Page 48 of The Fall of the Orc

He’d given a purposeful nod toward Silfast as he spoke, earning a brief nod from Silfast in return, his eyes glinting with unmistakable appreciation. But when Gerrard glanced back at Olarr, Olarr’s eyes were still firmly fixed on him, as something wavered on his smiling mouth. “Ach, warrior,” he said thickly. “I ken you are right, in this.”

It was very clear Olarr wasn’t just talking about Silfast, and though Gerrard kept smiling back, he knew it didn’t reach his eyes this time. And he was distantly grateful to hear this Kesst’s cool voice cutting in, dryly pointing out that the Bautul could do a damn sight worse than Olarr and Silfast as co-captains, and also, did anyone have any fresh meat to roast over the fire?

There were a few choked laughs at that, and then the murmur of drums and conversation rose again, sounding even more relaxed and relieved than before. A few orcs even came over to congratulate Olarr and Gerrard on the evening’s gains, and Gerrard greeted their well-wishes as gratefully as he could, though he couldn’t quite seem to look at Olarr anymore. Not even when he could feel Olarr studying him, and bending down to inhale against his still-raw neck — and finally Olarr was making excuses, saying farewells. While Gerrard just kept nodding and smiling, even as Grimarr came over, and thrust something soft into his chest.

“A mating-gift,” he said firmly. “We shall speak again soon, brothers.”

Brothers. Again as if Gerrard really was one of them now, and he again fought to nod and smile, and to thank Grimarr for the gift. Which, at first glance, seemed to be some sort of women’s shawl, coloured a garish bright yellow. But by this point, Gerrard was well beyond trying to understand any more bewildering orc customs, and he made a show of politely patting the shawl before slinging it over his shoulder, and then blithely waving goodbye as Olarr steered him away.

“Should you wish to rest for the night, Aulis?” Olarr said, quiet, as the sounds of the voices and drumbeats gradually faded behind them. “There is a cave near here, and —”

“No,” Gerrard cut in, his voice tired but certain. “I want to go back to my camp.”

He hadn’t at all meant to say that, hadn’t even thought it, but now it seemed like what he’d always meant to do. Because the part of him that he’d locked away throughout all that — the part of him that was still distantly screaming — was suddenly pacing in its cell, grabbing and shaking at bars. Needing Gerrard to finally see it again, to hear it again, to face all its damning, devastating truths.

Olarr had still lied to him. Olarr had still betrayed him. Olarr had still planned for him to kill Slagvor, at the start, and now Gerrard had gone and done it. He’d done it, and he’d even wrapped it all up in a clean, pretty little package to hand back to Olarr, too. At the cost of his own pride, his own submission, his own brazen public debauchery on that altar.

And the more his imprisoned conscience clawed its way out, the more Gerrard understood that the altar had, surely, been the crux of it, even more than his defeating Slagvor. Because on that altar, Olarr had demonstrated to all his clan, very clearly, that Gerrard wasn’t a threat. He’d proven that Gerrard was his to wield, to use, to command and share as he pleased. He’d proven his strength, by crushing Gerrard’s own beneath it…

But curse it, no, no. Gerrard had already worked through this, already come to terms with this, and he drew in breath, raised his eyes to the still-watching moon. He’d made that choice, on that altar. He’d given Olarr that gift, of his own free will. Even if Olarr didn’t deserve it, or even realize it, Gerrard had done it. Because it was the right thing to do. Because the Bautul deserved better, and Harja deserved vengeance.

And because — Gerrard’s eyes prickled as he blinked up at the moon — because he loved Olarr. He loved Olarr, he loved him like he couldn’t remember loving anyone but his parents. Loved him so much that it had torn a raw, jagged, leaking wound in his chest, just like the one in his neck.

“Ach, Aulis,” came Olarr’s voice beside him, cracking into the heavy, bitter silence. “Should you only wish to go back, and never again see me, or speak to me, I fully follow this. I shall honour this. But I only wish to say —”

His voice broke, his breaths dragging, but Gerrard just kept walking, numb, waiting. Because he couldn’t bear to stop, to look, he couldn’t…

“I wish to — thank you,” Olarr croaked. “Thank you for your great kindness toward me. Thank you for wielding your strength and your cunning — and ach, your recklessness — on my behalf. Thank you for your care of my kin. Thank you for — avenging Harja, in my stead. In the face of all my failings.”

