The Cold Light of Day

[Thomas]

22nd Frost 4622

The amount of blood Zilrud had drawn was a bit sobering. It hadn't quenched Thomas' ardor for the other man, but it had tempered it. Not because he blamed Zilrud; it was foolish to blame the orkhai for expressing himself as best he could. On the contrary, Thomas felt responsible for putting Zilrud in the sort of scenario that had prompted this reaction. The hesitation just came from the fact that unlike the many men who had come before him that could hurt Thomas, Zilrud had actually done so. Admittedly, Thomas hadn't minded so much, but the ease with which the man had done it... well. There was a reason Thomas had made himself scarce that evening, and the following morning. He needed some time to reflect, and to think about if he'd done something untoward to provoke this sort of reaction.

He hadn't really come to any conclusion with their brief time apart, but he wanted to see Zilrud again. Besides, his little scrapes were holding just fine. Only one had even required a bandage. The major casualty of that encounter had been his ruined shirt, but the buttons, at least, could be salvaged and sewn on to something else, which Thomas was glad for. They were carved bone and he was rather fond of them.

He knocked on the door to Zilrud's quarters to announce his presence and then strode in. It was empty, but the dinner was gone, indicating that Zilrud had come back to eat it. So he was probably on the grounds somewhere, or just beyond them, hunting or chopping wood or doing some other useful manual labor task that he was in no way obligated to do.

Thomas put on his outerwear, including his red coat and a warm red hat, and strode outside to look for him.

After a few minutes of wandering, he found him in the orchard, in the lee of a small out-building used to store agricultural supplies during the season. Thomas was briefly concerned the big man had decided to start chopping wood with the fruit trees, but instead, he seemed to be whittling something. Zilrud was processing branches into what looked a bit like the pole for some kind of polearm or spear. He didn't appear to have anything to put on them, but maybe he would fashion it with Divide when he was ready. Or maybe these weren't weapons at all. Thomas wasn't exactly sure what else they could be, but he wasn't an expert in such things.

"Good afternoon, Zilrud," he said, by way of greeting. "I'm glad you've found a place out of the wind to do this, but you could do this inside if you wished, no? It's damnably cold out here, don't you think?"

As he said it, he knew that Zilrud clearly did not experience the chill in the same way. The man barely wore clothes and it was Frost in Lorien. If he were cold, it didn't seem to bother him. Even so, Thomas worried for him.

[Zilrud]

The idea of remaining in his room had not sounded interesting at all to Zilrud. He had remained a prisoner of that room for much of the beginning of his stay when the Orkhai was having difficulty getting up and moving around with the injury to his leg. So, he was typically out and about whenever he was not sleeping in the room or contemplating something without the involvement of distractions. By the afternoon, Zilrud had chosen to spend his time outside. It was not necessary to do anything of value or to do anything productive. However, he was still going to be outside and doing something that produced something, just not a bigger picture type of something.

Having settled down and beginning to whittle away at more slender lengths of wood, he had prepared three different lengths. One was paler and looked as if it had more of its color stripped from it and drained, while the others looked fresher and more vibrant in coloring. The paler and the more vibrant one had not been whittled to a fine point at the end, which was for a reason. Zilrud had a choice to make and to make that choice. He had to weigh his options carefully before settling on something. The third one, however, was more of a gnarled length of wood with knots and less smooth, and he had currently been making the duller pointed end sharper.

Hearing the footsteps, his eyes did not lift from the wood. It was not often someone approached him that was not Thomas, so it was simple to assume who it was. And with a slight glance from his peripheral vision, the red coat gave it away as Thomas. The greeting was heard, and so was the offer of going inside. Zilrud was outside for another reason, aside from shavings and splinters of wood falling or flying this way and that. Zilrud still had blood caked onto his green flesh. The now darker, deeper red had stained the green skin along his chest, face, claws, and neck. Along the ridgelines of muscle or between joins, the blood seemed slightly tacky due to the oils from the skin or sweating, but the massacre’s remnants on his body were not easily missed.

