Page 30 of Orc's Pride
If someone ever told me that I’d spend every moment of my life with an orc, and enjoy it, I’d have fetched them some ice for their head, since they clearly must have hit it on something.
But here I am, swinging my feet up on Pitha’s couch, reading his books, munching on his food, and waiting—eagerly—to hear his lumbering footsteps echo across the floor.
To be fair, my alternative is either no company, or to go outside and. Well. Let’s just say that Pitha wasn’t lying when he said his clansmen had no love for potential human spies. It’s much safer to stay indoors, and Pitha’s house, as Chieftain, is not a shabby place to hole up for now.
Still. It would be nice to have some company.
A knock shakes the door frame—not Pitha, but an orcish woman he’s assigned to feed me lunch. I stand on my tiptoes to reach the door latch, as it wasn’t built for human height in mind, and open the door to her green, snarling face.
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
She growls.
It could be worse. Sometimes she doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
With her laconic threat out of the way, I take the food she holds out and then nudge the door shut with my foot. Once I set the plate on the table, I lock the door, just to be safe. I made the mistake of going for a walk a few days ago. Pitha was at my side, but the hatred from his people’s eyes was palpable. He didn’t need to convince me to stay put after that.
Sunlight peals through the window, and I stare longingly outside. Pitha’s busy, of course. He trains all morning, and then does whatever it is Chieftains do for the rest of the day.
But lately, he’s been coming home a little earlier each time.
He always cooks dinner, which isn’t always delicious. Last night he brought a large book of recipes that he said he borrowed from a friend, and we both worked together by the stove.
Maybe I should try to make something for him before he gets home?
I run my finger along the thick recipe book and flip through a few pages. It’s a good quality book with thick, slippery vellum and glossy ink. And it’s heavy—built for orc hands. Most of the recipes are heavy on meat, light on vegetables—built for orc stomachs.
The seasoning is a bit sparse, but orcs are known to eat for fuel more than pleasure. Still, there are a few recipes I think I can work with. It’s been a while since I cooked anything more complicated than a skinned rabbit over an open fire, but I don’t think I’ve forgotten.
And it might be nice to return the favor, since he cooks for me every night.
“It’s not like I’m doing anything else,” I mutter to myself. “Okay. Chop some onions, add some butter…”
I get to work, slicing and sauteing. The first time I peel a garlic clove, I’m seized by a wave of nostalgia, remembering howI used to help my parents make dinner when I was young. The cloves had seemed so much larger then.
I freeze with my hand curled around the garlic, waiting for the expected wave of grief to bowl me over, but it never arrives.
It’s a clean pain as I drop the diced garlic in the pan. Like I’ve lanced an infected wound. By the time Pitha shuffles inside, I’m well on my way to finishing, and humming a song to boot.
Pitha stops in the entryway.
“What’s all this?”
My cheeks heat as he gestures to the dining table. I might have gone a bit overboard, but this recipe book was designed for orc portions. It’s not entirely my fault, even if cooking turned out more pleasurable than I’d thought it would be. One recipe turned into four, and now there’s dinner rolls and vegetables, a fresh salad, and the roast is almost done.
On the side, I whipped up the same herbed butter my mom used to make on special occasions.
It looks like enough to feed about ten orcs, but at least we’ll have leftovers.
“Just dinner.”
“I see that, though I don’t know about the ‘just’.” He shoots me a pointed look. “I also see that we’ve been eating whatever mess I’ve been cobbling together when we could have been eating likethisthe entire time!”
“I wasn’t sure you’d like it!”
“Oh, of course. I can see how you thought I’d be utterly repulsed by fresh bread and a perfect roast.” He laughs and settles down at the table. “You know I’d let you know if I hated it.”
And he would.