A Lot Of Sin Here

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The cart stops in a small clearing where the road dissolves into little more than a strip of packed dirt swallowed by the forest. The trees here grow tall and close together, their dark trunks rising like silent pillars toward a sky you can barely see through the tangled branches above. 

You remain seated, your fingers fidgeting nervously on your lap as you peer around. There is nothing here. No house, no smoke curling from a chimney, no narrow path leading to some distant cottage. Only dense trees, through which the late afternoon light filters in thin, pale streaks that never quite reach the ground, carrying the stale smell of moss and damp bark.

“Why are we stopping?” 

Your brother climbs down from the cart, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. He stretches his back and rolls his shoulders as if the journey has been a long and unpleasant chore.

“This is where you need to wait for him.” He says simply.

The words make your stomach churn with unease.

You slowly climb down after him, grimacing as your shoes sink slightly into the soft ground. Leaves crunch faintly beneath your feet and you look around again, trying to spot any sign of the man you are supposed to meet.

“But… What if he doesn’t see us?” 

“He will.”

Your brother speaks as though the matter is already settled. He doesn’t even look at you while he checks the harness on the horse, adjusting a strap with rough, practiced movements.

“I thought…” Your voice falters. “I thought we would meet him in the village.”

“He doesn’t go to villages much.”

That answer does nothing to settle your nerves.

“Why?”

Your brother shrugs, pulling himself back onto the cart. “Does it matter?”

You stare at him in disbelief. “You’re not staying?”

He finally glances at you, brows drawing together in faint annoyance.

“For what? I’ve already wasted half a day to bring you here.”

Your blood runs cold at his harsh indifference. With a wary glance back at the forest, you notice how the silence presses in around you in a way that feels almost unnatural, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves somewhere high in the trees.

“But this place—” You murmur. 

“You’ll be fine.” He waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll be here soon.”

“I just thought…” You trail off, suddenly unsure how to explain the tight knot of dread that has been sitting in your chest since the news of your marriage. “I thought you would at least stay until he arrived.”

Avoiding your eyes, he exhales heavily, the same way he did when he was fourteen, back when you would pester him to take you along to the market square. As a child, you never failed to test the last thread of his patience.

For a brief moment, his expression softens just a little.

“Look,” he starts, voice less sharp now. “The man paid fairly. People from his village said he’s decent. You could do worse.”

He clears his throat with an awkward, impatient sound at your lack of answer. 

His words, meant to soothe, fall upon you like stones, pressing you down until you feel no taller than the dust at his feet

Finally, you whisper. “Then I… I suppose this is a goodbye.” Letting the words drift into the still air, your brother hesitates for the briefest moment, before clicking his tongue at the horse. 

“Good luck.” 

The horse turns back toward the narrow road you traveled together only minutes ago. You remain rooted in place, shoulders hunched against the chill, your eyes following it until the trees swallow the cart whole and its creaking melts into silence.

You draw your shawl tighter around your form, suddenly aware of how alone you are.

A husband.

You know almost nothing about the man you are supposed to marry, only that he lives somewhere beyond these woods and that he was willing to give your brother enough coin to make the journey worthwhile.

After your parents died, the responsibility of your life had fallen entirely on him. At first, things were manageable, but the years had not been kind. Poor harvests, mounting debts, and too many mouths to feed at the table. You had seen the strain long before he ever spoke of it. His wife counted sacks of grain with tight lips, quiet arguments carried through the thin wooden walls late at night, bitter glances were sent your way whenever food ran short.

You had become something disposable in their eyes.

So when a stranger passing through the village asked about you, offering enough coin to lift the debts that had hung over the household like a storm cloud, your brother accepted.

Not cruelly. Not happily. But so effortlessly that the ease of it stabbed at you, a sharp reminder of how little your own voice seemed to matter.

Girls get married every day. Only this time, the union came with payment instead of a dowry. With a contract instead of courtship. 

With men shaping your fate while your own voice went unheard.

You sigh softly, allowing your gaze to wander back to the forest.

Perhaps he is simply shy. Perhaps he lives somewhere deeper in the forest and prefers not to travel far. Perhaps—

A dull thud echoes faintly from somewhere beyond the clearing.

Your body tenses.

You are quite certain you had imagined it. Then it comes again, and the ground beneath your feet trembles ever so slightly, low and heavy, the rhythm sinking into your bones.

Your breath catches in your throat.

That is not the sound of human footsteps. They are heavier. Slower. As if something... Beastly is moving through the forest.

