The drums pounded. A steady death-march that throbbed in Bleda's head.
The shāgram waved the burning henbane and mugwort under the initiates noses. Powerful plumes of smoke clogged Bleda's throat. Surged up his nostrils. Made his vision blur.
Somehow, he felt far away. He wasn't in that longhouse with the drums and the smoke and the chanting voices and the hundreds of hot, sweaty bodies all pressed in tight together.
Bleda stood at the centre of the circle. The entire tribe had gathered to witness the initiations, their eyes gleaming through the haze as they chanted in unison, the deep, guttural sounds vibrating in his bones. His skin, slick with sweat, glistened under the flickering firelight, and the intricate makeup on his face—bold streaks of red and black—had begun to melt, running down his cheeks in uneven lines. His breath came in shallow, laboured gasps, the weight of their gazes pressing in on him from all sides. Suffocating. He could feel the ground beneath his feet pulsing with energy, the earth itself seeming to respond to the rhythm of the tribe's voices.
The thump, thump, thump of the drums throbbed behind his eyes. Standing up straight was a task. Trying not to vomit when the shāgram passed his burning herbs under his nose was a struggle.
His forehead, his chest, his legs were all slick with sweat. Colours danced around him in bleeding swirls. The womenfolk of the tribe sang in the Old Tongue. It was an ancient song. The meaning, lost hundreds of years ago. All that remained were a series of noises and grunts. But still, somehow Bleda could sense that it was about glory and battle. Blood and pride… but perhaps that was the burning herbs.
Another initiate stumbled and fell into Bleda. He grabbed the Greenfang by the shoulders before he could fall to the floor, holding on tight until the young orc found his feet again.
"I can't breathe… I can't breathe in here." The young orc muttered. He pulled at the garland of woven willow branches around his neck - the same garland all the other initiates wore- and placed his hands on his trembling knees.
"Head up, Cragmar." Bleda signed to him, although he wasn't sure how much of his hand-gestures Fritigern's son had seen with his eyes on the ground and the smoke swirling around them.
Still, Bleda placed a hand underneath Cragmar's arm, hoisting him up with the little strength he had.
Bleda looked around at the crush of faces, all staring at him.
Above the chorus of chanting, Shagar Othro's voice boomed, rising and falling in ancient incantations that echoed into the cavernous roof of the longhouse. The shāgram stood at the head of the circle, his arms raised high, calling on the spirits to bless this ritual, to seal all of the initiate's fates today. Bleda's head pounded in time with the chant, the pressure building behind his temples until it felt like his skull would split. His vision blurred, the faces in the crowd merging with the swirling smoke. They looked like demons. Drawn and haggard faces made of vapour and screams…
The fire crackled louder, and for a moment, everything seemed to spin, the world around him tilting. He clenched his fists, struggling to remain still, to ignore the way the greasy paint was smeared across his skin, the way the sweat dripped into his eyes. This was his moment of transformation, but the weight of it was almost too much to bear.
Through the shifting smoke, Bleda's eyes caught a glimpse of his mother standing at the edge of the crowd. It shocked him—she was rarely seen outside her tent, especially at gatherings like this. Her figure was frail, hunched as if burdened by unseen weight, her face pale and drawn in the firelight. She looked haunted, her wide eyes darting nervously across the faces of the tribe as if she were searching for something—or someone. A pang of unease surged through Bleda's chest, but he forced himself to focus on the fact that she was there, watching him. Despite her fear, despite the shadows clinging to her like a second skin, she had come to witness The Consecration. His initiation. It was more than he had expected, and he clung to that sliver of comfort, hoping it would steady him as the ritual continued.
As the smoke forced its way deeper into Bleda's stinging eyes, the faces around him warped into other twisted shapes.
He saw another figure weaving its way through the gathered crowd. A strange creature that did not belong amongst orc-kind. Pale, like a spectre. Small and diminutive when compared to the bulk and muscle of the orcs it moved through.
And for a brief, terrifying moment, he glimpsed the face of the human man he had left to die by the riverside.
The man's eyes were hollow, accusing, staring directly at Bleda from within the curling smoke. His pale skin stood out starkly against the dark haze. Bleda's heart pounded in his chest, fear rising like bile in his throat. The man's mouth moved, though no sound came, but Bleda felt the weight of unspoken words—condemnation, perhaps, or a plea for mercy he had denied. The same plea he had ignored that morning.
Bleda blinked, shaking his head to clear the vision, but every time the smoke swirled, the spectre of the human flickered back, haunting him. His breath quickened, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him, and for the first time in the ceremony, Bleda felt truly afraid.
"Bleda?" Cragmar asked him suddenly.
Bleda flinched. He dragged his eyes off the flitting figure of the human man to find Cragmar looking up at him. The young orc still looked sickly and woozy, but from the worried look on his face, Bleda assumed he must look a damn sight worse than Cragmar.
Bleda nodded reassuringly at Cragmar. The young orc looked away with a raise of his eyebrow.
Bleda couldn't help but start searching the crowd again for that man. The human. He could feel his presence in every shadow. His eyes watching him, even though he couldn't see him…
The shāgram raised his arms, his voice rising over the crackling flames, steady and deep, each word laden with the weight of generations.
"Orcs of the Woodland Tribe!"
The Orcs in the longhouse roared. The air vibrated with the sounds of their pride.
"Tonight, we gather for The Consecration, as our forebears did in the days of old. We stand here not simply as orcs, but as the bloodline of the Raven Father. The first being who walked this cursed land. Long before the days of The Glorious War, before the betrayals and the bitter exile that cast us here, the Raven Father took us in. We were abandoned by those who called us allies, cast into the wilderness with nothing but our strength, our will, and our faith!"
A number of the watching spectators growled with displeasure. This speech was an old one. A familiar one. Bleda had heard the shāgram's talk of his kind's history for years. Since he was old enough to remember. But today, the words rumbled through him.
The betrayal. The hatred. The sorrow.
All that the orcs had been made to bear since that war that had raged hundreds of years before he was born…
"It was the Raven Father who gave us purpose. And so, it is to him that we give our blood." The shāgram continued. His eyes swept across the room, settling on each of the Greenfangs, one by one, as he continued. "Each of you, standing here, has lived your childhood in the protection of this tribe. You have been shielded by its mothers, its fathers, and by this land itself. But the time of shelter is over. The time has come for you to give back to the tribe, to the Raven Father, what was granted to you by your birthright. Your blood is no longer yours alone—it belongs to the clan, to the spirits of the land, to the bond we share with the great God who watches over us!"
The tribe roared. The sound of it made Bleda's skull vibrate. All of that fear and betrayal and sadness suddenly surging into pride.
Shagar Othro began to pace slowly before the fire, his voice growing more forceful. "We have done this for countless generations. We have done this even before the course of my long lifetime. We did this before the Glorious War, before we were left to rot in this land. And we will do this long after. The humans may have thought us broken, cast out. But we survive. We thrive. Because of this bond. Because of this blood. The Raven Father has never abandoned us. Not once. And we honour him by giving ourselves in return—our strength, our lives…and our blood."
The shāgram stopped pacing and turned fully to the boys. He lifted the bone blade to the roof.
Screams and crows of wild delight echoed through the longhouse. Great howling roars.
Bleda's blood ran cold. That blade. The one that had haunted his nightmares. It was there. Towering above him. Mighty and dreadful.
