Chapter Text
The morning had bloomed frigid and blustery on the day that sealed Griffith’s fate. His father, Lord Lethwin, had taken him into the study and reminded him, almost fervently, that he could change his mind and that there’d be no shame in it. Griffith’s eyes kept wandering out beyond the window, not quite looking his father in the eye as he assured him that yes, he understood, but he would see this done anyway.
At the very least, to curb the curiousity tearing him apart.
They rode to the edge of the Lethwin lands, the orchards forming a wall behind them, sealing the way back. Griffith had ridden at his father’s right hand while their retainers, two bannermen, and Griffith’s mother and sister trailed after them. Lady Lethwin had been blinking back tears all of that morning, but she had little for Griffith save for some watery smiles. Elisen had been stubbornly dry eyed and disaffected, but he had noticed the way she had been grinding her teeth. She had left the babe at home, the first time she had allowed herself to be parted with her since the birth; Griffith suspected why that might be.
The tribesmen were already in the allotted place when the Lethwin party arrived. They had evidently been there for some time, having set their banners into the earth and were talking amongst themselves, while the humans had dragged their feet well into the late morning.
Stiff breezes had made Griffith shiver, but he could remember feeling overheated. An itchy warmth pulsed under his skin, flared by the shame, the fear, and the anticipation. His head felt suddenly too hot and heavy, and he set his jaw and wrangled with nausea.
He had never seen an Orc in person. They were a known and well-hated reality for wealthy landowners such as the Lethwins, who frequently had to account for raiding parties and land grabs at their borders. Griffith, being the sickly child that he was, had rarely strayed far enough from home to encounter any errant axemen or hunters, nevermind the vicious and xenophobic clans that dotted the foothills of Brytha.
They were like giants to Griffith’s nervous eyes. They stood tall and straight-backed, wearing their hair long and fastened into braids adorned with beads and talons. Their deep-set eyes were keen and dark, set into permanent glares. They wore loose-fitting skins that exposed too much of their bodies to the elements, though some bore woolen cloaks with colourful clay fastenings tossed over their broad shoulders. They had brought weapons to the meeting; long wooden spears with black-tipped points, and skinning knives sheathed into their belts. Their tusks, too, looked just as sharp.
Griffith could scarcely tell one apart from the other, nevermind discern which one was his. He struggled with his own disappointment; storybooks and bard’s tales spoke often of recognition at first sight. Despite it all, a small part of him had been pleased at the idea.
Lord Lethwin’s Master of Tongues dismounted first and introduced the party in his strained and whispish Orcish. He and a member of the Orc party spoke back and forth, asking and answering the questions of Lord Lethwin. Griffith could not even comprehend what was spoken in Mahgan, his head was swimming. He dismounted when everyone else did, and at some point his mother had leaned in to whisper in his ear.
“You’re not beholden yet. One word from you and we can return home.” Her voice shook. Griffith shook his head, resolute despite the way he quaked inside.
“I’m okay,” he whispered back, “This is what I’m supposed to do.” Supposedly. He did not feel prepared at all for what should have been his fate appointed at birth. That didn’t matter. What mattered was stopping the aching. The emptiness.
The crowd shifted, and at the Chieftain’s beckoning an Orc stepped forward. Griffith’s pulse quickened, realising what this meant. It was a man - yes, he was almost certain. His black hair was worn loose, and his clothes were lined with fur. He was leaner than his companions, but tall, tall, standing a head over the Chieftain and dwarfing the Master of Tongues. He did not speak, and made no expression beyond a disinterested scowl; Griffith was certain he had not even glanced towards him.
He held out his arm, wrist up, for inspection. The Master of Tongues and Lord Lethwin bent down and squinted for longer than Griffith thought necessary. Soulmarks were clear enough to not require a drawn out inspection. Perhaps Orc soulmarks were different. Lord Lethwin’s face was grave when he straightened and nodded, and the Master of Tongues muttered something in a low voice.
The Orc returned to the group as soon as he was dismissed, and suddenly all eyes turned to Griffith. He hesitated, his throat suddenly tight. Lord Lethwin retrieved him, leading him forward with a hand on his shoulder that felt cold and heavy.
On approach, Griffith could see more clearly the disdain and disappointment aimed towards him. He suppressed the urge to avoid their eyes, knowing it would only make things worse. No doubt, an Orc clan had imagined that if their brother were to be bound to a Human, that Human would be his match in stature, strength, and temperament. Not so, and none felt that difference more than Griffith.
His hand shook as he held it out to the Chieftain to inspect, the ugly black lines bisecting his wrist in two places poking out of his sleeve. The Chieftain surprised him by grabbing his wrist and he flinched, conscious of how pathetic he must have looked. The Chieftain roughly rubbed her - he could see now that she was a woman - thumb across the markings, sniffing when nothing smeared.
She released him and said something in Orcish over her shoulder, prompting the Orc from before to step forward, looming over them both. Griffith barely reached the Orc’s pectorals, and the other man was easily twice his width. His insides turned to water as his mind filled with images of being crushed to death by a displeased Orc. As tradition dictated, they bore their wrists to each other, holding up their hands with palms facing towards the other. The Orc looked impassively upon Griffith’s mark, as if hardly seeing it. Griffith’s stomach dropped when he saw the Soulmark on the Orc’s wrist. That was his name, or the best approximation of his name, written in blood-black ink, but horribly marred. Someone had taken a blade to the skin there and gouged deep lines into the flesh, violently crossing out the name.
It took him a moment to register how deep of a rejection that was. The scarring looked old. It must have happened when the Orc was a child, if they were of an age - it was hard to tell.
“Thank you, lad, you can put your hand down now,” the old Master told him, “The Chieftain tells me that your Soulmark is true; your Bound’s name is ‘Thurn’. Oron is an obscure and primarily oral dialect of Orcish, hence our struggles to translate it over the years.”
Griffith nodded, and went to meet his Bound’s eyes. The Orc - the man - called Thurn. But Thurn had already turned away from him, and the Master was pulled into negotiations between Lord and Chieftain, and Griffith was left alone.