Broken Hate, Broken Heart - 8. Chapter 8

Thokk was, however, even more acutely aware of the constant proximity to Henry. They traveled together, they shared a tent—it was safer that way. Of course, he didn’t find the sweaty part of Henry’s body odor very pleasant, but underneath it lay something he strangely liked. What confused him, on the other hand, was Henry’s beard.

“Why don’t you shave it off?” he asked one evening as they’d retreated into the tent to shelter from the icy wind and Henry was scratching his cheek.

“Nah, why should I? I don’t have a good mirror. And who does it bother around here anyway? You, maybe?” Henry chuckled.

Thokk frowned. He wasn’t sure if it bothered him, but even if it did, he wouldn’t have said so. “We orcs don’t have beards,” he said instead. “It looks… rough.”

“Hmm,” Henry said thoughtfully, now running his hand over his cheek much more deliberately.

The wind howled around the tent, gusts slapping against it and making the fabric creak and groan.

“You do have body hair, right?” he asked, pointing to his own armpit and crotch. Since they’d washed side by side with warmed water, it was a question asked out of pure politeness.

“Yes,” Thokk replied simply.

“Well, a beard is definitely coarser than the hair on the head, but also softer than pubic hair. Even though it’s more similar to that overall.” Henry tilted his head, looking at Thokk curiously.

“Then we differ there, too,” Thokk replied skeptically, “because our pubic hair is more like a thicket of thorns. If a man had something like that on his face… well, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kiss him.”

Henry laughed out loud and shook his head. “Yeeeah, I suppose there’s a difference then…” he drawled, a twinkle in his eyes. And then Thokk flinched as Henry leaned forward, took his hand, and guided it to his cheek.

Baffled, Thokk stared at him before his fingertips registered exactly what they were feeling—aside from the unfamiliar fingers. A human beard was a far cry from a thicket of thorns, but it certainly didn’t have the silky softness of head hair either. Wiry fur came to mind as a comparison.

“We might sometimes call it thicket”—Henry’s words seemed to come from far away at first—“but really, it’s just a joke.”

Confused, Thokk furrowed his brow. Henry’s great-grandfather had been the orc with strip of fur—

“From here to here.” Henry used his hands to indicate an area from his collarbones down to his loins. “Looked like he’d sewn a sheepskin on, completely covered—not a shred of skin in sight.”

“Good grief,” Thokk said tonelessly. The thought of how that must have stunk in the summer made him feel sick, and at the same time he was relieved that Henry was significantly less hairy. The smell of damp clothes that constantly surrounded them was exhausting enough as it was.

“It’s a matter of age,” Henry waved it off and leaned back, propping himself up on one elbow. “But I sure hope I didn’t inherit that. You know, they say a man loses his hair on his head, but it grows back elsewhere. Some guys aren’t just hairy on their chests, but also on their backs. Or on their butts.”

At least Thokk wasn’t the only one who shuddered. “Some orcs have patches of fur on their arms or legs, as big as the palm of your hand. One of my older brothers, for example.” He pointed to his upper arm. “No one knows where that comes from. Actually, our skin is so thick and leathery to protect us from the moisture and insects in the swamp. But the skin there is much more sensitive.”

“Hmm. With some animals, they say the prettier the male, the better he does with females.” In his slouching position, Henry shrugged awkwardly, but Thokk stared at him.

“Are you comparing us to animals right now?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Just a thought.” Henry grinned apologetically. “I’ve heard that women like to scratch heads. You guys have a fur strip—I’m sure those would be nice to scratch, too. And then other patches of fur work on the principle of ‘the more, the better,’ right?”

Thokk had initially considered joining in, but didn’t want to spoil Henry’s fun by losing to a scholar. Instead, he watched, amused and fascinated, marveling at how light on his feet a human with an orcling’s build was compared to a real orc.

But on this particular evening, the fight went too far, and Henry ended up with a bloody arm. The shirt could be mended—whether the blood would come out or if it would have to be dyed over was another matter—but the arm needed mending too.