Shagar Othro's gaze, fierce and unwavering, settled on each of them in turn. He lowered the blade, the shining metal glinting light over his withered and lined face. "Tonight, you will shed your blood as your fathers and their fathers did before you. You will scream."
The shāgram locked eyes with Bleda in that moment. A tremble went through Bleda. A fear so huge that, until that moment, he'd only been able to remember the very edges of it from his most terrible dreams.
"You will feel the fire of adulthood burn through you. And through that pain, you will be made whole. You will stand taller. Stronger. Your bond to this tribe will be unbreakable, sealed by the blood you offer willingly."
The shāgram lowered his blade. The air before it went cold. Like he was raking an ice cold wind through the thick hotness. Bleda felt his legs begin to tremble as Shagar Othro pointed the tip of the knife towards his cheek.
A grumble of displeasure purred in his chest as he felt the gentle kiss of the metal on his skin. So like his dream. The teasing. The baiting…
It hurt to try and keep his fists at his sides. It was a struggle to keep his feet rooted to the ground. His fingers itched to reach out and tear that blade out of the feeble old Orc's hands.
"You want this. Don't you." The Shāgram whispered quietly to Bleda.
Bleda tries to swallow his gasp, but the old Orc had read his thoughts. He'd seen into his skull, through his wide, frightened eyes.
"Of course you do." The shāgram continued. "Because we are orcs. We do not cower before suffering. And we do not forsake our ancestors. When you spill your blood, the Raven Father will see you. He will know you. And you will never again walk in the shadows of boyhood, but in the light of warriorhood. A living testament to the strength of our people. Tonight, you become a part of that unbroken chain."
The longhouse fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire. The weight of Shagar's words hung thick in the air, pressing down on the gathered tribe like a mantle of tradition and expectation. The Grennfangs sat motionless, their fates sealed by the ritual that awaited them.
"But you will not do so alone." The shāgram grumbled. He waved the knife forwards, beckoning an unseen person towards the central circle. "Each of you has chosen a second. Your second will walk this path beside you. To remind you, in the midst of your pain, that your blood has been given for a higher cause."
Into the pressing bodies walked the Greenfang's seconds. Most of them were fathers of the initiates. Fritigern walked forwards, a pure white cloth in his hands, and went to stand resolutely behind Cragmar's left shoulder. He gave Bleda another reassuring nod as he glanced sideways, but his eyes ghosted over when he saw the vacant air behind Bleda. The place where his father should have been. His brother in arms.
But Bleda was the one to break the gaze first, searching the crowd for his elected companion in this trial.
His heart raced as his second approached: Morag.
His sister, eyes wide and unsure, hesitated for a moment before stepping into the circle. She looked nervously around the longhouse, her wide eyes staring up at the others. In her hands was a white linen cloth, the same as the one Fritigern held, that trembled in her grasp. But there was something else too, creating an odd shape underneath the rippling fabric.
Bleda could feel the eyes of the tribe on them, the weight of unspoken judgement hanging heavy in the air. A few of the onlookers exclaimed in outrage and began to chatter and Morag, the half-breed, rarely looked so exposed. She was so small compared to the rest of them. So different. Her little body was almost lost as the press of onlookers surged inwards to get a better gawp at her. Some of the younger orcs snickered softly under their breath, but Bleda stood firm, meeting her gaze with a silent nod.
She gave him a curt nod back, trying her best not to look scared for him.
He nodded his head down at the strange ripple underneath the fabric with a quizzical frown.
"Oh..," she said airily, drawing it out into the light of the longhouse. "I made it for you. For the tribe. For good luck."
It was the wolf. The little woven willow figurine she'd been working on that morning.
Emotion hitched in his throat as she held it out to him.
But no sooner had he enclosed his fingers around it, did he hear shouts of outrage from the crowd.
"Get it out of here!" A rough voice cried from the back of the longhouse.
"The half-breed shouldn't be here!" Another cried.
Bleda surged forwards, grabbing Morag by the arm as the voices of discontent grew. He pulled her defiantly to his side. Little Morag stumbled in the half light and tangle of bodies but she tried to pull herself upright. Stand up straight. Not look so frightened for her brother.
Bleda's eyes blazed as he looked around the longhouse. The small wolf figure she'd given him pressed itself into his palm. He held it tight. So tight, he could hear the brittle twigs groaning and snapping underneath his fingers. He would have shouted. Roared at them. Screamed his defiance into their faces, if he could. But he looked at each of the tribes members that had dared to question. Each of the Orcs who had said she shouldn't be here.
No one else spoke out after meeting Bleda in the eye.
"This is your choice?" The shāgram asked him.
Bleda's gaze flicked to his mother. Gormla looked back at him with a pained expression of apprehension. Watching her children fighting for themselves where she couldn't. Where she hadn't.
Bleda returned his eyes to the shāgram. He nodded deliberately.
"And you, half-breed," Shagar Othro growled at Morag. Bleda felt her tremble under the firm grasp of his hand. "You are content with what is expected of you?"
Morag nodded. She looked from the shāgram to her brother, her soft blonde hair flapping around her face. "Yes. For Bleda. Anything." She said shakily.
The Shāgram grunted. It was a sound of reluctant acceptance and Bleda released his tense shoulders.
But the shāgram produced the bone knife once more, raising it to the roof of the longhouse again.
The drums started again. A low, slow pound to start the steady march to pain.
Shagar Othro beckoned the womenfolk to start their chant again.
"Groz! Groz! Tur Ghoz..! Groz! Groz! Tur Ghoz..!"
The guttural, throaty words grew in volume. Grew into conviction. Until the slightly unsure voices became confident cries, throbbing through the air.
"Groz! Groz! Tur Ghoz..! Groz! Groz! Tur Ghoz..!"
The tribe could sense the coming pain. It ran through them like a taut thread of rope. Turning tighter and tighter. Lifting them all higher and higher.
The cries soon became roars. Orcs turned their throats to the sky and crowed. Shredding cries that vibrated the air and made enemies long dead cower.
The wolf in Bleda's palm pricked his flesh. He squeezed tighter as the chant grew in fervency.
"Groz! Groz! Tur Ghoz..! Groz! Groz! Tur Ghoz..!"
The shāgram moved with a sudden, frightening speed.
Bleda gasped, losing the figure of the old Orc in the smoke and the press of sweat.
Blood trickled its way down his clenched fist.
And then he heard Cragmar screaming beside him.
"Son! Be strong!" Fritigern cried, clutching Cragmar's shoulders in support.
The young Greenfang roared in agony.
The shāgram moved away from the young Orc's groin and Bleda glimpsed the ruby-red glint of blood on his blade.
His nostrils flared and his eyes darkened at the sight of fresh blood.
Screams of pure, feral delight rippled through the crowd as others witnessed it too.
Bleda's veins grew hot as the blood-rage began to course through him.
He watched as the shāgram moved on to another Greenfang. Bleda saw the flash of panic in the young orc's eyes as the diminutive old shāgram approached him. He reached for the next young orc's skirt, throwing it aside and grabbing for the manhood dangling between his legs. The white bone knife flashed in the firelight again, and another orc was screaming.
"Hold it! Hold it tight! It will help stop the bleeding!" Fritigern muttered frantically to his son.
The pure white cloth that had previously been flung over his shoulder was now pressed around Cragmar's manhood. Splotches of red now stained its previously unblemished surface.