Gerrard swallowed hard, let out a shaky breath. “Happy to help,” he said, though it felt so trite, so hollow. “Glad it worked out.”

There was more heavy silence beside him, but Gerrard still couldn’t look. Could only keep his eyes on the moon, on the distant quiet whisper of hope in its silvery light. The reminder of why he’d done this. What it meant. One small step toward ending this war.

“But actually, I do have one request for you, in return,” Gerrard heard his voice add, flatter than before. “I want you to — tousethis, Olarr. To do everything within your power to make yourself captain of the Bautul, whether that’s with Silfast or not. You won’t just sit there and watch while another piece of carrion like Slagvor crawls out of the mire, and tries to drag the rest of your clan back down with him. Fuckingno, Olarr.”

The silence beside him seemed to stretch, quivering, trembling out in a slow, hitching sigh. “Ach, warrior,” Olarr replied, very quiet. “I shall do this. I swear this to you, before our goddess.”

Gerrard’s eyes finally darted toward Olarr, taking in his upturned head, his eyes fixed to the moon, his hand over his heart. Making another vow, and Gerrard’s thoughts flicked back to his last vow, the vow he’d made when he’d thought Gerrard was about to die.

I pledge you my troth, Aulis Gerrard. I grant you my axe, and my favour, and my fealty. I shall honour you, and care for you, and keep you safe. For as long as I bear breath.

Gerrard wanted to laugh, or maybe weep, but instead he just kept walking, gazing blankly at the dim path up ahead. While Olarr kept perfect pace with him, his heavy breaths now audible in the silence.

“I also wish you to know, Aulis,” Olarr abruptly said, “how sorry I am. I am sorry for breaking my first vow to you, when I swore not to harm you. I am sorry for hiding my truth from you. I am sorry for all the grief and pain I brought you. And I am sorry” — he drew in a shaky breath — “if ever I led you to believe that you were not my… equal. That I saw you as weaker. As… less.”

Gerrard couldn’t hide his reflexive flinch, his eyes cutting brief and searching toward Olarr beside him. Toward where Olarr was again looking at the moon, drawing in more deep breaths, as if seeking for courage.

“But in truth, Aulis,” he continued, on another heavy exhale, “I haveneverseen you as less. You have always been — more. So much more. So much stronger and brighter than any other I have known. I have admired you, and envied you, and longed to be near you, from the first night we met.”

Oh. Gerrard’s dry mouth swallowed, his throat constricted and hot, and Olarr let out another unsteady breath, rubbing both hands at his eyes. “And now, this night,” he choked. “I shall never forget all you have done tonight, Aulis. How you faced my kin with such bravery and cunning. How you offered me the gift of your surrender before them, and then the gift of your seed — the one gift they could not refuse. The one gift that would bind them to you, and bring them alongside me, to share my fate, and defend me against the rest of our kin. And Slagvor —”

He broke off there, whipping his head back and forth, as a low, strangled growl scraped from his throat. “I have never known fear such as this, in any battle I have ever fought,” he rasped. “But you, Aulis — you faced my greatest enemy with such strength, and such wisdom, and such ease. You fought as though you were a god yourself. The goddess’ blessing burned upon you, warrior, and we all saw this. We all knew this. But you made sure of this, upon that altar. You bound us, and uplifted us, with your care, and your light.”

His voice was hushed now, his eyes again glimmering on Gerrard’s face, his hand spreading wide over his heart. “I ken you may no more wish for my vow of matehood,” he croaked. “But should you allow this, I should yet be honoured to serve you. I should be honoured to follow you, and stay with you, and keep you safe, with all my strength. Whether as only your vassal, or your guard, or your… bedmate. Aught that you might wish, aught within my power. No matter where you are, or upon which side of this war you now stand.”

Gerrard stared at him again, his stomach twisting, his heart thundering in his chest. Because not only was Olarr saying he’d meant that vow of matehood he’d made, but he was also offering up — power. Command. Recognition of what Gerrard had done, what Gerrard had given him. And goddess, it would be so easy for Gerrard to take it, to wield it, to use it as his own vengeance, for all he’d borne…

But his head was already shaking, his hand gripping tightly at his sword-hilt, and he desperately fought for breath, courage, bravery, cunning. Fought his way through the mess, through his own selfishness and pride, to where…

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