Page 26 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

I t begins with the hammer in my hand.

Not a metaphor.

An actual hammer—old, scarred, heavier than it looks. Cass presses it into my palm with a grunt and a crooked grin. The grip is smooth from years of work, the head pitted with use and salt.

“Time you got your hands dirty, giant,” he says.

I turn it once in my palm, feeling its weight settle through my arm. Solid. Real.

“I intend to,” I reply.

The morning air is thick with salt and sawdust. The sea breathes slow and deep beyond the boardwalk—waves glinting steel-gray beneath a brightening sky. A gull screams above, wheeling through wind that still smells faintly of last night’s rain.

I wear jeans and a battered, paint-splattered shirt that once belonged to one of my field teams. No suit. No cuffs. No mask.

Intentional.

If I am to build this place beside them, I will stand as they do.

Cass eyes me up and down with a smirk. “Didn’t figure you for ditchin’ the fancy getup.”

“No boardrooms here,” I say.

“Damn right.”

The boardwalk is alive in a way I’ve never seen—voices rising and falling like surf, the rhythmic beat of hammers joining them. Locals swarm the space—young, old, curious, skeptical—woven together by more than duty now. By ownership. By choice.

And I am among them.

Jamie races up beside me, cheeks flushed, curls wild with wind.

“Mr. Drokhaz!” he beams. “We’re makin’ the old fish shack into a reading place!”

“A storytelling nook,” I say softly.

He bounces. “That sounds cooler!”

Liara passes by, sleeves rolled, arms full of canvas banners. She smirks. “Didn’t think you’d last past lunch.”

I meet her gaze. “You underestimate my stubbornness.”

She laughs. “You’ll fit in just fine.”

Jamie tugs at my sleeve. “C’mon! We gotta get the old nails out first!”

I let him lead me—small fingers wrapped trustingly around two of mine. His steps are quick, sure. He pulls me toward the fish shack like it holds treasure.

In a way, it does.

The shack leans at an angle against the tide-stained boardwalk. Its sides are bleached bone-white by decades of sun and salt. The roof sags beneath old nets and rusted weather vanes. Seaweed tangles beneath the floorboards.

But the bones of it… they are good.

Cass hands me a pry bar. “First nail’s yours.”

I nod.

Set the tip beneath a warped nail. Brace. Pull.

The nail groans free with a long, metallic shriek.

Jamie whoops. “You’re strong!”

I glance down. “You helped.”

His grin is pure light.

And so it begins.

Hour by hour, I work.

Hands calloused anew beneath hammer and wrench. Sweat streaking my skin, eyes stinging. My shoulders burn in ways boardroom battles never taught me.

But this is a different kind of war.

And I welcome it.

At first, they watch.

Locals pause between swings of their own hammers, between carrying beams and sanding boards. I feel their eyes—curious, measuring.

The orc who nearly razed their home, now shoulder to shoulder with their children.

With them.

Some nod.

Some smile.

A few say nothing at all.

That, too, is earned.

And will be.

By midafternoon, the rhythm of the work takes me.

Jamie hums sea shanties as he passes me nails. Cass barks instructions like a drill sergeant. Even Mrs. Calhoun arrives, cane in one hand, a basket of fresh scones in the other.

“You look like you been here all your life,” she tells me, eyes twinkling.

“Perhaps now I am,” I reply.

She pats my arm, leaves me two scones. “Keep buildin’, giant.”

Later, a grizzled carpenter claps my back between beams. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

I meet his gaze. “Neither did I.”

By dusk, the shack’s bones stand stronger. New beams gleam against salt-stained walls. Floorboards stripped clean, ready for varnish. Lantern hooks line the rafters. Shelves wait to be built, worn planks turned by loving hands.

Jamie reads to me between tasks—his voice bright with pride, the words from his finished story now worn soft from retelling.

“And then the Green Giant smiled.”

He looks up. “That part’s the best.”

I crouch beside him, voice low. “Because the work was worth it.”

He nods solemnly. “Yeah.”

The sun sinks toward the sea, painting the sky in bruised violets and gold. The wind sharpens. Most of the volunteers drift toward the gathered tables—dinner shared beneath strings of lights.

I remain.

The fish shack hums with silence now, empty save for me.

I stand alone beneath its new beams, fingers trailing the fresh grain of the wood.

The air smells of cedar and sea and the faint ghost of fish long gone.

Salt stings my throat.

Not sweat.

Not this time.

I rest one palm against the central beam—old, scarred, still standing.

As am I.

But now, not alone.

In the quiet, my brother’s voice returns:

“Some things are worth bleeding for.”

I close my eyes.

Rowan’s gaze flickers beneath my lids—fierce, aching, filled with truths neither of us dared speak aloud.

Jamie’s small hand in mine.

Trust.

Chosen, not forced.

Earned.

I let the breath shudder free.

Slow. Full.

I press my brow to the beam, let the cool wood steady me.

And in that moment, beneath the salt and the dark, I know:

This is what I was meant to build.

Not towers.

Not legacies.

A life.

And I will.

The next morning dawns cool and bright—sharp-edged sunlight cutting through sea mist.

I arrive early, shoulders still aching from the prior day’s work. The boardwalk hums with new energy already—crews gathering, tools clinking, coffee steaming in battered thermoses.

Jamie finds me before I make it to the fish shack.

He barrels toward me at full speed, curls flying, clutching something tight in his small fist.

“Mr. Drokhaz!” he calls.

I kneel to meet him. “Good morning, Jamie.”

He beams. “I made you something.”

From his hand, he produces a small round pin—metal, a bit lopsided, bright green paint scrawled over white.

HONORARY GREEN GIANT, the words read, shaky but bold.

My throat tightens.

“For me?” I ask softly.

He nods, bouncing on his toes. “You earned it! You fixed the shack. You helped. You’re a Green Giant now.”

I glance toward Rowan’s shop, half-expecting to see her watching.

She isn’t.

But I will wear this anyway.

Carefully, reverently, I pin it to my shirt—over my heart.

Jamie beams brighter. “Now everyone’ll know.”

“They will,” I say quietly. “And I will wear it with pride.”

Later that day, in the first planning meeting with city officials—surrounded by sleek suits and sharp tongues—I do not remove the pin.

Let them see.

Let them know where I stand.

This is the future I will build.

That night, alone in my temporary quarters above the old shipwright’s office, I light a single lamp against the quiet.

The compass rests near my drafting pad. Jamie’s story lies open beside it.

I pick up my pencil.

No towers tonight.

No steel and glass.

I sketch the broad arc of a porch swing—wood slats, thick ropes braided strong, wide enough for three.

I trace the swing beneath a shaded overhang—framed by driftwood beams, facing the sea.

A place to rest.

For us.

The tide whispers beneath the floorboards, endless and steady. I sketch long into the night, and dream about what I might keep.