Page 9

Chapter 8

T he scene that greeted us inside the cottage was so wonderfully, absurdly normal that I almost laughed. Elias was perched on a stool, his face scrunched in concentration as he carefully ladled stew into bowls under Mrs. Crumble's watchful eye. The brownie herself sat on the counter beside him, directing the operation.

“Ah, there you are!” Mrs. Crumble chirped, her tiny face breaking into a wide smile. “We were beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost in that old forge.”

I could feel the truth of what almost happened written all over my face, but before I could stammer out a response, Elias piped up.

“Mama! Mr. Vorgath! Look, I helped make dinner!”

“It smells wonderful,” I said, ruffling Elias's hair. “You've done a great job, sweetheart.”

Vorgath cleared his throat. “Yes, very impressive, young Elias.”

Elias beamed at the praise. “Mrs. Crumble showed me how to stir without splashing,” he announced. “And she let me add the secret ingredient!”

I raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Crumble, who merely winked in response. “Nothing to worry about, dearie,” she said, jumping off the counter and wiping her hands on her apron. “Just a pinch of brownie magic to make the flavors sing.”

“Well then,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Shall we eat? And don't you even think about disappearing, Mrs. Crumble. You're invited, too.”

As we settled around the table, I couldn't help but notice how Vorgath's massive frame dwarfed our modest furniture. He sat gingerly on a chair, his knees nearly touching his chest.

“I'm sorry,” I said, wincing as the chair creaked ominously.

But Vorgath waved off my concern as Mrs. Crumble bustled around, setting out bowls and utensils. I noticed that she'd brought out the good silverware that had been a wedding gift from Thyri's mother. I hadn't used them in years.

As Mrs. Crumble placed a set in front of Vorgath, his brow furrowed. He picked up a fork, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“These are... very small,” he said, the fork looking absurdly delicate in his hand, like it might snap with a single twitch of his fingers.

“I suppose they would be for you,” I said with a smile, the tension from earlier melting away. “We can find something sturdier if you'd like.”

Mrs. Crumble snorted a laugh. “I think we have a rake in the shed.”

I gasped, scandalized, not sure how Vorgath would take the joke. But to my surprise, he went right along with it.

“No need,” he insisted. “Though it is always good to have a backup plan.”

Laughter bubbled up among the three of us, but Elias watched with wide-eyed fascination.

“Do orcs use different forks?” he asked, his curiosity overcoming his earlier shyness.

Vorgath turned to him, seeming relieved by the distraction. “We do,” he said. “Orc utensils are larger. Made for bigger hands and even bigger appetites.”

“Cool!” Elias exclaimed. “Can I see them sometime?”

“Perhaps I'll bring one next time,” he said. “If I am invited back.”

His eyes found mine, a silent question hanging between us. I hesitated, feeling a quiet warmth settle in my chest before I smiled and nodded. “Of course, you’re welcome back,” I said. “Anytime.”

Vorgath held my gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before he turned back to Elias. “Then I will bring the biggest fork I have,” he promised.

Elias grinned wide, practically bouncing in his seat. “I can't wait!” he said.

As we began to eat, the conversation flowed more easily than I'd dared to hope. Emboldened by Vorgath's kindness, Elias peppered him with questions about orc life and customs.

“Is it true that orc children learn to fight as soon as they can walk?” Elias asked, brandishing his butter knife like a sword before I reached across and snatched it from him.

“Not quite as soon as we can walk, but we do start young,” Vorgath answered, unfazed. “It's less about fighting, though, and more about discipline and knowing your strength.”

Elias nodded sagely, as if this made perfect sense to him. “Like when Mama teaches me to be careful with her sewing scissors?”

Vorgath looked at me, an amused twinkle in his eye. “Exactly like that,” he agreed.

With the meal in full swing, I found myself relaxing more and more. The awkwardness from our moment in the forge faded, replaced by a comfortable camaraderie. Vorgath proved to be an engaging dinner companion, regaling us with tales of orc customs and traditions that had Elias hanging on his every word. Even Mrs. Crumble joined in, and I listened intently as she and Vorgath debated the finer points of fae etiquette, their unlikely friendship blossoming before my eyes.

Laughter and easy conversation filled the room, and a quiet contentment settled over me. My small, cobbled-together family had expanded, if only for this evening, and it felt... right. Complete in a way I hadn't realized we were missing.

As the evening wore on, the clink of spoons against empty bowls signaled the end of our meal, but none of us seemed eager to break the spell that had settled over the table. Even Elias, usually quick to wriggle away when dinner was done, sat contentedly in his chair. But as I watched him blink slowly, his head dipping slightly, I knew it was time to call it a night.

I smiled, watching Elias fight against his heavy eyelids. “I think it's time for someone to head to bed,” I said.

Elias's head snapped up. “But I'm not tired!” he protested, even as another yawn escaped him.

“I can see that,” I chuckled, standing up. “Come on, little prince.”

“I'll help clean up,” Vorgath offered, already starting to stack the empty bowls as I reached for Elias.