A shiver runs down your spine. You fold your arms across your chest, palms feeling slick and useless as they twist and curl, clutching the fabric of your sleeves, seeking something solid to hold onto. 

The branches sway with a force you cannot see, until a twig snaps abruptly to your right, and you whirl around. 

Could it be a bear? A wolf? 

You take a step back— no, two— your eyes darting wildly, straining to locate the source. The forest seems to close in: every shadow writhes in your vision, bursting into a thousand uncanny shapes; every rustle of leaves has you twisting in apprehension, forcing your body to shrink into itself.

Thud.

Closer.

Thud. 

Perhaps it is only a deer. 

But no deer would make the ground quake. No deer would carry weight like this.

Another step, another tremor shaking you. Your throat tightens, your mind screaming for some kind of explanation, some sign. 

And then, a massive figure rises among the low-hanging branches. His broad shoulders stretch beneath dark clothing, his arms thick and knotted, capable of felling trees as easily as a child might snap a twig. His skin is the grey of stone, and from his jaw curve two tusks, pale and frightening.

An orc.

He stops when his gaze falls on you, his expression shifting into something that looks suspiciously like surprise.

But you do not linger long enough to process it.

Terror floods your body so swiftly it tears the air from your lungs.

Your shoes skid over loose dirt as you bolt toward the road your brother took, your heart hammering like a drum beneath your ribs.

Behind you, the forest falls unnervingly silent.

Then it comes. Heavy footsteps shattering the quiet.

Fast.

Too fast.

“Wait!”

The voice echoes behind you, low and rumbling, causing your limbs to momentarily freeze. Fear hits like a bucket of icy water, the world shrinking to nothing but the pounding of your heart and the tremor of the ground beneath him, as if the earth itself fears the beast. Branches claw at your arms, sleeves catch on rough bark, roots rise like hands to grab you. Every step is a plunge into a dark well, cold and endless, threatening to squeeze the air from your lungs.

Your legs wobble, muscles screaming, but they force themselves forward, straining against the terror, until you nearly collapse within a few trembling strides. A slip on damp leaves pitches your body forward. Your heart slams violently in your chest as you imagine for one terrifying moment that you are already on the ground, already caught, already feeling those enormous hands closing around you.

Somehow you manage to catch yourself, arms flailing wildly before forcing your legs to move again, faster. Behind you, the pounding reverberates, its ominous rhythm thrumming through the air like a herald of doom.

“Please, don’t run from me!”

His voice trails after you, strained with something that almost sounds like panic, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Your brother left you alone in the heart of this forest with nothing: no knife, no stick, not even the small blade you used to carry when gathering firewood. The bitter thought slams into you with painful clarity.

Why would he imagine you needed protection? Why would he think  danger might touch you, when he had already decided that whatever became of you was no longer his concern?

The realization hits harder than the sting of branches scraping across your skin, and a desperate sob claws its way up your throat as your legs threaten to buckle.

You cannot fight a monster.

You cannot outrun something so imposing.

And yet you keep running, because the fear in your heart leaves no room for reason.

Your foot catches again, this time on a thick root hidden beneath the leaves. Your ankle twists, causing you to stumble forward with a startled cry, barely regaining your balance. Pain explodes up your leg, sharp enough to blur your vision, but the roaring of those massive footsteps behind you drives you onward, forcing your body to keep moving even as every muscle screams in protest.

“Stop— please!”

The voice is closer now.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him barreling through the trees— huge, relentless, impossibly agile— sends another surge of panic through your veins.

And this time, when your foot trips over another hidden root, your exhausted body simply cannot recover.

The world tilts and you fall forward with a cry. Your knee violently slams against the ground, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Dry leaves scatter beneath your palms at the impact, the taste of dirt bitter on your tongue.

For a moment you can do nothing but gasp, your chest heaving desperately as you struggle to regain your breath.

The footsteps behind you stop so abruptly that the silence afterward feels almost unnatural. Dread coils tight around your ribs, thick and suffocating: the creature no longer needs to chase you. By collapsing before him, you relinquished all hope of escape. Fingers dig weakly into the fallen leaves as you force your head up, though every instinct screams not to look at the thing that followed you like a nightmare made flesh.

He stands only a few paces away.

Up close, he is even larger than your panicked mind imagined while you ran, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the ground where you lie miserably. His shoulders calmly rise and fall beneath his shirt, untouched by exertion. The sheer size of him is overwhelming, hands large enough they could likely close around your wrist with humiliating ease. 