“You have to be more careful,” Thokk said sternly, washing the arm with hot water; the sharp, metallic smell of blood stung his nose. “I mean it—the void beasts might find you more attractive than they find the scent of the silver-drop bush repulsive.” Its sweet, resinous scent, rising from the smoldering piece of wood, he barely noticed in contrast.

“And we’re not a fort,” muttered the guard who had caused the wound, contritely.

Henry sighed and then hissed in pain. “It can happen…”

“Getting eaten by void beasts can happen?” Horror-stricken, Thokk paused and stared into Henry’s eyes, which shimmered in the firelight.

And which he was now rolling. “Does it need stitches?”

“Yes.”

“Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Thokk growled, tossed the rag into the bucket of hot water, and stomped over to the supplies. He wasn’t really angry—just maybe a little, because of the carelessness—but simply worried. About a possible infection, the void beasts…

With the medical sewing kit in his hand, he paused. The fire crackled loudly; whoever was walking the watch nearby had creaking armor; the swamp boars grunted softly as they munched on their dinner. If void beasts were present, they’d hardly announce their arrival at the scent of already wounded prey.

With a sigh, he trudged back to the fire, where Henry was eyeing his arm critically and uneasily. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.” Henry winced and then pulled a genuine grimace of horror when he saw the curved needle.

“It’s going to hurt a lot more in a minute,” Thokk announced, then bit his tongue to keep from making a sarcastic remark as Henry turned his head away and pressed his other arm against his eyes. He’d be careful, but getting stitches was more than just uncomfortable.

“Have you ever had to get stitches?” Henry asked quietly as Thokk threaded the needle.

“Sure.”

“Why sure?”

“Because,” Thokk said, carefully pushing the delicate skin together, “even shamans have to learn to fight. If we’re serving at the fort, we’d better survive.”

Henry’s affirmative “hm” turned into a scream when Thokk pressed the needle into the skin, which offered much less resistance than the orc skin he’d practiced on. At least Henry didn’t pull his arm away.

“Do you need something to bite down on?” the servant asked quietly, and as Henry nodded, Thokk said:

“Hold him tight, just in case.” As he pulled the first thread back through on the other side, Henry collapsed unconscious.

The eyelashes lay on his pale cheeks like a lady’s fan, and his lips—which looked incredibly soft amid his beard—were slightly parted. His chest rose and fell slowly.

Surprised at himself for staring at Henry like that, Thokk turned away and instead spread the blankets over him. Heart-hearing was even more intimate than grooming the neck fur; his thoughts should stay far away from that. More important was the question of whether such a long loss of consciousness due to pain was normal. Or had it turned into sleep? How quickly would a wound infection manifest with a fever?

Thokk bit his lip. He wasn’t even sure anymore if he’d stitched it up properly at all. He’d learned all this because he had to, but since serving at the fort was out of the question for him, he’d seriously neglected this kind of knowledge.

Insecure, he reached out his hand, which hovered hesitantly over Henry’s forehead for a moment before settling on it. The skin was cool. Was that good? Bad? How did normal human body temperature compare to that of orcs?

Henry’s eyelids fluttered. “What are you doing?” he mumbled.

“Checking whether you’re okay.” How he managed that slightly disgruntled growl was a mystery to Thokk.

Henry hummed in agreement, then cursed quietly and threw his good arm back over his eyes. “Fainting like a delicate lady…”

“We all have our moments of weakness,” Thokk replied, shifting away slightly.

From outside, the grumbling about the rain starting up again drifted in.

“I don’t see much of that in you,” Henry muttered, peering out from under his arm, which made Thokk snort with amusement.

“You don’t know me well enough yet.” The faint smile he received in response made his stomach flutter. “Do you need something for the pain?” he asked.

Henry’s grimace was really answer enough. “No,” he said bravely, though.

“Don’t be stupid. Enduring pain won’t earn you a bride.” When Thokk heard Henry chuckle, he furrowed his brow. “What?”

“Is that some kind of silly saying among your young warriors?”

Blinking in confusion, Thokk mentally replayed what he’d said, then snorted. “Yeah, it is. So?”

