Page 54 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
I snort. “You don’t look so normal yourself, kid.”
The kid giggles, pointing at his own stretched-out reflection in the mirror opposite me. I turn and the next breath, we both burst into laughter. The warped glass twists me into a short, squat figure, my tusks impossibly long and wide in my face while my legs and torso shorten to no more than clunky stumps.
The child laughs with me, his own reflection towering next to mine. As a voice calls his name, he waves at me and takes off at a run. As his small form disappears, I feel something healing inside my chest, like a wound I didn't even know was there, yet hurting me all the same.
Cassidy watches the exchange, her expression soft. I feel my ears burn and clear my throat.
“We’re leaving,” I mutter, heading for the exit.
Cassidy skips to catch up, still laughing. “Admit it, that was fun.”
I grunt, refusing to answer.
Cassidy just laughs, shaking her head as she grabs my hand and tugs me forward. “Come on,” she coaxes, her warmth seeping into my skin. “Let’s go see the bonfire before Bernice has my head for keeping you all to myself.”
As we approach the town square, the massive bonfire comes into view, flames licking toward the night sky. The fire crackles, throwing flickering light across the circle of benches gathered around it. People cluster nearby, warm drinks in hand, cozy under the glow.
Cassidy lingers for a moment, then a small figure waves at her from near the bonfire. Evelyn Primrose stands there, surrounded by a group of about ten pixies whose wings catch the blazing glow of the flames like they wear them.
“I’ll go check on Mrs. Primrose,” she says, squeezing my arm briefly before stepping away toward the fire.
I watch her go for a moment, drawn to the easy way she fits in here, before turning to where Bernice is seated on a bench. She pats the empty space beside her, leveling me with a knowing look.
"Sit, boy."
I comply and sit beside her, my gaze automatically going to Cassidy, unable to help myself. The glow of the flames catches hints of auburn in her hair, making her look almost golden in the flickering light. She laughs at something Mrs. Primrose says, her hands gesturing animatedly, her warmth so palpable even from a distance that it makes my chest ache.
We sit in silence for a long moment, and I almost think she’ll let it go. But this is Bernice. She never lets anything go.
She watches the flames, her voice quiet but steady.
“I think you've lived in the past long enough, Gerralt.”
My shoulders go rigid.
Bernice doesn’t look at me, just keeps her gaze on the dancing flames as a group of witches circle the fire and begin chanting, the movement of their arms morphing the flames into different shapes. The crowd oohs and aahs as lion, bear, and wolf shapes appear in the blaze.
But it doesn't alleviate the weight of Bernice’s words as they settle into my bones, pressing down with the kind of truth I don’t want to face.
“You’ve spent so long convincing yourself you don’t deserve happiness,” she continues. “That if you shut yourself away, no one else can be hurt. But that’s not living, Gerralt.”
My jaw clenches. My hands curl into fists against my thighs. I swallow hard, the knot in my throat thick and unyielding.
Bernice finally turns to face me, her amber eyes sharp and unrelenting yet filled with warmth.
“Do you think your parents would’ve wanted that?” Her voice softens, but the words hit just as hard. “For you to spend your whole life paying for something that wasneveryour fault?”
Guilt, old and familiar, rises like a tide in my chest. I keep my eyes fixed on the ground, afraid that if I meet hers, I’ll break.
"I was the one driving," I rasp.
"You were sixteen." Bernice's voice is unwavering. "And the other driver was drunk. What happened was a tragedy, Gerralt. But it wasn’t your doing. I watched you cut yourself away from the world since that day and I must admit, I am guilty of getting lost in my own grief for my son for a while. But now is enough."
I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath coming slow and uneven.
Bernice exhales, reaching out to place her hand over mine. Hers is small, weathered, warm.
"You're allowed to want something good for yourself, Gerralt. You're allowed to let someone in."