Yet he does not move the way you expect.

Instead of advancing like a hunter closing in on a wounded prey, he stands strangely still. His expression shifts from alarm to something that looks disturbingly like distress, eyes sweeping over you and taking in the way you struggle to breathe, the twisted angle of your leg, the tremor that rakes your body with terror. 

“Oh.” The sound escapes him like a startled breath rather than a proper word. When he finally moves, his hands do not reach toward you in violence but rise slowly into the air, palms open and empty. Your mind cannot reconcile it with the monstrous shape looming above you. 

“I did not mean to scare you.” His voice softens, rough with worry as though the sight of your fear unsettles him as much as it horrifies you.

But the words barely reach you through the haze clouding your mind.

Your pulse thunders in your ears, loud enough to drown out everything, except for the memory of him crashing through the trees. It haunts your thoughts cruelly as your vision begins to blur at the edges, dizziness creeping in, your surroundings tilting strangely while the pain in your knee pulses without mercy.

You try to push yourself backward, crawl away even a few inches, but your shaky arms cannot hold your weight. The effort only sends another wave of darkness over your sight. 

The last thing you manage to see before your strength finally abandons you is the alarm on the orc's face breaking the cautious distance he had kept until now. He reaches toward you with desperate urgency when the forest spins. Shadows deepen, and the world slips quietly out of your grasp.

At first, there is only a dull ache in your body, a deep soreness that settles sharply somewhere in your leg, followed by the feeling of a soft surface beneath you. This is not the hard, uneven ground you remember collapsing onto.

For several seconds, you lie perfectly still, your breathing slow and shallow, trying to piece together fragments of memory floating at the edges of your mind.

The forest. The running. The monstrous figure chasing you.

Your eyes snap open.

Panic claws at your chest before your mind has time to catch up. You push yourself up with a startled gasp, wincing as pain shoots through your injured knee. The abrupt movement makes the world tilt unpleasantly, a dull sting hitting your temple. Beneath you, a thick patch of moss and dry grass cushions your weak body, carefully cleared of stones and twigs. Draped over it is a broad piece of rough cloth— perhaps a cloak, or a traveling blanket— spread wide enough to keep the damp soil from touching your dress.

The realization that someone must have placed you there sends a fresh wave of fear crashing through you.

You look up frantically, eyes immediately landing on an imposing figure.

The orc sits several paces away. Even in the shifting shadows of the forest, his form is impossible to mistake: his back rests against the trunk of a tall pine, long legs stretched before him. Despite the distance he keeps, his presence dominates the clearing effortlessly.

When your sudden movement catches his attention, he straightens at once, shoulders tensing as if he had been waiting for this moment, and dreading it at the same time.

For a few heartbeats, neither of you speaks.

You stare, frozen, and though his hands rest quietly on his knees and his posture does not threaten you, the sight alone is enough for tears to gather at the corners of your eyes.

Why are you still alive? Why does the creature that chased you now sit there, watching you with what looks like anxiety instead of malice? Why move you to a softer patch of land instead of leaving you there?

The helpless uncertainty only causes your breathing to grow uneven.

He notices the tears almost immediately. Exhaustion on his face gives away to unmistakable concern. He does not move closer, but when he speaks, his voice is still careful. 

“Please, don't be afraid.”

The tenderness in his tone lets the first sob slip free from your throat before you can stop it. You slap a hand to your mouth, horrified by the sound, but it does not halt the tears spilling down your cheeks.

The orc’s brow furrows deeply, his large hands curling slightly where they rest on his lap, as if restraining himself from stepping forward.

“I am sorry for scaring you earlier,” the words are gentle. He fears that even speaking too loudly might frighten you further. “I did not mean to chase you. I only wanted to introduce myself. I was coming to meet you.”

You inhale sharply.

“To… Meet me?” You manage weakly, voice trembling.

“Yes.” He nods once, though the movement seems hesitant now that he notices your growing bewilderment.

“I came to fetch you. Your brother told me he would bring you this far.”

You stare at him as though he has spoken another language.

“Why?” The question leaves your lips in a broken whisper.

The orc blinks, worry shifting into something uncertain as he studies your face.

“Oh,” he breathes after a long moment, the small sound carrying its own hint of confusion. “Did—Did your brother not tell you about me?”

Your heart stutters painfully.

Staring at the creature, the thought feels so absurd it steals your ability to respond.

Your brother arranged a marriage to a stranger, perhaps a secluded man who lived beyond the town, someone wealthy enough to offer money in exchange for a wife he barely knew.