“It hurts,” Henry replied, “but I don’t feel bad. Just… my pride’s a little bruised.” He gave Thokk a wry smile before raising the cup to his lips.

“I didn’t expect you to know how to handle a dagger at all,” Thokk admitted, watching the bobbing of Henry’s throat.

“My father taught me. But how he knows how to do that…” Henry shrugged and handed Thokk the empty cup.

Since Thokk didn’t want to get up—the rain was now pounding against the tent—he simply set the cup aside. He hadn’t even turned back properly yet when Henry grabbed his hand. “What is it?”

For a moment, Henry said nothing, just stared. His rosy fingers next to Thokk’s green ones created a strange contrast; Thokk’s fingernails looked like impenetrable horn plates next to Henry’s. “Your fingernails are short,” Henry said finally, as if that weren’t completely obvious.

“Yeah, so what? I have to hold a quill, after all. Oh, you mean because the others file theirs into claw-like points?”

Slowly, Henry nodded, pressing his thumb against the short nail on Thokk’s middle finger—as if he were testing a sharpened blade—and then let go.

“A silly business, if you ask me,” Thokk continued, since Henry said nothing. “It’s supposed to signal combativeness. But down in the mountains, it comes across as more aggressive and defiant, and to be honest, I seriously doubt you could actually pierce the fur of a void beast with them. And it’s impractical, too.”

Henry let out a throaty sound that carried a hint of skepticism. “And intimacy with that would probably be… scratchy.”

“As if that were any better,” Thokk retorted dryly, poking him mockingly in the cheek.

“Oh, and these aren’t dangerous?” In one fluid motion, Henry slapped Thokk’s hand before wrapping a finger around one of his tusks and playfully tugging on it. “How do you kiss without getting caught up in them?”

Even though he didn’t really want to, Thokk returned the slap. A quiet little voice in the back of his mind told him he should be outraged by Henry’s disrespect, but deep down, he not only agreed with Henry but also realized that an orc wouldn’t have that kind of problem with a human. “No idea,” he said instead. “Somehow it seems to work.” To his surprise, a look of concern suddenly appeared on Henry’s face.

“You… are you bound to chastity as a shaman? If so, then forgive me—I didn’t mean to overstep."

“No.” Thokk forced a smile. “That’s just for priests. They’re supposed to devote themselves entirely to the Old Mother.” He actually wanted to say more, but Henry blushed and made a strange face before a giggle burst out of him.

“You think they’re jerking off to your goddess?”

“That…” Khartikk and Gash appeared in his mind’s eye. “I doubt it.”

“Not very pious.”

“Not my problem. But I guess the Old Mother isn’t exactly a very engaged partner either.”

Already the stones beneath his feet were sucking the warmth from his skin, but when he put his first foot in the water, he hissed, for it stung like a thousand needles.

“Soooooooo cold, isn’t it?” Henry sounded amused behind him, and when Thokk turned his head, Henry held up one hand, pinching his thumb and index finger together to indicate something very small. The light from the lantern danced across him.

Thokk furrowed his brow. “I don’t get the joke,” he admitted.

“Well, wood and metal expand when it’s warm and contract when it’s cold.” Grinning, Henry shrugged. “Certain other things do, too.”

Thokk still didn’t get it.

Henry pointed downward, then bent his finger so it pointed at his crotch.

Following his gaze, it still took a moment before Thokk understood. “Ah.” Now it was his turn to shrug. Was that just a silly joke, or was Henry seriously thinking about Thokk’s prick? Confused, he shook off the thought—this was the worst possible time to be pondering something like that.

“I see,” Henry continued, still amused, as Thokk turned back and stepped his second foot into the water, “You’re not worried at all. But why should you be—you’re big enough as it is.”

“Big enough for what?” The riverbed consisted of fine gravel, smoothed by the water and therefore almost soft, but uncomfortably slippery; he could hear the muffled crunching under his feet.

“Well, what do you think!”

Thokk paused, examining his anatomy in the shadow his own body cast in the lantern light. “Isn’t size more of a hindrance in that regard?”