It was so quick. Shagar Othro moved with a speed that didn't suit his diminutive frame. He glided from Greenfang to Greenfang with preternatural swiftness, leaving screams in his wake.
Until suddenly he was before Bleda.
His one eye burned. Bleda felt like the shāgram was looking into his very soul. Seeing all his fear. Seeing all his cowardice. Time lingered as he tried not to wither under Shagar Othro's gaze.
He didn't look away. Didn't give the shāgram the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort. He knew what he was trying to do…
He was a warrior. He wanted to be a warrior.
Just like his father. Just like the other Greenfangs he stood beside.
And this was a test. If he could stand and face the shāgram's bone blade, then perhaps Shagar Othro would finally see his metal. He would finally see that he was born to stand in front of knives and spears and swords. Not heal their wounds.
The shāgram raised a craggy eyebrow at him, as if to ask 'So, this is what you truly want?'.
Bleda nodded.
"So be it." Shagar Othro grumbled.
Bleda choked on his own gasp as the shāgram seized his manhood.
He didn't even have time to prepare for it. Didn't even have time to steel his nerves before the white hot pain roared through his core.
He was breathless with shock and agony. His eyes rolled up into the top of his head. To scream wouldn't have been enough. There was nothing in the world that could vocalise what he felt. But there was a voice calling to him through the mist of his pain. A small voice. Afraid and panicked.
"Bleda..! Bleda!"
He opened his watering eyes a fraction to find a white haze of short cropped hair hovering underneath his nose. Bleda realised it was Morag. Her face angled up towards him. Her own cheeks streaked with tears of fear.
"Here, Bleda! It's here!" Her voice was no more than a warble. Streaked with panic and terror.
She had the pure white cloth pressed feebly up against his belly button, her wide eyes refusing to dip any lower than his chest. Morag's arms were shaking as she held the rag up against his body.
Bleda grabbed it from her. With his own hands he wrapped the cloth around his ringing manhood, his face contorting into a powerful wince as he touched the wound.
The pain was beginning to lessen now. The shock of it was beginning to fade.
He looked down at himself, sucking in a few deep, levelling breaths. His fist was still clamped around the place where the shāgram had cut, but he could feel the wet ooze of the blood underneath his fingers.
But no redness. No blood-craze, just yet.
"Bleda..?" Morag asked quietly.
He looked through his misty vision at her. His breaths still came quick and his manhood still throbbed, but the worst was over.
It was over.
He peeled away a small fraction of his fingers from around his manhood. It wasn't bleeding nearly as much as he'd thought it would. The shāgram's knife had been sharp. Sailing straight through the skin of his manhood as if it were carving through butter.
Truth be told, it had been more the suddenness of the cut, rather than the pain of it. And who knew what cauterising spells and healing magic the shāgram had imbued in the blade.
He moved his fingers away from his manhood another fraction of an inch. There was a red stain, but only small enough to make his eye twitch a little. No gushing or running or flowing. Just a few modest crimson spots.
He laughed at himself, amazed that this is what had chased him out of his dreams for the past few months. This trickle had been a river in his mind's eye. His rage had been an uncontrollable animal. But that animal was now chained and feeble, cowering in the corner.
He glanced down to the balled fist he still held rigidly by his side and found Morag's poor willow wolf crushed to bits within it. He wasn't sure when he'd broken it. His hand was a mess of thorns and scrapes. He quickly buried it behind his back again, letting the broken twigs fall to the floor. There was no sense in having survived The Consecration just to set off the blood-rage with a cut on his palm.
Bleda gave Morag a weak smile and shook his head apologetically.
"I'm sorry. Your wolf didn't make it." He signed to her.
Morag's shoulders sagged. Her eyes closed as she fought to keep down her tears of relief. "I don't care about that," Her voice was a breathy sigh. She flicked her eyes down to his waist. "He didn't… he didn't miss and take it all off, did he?" She asked, trying to summon a measure of joviality back into the longhouse.
Bleda huffed out a dry laugh, wishing he had a free hand so he could shoot Morag a vulgar gesture.
"Because I'd quite like to be an Aunt one day." Morag giggled.
Bleda flicked his leg and kicked her on her backside with the side of his foot. The sudden movement made his manhood ring again, but it was worth it just to hear Morag squeal.
The first of the Greenfangs raised their bloodied rag with a roar. A wave of noise swept through the longhouse. The air shimmered with voices.
Another Greenfang raised his rag.
And then, another.
And then Cragmar, his father holding his shoulder steady as his trembling arm swayed a little.
Every single one of the initiatives held their victory aloft. Showing the rest of the tribe their triumph over pain. The rags flapped in the air like red flags.
Finally, it was Bleda's turn.
He eased his tight fingers from around his manhood, hoping that the bleeding had been stemmed enough.
With his face in a grimace, he let the rag fall away from him. Bleda shut his eyes tight, letting his skirts fall back into place in front of him before he could glimpse any blood. He straightened his shoulders, breathing deeply as he tried to block out the agony between his legs.
"Raise it, Bleda!" Cragmar cried, his voice a shaky mix of pride and fire.
More Orcs roared out their support for him. The longhouse filled with their voices.
Bleda felt his chest swell with a warm sensation of triumph. He shot Morag a bright smile and scanned the crowd for his mother. Gormla was watching him expectantly, her face rosy with pride.
And he had done that.
He had put some colour back into his mother's cheeks.
Bleda thrust the bloodied rag into the air.
The air was wrought in two with the sound of the celebration. The tribe rushed forwards to envelop the initiates in a series of embraces and hearty pats on the back. There were no brotherhoods and factions, only fellow tribes-members. Surrounded in the family that Bleda had always wanted.
The older warrior ululated and crowed up at the ceiling as they shook his hand in congratulations. The womenfolk bent their brows to his and whispered a quick prayer of thanks to the Raven Father for guiding him successfully through The Consecration. Little children looked up at him with wide eyes of admiration.
There were tears swimming in Bleda's eyes when Gormla approached him.
Her normally dull eyes were shining with pride too as she threw her arms around him. Bleda could still smell stale sweat on her from the days she'd spent refusing to get out of her sleeping chamber, but it didn't matter. She was here. He was here. And both of them were standing upright and victorious over pain.
He looked around the longhouse for Morag, finding her staring up at them both, her bottom lip quivering. Bleda held out an arm to her and she rushed forwards into their embrace. The three of them stood together in the centre of the longhouse for a long moment, leaning on one another. Now he was a warrior, Bleda fought hard to blink away the emotion in his eyes.
CELEBRATION SPILLS OUTSIDE
Now, the drums were soothing.
Like the gentle rock of a cradle against the walls of his mind.
The fires had been coaxed into life now that the sun was beginning to set. The sky was a watercolour of purple and pinks. A beautiful bruise. As if it knew the soreness that this day had borne.
It was not quite dark yet. There would be more dinking and dancing to come when night had fallen, and the tribe would then turn their celebrations to the sky, throwing up so many cries of joy and pleasure that the stars would start shaking in the heavens. But for now, Bleda was content to sit still for a few minutes.
His head was a little woozy. Dagaro's grog still burned bright in the pit of his stomach. He'd been glad to accept it when the celebrations had started; it numbed the pain in his nethers down to a dull and distant throb. And now he was seen as a man of the tribe, he had to show he could take his drink.
Because all the womenfolk were looking at him differently now.
He'd been pulled into several jigs when the dancing drums had started. With all of its bouncing and capering and sudden, jolty movements… Hiding his winces from his partners had been quite the task.