But an orc?

You shake your head slowly, fingers trembling where they clutch the edge of the rough cloth.

“No,” you whisper hoarsely, disbelief shining in your glassy eyes. “He never mentioned…”

The rest of the sentence dies on your tongue as the horrifying truth hangs between you.

Why would your brother send you here if he knew this was the creature waiting for you? And why, of all things, would an orc want you at all?

The silence stretches like a thread pulled too tight, and the orc across the clearing seems as uncertain as you are. The confusion on his face lingers a moment longer, before his brow furrow, his gaze landing on your leg, genuine concern taking over his features.

“Your knee…” 

The words are hesitant, chosen with great precision. And when his eyes lift again, they stop short of meeting yours, opting to watch the ground between you.

“You fell rather hard.”

Only then does the dull throbbing in your knee make itself known. Your skirt is torn where it scraped against the forest floor, a dark stain soiling the fabric where skin beneath has broken.

The orc shifts slightly.

“May I… Look at it?”

The question is gentle, yet your entire body goes rigid.

The unspoken meaning rings in your mind, loud and undeniable. He would be closer, looming over you as you lie on the ground, unable to run.

He notices instantly, reading the widening of your eyes as if you had spoken your fear aloud.

His movement dies at once, large frame settling back against the tree. “I apologize.” His gaze drops shamefully. “That was foolish of me to ask.”

He seems to consider something, fingers brushing absently against the small leather pouch tied to his belt. Then, very slowly— making sure you can see each motion— he unties it and places it carefully on the ground beside him. He does the same with the water flask hanging at his hip.

Without standing, he nudges both items forward across the ground, until they stop somewhere close to you.

“There are herbs in the pouch, and a clean strip of cloth. They should help… If you wish to tend to it yourself.” His voice softens further. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “The water is fresh.”

Then he leans back again, hands lifted in a gesture that makes it painfully clear he has no intention of approaching.

You remain still for what feels like eternity, warily observing him, expecting that he might close the distance the moment your guard lowers.

But he does not move. Beneath the tall pine, shoulders hunched slightly as if to make himself smaller, he simply waits.

Cautiously, you finally reach forward.

Your fingers close around the pouch first, snatching it before retreating quickly to your spot. Your eyes flick immediately back to the orc. He has turned his head slightly, enough to keep you in view but no longer staring at your injured leg.

The unexpected kindness leaves you momentarily disoriented.

Trembling, you open the pouch. Inside are crushed herbs wrapped in a scrap of cloth, along with the promised strip of clean linen. The scent rises distinctly, earthy and familiar, stirring memories of scrapped knees and innocent laughter.

As you pour the water from the flask, you fight not to flinch at the sting on broken skin. You then press the herbs carefully, clumsily binding the cloth tightly around your knee as you glance toward the orc every few seconds, checking that he has not moved.

He keeps his unspoken promise, immense and patient.

The restraint unsettles you more than if he had simply stared.

Pieces of memory shift and rearrange themselves in your mind, small details you had dismissed earlier. Your brother said the town was too far, that your husband rarely visited villages. He told you he preferred to meet you here instead.

At the time it sounded odd, perhaps even rude, but nothing more.

Now the meaning feels like a knife in your chest.

He never goes to villages.

Of course he doesn’t. Why would an orc walk openly among humans?

Your brother never spoke of him beyond a few careless remarks; you knew he was a carpenter, for instance.

A carpenter.

Your gaze drifts hesitantly to the massive hands resting on his thighs. Hands that could snap a spine with a flick of the wrist, yet capable of carving wood with intricate precision.

If this creature truly is the man your brother intended you to marry… Why hasn’t he forced you to come with him? Why didn’t he seize you the moment you fell? Why hasn’t he dragged you deeper into the forest to have his way with you?

The stories you grew up hearing painted orcs as brutal, merciless creatures. Raiders who stormed villages at night, wielding massive axes and clubs, smashing through doors and snatching livestock— or worse, people— before vanishing into the wilderness. Mothers whispered warnings over supper about what would happen if you wandered too far from home, eyes nervously darting to the tree line. Travelers passing through told tales of children stolen from gardens, farmers dragged screaming into the woods, entire homesteads left burning by creatures that moved like shadows and hit like hammers. They were monsters with jagged teeth, gray skin, and tusks curving from the lower jaw. Tainted souls who carry death wherever they go. 

Every whispered warning, every hushed tale from the corners of your village, had carved one truth into your mind: orcs are to be feared, avoided, and never trusted.

