Page 17 of The Fall of the Orc

Livermore was highly affronted by Gerrard’s continued convalescence, but since there were no other uninjured high-ranking officers to lead any attacks — and no other orcs in the general vicinity to attack in the first place — his ranting and raving had no real point. So Gerrard only half-listened, occasionally nodding and mumbling vague apologies, while also taking particular note of where multiple letters lay strewn on Livermore’s writing-desk, along with his quill, ink, and personal stamp.

It was another small step forward, another flicker of hope in his chest, and Gerrard was almost smiling as he hopped across the camp again, heading back toward the med tent. At least, until he noticed — something new. Something lying on the ground just outside the tent, directly in his path.

A stick. A stick that hadn’t been there before.

Gerrard stared at it for an instant too long, his heart kicking in his chest, his hand gripping the familiar sword-hilt at his side — and he fought to steady his breaths as he glanced up, and rapidly glanced around him. It was just a stick, it didn’t mean anything, and…

Another one. Another stick, of a similar size, lying just inside the palisade. Leading… south.

Gerrard’s heart was still blaring, wildly beating against his ribs, and after another furtive glance around him — no one in sight was paying him any notice — he turned and headed for the outpost’s gate instead. Hopping along as quickly as he dared, and then heading around the palisade, toward where the stick had been — and yes, yes, here was another one, lying innocuously on the packed earth. This one now pointing south, too, leading straight into the forest.

Gerrard hopped along faster, faster, until he was well into the trees, and finally he snapped the crutches up into his hand, and began briskly walking instead. Covering ground as quickly as he could, and fighting to ignore the spinning and churning in his thoughts. The eagerness. The anticipation. The…relief.

Because despite his best efforts to shove the orc — Olarr — out of his awareness these past days, it had proven almost impossible not to think of him. And Gerrard had found himself repeatedly running through his memories of their encounters, reviewing them in intensive, obsessive detail. Recalling not only how Olarr had fought, how he’d blocked and struck and parried — but also, far stronger, how Olarr had looked at him. How he’d touched him, tasted him, taken him. How he’d… tended to him, licking his wounds again and again. Treating Gerrard like a helpless, precious little princess, who needed to be fussed and fawned over.

And Gerrard hated that rubbish, hated all of it… right? And he had not once thought of it while he’d stroked himself off, these past days. He had not thought about Olarr bending him over, Olarr’s hard flesh invading his, Olarr’s hot mouth kissing and caressing over his skin, worshipping him. Almost as though hecaredfor him…

But no, no, that was ridiculous. They barely knew each other. And far more importantly, Olarr was still an enemy. He still couldn’t be trusted, and there was still a very real chance that this could all be some elaborate orc ruse meant to compromise Gerrard. To draw out his treason. To destroy him.

But even so, it hadn’t stopped Gerrard from counting down the days since that night in the creek, and growing more and more irritable with each day that Olarr hadn’t returned. And it wasn’t stopping him from rapidly searching the trees up ahead, while the anticipation kept wheeling through his chest. Olarr had to be here, hehadto be…

And yes.Yes. A shift of silvery grey up ahead, a telltale crackle of twigs underfoot. And suddenly — there — Olarr was here.Here. Standing big and stiff and square before Gerrard, his huge axe gleaming on his back, his body again bared to the waist.

Gerrard’s breath caught, exhaled in something much like relief — and now he couldn’t seem to look away. Couldn’t stop his eyes from eagerly running up and down, catching on the breadth and strength of Olarr’s bare chest, the hard ridges of his abdomen, the bulk of those powerful thighs. And perhaps most compelling of all, the unmistakable swell in those trousers…

Gerrard guiltily yanked his gaze back up to Olarr’s face, to where those dark eyes were already holding his. And now shifting with a strange, glittering intensity as Gerrard walked closer, closer, closer. His heart thudding erratically, his throat swallowing, his mouth opening —

“Still alive, then?” he asked, hoarse, maybe because it was the least dangerous of all the stupid things he’d been about to say. “Slagvor didn’t find out about us yet?”

Olarr’s eyes shifted again, his shoulder jerking a shrug, as he briefly rubbed a hand at his nose. “No,” he replied, the word thick in his throat. “Not yet.”

Not yet. Gerrard twitched, made a face, because that meant Slagvorwouldfind out, sooner or later. Which also meant they should stop this, they shouldn’t be risking this again. It was dangerous, it was deadly, it was going to ruin both their lives. And if they were wise — prudent — they would both leave now, and never, ever come back…

But Gerrard wasn’t leaving, and Olarr wasn’t, either. He was still just standing here, an arms-length away from Gerrard, and… looking at him. Looking at him, at his hair, his face, his uniform, his neck.

“I am glad to find you so hale and hearty, warrior,” came his gruff voice. “You look and scent… good. Better than last time.”

Oh. Gerrard shot a brief, uncertain glance downwards — his belly was thankfully flat again, though he’d indeed eaten better these past days, too, after all his hunting and foraging directives. But wait, no, Olarr had to mean — the wounds. The injuries.

“Yeah, well, about that,” Gerrard said back, a little too quickly. “My wounds from last time all healed up way faster than they should have, yeah? My medic even asked if maybe I’d found some kind of magical secret ointment.”

He barked a short, betraying laugh at the memory of Bassey’s consternation, while before him, Olarr’s brows snapped up, and his big body lurched closer. His hand very carefully reaching to the neck of Gerrard’s uniform, drawing it down to the side, and exposing the skin of Gerrard’s neck. Where Gerrard knew that the messy, bloody orc-bite had now become a large, impressive-looking scar, its jagged teeth-marks gleaming white and smooth against his skin.

Gerrard could hear Olarr’s sudden intake of breath, together with a sharp swallow in his throat — but he otherwise he didn’t move. Just stood there, blankly gazing at Gerrard’s neck, and it distantly occurred to Gerrard just how many times he’d kissed it, last time they’d met. So, so many times, as if he really had wanted it to heal, wanted to care for him…

“Was it some kind of… orc-magic, then?” Gerrard asked now, his voice only slightly hitching. “Or just…”

Olarr was still staring at it, his swallow again convulsing in his throat. “I do not ken I bear any magic,” he said, quiet. “But I have heard tales of this. How an orc’s kiss can oft be a gift of the goddess toward men.”

Oh. The goddess again. Gerrard reflexively glanced up toward the bright blue sky above them, while Olarr bent forward, slow and dazed, until his mouth again found Gerrard’s neck. His warm soft lips skating against Gerrard’s healed skin, as his breath deeply inhaled, and then exhaled in a sound much like a groan. And then again, and again, while Gerrard just stood there and let it happen, his eyes fluttering, his heart thumping hard against his ribs.

“Thought you wanted a rematch,” Gerrard said, his voice a croak — and curse him, because Olarr instantly reeled backwards, his grey face visibly flushing in the bright light, his lips pressing tight together.

“Ach,” he replied, with a jerky nod. “Ach, warrior, if that is all you wish.”

His eyes were downcast, his steps rapidly backing away, and without even realizing it, Gerrard lurched toward him, gripped a hand at his rigid forearm. “Who said that’s all I wanted?” he asked, before he could possibly stop it. “It’s just — if you actually still want a good fight from me, it’s not gonna beafterwe —”

He finally caught it there, clamping his fool mouth shut, but Olarr had already glanced up again, the comprehension flashing across his eyes, sagging his taut shoulders. “Ach, then, I follow,” he said, with a twitch of a smile. “And I wondered if this time, mayhap, we could take this… below ground, where it is safer?”

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