A dark-eyed female with creamy white tusks and circlets of jasper in her hair met Bleda's eyes over the campfire. She had danced with him three times. When she smirked at him, her expression made Bleda's guts squirm in a pleasantly uncomfortable way. She was sharing a handful of dates with two of her younger sisters. Bleda had tried asking her for her name, but truth be told, he'd lost it in the sounds of the music and the drums. He dared not ask her again, just in case she took offence and abandoned him for Cragmar.
Bleda tried to summon a smirk to give back to her, but his mouth suddenly felt dry, his lips sticking to his tusks in an odd way. Still, she seemed to be charmed by his awkwardness, her eyes flicking down to his lap. Morag was asleep there, with her head resting atop his thigh. She was snoring quietly, catching a few minutes of rest before the celebrations resumed after sunset.
Bleda, momentarily forgetting that the female was watching him, brushed a lock from out of Morag's face. A small bruise lingered over the bridge of her nose, but apart from the small blemish, there was no hint of the injury she had suffered earlier that day. He felt a small prickle of sensation in his fingers. As if the magic that he had used to heal her wanted to remind him of its presence. But he flexed his hands and shook it away. He had chosen the life of a warrior, not a shāgram.
But still, that small prickling sensation seemed to travel along his veins and find his heart. It warmed him. Made him feel proud, even if it was a gift that he was choosing to reject.
He had healed her. Him. He had taken the pain away from her.
And so had she. She had stood in front of the whole tribe and vowed to help him in his hour of need. Even when they had spat their vicious words down at her and surrounded her with hatred. She had been there.
And no one would ever dare call her 'demon' again. Not as long as his feet touched the earth. Now he was a warrior, he'd make sure of it. He was finally a voice that they'd listen to.
Bleda's eyes wandered over to where Haksa and a handful of other older warriors were sat. His eyes narrowed as his hateful gaze burned into Haksa's back. Orcs like them would never dare lay a hand on him or his family again. He was now their equal, in the eyes of the laws of the tribe, and if any of them tried to insult him or Morag, like Haksa had done that morning, then it would not be he who had to deal with a blow to the face.
That thought warmed Bleda as he silently watched Haksa from across the campfire. It looked like the old orc was losing the game of dice they were playing. Every so often, Bleda hear the faint sound of the old orc warrior exclaim an expletive and throw a few copper pieces at Dagaro. Even still, they'd probably be gambling until the sun came up.
And Bleda hoped that Haksa lost a lot of wealth tonight.
The sound of peeling feminine laughter brought him back to the present. He glanced over the waking fire to find that female looking at him again. She was being egged on by her sisters to do something. Bleda couldn't hear their words, but he could see the two younger ones pushing her in the arm encouragingly. With a huff of playful indignation, the dark-eyed female suddenly rose to her feet.
Bleda instantly tensed, his heart rate doubling. She was coming over.
Her hips swayed as she walked. The rings of Jasper in her hair tinkled with the rhythm of her movement.
Bleda sat up straighter as she drew nearer, that oddly pleasant sensation in his stomach squeezing intensely.
"My mother makes goat milk." The female said, her voice husky and enigmatic. "Would you like some?"
The question took Bleda by surprise. If he'd had a voice, he wouldn't have been able to use it in that moment.
"They are in our corral, at the edge of the camp." The female added, inclining her tinkling hair out over the tents.
Bleda looked at her blankly.
The female rolled her eyes and moved to walk away from him, but she halted in her tracks when Morag piped up sleepily, "She's asking if you want to go somewhere private, Bleda."
Bleda's eyes widened as understanding hit him. He felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment and the female let out a little giggle.
Morag didn't even open her eyes as she rolled her head lazily off Bleda's thigh. She gave a little snot as she lay herself down on the bench at her brother's side and settled back down into her doze. "By the Raven Father's eyes, with brains like yours, I'll never be an aunt…" she muttered, loud enough for both of them to hear.
The female orc covered her mouth with her hand, trying to suppress another giggle. But with her other hand, she reached for Bleda's wrist and dragged him to his feet.
Bleda followed her compliantly. Without so much as a backwards glance at Morag, he fell into step behind her. His brain felt like mush between his ears. If this female had led him straight off a cliff edge, he would have been powerless to stop it.
Mercifully, no one heeded their departure as they wound their way through the other resting celebrators and out of the clearing. Haksa didn't even look up from his game of dice as they passed by. Bleda didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed.
The female did indeed lead him through the tents to a small goat enclosure, far away from the drums and the fire. There was a squat timber milking station built into one of the corners, and the female led him by the hand over to it. The goats brayed and whined when the pen flew open. A couple of them rushed up to the female as she entered the corral, clearly expecting their next meal from her. She shooed them away with a small kick of her foot and they went running off through the churned up mud and tufts of remaining grass.
The two of them tucked themselves into the small milking station. The female turned brusquely to face him, her dark eyes casting one last searching glance over his shoulders. Bleda looked nervously around the shed too, perhaps expecting to find some outraged mother or enraged father hiding in the meagre shadows. But the female turned back to him, satisfied that no one was lingering nearby, and before Bleda could even raise his hands to bashfully ask her what her name was again, her mouth was on his.
Lips crashed into lips with a hot wetness that made Bleda feel a little winded. The exchange was clumsy, the taste of grog spicy on her mouth. He tried to return her fire and her energy, but his mouth felt numb and the blood that pumped in his ears was deafening.
This was his first kiss with a female.
The first time anyone in the tribe had shown him attention of this nature.
Normally when others turned their mouth towards him, it was to spit insults or mockery his way.
The roar of shock was just beginning to fade, and he was starting to enjoy it, when the female sharply wrenched her face off his.
"You don't have a tongue!" She squealed.
Bleda blinked at her a few times, waiting for the fog of lust to clear from his mind just a little before the words could sink in.
He meekly shook his head at her and dipped his eyes to the muddy floor.
"I… I thought that it was just a nickname…" the female uttered.
He'd thought that perhaps she'd already known that. He'd lost his tongue the night his father had died. When he'd been hiding in the woods.
Everybody in the tribe remembered that night.
Maybe she'd taken him to the corral to mock him after all…
He shrugged his shoulders, unsure of what to do. The female looked at him for a considering moment. To be fair to her, if he had been poking around in her mouth and found a tongueless stump, he'd be reconsidering continuing too…
In the end, the female merely rolled her eyes and dragged him back into another kiss.
Bleda tried to relax into it, but he soon felt the female's hands pawing away at his clothes.
He went wide-eyed.
The blood in his veins felt thick and warm, like heated honey. A pulse began developing between his legs, his sore member pressing up against the fabric of his skirts. The female presse her palm to his hardness, the rub of her touch against him clumsy and hurried.
Even still, each bit of friction, each moment her hand brushed against him, sent a crack of pleasure and pain through him. She was touching him in the way that he'd only ever touched himself. It was a ringing, throbbing feeling. His manhood ached as his wounded foreskin strained against his growing hardness. But he didn't want her to stop. That clumsy palm of hers was so excruciatingly close to him. Just a breath of cloth between them. He could barely force himself to stand still.
She stopped. And the absence of her palm made him unscrunch his eyes. But Bleda found her unfastening the laces of his britches, on her knees before him.
He went breathless. Silently watching her as she teased apart the last of the leather threads.
His britches dropped to the ground with a heavy thud.