But the one sitting across from you has done nothing but keep his distance. He gave you water, herbs, time to catch your breath. And now he sits quietly, staring at the ground as if afraid of frightening a wounded animal.

At last he exhales, long and quiet.

“I think,” he says slowly, his voice carrying a strange heaviness. “That perhaps something has gone… Wrong.”

You find the courage to look at him, yet he still does not meet your gaze. Instead, his eyes linger somewhere near the ground between your feet, hands clasped loosely together as if to steady himself.

“I believed your brother had explained the arrangement to you.” He continues. “When we spoke, he seemed certain you understood.”

His voice is measured, but there is a thread of disappointment buried somewhere beneath, faint enough that you almost miss it.

“If that is not the case… Then I have no wish to force anything upon you.”

Slowly— almost reluctantly— he lifts his head. When his eyes finally meet your wide ones, there is no anger. No impatience. Only a quiet sadness that softens the sharp lines of his face.

“If you would prefer to return to your brother,” he swallows. “I will take you back to him.”

The words settle over the clearing heavy and strange in their gentleness.

This creature, this enormous being who could easily overpower in an instant, is offering to bring you home. Not demanding obedience, not claiming what he paid for. Simply… Giving you a choice.

You stare stunned, though the weight in your chest grows almost unbearable.

You cannot go back, not after everything.

Your brother had welcomed you into his home without hesitation, even though he already had family of his own to care for, even though another mouth at the table stretched their household thinner than either of them liked to admit. You cooked, cleaned, mended clothes, watched the children when they cried at night. Yet the guilt never left. Because no matter how much you tried to make yourself useful, the truth was undeniable: you were another burden.

And if this marriage would ease the strain on his family— even a little— then perhaps it was the least you could do in return for everything he had given you.

Now, the tears return before you can stop them. But this time you swallow them quickly.

You lift your head, finding the orc watching you, his expression unreadable as he waits for your answer.

Your voice wavers when your lips finally part.

“I cannot go back.”

A knot sit heavy in your throat, and you swallow around it, even if it hurts.

“My brother has done too much for me already.” Your fingers tighten slightly in the fabric of your skirt. “He has his own family to take care of.”

The admission comes quiet, almost ashamed.

“If he arranged this marriage…” You sniffle, lifting your chin. “Then I will honor it.”

Your voice trembles at the edges, but you refuse to divert your gaze.

“I will go with you.”

For a moment the clearing falls completely silent. He studies your face carefully, as if trying to discern whether these words are truly yours or spoken out of obligation alone.

At last he sighs softly, thoughtful, and after a moment, he nods.

“Very well.” He answers quietly, before his gaze drifts briefly toward your injured leg. “Do you feel well enough to walk?”

You glance down at the bandage around your knee. The pain has dulled somewhat, though the joint still throbs unpleasantly whenever you shift your weight.

“I think so.”

The orc hesitates. Then, a little awkwardly, he gestures toward you.

“I could carry you,” he offers carefully. “If walking becomes too painful.”

Your head snaps up instantly, eyes widening in alarm, and the refusal spills from your lips before you can even think about it.

“No!”

The word bursts out louder than you intended. You rush to soften it, your explanation tumbling over itself.

“I—I mean, I can walk,” you add quickly. “Truly. It will be fine.”

The panic in your expression is unmistakable. You are almost certain something akin to disappointment flicker in his eyes, but it vanishes at once.

“Of course.” 

Clearing his throat, he rises to his feet. The movement is smooth and unhurried despite the sheer size of him.

Your knee protests sharply when you place weight on it, but it holds. The orc watches silently, making no attempt to approach, even when you sway slightly at first.

Only when you steady yourself does he incline his head toward the deeper stretch of forest behind him.

“The path is this way.”

You hesitate only a moment, taking a deep breath before following.

And so, beneath the quiet canopy of the trees, the long journey toward your new home finally begins.

You expect the orc to walk ahead, him striding forward with those powerful legs while you struggle to keep up behind him, forced to hurry despite the pain. It would make sense. He is the one who knows the path, the one leading you somewhere deep within this unfamiliar forest. 

But that is not what happens.

Instead, he walks beside you. Not close enough for your arms to brush against, yet close enough that you feel his presence with every step. His pace is slow— so slow, in fact, that it takes you a moment to realize he has matched it deliberately to yours.

At first you assume it is a coincidence, then the truth becomes impossible to ignore.

