Broken Hate, Broken Heart - 5. Chapter 5

Khartikk, listening intently, generously poured the sour snail slime over his remaining beans.

Thokk watched, sullen, envious, and defiant. The snail slime was expensive and delicious, and once he’d tasted it, he understood the appeal, but he didn’t want to get used to the flavor, because he had no intention of paying such prices for such a small addition to his meals. And he didn’t want to seem greedy by helping himself to Khartikk’s gift. Instead, he stuffed the mushrooms into his mouth after all; the aroma of damp earth washed the bitter aftertaste of the previous bite of spinach from his tongue.

Gash continued talking.

Finally, Thokk’s plate was empty and his stomach full—the water beans were quite filling.

Khartikk, who was just pouring himself another round of light mushroom beer, turned to him. “Why are you pulling such a face, Thokk? Aren’t you satisfied with your own studies?”

Not wanting to sit there like a student in an exam, Thokk reached for his own mug—it was empty—and held on to it, the shimmering glaze feeling reassuringly smooth beneath his fingertips. “Yes, I am. They’d need to be expanded to be truly meaningful, but I can’t do that on my own.”

“But isn’t that precisely why the topic is being discussed by the region’s Shaman Council?” Khartikk looked questioningly from Thokk to Gash, who nodded in agreement.

“Indeed.” When he spoke of the studies, Thokk’s master always seemed enthusiastic and proud, but now that sparkle faded from his eyes and was replaced by a critical line around his mouth. When they discussed it among themselves, it was sometimes concern or a certain skepticism that clouded Gash’s features, though he never put it into words.

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” Khartikk remarked, raising his brows.

Thokk pressed his lips together.

“That may well be true, considering that there are enough human men living down here among whom we might find strong resonances, but—”

“Wait, wait,” Khartikk interrupted his friend, raising his hand apologetically, “not that I’m an expert on this, but how are the silk favorites of the ruby courts chosen, if not by resonance?”

Gash let out a soft, unknowing sound and shrugged. “Don’t ask me. What I was getting at… I certainly noticed those two blacksmiths, but not in the sense that I would have attributed any special resonance to them. Thokk’s first encounter with them was just as brief, but why does he sense the resonance?”

Thokk’s breath caught in his throat, and an unpleasant heat rose within him.

One of Gash’s pet glow-salamanders darted onto the table to lick the empty plates. There was a rustling in the bowl of glowing moss; presumably, a second one was sitting there.

“Well then,” Khartikk broke the brief moment of silence with amusement, pointing his mug at Thokk. “If Thokk has trouble with women and is overly sensitive around men because of it, that should be answer enough for you, don’t you think?”

“I’m not interested in men!” Thokk blurted out before Gash could say anything. Unconsciously, he let go of his mug, which tipped over with a soft clatter.

“Thokk,” Gash said gently, raising his hands in a soothing gesture, “that’s not a flaw.”

“It really isn’t,” Khartikk agreed, though he was still amused.

“I’m not interested in men,” Thokk repeated, calmer this time, forcing his hands flat on the table so he wouldn’t clench them into fists.

“It wouldn’t be a flaw, Thokk,” Gash repeated his words as well. “I just want to make sure that this question—a question about your motivation—doesn’t backfire on you in any way, do you understand?”

With his mouth already open, Thokk paused in his reply as the words sank in.

Without a word, Khartikk picked up the mug and poured some beer into it before handing it to Thokk.

Reflexively, he reached for it and took a sip; the tart, tingling sensation pierced his thoughts. “Thank you,” he said finally, setting the mug down more gently this time, “for your concern. That’s… I hadn’t considered that point.”

Gash smiled warmly and nodded thoughtfully. “That’s why I’m a master and you’re a student—even though your time as a student is drawing to a close, I might add.”

“I’m still not interested in men, Master, so where might this sense of resonance be coming from?” Thokk deliberately used the title after Gash had just emphasized their status, even though they were sitting in such an intimate setting.

“We’ll have to give that some thought,” Gash replied simply.

His thoughts revolved around the conversation he’d just had. He was aware that an interest in men and pricks was no flaw—how could it be, when there were by no means enough women—but that didn’t mean, conversely, that every other orc craved such things.

His interest in Henry was of a scientific nature. The orc heritage within him had called out to Thokk.

He was mentally formulating an explanation for why these two blacksmiths had caught his eye so much, without making it sound as though he was actually interested in their bodies—it wasn’t all that easy when you constantly had sky-blue eyes on your mind—when a deep sigh made him flinch.

Sitting on a bench in front of a healer’s office—which was closed at this hour—was Korgar, one of those warriors who regularly got on Thokk’s nerves. When standing, he would definitely be taller than Thokk, and his shoulders were a good deal broader, but his slumped posture was alarming; his large hands hung limply between his knees, so Thokk asked: “Are you alright?

Korgar looked up; his usually sparkling yellow eyes were dull. “Depends. Why?”