His cock was swollen and rigid. Jutting out at her face. He almost shrank back from her, embarrassed at himself, but she suddenly seized him in her hand again and Bleda let out a gasp as flesh met flesh.
A ripple of a squirm whispered through him as her hand found his wound. He glanced down to find her fist completely enclosed around the head of him.
The female exclaimed. "Oh!" She removed her hand and looked up at Bleda with her dark eyes. "I'm sorry…"
But Bleda felt his hands moving without his command. He seized the back of her neck, fists balled in the strands of her brown hair and tinkling jasper rings. Instead of her hand, he found himself pushing her face towards him.
That mouth. That incessant tongue of hers. He wanted to feel it around his manhood. So completely encapsulating him. All around him.
The female glanced up at him with that awfully sinful smirk of hers. She opened her lips just a fraction, leaning in close to the swollen head of his cock. Bleda trembled as he felt the warmth of her breath glide over him. Her hand reached up to encircle the base of him. His world narrowed down to those lips, those fingers, that breath…
Fireworks erupted behind his eyes when she placed her mouth around him.
He moaned aloud, trying to resist the urge to thrust forwards into her. She took him all the way in. So far, that he felt himself touch the back of her throat. The ringing, aching sensation in his manhood spiked into something more intense. More sharp. And when she drew her lips back, he felt a lance of pleasure bolt through him as she passed over his head.
Her movements were slow and deliberate. Each painfully drawn out second had him shivering with ecstasy. That urge to thrust was building in him. Like a tight knot curling ever tauter in his stomach.
She slowly built up the momentum, passing her finger and her lips over him and then back again in a rising rhythm. He didn't even register the small wince of pain each time she met his wound. The grip of his fist in her hair turned his knuckles white. The grit of his teeth as he tried to fight his release made his jaw ache.
His cock was slick with her when he glanced downwards. Her lips were puckered as he watched himself disappearing into her again and again…
He had to pull himself away from her. Otherwise the sight of what she was doing would bring on his final release. The female glanced up at him in surprise, but one look up to his face and she was smirking with understanding again.
She rose slowly to her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Bleda was on her face again. He could taste himself on her tongue. He could feel the heat of his flesh lingering on her lips.
The female laughed. A low rumble that vibrated straight through him.
"If you've got no tongue, why don't you put those fingers to good use?"
She seized his hand and stuffed it down her skirts. His tips touched a warm wetness and he choked out another startled moan. Still, the female held his wrist firm, pushing him onwards. Inwards.
Bleda ran his fingers up her, finding a small nub of flesh at the apex of her wetness that made her shiver. He did it again. The female trembled in his arms.
Her hand was still wrapped around his wrist but her grip was tight. The more she liked it, the harder she gripped. Bleda used this as his guide as he explored her with his hand. Her fingers were vice-like around him when he plunged himself deep into her. Her neck turned skyward. Her voice, a coarse shudder.
He let his fingers glide in and out of her, thumb rubbing up against that nub of flesh as he moved. She held on tight to his wrist, her grip so firm now that his hand was beginning to tingle. Bleda rubbed his own hardness up against her as he worked. Like an animal. A rutting ram that had to have some kind of release.
He could feel her tensing. Like that same tight knot that was balled in his stomach was forming in hers. Her breaths became shorter. Her whimpers of pleasure coming quicker. Bleda could feel it too. That small amount of friction between him and her thigh had him feeling ready to snap. It was embarrassing, really. To have himself come all over her leg before he'd even had a chance to put himself inside her properly. But he couldn't stop himself.
The coiling knot in his guts released. His pleasure whip-cracked through him with a force so great it made him see stars.
He moaned deeply, his face pressed to the nape of her neck. Bleda felt his seed spill out of him, feeling like his whole soul had just left his body and dribbled down her thigh.
"Did…did you just..?" The female asked breathily.
Bleda couldn't have replied even if he'd wanted to. He felt limp, like a dead fish. Cored out. Hollow.
"Raven Father's eyes! It's all down my leg!" She squealed.
I'm sorry… I'm sorry… Bleda wanted to say, but his legs were weak. His body had surely turned to mush.
A sharp grumble of a noise had them both gasping with horror.
Bleda wheeled around to find Shagar Othro standing, with his face as harsh as thunder, in the doorway of the milking shed.
The female shrieked, releasing Bleda's wrist and pressing herself up against the wall, as far away from him as she could manage.
"Why don't you stop by the stream on your way back to the celebrations, Vyrna." The shãgram said coldly, not even glancing her way as his gaze bore two black holes of contempt into Bleda's red face.
The female kept her eyes on the muddy ground as she shuffled past them both. Bleda could see tears in her eyes as he watched her go. Perhaps he'd find her later. Apologise to her properly for finishing on her the way he did.
His gaze eventually drifted back to Shagar Othro. His chest was roiling with embarrassment. The heat in his face was a furnace.
"Is this your life now, warrior? Rutting in the goat corrals, like an animal, and ignoring your gift?" The shāgram asked contemptuously.
Bleda raised his hands to reply, but the shāgram batted them away, his old face wrinkling into a look of disgust.
"Get that away from me. Your fingers stink of woman."
Another hot flush crept its way up Bleda's neck and he snapped both of his hands to his sides.
"Don't look so feeble" the shāgram snapped. "You aren't the first young orc I've caught with a female on Consecration night. If you want to spend your days fucking and fighting, then at least own it."
Bleda straightened his back and tried to look Shagar Othro squarely in the eye. His insides squirmed with discomfort when they locked gazes, but there was something new there now. Something levelling.
They were both equals now, after all. He was a Greenfang no longer. He had been so afraid of this Orc, and the gift they shared between them, that morning. But now, he wasn't.
He felt the pinprick of magic surge to the tips of his fingers. Almost as if it wanted him to know that it was still there. That gift would always be inside him, even if he'd chosen to reject it. The shāgram glanced down to his own hands too, as if he too felt a prickle of that magic in his fingers. But he flexed his hand with a grumble, swatting at the air as if he were batting away an invisible fly,
"It's too late now." He said irritably. "The blood has been spilt. You have declared yourself a warrior. Here."
He waved a slither of white cloth in front of Bleda's face.
Bleda recoiled, a little shocked at the sudden flash of fabric. But he plucked it from the air and glanced down at it.
His cloth from The Consecration. The one that had stemmed his blood.
A large blotch of red stared up at him from the centre of the white cloth. He felt the rumble of the blood-rage start behind his eyes, but he closed his lids tight, swallowing it back down with surprising ease.
You survived the rite itself. You controlled your urge when the blood flowed. When the cut was delt. He told himself proudly. What's the paltry stain it left behind?
"This is why I searched for you." The shāgram grumbled. "The others have been presented with theirs too. This next part, you must all do alone."
Bleda glanced up at the shāgram, his eyes wide with anticipation.
"The Raven Father must know you. And he knows us by our blood, Bleda." He continued. "You must give your Consecration blood back to him. Bury it somewhere private in the forest. Somewhere known only to you and the Raven Father. And from then on, he will know you. He will see you. He will protect you."
Silence settled between them. Bleda took in a deep and levelling breath and nodded to the shāgram. He had a place in mind.
"Go now." Shagar Othro said, gesturing out to the forest. "You won't want to wander back into the camp right after Vyrna, anyway. Her father is a watchful old hawk. He'll ken what the two of you have been up to, if you're not careful, and when he comes for you, he'll have your stones."