His stride alone would easily cover twice the ground you manage with your limping steps, yet he never moves ahead, never urges you forward, never shows even the slightest sign of impatience.

You keep your gaze mostly on the ground, watching where you place your feet, though every so often curiosity gets the better of you and your eyes flick briefly to the towering figure at your side.

His shoulders are broad enough that low branches brush against them when he passes, and his arms swing slowly at his sides with the steady rhythm of someone accustomed to long journeys on foot.

Yet despite the size of him, his movements are careful, measured. As though he is constantly aware of the space you occupy beside him.

Another detail reaches you gradually.

At first you think it is simply your mind playing tricks, but the faint scent drifting through the forest air grows clearer whenever the wind shifts between the trees.

You glance at him again.

He smells… Good.

The realization surprises you so much that you nearly miss your footing.

No heavy musk, no sourness of sweat or damp fur like the animals kept in village barns.

Instead there is something clean about it. Fresh like the forest itself. Pine, perhaps, or the faint resinous scent of cut wood, mixed with the crisp sharpness of cold air and something earthy beneath it, like soil after rain. It reminds you strangely of the men who worked the lumber yards near the edge of your old village, returning home at dusk with the smell of sap and sawdust clinging to their clothes.

Except even they rarely smelled this clean.

You glance at him again, eyes lingering longer this time.

His clothes are simple but well-kept, sturdy fabric worn by someone who works with his hands. Faint marks dust the sleeves and shoulders where wood shavings must have settled earlier in the day, and the leather belt around his waist holds several small tools you do not recognize.

The silence stretches further, until eventually the question pressing at the edges of your mind grows too heavy to hold.

Your voice comes out small when you finally speak.

“Where do you live?”

The orc’s head turns toward you, surprised enough that he almost stumbles over his own feet.

“Ah—” He clears his throat quietly, caught off guard by your sudden composure.

“My village is called Oakshire.” Warmth seeps into his tone. “It lies not far beyond the edge of the forest. We should reach it before nightfall if your knee does not trouble you too much.”

Oakshire.

The name rolls gently through your mind.

You hesitate before asking the next question, unsure whether you truly want the answer.

“Is it… An orc village?”

The moment the words leave your mouth you brace yourself, expecting him to take offense.

Instead his face brightens.

“No, oh no.” He chuckles, a small note of enthusiasm slipping into his voice. “Not only orcs.”

He glances toward you again, clearly pleased to have something to talk to you about.

“Humans have lived there for a very long time. The town was built generations ago when traders from both sides began traveling through the valley, and over the years the settlements grew together.”

A faint smile touches his mouth as he continues. “Now the two communities are simply… One.”

You blink in surprise.

“Humans and orcs live together?” You ask quietly, eyebrows shooting up.

“For centuries,” he nods amused. “Some families have lived there so long no one remembers who came first.”

The image forms slowly in your mind: humans and orcs walking the same streets, sharing the same markets, living side by side without fear or violence.

It's preposterous, and yet the quiet pride in his voice makes it sound perfectly ordinary, as though it had always been his reality.

When your eyes land on him again, something other than fear flickers in your chest for the first time.

The change in your expression is small, barely visible, but his sharp eyes catch it without fail. The tension that had been sitting heavily in his shoulders loosens just slightly, relief softening his features. He looks almost hopeful. Seeing even the smallest spark of interest in your eyes means more to him than you can imagine.

You notice the way his gaze lingers, and that awareness diverts your attention back to the path.

Silence returns soon after, but this time it is not as grim.

The road leading toward Oakshire stretches quietly ahead,  and you manage several careful steps before the pain in your knee flares again.

You stagger, clutching at a low branch as your foot catches on a hidden root tangled in fallen leaves. Your breath hitches as the wound pulses again, sharper this time, forcing you to slow even further. Every step becomes a careful negotiation: foot over root, heel pressing against moss, knee bending in protest. 

You stumble once more, almost falling, causing your fingers to scrape against the rough bark of a nearby trunk as your legs shake beneath you. 

“We can stop,” he says gently. “We walked a lot, and you could use some resting.”

You bite your bottom lip, stubborn despite the ache twisting through your leg. 

“I can keep going.” Your voice comes out tight, refusing the admission even to yourself.

The forest seems to close in as you push forward, and then, inevitably, your foot catches again in another root, and this time a sharp cry tears from your throat as you lurch forward, clutching at the air. Before your mouth can taste the dirt, a hand promptly closes around your forearm, lifting you upright with surprising gentleness. The strength behind it is immense, yet the grip itself is careful, steadying rather than dragging.