“You’re sitting in front of a closed healer’s office and look like you won’t live to see it open again,” Thokk replied dryly.

With a snort, Korgar shook his head, then turned halfway around and looked up as if he were seeing the sign for the first time. “Oh, well, I didn’t even notice. I’m fine, little shaman, don’t you worry. You can’t change my father’s mind anyway.”

The derogatory title alone was insulting enough to make Thokk want to ignore him, but he swallowed his anger and asked—always the shaman, serving his community—with merely furrowed brow: “What’s this all about? If you’re sitting here moping, it must be serious.” Not that he knew Korgar well—he knew nothing more than his name and the fact that people said he was as dumb as snail slime—but up until now, he’d always come across as very boisterous.

“My father refuses to give me a recommendation or let me go,” Korgar replied bitterly. “He ordered me back into his court after I finished my training, where I’m allowed to do nothing but listen to his endless, boring councils."

Briefly confused, Thokk raised an eyebrow until he realized that Korgar simply didn’t understand the situation. And apparently, Korgar was also older than he’d assumed. “Your father wants to teach you how to lead a court, my friend,” he said cautiously. “To carry out the duties outside of battle. That’s something you have to learn, too.”

Korgar furrowed his brow deeply before, a long moment later, snorting and throwing his hands in the air. “All the old man does is talk. Talk and complain. My brothers are being sent away—to the forts, to their teachers, out on journeys—and me? I’m stuck in that stuffy study, surrounded by papers and ink.”

“You really are a true warrior, aren’t you?” Thokk couldn’t help but let a hint of mockery slip at Korgar’s theatricality, but Korgar didn’t notice, just nodded eagerly.

“You understand me, little shaman. Oh, forgive me, I don’t know your name.” The latter part he added with a touch of embarrassment.

“Thokk,” said Thokk, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. And even though he didn’t really want to, he stayed where he was and continued listening to Korgar’s whining. Maybe that was better than thinking about his own problems.

“Is a ruby court really all you want?” he asked skeptically at some point, and he hadn’t even finished speaking when Korgar was already shaking his head.

“I deserve it, Thokk, I deserve it.”

“Well, as sorry as I am, my friend, I can’t help you.”

“I know,” Korgar sighed, “I know.” And he slumped back down on the bench, dejected.

The orc turned halfway around—Thokk quickly closed the door to a tiny crack—and revealed himself to be Khartikk. What on earth was the priest doing here at this hour, half-naked?

Khartikk set two small bowls on the table and something that clinked softly before turning some more—Gash entered the room, also wearing only his thin sleeping garments. “Oh, Gash, you’re still pulling that face.” The tone was… Thokk couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Amused and concerned in equal measure, perhaps a tad scolding?

Gash grunted in response. “Well, you don’t have to worry about a student, do you?” He set something on the table and then draped something made of fabric—probably clothing—over the back of a chair.

“The whole point of his research—” Gash began, his voice rising sharply, but he was cut off by Khartikk, who cupped Gash’s face in his hands.

“Gash. He’s—”

“No, Thikky, you don’t understand; you don’t have a student.” Gash brushed Khartikk off, who plopped down into a chair, and as he continued speaking, he reached for something on the table. “Thokk has a sharp mind and keen senses, but he’s immature in other ways.”

While Thokk was pleased by the compliment, he merely shrugged inwardly at the other remark. He would never have claimed to be truly mature and grown-up, whether he was just twenty-one or not.

Khartikk let out a chuckle as Gash began brushing his hair. “Well, I think he’s very much mature in all the necessary areas—hey!” Gash had given him a slap with the brush that made even Thokk flinch.

“Take your eyes off my student, Khartikk, and keep your prick in your pants just once,” Gash growled. “You’re a disgrace to the priesthood.”

Thokk stared through the crack with his mouth agape while Khartikk giggled.

“As if you’d want my prick to stay hidden.”

Gash sighed. Thokk couldn’t see his face because of the angle and the limited view, but as Khartikk glanced up over his shoulder with a grin, Gash playfully threatened him with the brush and muttered something about the Old Mother and forgiven sins.

As Thokk watched Gash tend to Khartikk’s hair and fur strip with deliberate, gentle strokes and plenty of unnecessary tender touches along the way, and finally carefully rub green paste—whose pungent scent wafted all the way to Thokk—onto his tusks it dawned on him that these two were more than just friends. That indeed made Khartikk a disgrace to the priests who had vowed chastity, but strangely enough, it didn’t bother Thokk all that much.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Khartikk and Gash moving about—Khartikk getting dressed, Gash formally thanking him for the blessing of his home. When Gash closed the front door, Thokk shut his bedroom door and then stumbled more than walked back to his bed, where he sank onto the blankets and tried to sort out his thoughts.

He wanted that, too. The playful words, the tender glances, the gentle care. He wanted someone under whose hands he could close his eyes with trust. He wanted to be worthy of that trust.

He wanted to share this with this human blacksmith’s apprentice, whose resonance spoke to him.