Bleda bowed his head low as he shuffled past the shāgram. His cheeks were burning hot again, but he headed towards the trees, trying to leave the embarrassment behind him.
Bleda walked away from the corral with the rag held tightly in his hands, its rough, blood-stiffened fabric cool against his fingers. Behind him, the distant campfires crackled and flickered, casting faint glows that warmed the steadily darkening sky. Little bursts of orange against soft violet.
He ventured further into the woods. His heart beat steadily in his chest, his breath easing with each step as he left the sounds of his tribe behind—the murmur of voices, the faint rhythm of a drum still beating from the ceremony. Now, silence closed around him, broken only by the crunch of leaves beneath his feet and the occasional stir of wind in the branches overhead.
The dusk air was sharp and cool, bringing with it the scent of pine and damp earth. Corvionii wrapped him in her warm embrace again. His racing thoughts calmed. He felt the burden of watching eyes lift off of him. The perfumes of nature pressed themselves down upon him. But as he slipped deeper into the shadows of the forest, the coil of embarrassment refused to unfold in his guts. The memory of the shāgram's piercing gaze lingered, an image of stern disapproval etched into his mind.
Bleda hadn't been able to explain his attraction to the girl he'd followed to the corral—the way she'd looked at him, smirked so sinfully... He hadn't planned for the shāgram to find him with her, hadn't anticipated the judgement that would cut through his exhilaration. It was wrong, he knew, to mix desire with ritual so boldly. Yet he paused for a second, considering if he regretted what he'd done with her.
Bleda grinned to himself. Not one bit.
And here he was, in the shadows of the forest once more, with both a final task and a glimmer of pride in his eye.
As he ventured deeper, the forest's hush soothed his lingering embarrassment, melting it away like fog beneath the morning sun. The trees were not watchful or forbidding; instead, they loomed protectively around him, sheltering him from the outside world.
This was his forest. He'd kept his family from starvation here. Used its gifts and its bounties to ensure Morag and his mother didn't starve. What other bounties might it give him now?
This was his forest, his place of trial and triumph. He'd shed blood here, had faced the depths of his fear here. That boar, that terrible creature that he had defeated that morning, if he could take down a monster of a beast like that, then surely he'd bested the worst Corvionii had to offer. What did he have to fear from this place?
This was his forest. He'd looked an enemy of his people dead in the eyes and the forest had given him the strength to turn his back on him. That human man hadn't been so terrifying and destructive on his own and in Bleda's territory.
He puffed his chest out, looking around him. Yes, this was his forest.
The weight of The Consecration rag in his hand grounded him, reminding him that he'd been chosen for this path. That he had earned his place, with blood and spirit, with years of struggle and torment, among the tribe's warriors.
A thrill raced through him, mingling with pride. The night felt alive, the air electric as his steps grew more certain.
He was no longer just the silent, wandering boy trailing behind the brotherhood bands. He was a warrior.
He had conquered the blood-rage, had felt its fury burn within him and learned to control it.
The magic that simmered inside him, that strange force the shāgram had first sensed, was no longer a burden or a mystery. It was a gift, a strength, and tonight he felt its glow.
After a while, he reached a clearing, a spot deep enough within the forest where he knew he could bury the cloth undisturbed. The small clearing where he had faced down that huge black boar. There were still a few scuffs in the mud. A few gashes in the soil as the only evidence of the battle he had been engaged in this morning. How easily he could have died here. Maybe some members of the tribe would have volunteered to look for him. Fritigern, perhaps. And maybe one or two others. But then, he would never have known this feeling. The feeling of returning to Corvionii as a conqueror.
Kneeling, he set the rag aside and began to scrape at the earth with his hands, scooping out a shallow hole in the ground. The soil was soft, yielding easily beneath his fingers, and the smell of damp earth filled his nostrils as he worked. Each handful of dirt pulled him deeper into the rhythm of the ritual, the slow, deliberate act of letting go, of leaving behind the last symbol of his youth.
It was growing harder to see now the last of the day's light was almost gone, but Bleda guessed that the hole was deep enough. He lifted the rag and held it before him for a long moment. The blood that stained it—his blood—had turned a dark, almost black hue in the darkness. It was his sacrifice. Not just to the Raven Father, but his offering to the forest, to the land that had witnessed his becoming. With a slow exhale, he placed the rag into the earth, covering it gently, pressing the soil back into place until it looked as if nothing had ever disturbed the ground.
He sat back on his heels, staring down at the hidden spot where the rag lay buried. A sense of finality washed over him, one that was neither sad nor heavy but felt like a soft, satisfying click within his chest. It was done. The Consecration was complete.
His blood had been given to the land, his commitment sealed. He no longer belonged to the world of children, of untested Greenfangs. He was part of something ancient, something vast, stretching back through countless initiations and generations. The weight of that history felt immense, yet comforting, as if he were finally at home within himself.
Slowly, he rose, brushing the dirt from his hands. As he stood there, surrounded by the silence of the forest, a grin broke across his face, wide and free. He'd faced the ritual's tests, overcome his fears, even walked the edge of shame, yet here he was—whole, complete. The image of the girl flashed briefly in his mind, the glint of her laughter, her bright, challenging gaze. He felt a rush of warmth, the exhilaration of knowing he could conquer even his own wildest desires.
He laughed softly, a sound that rose into the night and vanished among the trees. He was Bleda, a warrior of the tribe, no longer just the mute boy who skulked along the fringes. He was a man, blooded and bound to his brothers by trial and sacrifice.
The grin that spread across Bleda's face felt unfamiliar—almost foreign, stretched wide and brimming with a strange, simmering confidence. He glanced back through the trees toward where the distant campfires of his tribe would be roaring into great bonfires. He could hear the celebration drums growing now. There would be more dances soon - great swaying and throwing moves, hurling their bodies around the burning flames as the drink and the joy grew.
His feet ached to trudge back to the celebrations, perhaps also back to that female he'd left too. But his feet stayed rooted where he stood. Instead of returning to the safety of his brothers and the warmth of the fires, he felt a different pull, one that whispered of risk and boldness…
His gaze drifted toward the shadows stretching north, toward the river that wound like a black ribbon through the forest.
Bleda's pulse quickened at the thought of what lay beyond that path—the human man he'd left by the riverside. His enemy. .
He thought back to the terror in the human's eyes, the helplessness that had frozen him still as he cowered underneath the tree. It had been intoxicating to see, almost laughable, how fragile he'd looked against the strength of an orc. He hadn't gone so far as to kill him, leaving him instead with a bruised ego and to the mercy of the forest.
But now, the idea of seeing the human again flared hot in Bleda's mind, drawing him away from the path back to the camp and toward the river.
With a final glance at the spot where he'd buried his bloody rag, Bleda set off through the forest, his steps light but sure.
The forest was no longer the silent guardian it had been; it felt alive around him, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, amplifying the thrill that surged through his veins. He was a warrior now. He'd shed blood for the Raven Father, stood unflinching before his brothers, and conquered both fear and ritual.
He could face a lone human without hesitation, without even the need for his brothers at his side.
The moon had risen high, casting a pale glow that filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground with silver light.
His mind raced. Perhaps the human was already dead. The boar had torn him up rather fiercely, and he'd been out here in the wilderness for hours now. If no one had found him, then the human had most likely bled to death. What did he want to see that for? A cold, dead human staring glassily up at the sky.