“Tight is a stretchable term,” Henry chuckled.

The mental question of whether Henry might already have had experience in that matter slipped Thokk’s mind, almost like his foot slipping in the gravel as he took his next step. Arms flailing, he sought his balance, but the riverbed wasn’t where he’d expected it to be, and suddenly the icy water sloshed up to his stones. The shock took his breath away.

“Cold?” Henry smirked.

In response, Thokk raised his hand just as Henry had done before.

Henry’s laughter rang out loud and clear through the darkness. “Why are you even doing this to yourself? There’s warm water back there.”

It took Thokk two tries to draw enough air into his lungs to speak. “I want to wash myself properly.”

“You do. Every night.”

“I said properly.”

“And for that, you’re getting into a river that’s close to freezing?”

Instead of answering, Thokk took a deep breath and dove under. The cold burned his nipples and his face, triggering an unpleasant twinge in his tusks—not to mention the feeling that his testicles were shriveling like dried fruit.

“You’re nuts, you know,” Henry said critically as Thokk resurfaced.

“And you stink,” Thokk retorted, wiping the water from his eyes. It was probably the play of light and shadow from the lantern that made Henry’s expression look so grim as he made his way back to the shore to get the soap. “At least to us orcs,” he added, realizing he’d been a bit too harsh. “We have sensitive noses.”

“You don’t even smell like sweat after a fight,” Henry said, his voice still noticeably offended.

“Maybe not to you—and admittedly not to ourselves either—but to others, yes.” Thokk submerged himself up to his shoulders in the water again before sliding the soap under his armpits. “It’s part of our communication. It reveals our emotional state to those who are paying attention. But if I was angry three days ago and am still walking around with those scent traces, it’s confusing for others.”

“So… you wash off the… emotions of the day?” The skepticism was unmistakable.

“Yes.” After a brief dip, Thokk began washing his hair. Since Henry didn’t say anything, he continued: “We have scent glands for that, right here, at the nape of the neck.”

“What are… glands?”

“They’re…” Thokk searched for simple words, “like little beads under the skin, producing bodily fluids. Sweat glands, milk glands, or scent glands.”

“I get sweat and milk,” Henry said slowly, “but so many different scents for emotions?”

“I have no idea how it works,” Thokk admitted, “but reading emotions was part of my training. I mean, every orc can do it to some extent, but it can be specifically trained.” You could read even more—like a person’s state of health or a woman’s fertility—but that was mostly a matter for the healers.

“It’s a mystery to me how you can drink warm beer, but it’s already prepared."

“I don’t particularly like it either,” Thokk admitted, lowering the comb and reaching for the mug with a grateful nod, “but I feel like a block of ice.” The yeasty smell hit his nose, clashing with the clean scent of soap still clinging to his skin.

“And whose fault is that?” Grinning, Henry flopped down on his sleeping place and slipped his boots off his feet while Thokk drank the warm beer—the smell of human sweaty feet didn’t make the beer any better.

“Thanks,” he said simply, setting the mug aside and picking up the comb again. Since he’d only washed himself at the washbasin so far, thorough combing hadn’t been necessary, but now he took even greater care. The rounded wooden teeth plowed through the knots, massaging his scalp.

“That looks inconvenient, ” Henry broke the silence so unexpectedly that Thokk flinched. “Can you even reach the full strip properly?”

With some awkward arm contortions: “Yes.”

“I hear a but.” Henry raised a brow appropriately.

Thokk paused, examining the fur brush; his right elbow was indeed protesting slightly. “As long as we’re young, our parents or siblings do it for us. Then we do it ourselves. And… traditionally, it’s a partner thing. A partner isn’t truly a partner until you entrust each other with the care of the fur. The offer—the question of whether the other person would do that for you—is very important.”

It took a moment before Henry remarked quietly, “That must be hard. For you as an incomplete people, I mean.”

“Mmhh,” Thokk said thoughtfully, running his hand over the bristles coming from the swamp boars. “There are enough partnerships between men to keep such traditions from dying out.”

