Page 11 of Claimed By the Mountain Man Orc
I gave them the story I'd practiced in my head as I descended—slipped on the ice, fell into the river, climbed out before hypothermia set in. Found an old trapper's cabin, waited out the worst of the cold, made my way down at first light. They fussed over me, wrapped me in emergency blankets, offered me cocoa from thermoses that had gone lukewarm. They told me I was lucky, incredibly lucky, that most people who fall into winter rivers don't walk away.
I smiled, nodded, and said nothing about the creature who pulled me out of the water and changed everything I thought I knew about the world.
For two days, I try to stay away.
I record a podcast update from my motel room, my voice steady and professional as I tell my listeners that the "Orc of Appalachia" is still just a legend. I talk about folklore and cultural memory, about how humans need monsters to explain the unexplainable. I talk about evidence… or the lack thereof. Footprints that could be bears, shadows that could be tricks of light.
I sound like myself.
But I don't feel like myself.
The world feels smaller without him in it, the colors somehow duller. The snow outside my window looks colder, more hostile. The silence feels empty instead of watchful, dead instead of alive. I catch myself reaching for the carved orchid around my neck, which I strung on a leather cord the moment I got back, touching it like a talisman.
My producer calls, excited about the episode, and already planning the next investigation. I make noncommittal sounds and hang up as quickly as possible.
That night, I lie in my motel bed, staring at the popcorn ceiling, and feel the bond pulling. It's a physical sensation, like a rope tied around my ribs, tugging me back toward the mountain. Back toward him.
So, on the third morning, I pack up and drive back toward the trailhead.
The sky is the color of pewter, low clouds heavy with the promise of more snow. My breath burns cold as I climb, but this time I know the way. This time, I'm not chasing legends.
I'm going home.
The thought stops me mid-step.Home.
When did I start thinking of a cabin on a mountain as home? When did I stop thinking of my apartment in the city—with its reliable heat and running water and neighbors close enough to hear through the walls—as the place I belong?
But I know the answer. The moment Varn pulled me from the water. The moment the bond clicked into place.
When I reach the ridge, he's waiting.
My mountain man orc stands at the edge of the clearing, half shadow and half mountain, like he's been carved from the rock itself. The wind tugs at his dark hair, scattering snow across his broad shoulders. He's wearing the same leather and rough wool, and his gold eyes track my approach with an intensity that makes my heart stutter.
For a heartbeat I can't move, can only stare at him and marvel that he's real. Then I drop my pack and run straight into his arms.
He catches me easily, lifting me clear off the ground, and his laugh is low and disbelieving against my ear. "You came back."
"Of course I did." My voice shakes with emotion, with relief, with joy. "You didn't really think I could stay away, did you?"
He sets me down but doesn't let go, his arms wrapped around me like he's afraid I'll disappear. "I wasn't sure you'd want a life up here. It's hard. Isolated. Nothing like what you're used to."
"I don't want a life without you." The words come out fierce, certain. "I tried, Varn. I tried to go back to normal. But nothing feels right anymore. Nothing feels real except this."
His eyes search my face like he's trying to memorize every detail, like he's afraid this is a dream. Then he brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, his touch achingly gentle.
"I carved something for you," he says quietly.
He leads me inside the cabin, where the fire is already lit and crackling merrily. On the table sits a small wooden figure—two shapes intertwined, their hands joined over a swirling pattern carved to look like wind and snow. It's more refined than the sketch he showed me before, every detail lovingly rendered.
"It's us," he says simply. "The mountain joined us the moment you stepped into my world. I just finished what it started."
My throat tightens, emotion threatening to overwhelm me. "It's beautiful."
He takes my hand, turning it palm-up, and presses the carved orchid I've been wearing against my skin. His thumb traces the smooth wood, worn already from my constant touching. "When you wear it, the bond shines brighter. It means you've accepted it. Accepted me."
I look up at him, heart hammering. "Then keep finding me, Varn. Every time. Forever."
He bends his head, touching his forehead to mine in a gesture that feels ancient, significant. For a moment, there's nothing but the warmth of his breath and the heartbeat I can feel through his chest, nothing but the bond humming between us like a living thing.