But his feet didn't stop moving. Even if the human was dead, he needed to see it. Needed to stand over it and look down on the pitiful creature with his towering joy.
As he neared the river, Bleda slowed, listening. A faint memory tugged at him, the man's voice muttering something frantic, broken, when he'd stumbled upon him the first time. He'd left him by the water's edge, eyes wide with horror, but something in the man's look had haunted Bleda since. There had been fight, challenge— not t surrender. And Bleda wanted an almost pathetic acquiescence. He wanted the human to die resigned and hopeless, just like thousands of orcs had died at the hands of humans. that left Bleda both amused and unsatisfied.
But tonight, he wanted more than fear. He wanted to feel the strength of his newfound power, the fullness of his manhood in action. If the human tried to order him about this time, he wouldn't just leave him to the forest.
As Bleda moved through the darkened forest, his confidence carried him forward with bold, sweeping steps, his hand brushing against the cool trunks of the trees he passed. The air was sharp and still, his breath leaving faint puffs of fog in the cool night. He had intended to find the river, find the small clearing where he'd left the human, but something else drew his gaze through the trees—a faint glint of light, low to the ground, catching his eye.
He stilled, narrowing his gaze, trying to make out the shape in the shadows. A rustling sound came from the undergrowth, weak and uneven. The familiar scent of blood mingled with the earthy smell of the forest floor, and he saw it—a hunched, heaving form struggling in the moonlight.
Recognition struck him before he could move closer: the great boar.
The very beast he'd fought earlier, the one he'd taken down with a well-placed stone to the eye.
The boar was in a miserable state, its massive bulk lowered to the ground, chest rising and falling in painful, laboured breaths. Blood crusted the hollowed eye socket, the wound from his slingshot gaping and raw, surrounded by dark streaks where it had bled freely. The animal's remaining eye, wide and rolling with pain, caught sight of him and narrowed, teeth bared in a half-hearted snarl. Its tusks glinted faintly in the moonlight, smeared with blood, old and dry—the human's blood, he realised, from where it had attacked him earlier.
For a moment, Bleda just watched, his chest filling with a strange, uneasy satisfaction. This was his handiwork, his mark upon the world, left in the form of a wounded, dying beast. The boar, once a symbol of strength and ferocity, now lay defeated. Weakened by his strike. There was a power in this, an affirmation of his strength, his place as a new warrior in the forest.
But then he saw the animal's trembling limbs, the ragged breaths that rattled through its chest, each one a strained, painful reminder of the life it clung to. The boar wasn't dead, not yet, but it was close—a creature too proud to surrender, even as its strength faded. It reminded him, oddly, of himself. The forest would remember this boar's final fight, he realised, just as it would remember his.
Bleda felt the pulse of his heartbeat slow, the triumph fading to something quieter. He thought back to the battle, the rush of adrenaline and certainty in his skill with the slingshot. He hadn't expected to see the boar again, not like this—alone, broken, and struggling.
The boar's eye flicked toward him, a glint of recognition, maybe even resentment, in its gaze. It tried to rise, forelegs straining, the movement clumsy and weak, and then collapsed again with a huff, exhausted. Bleda's grip on his own resolve faltered. He didn't want to leave it here to die slowly, bit by bit. This wasn't the end he'd intended.
The idea struck Bleda as he crouched over the fallen boar, watching the last breath leave its massive, battered form. His gaze sharpened, and he turned, scanning the nearby trees, the shadows winding like tendrils under the pale light of the moon.
The scent of blood was in the air.
A human scent, still lingering close.
His footsteps were silent as he moved through the underbrush. Where before he had stumbled a little blindly through the forest, now, it leapt out to him, as if the human had always been lurking around the corner.
The forest softened, and a clearing opened up before him.
The babbling brook wandered past him, whispering its secrets in front of his feet. The grass was just beginning to bead with the evening's moisture, like the Raven Fathers himself had scattered pearls over the ground.
It was so calm. So peaceful.
Until Bleda heard his breathing.
The human still lay against the trunk of the willow tree. But he was now slumped and broken, barely clinging to life. The skin of his brow was grey. The dirty purple cloak he had wound around his leg was stained with dark red blood.
Bleda could see the human had tired to crawl away from the tree, judging by the drag marks and signs of movement he could see in the ground in front of him. But pain and helplessness had clearly forced the human to return to his tree.
His eyes were shut. His lids fluttering faintly as he took in a few shaky, shallow breaths.
Bleda approached cautiously. The human's eyes fluttered open as Bleda's shadow fell over him. Recognition flickering there in a look that wavered between terror and despair. He tried to lift his head, but his strength failed him, and it dropped back against the tree, his gaze glassy and resigned.
Bleda knelt, the heart in his chest pounding with exhilaration. It felt good to loom strong and defiant over him. To see the fear in his face. Even so close to death and delirious as the human was, Bleda could see the terror in his eyes when he glanced up into his face.
A twinge of horror crossed the human's face, his lips parting as if to speak before his breath snagged on some invisible hook. There was confusion there too. Why has it come back? - his slightly creased brow seemed to say. Is it going to finish me off? - his rapidly flitting eyes asked as they scanned every inch of Bleda, looking for a weapon.
Bleda held his expression, staying deliberately still, allowing no hint of his intentions to slip free. He saw the fear in him, bubbling out of the human's eyes—the anticipation, the grim acceptance—as if he were trying to brace himself for the final blow, but unable to keep his terror in check to greet death like a man. His face was twisted, a blend of resignation and dread, as though he refused to beg for mercy from an orc but also refused to close his eyes and wait.
The brief tension thrilled Bleda more than he'd admit. He felt the weight of his silence pressing down on the man, a tangible presence in the stillness of the forest.
Bleda watched as the human's breathing grew ragged, his pulse visible beneath the pale skin of his neck. The human thought he understood what Bleda intended; he was so certain of it, his entire body wound tight like a bowstring, as if he could somehow shield himself from fate by willing himself into stillness. Bleda allowed his expression to harden, his gaze unwavering, savouring the faint satisfaction of keeping his intentions shielded. The human wanted a clear answer—a reason, perhaps even the satisfaction of proving himself right. Bleda wasn't inclined to give him that.
Bleda felt the stir of magic within him, wild and restless. It roiled in his veins, urging him forward, drawing him to the pulse of pain in the human's broken body. He had rejected it today, yes, but it was still there. Still hiding in the crevices and hidden parts of his body. The life of the warrior is the path he had chosen to tread, but that magic would always follow on behind him, in his footsteps. Surely this was something not exclusively for the use of the shāgrams. And surely the Raven Father wouldn't have given him this gift if he'd always known the path Bleda would choose.
Bleda's face remained a mask, yet beneath it, he felt the strange pull of obligation, the thorny sense that despite every custom, every reason not to… he had to heal the human.
It was a notion his tribe would never have understood—a choice that seemed like betrayal, yet also felt undeniable, as if a greater force compelled him to it.
The human's gaze held, his eyes filled with accusation and defeat, as if he'd already resigned himself to the story they would tell of his death—a tale in which he, a fallen warrior, had been bested by an Orc in the depths of the darkened woods. His jaw tightened, and Bleda saw his throat bob as he swallowed, bracing for the strike he assumed was coming. And for a moment, Bleda felt a grim satisfaction at the human's unspoken plea to at least die with dignity.
But Bleda's gaze wavered, betraying a shadow of his true intention. He leaned forward, hands hovering over the human's chest, feeling the faint warmth of his pulse, the shallow throb of life holding on against the odds.