Mrs. Crumble fluttered over, her tiny hands on her hips. “Nonsense! You're our guest. I'll take care of the tidying.”

I shot her a grateful smile, but before I could lead Elias away, he turned to Vorgath with pleading eyes. “Mr. Vorgath, could you tell me an orc bedtime story?”

Vorgath glanced at me. “If your mother agrees.”

I nodded. “If you're sure you're up for it.”

Suddenly wide awake, Elias reached up, his small hand wrapping around one of Vorgath's thick fingers. “Come on!” he urged, tugging the orc through our cottage, the floors creaking under Vorgath's weight.

Elias's room was a cozy nook at the top of the stairs, barely large enough for his small bed and a chest of toys. The walls were adorned with childish drawings and a few pressed flowers we'd collected on our walks. A small window let in the soft glow of moonlight, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards.

As Vorgath ducked through the doorway, I smiled at the sight of him trying to fit his massive frame into the tiny space. He looked almost comically out of place, like a bear in a rabbit's den. Yet there was something undeniably sweet about how he carefully maneuvered around Elias's belongings, mindful not to disturb anything.

I lingered in the hallway, not wanting to intrude but unable to resist listening. Elias scrambled into his bed, pulling the patchwork quilt up to his chin. Vorgath settled on the floor beside Elias's bed, his broad back against the wall.

“So,” he rumbled, his deep voice gentle. “You want an orc story, do you?”

Elias nodded eagerly, burrowing deeper under the covers.

Vorgath was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice took on a rhythmic cadence, like the steady beat of a drum. “Once, in a clan not so different from my own, there lived a young orc named Grokk. Now, Grokk was strong and brave like any other orc, but he had one small problem—he couldn't roar.”

Elias's eyes widened. “But all orcs can roar!” he objected.

“That's what everyone thought. But poor Grokk, no matter how hard he tried, could only manage a tiny squeak...”

As Vorgath's story unfolded, Mrs. Crumble appeared, floating silently next to my shoulder.

“Well, isn't that a sight,” she whispered. “Who would've thought an orc could be so sweet?”

Something settled inside me at her words. Watching Vorgath, his massive frame somehow fitting into my son's tiny room, I realized how right it felt to have him here—like our lives had always had room for him.

“You know,” Mrs. Crumble continued, her voice soft but mischievous, “it's nice to see a man around the house again. Especially one who knows how to stoke those old fires, if you know what I mean.”

My cheeks flushed at her words. “Mrs. Crumble!” I scolded in a whisper.

She chuckled softly, patting my arm. Then, with a knowing wink, she vanished in a swirl of leaves, leaving behind only the faint scent of wildflowers.

I turned my attention back to Vorgath and Elias as the orc's deep voice continued to weave the tale, his words painting vivid pictures of Grokk's adventures.

“...and so, Grokk realized that his small voice wasn't a weakness at all. It was what made him special, what allowed him to speak to the forest creatures and learn their secrets. And from that day on, Grokk was known as the wisest orc in all the land, for he had learned to listen before he spoke.”

As Vorgath's story came to an end, I saw that Elias was fast asleep, his small chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, a contented smile still lingering on his lips.

Vorgath reached out, his large hand gently patting Elias's head. “Sleep well, durgha ,” he whispered.

I stepped back from the doorway as Vorgath rose, careful not to bump his head on the low ceiling. As he exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him, our eyes met.

“What does durgha mean?” I asked, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar guttural orcish sounds.

He smiled at my attempt. “It means ‘little one’.”

“That was a lovely story,” I said softly as we moved back down the hallway. “Did your mother tell you that one when you were young?”

“No,” he answered, his voice low and thoughtful. “My mother was a warrior. She wasn't one for stories. It was my father who told me and my brother tales like that.”

I blinked, surprised. The image of a young Vorgath, listening wide-eyed to his father's tales, was almost too much to bear. It was a reminder that beneath the warrior’s exterior was a shared experience of family, love, and tradition—things I hadn’t expected we would have in common.

As we reached the front door, a comfortable silence settled between us. The evening had been full of surprises, each one revealing a new facet of Vorgath that I found increasingly intriguing. I leaned against the doorframe, reluctant to see him go.

“Thank you for coming,” I said.

“It was pleasant,” he said with a nod. “It's been a long time since I felt...” he paused, searching for the right word, “...at home.”

His admission lingered between us, heavy with unspoken meaning, and I felt a quiet sense of joy stir inside me.

“You're always welcome here,” I found myself saying.

Vorgath took a step closer. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of smoke and iron that clung to him. My breath caught in my throat as he reached out, hesitating for a moment before gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

For a heartbeat, we stood there, teetering on the edge of something profound. I could feel the weight of our shared moments—in the forge, over dinner, with Elias—pressing us closer together.

But then, as if remembering himself, Vorgath took a small step back.

“I should go,” he said. “Goodnight, Soraya.”

“Goodnight, Vorgath,” I replied, my own voice barely above a whisper.

As he turned and walked away, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the moonlit night, I found myself watching until he disappeared from view. Only then did I close the door, leaning against it with a deep sigh.