Only after a bit of extended silence did the Orkhai look up from the pointed length of wood that only had half of the tip remotely near being finished, and leveled his gaze on Thomas’s. “The fresh air is good for you.” Normally, he would not care what others thought of him. But for some reason, Zilrud seemed to care what those around Thomas thought about him, which was why he had chosen to be where he was. And as he said that, his gaze lowered down to the area where he had allowed himself to get slightly carried away and had drawn blood from the other.

The whittling had stopped as the Orkhai stared toward where the wound would have been before looking up at him and tilting his head. “Besides… Having Little One out here is also good, like fresh air.” Turning his head to regard the branch, his gaze lifted back up for a quick, questioning moment in Thomas’s direction before focusing back on the branch, and he began to whittle some more.

[Thomas]

It was, as always, hard to read Zilrud, which Thomas found fascinating and maddening by turns. He was happy to see him, and liked having him around. All of that sounded good.

There were some things that Thomas was less sanguine on, however, chief of which was how sanguine Zilrud was. Thomas assumed the big Orkhai had gone out hunting after their last encounter, perhaps in search of some blood it was okay for him to spill instead of that of his host. That was fine, but why hadn't he washed up afterward? A small, cowardly part of Thomas wondered if maybe it wasn't animal blood but he shushed it. There weren't that many people out here to kill. If someone were murdered by a giant green man, it would have made waves among the Rienese locals.

Still, he'd come to see him for a reason and it would be dishonest to pretend he didn't enjoy Zilrud's company, disquieting blood or no. So Thomas smiled at him.

"I'm thankful you enjoy my company, Large One," he said with a bit of mirth. "I enjoy yours, as well. You take me to interesting corners of the estate, and make me think about things I would otherwise ignore."

He actually enjoyed Zilrud's nickname for him. It clearly wasn't mean spirited and it made him feel closer to the man.

"What all are you working on?" He asked, both out of polite interest and because he just enjoyed talking to his Orkhai guest.

[Zilrud]

Zilrud’s attention had lowered from regarding Thomas while speaking down to the piece of wood he was whittling away at. There was no reason to say anything to Thomas when he was expressing his gratitude that Thomas enjoyed the Orkhai’s company, but it was what was tacked on to the end of that that had completely disarmed the Ork. As the tool he was holding was making an outward stroke, sending a shaving of wood to the floor, the nickname in Thomas’s response fell from the Ork’s fingers and rolled away from him. The knife he had been holding in the palm of his hand had also fallen and rolled away, both landing with loud sounds of wood falling to the ground before they rolled.

With a curious grunt, Zilrud lifted his head, his hands lowering the piece of wood as his red-eyed gaze lingered on Thomas for a moment. Had he not called him Zilrud, Zil, or something else? Slowly, the leathery-green eyelids closed and opened in silence as he was fairly certain he had heard what he thought he had heard. Clearing his throat, the Ork lowered his gaze back to the tools that had fallen and reached for the general bladed knife and one of the tools used for whittling he had been holding and looked to the striation he had created down the pointed tip of the haft he had in his hand and sighed. Maybe it was partially ruined, but he could turn it into something else.

“…I am working on things.” That was all he could really say about them. Glancing over the haft he was holding, he had an idea that altered what he had planned for the items he was working on. “What things are you thinking about that you would ignore if not for Zilrud, Little One?” Turning the piece of wood in his hand, he pressed the tool against it, carving into the wood before pushing down along the pointed tip, nearly shearing off the finger point he had been working on, and instead made it seem a bit blunter. The end could still pierce, but it would not be as sharp as he intended.

Although Zilrud wanted to show that he was interested in just his things that he was working on, he had lifted the piece enough to where his motions had slowed and instead, his attention was on Thomas.