The human gasped. As if he expected Bleda to hurt him. To tear his beating heart out of him with his bare hands. But Bleda ignored his pitiful mewls and searched his body for what he needed.
"What are you…? What…?" The human said quietly, his voice raw and croaky. He was too weak to reach up a hand, too weak to even push the orc's roaming fingers off him.
But Bleda's palm settled on what he sought. A dagger.
A worn, bronze-handled knife, dulled but sturdy.
The human made no move to stop him, his breath rasping out in shallow gasps, eyes fixed on Bleda with the acceptance of a man resigned to his fate. He thought Bleda was here to end him, to finish what had begun that morning.
The human's eyes widened slightly, confusion replacing fear as the intent behind Bleda's presence shifted. He searched the orc's face for answers, his own expression unravelling in a cascade of disbelief and cautious hope, as though he were grasping for something solid in the dark.
Without a word, Bleda stood to his feet, turned and left him.
In his ears, he heard the human let out a small, choked sob of relief, but he did not turn to acknowledge him. Bleda kept his back to him, the dagger clutched in his fist, and strode back into the forest.
He felt his power heightening with every thud of his feet. He felt the magic prickling at the end of his fingertips as he returned to where the great black boar lay.
His own heart beat in a steady, deliberate rhythm. Yes, the magic breathed, I am your gift. Use me. Feel me. He felt it whispering in his ear, begging to be released, to be harnessed. The boar still laboured under its last heaving breaths, its eyes widening again as Bleda drew to its side once more.
No, Bleda thought, I won't let you die like this. Petering out. Alone and broken and impotent. You deserve more. Your life deserves more…
Bleda gripped the knife tightly, standing over the beast, feeling the pulse of magic stir within him. It was a wild, primal energy that came with sacrifice- with life exchanged for life - and he let it swell, guiding his hand. With a deep breath, he drove the knife down, plunging it into the boar's flank, the blade sinking deep, severing the last thread that bound it to life.
The creature let out one more pitiful squeal. Its eyes went red and wide, looking at the sky with frightening urgency, and then they rolled away into whiteness. The boar slumped to the earth with a dull thud.
Bleda withdrew the knife quickly. He could feel the beast's blood flowing out around his fingers, like its life was flowing away, back to the realm of the Raven Father. Closing his eyes, Bleda opened himself to the magic that he felt from the beast's fading life force, drawing it into his own body. A fierce heat filled him, washing over his skin like wildfire, racing through his veins. It was raw, powerful—a blend of the boar's wild spirit, its strength, its resilience.
The mouse had been a smouldering little charcoal. Holding the life of the boar was like sitting on top of a raging bonfire.
The heat was spectacular. For a moment, he thought it would burn him up completely. His lungs choked with hot air. His stomach felt like it was boiling inside him. But he refused to let go of it. Even when he pictured searing skin and melting flesh in his mind's eye. He held on to the boar's life.
But as he waited for a scorching death to take him, nothing came.
Bleda opened his eyes. His hands weren't burning, they were glowing.
He stared at himself, the magic radiating from out of him. It still burned, but the burn was wonderful. It was like that ache he'd felt in his nethers before he'd released himself on that female, but harder, stronger, more intense…
He felt his own wounds, his own fatigue, lessen, replaced by the boar's unspent life. It was intoxicating and disorienting, this surge of borrowed vitality, and for a moment, Bleda swayed, feeling himself merge with the spirit of the beast, the blood, the strength.
But he forced himself to steady, the magic settling, coiling within him, under his control.
The life demanded to go somewhere, and Bleda wanted to oblige it. But he had to be quick. Staying on top of the boar's remaining spirit was like riding a thundercloud. MSo, he rose to his feet, thighs trembling, and stumbled off back through the forest.
His feet seemed to fly, his toes barely touching the ground. Bleda felt like he was moving at a speed that was unnatural. Flitting through the trees. Slipping through the air itself.
Bleda came to a shuddering stop. He had returned to the human in what felt like the blink of an eye. His shallow breaths were growing fainter, his skin pale and clammy. But he could not dawdle. The boar's life roiled inside him. Hot and hurried. Bless hand to hurry, otherwise it would tear free of him.
With newfound purpose, Bleda knelt by him. The human flinched again, his face contorting with abject terror when he saw the glow radiating out of his hands.
It was then that Bleda allowed the faintest hint of a smirk to break the severity of his expression. An acknowledgment that only he understood.
Let him wonder, Bleda thought, Let him be afraid. Let him try to fathom why an orc, of all creatures, would choose this...
Bleda placed his hands on the human's chest, feeling the faint pulse beneath his skin, like a candle's last flickering flame. The human let out a small scream as his hot fingers seared into his skin. But Bleda ignored his cries. The boar's life was too impatient, too fiery. He needed to let go of it. Before it burned up his insides.
Drawing on the power he had absorbed, he began to transfer it into the human, his fingers glowing faintly as he channelled the boar's strength into the weakened man. The magic was raw, alive, but Bleda mastered it, letting it flow through his hands into the human's body.
He could feel bone knitting back together, bruises fading from black to pink, blood filling empty veins. The human's breath grew steadier, as the man's body absorbed the life that Bleda offered. His bleary eyes opened, meeting Bleda's with a mixture of shock and confusion. Fear and reluctant gratitude.
The human glanced down to the tattered purple cloak he had bound around his leg. With shaking hands, he reached for the cloth.
It seemed to fall away from his trembling fingers as naturally as water slipping out of his palms. The skin of his leg was still stained with old blood. The sight of it stirred a little anger deep within Bleda, but it wasn't fresh, it wasn't potent. As the human withdrew his hands with a sharp gasp, Bleda knew there would be nothing there to trigger his blood-rage any longer. It was healed.
Bleda pulled his own hands back, the glow fading away into nothingness. The burning was gone, the magic was asleep inside him again.
"H-how did you..?" The human stuttered, his voice shaking with wonder.
Bleda flexed his vaguely tingling fingers and gave the man a slight nod—a silent acknowledgment of their truce, however temporary. Then, he rose, feeling the weight of the boar's spirit settle into his own.
"I-I don't…" the human man breathed. He flexed the foot at the end of his once ruined leg, the colour already returning to his cheeks. He looked Bleda in the eye, a small frown creasing his brows. "Wh… Why would you..?"
He let the question hang there, as if he couldn't quite force himself to finish. Perhaps this human thought it was beneath him to ask it. Then he might actually have to acknowledge that his life had been saved by an orc.
Bleda scoffed. Even if he could, this human wouldn't understand. Raven Father above, he didn't really understand. But still, it felt good to have this little snatched moment of superiority over a human.
For a man to be the one to look up into an orcs eyes, begging for answers, for a change.
He smiled at the human. A smile of quiet mockery and amusement. Even despite his own confusion, he felt the glow of achievement and triumph deep inside him.
He had given this human back his life. His kind might have chased the orcs to the edges of Corvionii, but it was him - Bleda of the Woodland tribe - who had been the master of this man's fate.
And that feeling alone made him feel more powerful than all of the shāgram's that had come before him put together.
With a last glance at the human, Bleda turned and left. He slipped back into the shadows of the forest, leaving the man healed and bewildered under the pale moonlight. This time, the human didn't call out to him, demanding help or answers. Instead, there was only stony silence as the orc walked away from the human man.