Page 18 of Bite Sized Bride
When I return to the cave, she is asleep by the fire, her face soft and unguarded in the flickering light. I move with anuncharacteristic stealth, not wanting to wake her. I place the cleaned suru near the fire, a silent offering.
I watch her sleep for a long time, the ache in my chest a constant, throbbing presence. She is so small, so fragile. The world I have dragged her into is a nightmare of violence and fear. And I am the greatest nightmare of all.
The need to be clean, truly clean, is a sudden, overwhelming urge. The grime of the forest, the lingering scent of blood, it all feels like a desecration in her presence.
I run away for a while, venting and return to the stream. The moon has risen, a sliver of silver in the dark sky, its light filtering through the canopy to dapple the surface of the water. The night is quiet, the forest holding its breath.
I am about to step into the water when I hear a soft splash from downstream.
I freeze. My every instinct screamsthreat. I melt into the shadows of a massive fern, my body a silent, waiting predator. I peer through the leaves.
It is her.
She is standing in a small, moonlit pool where the stream widens. She has shed her ruined tunic, leaving it on the bank. She is naked.
My breath catches in my throat. The sight of her is a physical blow. Her skin is pale as moonlight, almost luminous in the darkness. She is so thin, her ribs a delicate shadow beneath her skin, her shoulders sharp and bony. She is a creature of sharp angles and soft curves, of profound fragility and an unbreakable strength that I cannot comprehend.
She moves with a slow, weary grace, washing the grime from her skin, her long, dark hair floating around her like a silken cloud. She is beautiful. Not in the way of the cold, cruel beauty of the dark elves. Her beauty is a quiet, resilient thing. It is the beauty of a single, stubborn flower blooming on a battlefield.
The possessiveness that rises in me is a tidal wave, so powerful it almost brings me to my knees. It is a nagging feeling that has little to do with the master’s commands, nothing at all to do with the Urog’s curse. It is the ancient, primal instinct of an orc who has found his one, true mate. It is a sacred, violent thing. It is the urge to slaughter armies for her. To burn worlds for her. To wrap her in my arms and never, ever let her go.
I watch as she finishes, as she wrings the water from her hair and slips back into her tattered clothes. She does not know I am here. This moment was hers alone.
After she is gone, her scent lingering in the air like a ghost of summer, I finally step into the pool. The cold water is a shock, but it is welcome. As I wash, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the moonlit water.
The sight is a fresh agony.
The reflection is not of Kael, the warrior. It is of the Urog, the monster. A grotesque parody of an orc, with its scarred, mismatched hide, its broken tusk, its fused collar of shame. A thing of nightmare. A tool of destruction.
I look from my monstrous reflection to the empty space on the bank where she stood.
How can a thing like me ever be worthy of a creature like her? How can hands that were made to kill ever be gentle enough to hold something so precious?
The chasm between us is as wide and as deep as the Thirteen Hells. She may not fear me now, but she will. When she truly sees what I am, what I have done, the trust in her eyes will turn to revulsion.
She is my mate. I feel it in the marrow of my bones, in the tattered remnants of my soul.
And I am the monster that will inevitably destroy her.
11
MIKANA
The days bleed into one another, each a mirror of the last, marked only by the rising and setting of a sun I rarely see through the thick, oppressive canopy. We have a rhythm now, a silent dance of survival choreographed by necessity. He is the hunter. I am the forager. He is the shield. I am the one who tends the wounds.
He leaves at dawn, a silent, hulking shadow melting into the gloom. He returns hours later with a fresh kill, always cleaned now, always left near the fire for me to prepare. While he is gone, I search the forest floor for edible roots and berries, my knowledge gleaned from the dry, dusty pages of Malakor’s herbology texts. I find us shelter, a new cave, a hollowed-out log, an overhang of rock. He never questions my choice. He simply fills the space with his massive, brooding presence, a silent guardian against the encroaching dark.
The silence between us is a vast, uncharted territory. I have taken it upon myself to fill it.
“This one is called fylvek grass,” I say, holding up a blade of the pale green plant. He sits across the fire from me, his amber eyes tracking my every movement, his massive form still andwatchful. “The books say it has healing properties if you mash it into a paste. It’s supposed to draw out infection.”
He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest. It is his version of a question.
“Infection is… when a wound gets sick,” I try to explain, my words feeling small and inadequate in the face of his monstrous reality. “It turns hot and angry, and it can kill you if you’re not careful.”
I talk to him constantly. It is a lifeline to the person I was, the scribe, the reader. I tell him stories I remember from the forbidden texts in Malakor’s vault—tales of Cirsheco the Wild and his mad adventures, of the Agelios, the angelic spirit guides that no one but children believe in. I tell him about the stars, how the dark elves believe they are the very eyes of the Thirteen, watching them from the heavens. I tell him about the taste of a fijus berry picked at the peak of ripeness.
He never replies, not in words. But he listens. I know he does. His head will tilt, his brow will furrow in concentration, the amber eyes focused on my face with an intensity that is both unnerving and deeply compelling. He is a sponge, soaking up the world through my words.