You blink up at him, breath hitching and chest tight with a mixture of fear and helplessness, but he adjusts his hold at once, supporting your weight without crowding, or touching no more of you than necessary.

“Easy.” He murmurs, his voice a calm tether in the dizzying chaos in your head. “There’s a soft patch up ahead. Lean on me if you need.” 

He does not urge, does not pull you forward. He simply waits, letting your body find its own balance, guiding rather than commanding.

You stumble the final few steps, leaning lightly against his strong arm, and when you finally reach a small patch of land where the moss grows thick beneath the trees, he reaches over his shoulder.

“Wait a moment.” 

Before you can question him, his fingers nimbly unfasten the traveling blanket he carries rolled among his things. The familiar piece of rough cloth— the same one you vaguely remember waking upon earlier— unfurls in his large hands before he bends and spreads it carefully across the ground, smoothing the edges so no stones or damp earth press through.

“There,” he clears his throat, stepping back immediately to give you room. “It will be more comfortable.”

You hesitate only briefly before lowering yourself down, a shaky exhale escaping your parted lips. Your chest heaves as your hands press into the fabric of your dress, trying to stop the trembling that refuses to leave your limbs. 

The orc kneels nearby, just far enough to give you space. Still aware, still watchful.

You know, in a way that both frightens and fascinates you, that he could easily do anything he wanted, yet every gesture, every pause, every soft word communicates respect. It is a patience so quiet, so deliberate, that your mind struggles to reconcile it with the monstrous shape beside you.

Because nothing in the stories you grew up hearing ever spoke of an orc choosing gentleness over dominance.

A small bundle is pulled from his pack and placed on the moss beside your hand, intentionally within reach. 

“You should eat something.” His eyes flick briefly to yours with a weight you cannot name, so intense it feels almost tangible, as though he is memorizing you.

You hesitate, unsure whether to accept it. So he breaks off a small piece of bread and extends it toward you, the gesture so delicate it makes your chest tighten.

“You don’t have to force yourself, but you need the energy.” 

The faint scent of pine and earth clinging to him seems to wrap around you, calming, grounding, and against your better judgment, you take a small bite. The warmth and simplicity of it almost makes you forget the exhaustion in your bones, though the reality of your situation constantly gnaws at the back of your mind.

He produces the same flask he gave you for your wound, and a folded leaf, tipping a small amount of water gently into it. 

“Here.” 

His eyes study your face as you drink, lingering on the way your lips curl around the edge of the leaf. They take in every detail without letting it disturb you, patient, almost reverent, before his thumb absently brushes the edge of the leather strap of his pack, adjusting it as though he suddenly remembered something needing attention.

You decide to ignore the faint pink on his cheeks.

He does not touch you once, yet in his small, careful movements— in the way he leans slightly forward to ensure you are comfortable— you sense the quiet undercurrent beneath it all.

When your stomach settles enough to ease the tightness within it, your gaze absently drifts to the carvings tucked inside his open pack— a tiny fox, and a bird mid-flight. Slowly, you reach out, lifting the fox in your hands. 

His gaze follows the movement, softening as you turn the little figure over, tracing the smooth curves with a tentative finger. 

“I make these.” He shrugs, almost shyly. “For children, sometimes for travelers. They are like… Little reminders.” 

Unexpected tenderness is threaded through his words.

Your thumb follows the careful curve of its tail, the tiny ears, the delicate indent that marks the eyes. The work itself is simple, yet there is patience in it— patience and quiet attention, the kind that can only come from someone willing to sit for long hours shaping wood without tiring.

You glance up without meaning to. 

The moment your eyes meet his, he looks away almost immediately, lowering his gaze toward the forest floor as though he has been caught doing something he should not. One of his large hands rubs absently at the back of his neck, a small, awkward gesture that feels strangely out of place on someone so imposing.

You look back down at the carving.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The forest hums quietly around you, leaves stirring overhead while somewhere deeper in the trees a bird chirps.

“There are always children running through the market.” He hums, almost thoughtfully. “They like to watch when I bring new carvings. One of them— little Tomas— tries to guess what animal each piece will become before I finish it.” A quiet huff of amusement escapes him. “He is wrong most of the time, but he insists he will learn.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches faintly.

The image forms in your mind without permission: a market square, smiling children weaving through the stalls, and this enormous orc sitting somewhere among them with a knife and a block of wood, patiently shaping animals while a little boy peers over his shoulder.

Monsters are not supposed to carve toys for children.

