Was he going to watch her bathe? A warm blush crept up her cheeks.

He pulled the bow from the slot on the quiver. “I’m going to keep watch of the area, maybe catch some more soup while you wash up.” His tone was teasing, and he was smiling. “Just whistle if you need me or when you are done.” He winked at her and took off in the direction of the creek’s origin.

She stared at him for a minute, her stomach going wild again from his smile and wink. He had to stop affecting her this way; it was irrational and unnerving. She watched him retreat into the trees, then realized she should undress. Pulling the dress over her head, she folded and placed it on a rock. Slowly she waded into the cool water, testing her footing as she went to make sure she didn’t slip or it didn’t get too deep. As the water reached her arms, she fingered the wrappings around her right forearm. Should she get it wet? Jorush had said nothing about keeping it dry. She treaded a little further onto a large flat stone where the water came up to her shoulders. Emilia dipped her head back, letting her body become buoyant, closed her eyes and floated in the water.

The coolness of the water leached through her, soothing the burning pains and aches. She floated like that for a while, enjoying the relaxation and relief. Slowly she stood again and turned so the slanting light caught the water and she could see her reflection. She gasped. Her face was a horrible mess. The stitches above her brow held together a deep cut, and her left eye was black and blue. Her bottom lip was still swollen and red, and purple and yellow splotches adorned her cheeks and jawline. Tears pooled in her eyes, obscuring the image of her face. She hated those men for what they had done to her, hated how she looked and felt. Floating over the streams of anger was shame at her appearance. She looked hideous.

She splashed the reflection, then gently washed her face with the cool water. A flash caught her eye; in the deeper part of the pond in the middle there were fish swimming. Trout maybe, and bluegills. She remembered being nine or ten and Papa taking her fishing. He had scolded her as she ran along the shore, chasing minnows instead of minding her pole, but wore a smile as he said it. She missed him so much.

Emilia stepped carefully back to the edge of the pond and wrung her long hair over the water. She flung out the dress and pulled it on, tying the cords at the neck again. Running her hands through her hair, she divided it and deftly wove it into a long, thick braid.

She licked her lips and whistled—high and clear. She stood for a moment, listening, figuring he would come crashing or sneaking through the trees any second. When he didn’t, she frowned—making her forehead smart—and whistled again, this time louder. She heard a noise to the west, where the stream came into the clearing, and saw him walking slowly with a dead doe slung around his shoulders. His bow and quiver were around his front. She watched as he moved towards her, smiling, and laid the dead white-tail deer at the edge of the clearing.

“I took the shot. I figured we both need to eat and you could use a pair of boots,” he said, laughing. He pulled the bow and quiver off and laid them down as well. His eyes danced in the lingering sunlight.

A large bird flew past, pulling her eyes from Jorush. She watched it fly over the water and up into a tree. The place where the bird landed, twisted, and disappeared into a blip. As she watched, the blip slowly grew into a hole. A black nothingness that had ripped open in the forest. Emilia’s heart pounded; a fullness in her chest made her want to take a deep breath. She drew in air and the full sensation spread. Warmth and energy flooded her body, her fingers tingled and itched to do… something. Her skin quivered, her entire being vibrated as she stared at the hole where the bird had been. Maybe the something she wanted to do was close the hole, or see where it went? Her ears buzzed like they were full of flies. Everything was vibrant now; she was a part of the forest and its spirit was humming to her. She felt if she could draw another breath, she could

“Hey!”

The fullness popped and her body felt deflated. The sensation of it—like falling off a cliff—sent her reeling. Jorush was standing next to her, his hands braced on her arms and staring at her face with trepidation. Emilia shoved him aside and fell to the ground and heaved up the contents of her stomach again.

“Shrak. Are you okay?” He was on the ground with her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as she heaved again. She wiped her mouth and looked up to see if the bird and the hole were still there. Everything looked as it had before; no bird, no hole. “Look, I know your constitution isn’t as good as mine, and my cooking needs work, but I was hoping it wasn't that bad,” he half chuckled, but it sounded all wrong and full of worry.

“What happened to the bird?”

“What bird?”

His tone was uneasy, his lips pulled down around the tusks and his hairy brows furrowed.

The memory of her reflection mixed with the strange event with the bird and his disbelief, all overwhelmed her; she burst into tears.

“Let’s get you—back, and get some sleep,” he had hesitated like he was going to say something else. He scooped her up, lifting her and cradling her with ease in his arms. The gentle motion as he walked, his warm body against hers, made her realize she was—in fact—quite tired. Her tears ceased and she nodded off before he got her back to the cabin.

#writing #writing community #writing for my teen #fantasy #fiction story #ya fiction #orc #half orc #beautyandthebeastmeetsbaldursgate #fantasy story #story #booklover #book look #romance #realm of magic #dnd stuff #monster romance

6 notes · View notes