“It’s probably not the same with a human woman,” Henry muttered, then huffed a little laugh. “Well, at least I’m glad I didn’t just bluntly ask if I should help you.”

“I wouldn’t have held it against you,” Thokk returned, then quickly added, “I mean, how would you even know something like that? After all, I don’t know your traditions either.”
The sparkle in Henry’s eyes sent a wave of heat rising within him, driving away the last of the river’s chill and making his exposed skin tingle. He set the brush to work again.

“It looks soft. The fur,” Henry then said, and Thokk stopped once more. The amused sparkle in Henry’s eyes had given way to thoughtfulness.

“It’s soft,” Thokk replied slowly, “sort of. Not like the hair on the head, but—”

“Are we going to start making comparisons to pubic hair and thickets again?”

Thokk, who had actually been about to make a comparison, swallowed it down when he saw Henry wink. “Just touch it.” The words fell from his lips more than he consciously spoke them. He couldn’t have said what was suddenly written on Henry’s face as he cautiously reached out his hand, or why his slightly opened mouth suddenly drew his gaze so strongly.

A tree struck by lightning must feel the way Thokk felt when Henry’s fingertips touched his neck. Thankfully, he only flinched inwardly, but it felt as if every organ in his body had been turned inside out.

“It’s soft,” Henry observed—when had he moved so much closer?—“soft, yet firm.” His fingers literally dug into the thick area right at the nape of his neck, and Thokk’s mouth fell open. Air wanted to rush in and out at the same time, and he got goosebumps.

The brush creaked under his firm grip.

“Am I hurting you?” Henry whispered.

Thokk's heart was pounding against his ribs, blood roaring in his ears, throbbing in that thing that was usually just a fleshy appendage. “No,” he choked out.

“It feels good.” It was a statement, accompanied by a little more pressure from the fingers.

He couldn’t answer—couldn’t react at all. Only his chin dropped onto his chest as Henry reached that broad, thick area again. And then a sound—somewhere between a sigh and a moan—escaped him as the fingers rubbed in small circles.

To his surprise, Henry rested his chin on Thokk’s shoulder and placed a hand lightly on his thigh, but the caressing fingers stayed where they were. “Thokk?”

“Hmmmmmm…?”

“I’m envious…”

It took Thokk a moment to process the words. “Why?”

“I want a strip of fur like that, too.”

Frowning, Thokk turned his head and swallowed as he realized just how close Henry actually was. “Why?” he asked again.

“It seems to be nice. You look like you’re about to start purring.”

Somehow, Thokk couldn’t help but growl softly, which made Henry chuckle before he raised his other hand and tested a tusk with his fingertip.

“Not sharp.”

“That’s what I said. But I thought you didn’t want to fiddle around in other people’s mouths?”

“They’re not really in the mouth…” Henry winked.

Now Thokk chuckled before bending one arm backward and searching for the hem of Henry’s shirt. He saw the young blacksmith’s eyes widen in surprise, and then he couldn’t help but grin as Henry’s back suddenly arched beneath Thokk’s fingertips, which were gliding up his spine. “Your skin is much more sensitive than mine…”

Henry, too, let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan as Thokk circled his fingers around Henry’s neck with gentle pressure.

Maybe they sat there like that for just a few heartbeats, in that partial, caring embrace; maybe it was half the night. But Thokk pulled his hand back when he was certain that the sweet note he detected in Henry’s scent was desire.

Awkwardly, Henry moved away after taking a hissing breath, slipped into his boots, mumbled something about going to take a piss, and left the tent.

Thokk put on his shirts, tidied away his comb and brush, dimmed the lamp, and lay down. Would he have kissed Henry if Henry had tried? Would he have touched him to make him happy? He didn’t know.

Henry came back, bringing fresh air with him.

Thokk listened to the sounds he made—the muffled thud of his boots being set down, the rustling of the blankets, the soft sigh as he lay down. And then he flinched when Henry touched him again on the back of his neck, just above the collar of his shirt.

“I messed up your hair,” he murmured.

“It’s okay,” Thokk murmured back. “It was nice.” In response, he heard a soft, contented hum.