Page 15 of Keeping the Human's Heart

I pull away, leaving him dazed, and get on with my chores.

Now I have two dogs at my feet while I’m busying around the farm, trying to make themselves useful. Esme is a little more competent, though, so eventually I turn to Han’zir and snap at him to find something else to do. There’s plenty of planting to finish, his specialty, and I don’t want to keep thinking about our argument last night. I want to pretend it never happened and continue life as usual.

Not that life will ever be usual again with Esme around.

She helps me sow seeds, and unless I’m imagining it, she keeps less of a distance than before. Her brown eyes jump to me often, as if checking on me, monitoring my mood. I enjoy her quiet companionship, how she stays close by my side as if I’m her protector. When she bends over, my eyes are drawn to her small rear, to the thighs that poke out when she hikes up her dress to kneel, all the way to her tiny feet in her ratty shoes.

We should probably replace those, but I don’t know anyone who sells boots that small. I might have to make them myself.

After our argument, there is no more talk of bringing Esme inside the house. Every night as we go to bed, I worry about her alone in the barn, what would happen if a bear or a wolf came looking for a meal. But I say nothing. It’s just a risk we have to take to keep my hunger at bay.

When she drops a bowl and it clatters on the ground, she hastily picks it up and cleans the mess she’s made. “She’s so cute,” Han’zir says as he helps her. It grates on me when he talks about her like she’s a kitten to be admired for its little claws, how he pats her on the head the way one would a real dog. Can’t he see that she is a woman, with a smooth, soft body waiting to be caressed?

I try to banish these thoughts, but no matter what I do, they worm their way back in.

Esme

I still don’t know what to make of their argument over the fire. Drazak had been angry, yes. But whatever was said... he was hurt, too, and so was Han’zir. Shame bites at me because in the middle of it, I heard keva, and I was certain that the argument was somehow about me.

I thought about leaving after that. I’ve assembled a decent store of food in the hayloft in the very back, some of which has already started to go bad. By now I should’ve left already, but the truth is that I like it here. Drazak and Han’zir have nothing in common with my master back home, who would twist my arm behind my back and mutter horrendous things in my ear when I didn’t do a task exactly to his specifications. If I mess up on the farm, Drazak rolls his eyes and takes over, shooing me to go do something else. They don’t hit me, or even boss me around. They value my work, Han’zir praising me when I do a job well, or Drazak offering a curt nod. They let me eat with them instead of in a separate room where I can’t be seen. They treat me like I’m one of them, a member of their family, even though I still sleep in the barn.

That was the trade, after all, and as long as they let me stay, I’ll abide by it happily.

I am happy, I realize. I know the roles and the rules here, and that certainty fills me with a contentment I haven’t had before. So the last thing I want is for Drazak and Han’zir to be fighting over me—but I fear leaving the one home that’s ever made me feel worthy.

What else is out there but pain and rejection? To be treated as no better than a farm animal, a thing to be used as a vessel for my master’s fury?

At least here, I’m safe from the war. Here, no one knows I’m a deserter. The battle is happening far away.

Or so I thought, until the horses come thundering down the road.

Drazak and I are deep in our work, scattering chicken droppings in the soil to restore the nutrients it lost in the harvest. We have it down to a system, where he pulls the cart and I shovel, and then we’ll pass over it again with the tiller to mix it all together. Later, Han’zir and I will plant the seeds, because he knows exactly how far to space them and how deep to bury them to ensure they thrive.

But our peace is shattered when a dozen horses approach the house, carrying trollkin in various shades of green and blue—all of them armed.

“Fuck!” Drazak growls. I let out a squeak of surprise as he grabs me around the middle. Tucking me under his arm like a sack of carrots, he takes off at a sprint towards the house, where Han’zir stands at the back door, fear twisting his usually amiable face. I try to ask him what’s going on, but Drazak claps a hand over my mouth so I can’t make a sound.

The horses come to a halt outside as I’m carried into the bedroom, and there, I’m unceremoniously tossed onto the bed.

“Quiet,” Drazak says in his most commanding voice. There’s no time for explanation before he turns and slams the door.

Those horses must mean something very bad, so I keep silent like he instructed. I crawl under the bed to hide, though I can still hear Han’zir and Drazak’s panicked whispers. Whatever is happening, they’re terrified. An ominous air fills the house, and then there comes a loud, heavy knocking at the door.

Are they here for me? Did someone see me here, living and working on the farm, and now they’ve come to collect?

The floor under the bed is covered in dust, and I do my best not to sneeze. Outside the bedroom, the front door opens and boots tromp inside. I can make out the sound of a stern, raised voice, but I can’t understand any of the words. I squeeze myself even tighter against the wall, hoping against hope they don’t find me and take me away.

I don’t want to leave my troll and my orc. I don’t want to die after finding peace and happiness for the first time in my life.

Drazak barks something in return, and it escalates into loud arguing. He’s exactly the type who won’t back down from a fight, and worry pools in my belly. What if they hurt him to get what they want? I beg him silently to stay calm, to let them take and do what they want, even if that thing is me.

I can’t let something happen to him. Maybe I should walk out of this room and turn myself in, so they won’t get hurt.

But my cowardice, the sense of self-preservation that sent me fleeing from the war in the first place, keeps me trapped under the bed.

Han’zir

The big, beefy troll is dressed in a dirty uniform, a whole troop of soldiers and wagons waiting on the road behind him.

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