You shift uncomfortably at the thought, your knee protesting as you move, and his head lifts immediately, attention snapping back to you.

“Does it hurt?” 

The concern in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“It’s… Manageable.” You cough, the words coming out weaker than you intend.

His gaze drops briefly toward your leg before returning to your face just as quickly, careful not to linger.

“There is a baker in the market,” he steers the conversation somewhere gentler. “An old woman. She pretends she does not like me very much.” 

A small smile tugs faintly at one corner of his mouth. 

“But every time I bring her a carving for her granddaughter, she gives me a warm loaf of bread.”

Your fingers continue to fidget gently with the little fox, feeling the faint ridges left by the carving knife. 

“Do the children ever try to steal them?”

The soft breath that escapes his nose might almost be a laugh.

“Not steal,” he grins gently. “But they do try to claim them before they’re finished.”

Your head tilts curiously.

“Little Rose insists every carving I make is meant for her. She follows me around the market until I promise to bring her another the next week.”

“And do you?”

“Yes.”

You study him for a moment, unsure what to make of that simple answer.

“She names them.” 

You blink. “The carvings?”

He nods once with a faint smile.

“She says they should have names once they’re finished, because that’s when they’re born.”

Your thumb brushes over the carving’s tiny ears again.

“You must spend a lot of time there.” You murmur.

“When I’m not working.”

“What do you build?”

“Furniture, mostly.” He straightens slightly without seeming aware of it. “Tables, cupboards, doors. Whatever people need.”

Your attention falls briefly on his hands.

The knuckles are broad and scarred in places, the fingers thick and calloused— hands that would be suited for lifting beams and splitting logs, not for carving animals small enough to fit in a pocket.

“You work alone?” 

“Most days.”

“And the rest?”

“Sometimes people ask for help,” he shrugs. “Fixing a roof. Replacing a broken step... That sort of thing.”

The simplicity of it throws you off balance.

The things he describes sound… Ordinary. Peaceful.

You lower the figure into your lap, glancing around, and you notice that the forest has changed.

The golden light of afternoon has faded into something cooler. Shadows have lengthened across the ground, stretching thin and dark between the trunks, the canopy above slowly swallowing what remains of the sun.

You shift again, testing the leg without quite meaning to. The movement is small, but the orc notices it anyway. His head lifts, though he glances past you, focusing on the trees surrounding the clearing, and for a moment his eyes linger there.

Then, he rises to his feet.

The motion is decisive, his tall frame straightening as he firmly observes the perimeter, as though seizing something only he can see.

“It’s getting late.” 

When he looks back down at you, his expression is pensive rather than concerned.

“We won’t reach Oakshire before nightfall, and traveling through the forest in the dark wouldn’t be wise. Not with your knee in this condition.”

The words are spoken calmly, without pressure, but there is certainty in them.

“We should stop here for the night.”

Your fingers twitch once around the wooden toy.

The thought of spending the night out here— alone in the forest, with him— sends a weak ripple of unease along your spine that he seems to notice right away.

“I’ll make a fire,” he adds gently. “There’s a stream not far from here as well. You’ll be safe with me.”

Then he turns, already stepping toward the trees in search of wood.

For a moment you simply watch him go. And then it strikes you, oddly and belatedly, that through all the confusion, the fear, the stumbling journey through the forest, there is something absurdly simple you have not asked.

“Wait!”

The word escapes you before you have fully decided to speak.

He stops at once, turning back so that his full attention returns to you. The fading light filters through the branches above him, catching briefly on the curve of his tusks and the dark strands of his long hair, leaving the rest of him in soft shadow.

Your fingers tighten once again around the little wooden fox resting in your lap.

“What—” You pause, unsure why the question feels so difficult. “What is your name?”

Something shifts in his expression, almost startled. 

“My name?” His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

You nod faintly. “Yes.”

As he observes you, his features soften in a way you cannot quite decipher, a surprised warmth touching his eyes before he seems to remember himself.

“Bucky.” He says at last.

The name is simple. Human, almost. Not what you expected. You repeat it silently in your mind, testing the unfamiliar shape of it, and when you lift your gaze again, he is still watching you.

That's when he clears his throat, the spell of the moment breaking.

“I won’t go far,” he gestures toward the trees with a small tilt of his head. “Just enough to find some dry branches.”

Then he turns again and disappears a few steps into the dimming woods, leaving you sitting on his blanket with the little carved fox to keep you company and the weight of his name lingering softly in the evening air.

He did not ask for yours.