[Thomas]

The question would have come as no surprise with any other person, but Thomas had somewhat given up on trying to predict conversation with Zilrud, or to steer them in any particular direction. The man abhorred being led and resented social positioning as manipulation. He seemed to prefer straightforward discussion, driving to a logical conclusion in neat rows, like a planned road in the modern section of a Griscian city. And like those planned roads, he did not seem to mind if he bulldozed through what had sat along those roads along the way. Thomas, by contrast, was used to speaking in curves and circles, rhetorical loops and flourishes that seemed to charm, baffle, and irritate the man by turns.

"Well, I suppose the biggest question your presence on this estate makes me contemplate is my presence on this estate. You clearly do not belong here, and you make little attempt to fit in. I have tried my best to make myself belong to this world and this life. It was everything I wanted, or everything I thought I wanted."

He fell silent, watching Zilrud whittle his sticks. Thomas had no facility with or experience with woodworking, so this was new to him. Wooden goods came from manufactories, or were hand carved by someone in a workshop somewhere. He had never seen it happen live. It was captivating to watch someone make something with their hands. The only thing Thomas could credibly say he was able to do with his hands was make medicine or perfume, or to change the look of something to make it look more expensive.

"I don't belong here, though. I thought if I just got good at being a noble, I would, but that's not the problem. I think, the problem is that I was doing all of this out of love for someone else, and I lost myself, a bit. I thought I wanted this, and I have had a hard enough life that I'll always appreciate a steady supply of food and a soft bed, but I think if I stay here -- if I stay with him -- I'm going to lose myself entirely."

"And if you'd asked me this time last year, I would have answered that maybe that was a good idea. There were parts of me, or are parts of me, that are pretty awful. I'm glad I have gained some distance from them, and have some sense of right from wrong, even if I only gained it from having the privilege to be idle and reflect for this last year. I don't want the part of me back that killed an entire village," he said casually, dropping in one of his deepest shames to see how Zilrud reacted, before continuing: "but maybe it can be both. I can still be some version of myself, but a better version, instead of either my old self or someone else entirely."

He huffed out a puff of breath, enjoying how it looked in the cold air. "Maybe I'm not making any sense. Thanks for listening, regardless."

[Zilrud]

The Orkhai had been subjected to many types of people during his time in Lorien. He had seen the occasional kind person motivated by greed or self-interest and met plenty of people whose intentions were not so noble. Even then, he had met others who looked normal but were more of a monster than he could ever be. One of the few things Zilrud had managed to hold onto during his time of indentured labor and servitude was the idea of not allowing human life to complicate his own psyche. There was always a clear path. Even if there seemed to be many obstacles, you could choose to be distracted or pave your way. Zilrud chose the latter for most of his life.

The answer with Thomas questioning his presence on the estate had a green brow rising in curiosity as the whittling stopped once more, and his head tilted just slightly, curious as to how Thomas would add onto that. When the other fell silent, the Orkhai returned to his motions with the tool and the wood and would continue to do so even as Thomas began speaking. This time, Zilrud did not stop his ministrations with the whittling while Thomas was speaking. Even when the mention of killing an entire village came up, there was no outward reaction from the Orkhai.

The puff of breath drew the red gaze up from the wood to watch the puffs of breath dissipate into nothing, and finally, Zilrud changed what he was doing. Had they been inside or even near other objects, Zilrud would have chosen a different method for their interaction. Instead, the Ork moved to drop the branch he was working on and picked up the darker of the two that had been lying nearby, primarily untouched. With that and the knife in his hand, he stepped behind Thomas, pulled both of his muscular arms around the boy's sides, and pressed the handle of the wood knife into Thomas’ left hand and the branch into the other.

Having to lower himself, so he was at a more appropriate height, the Orkhai slid his dirt, and blood-stained hand around Thomas’s right wrist and hand, and his left hand took Thomas’s hand and pulled it, so the knife rested against a portion of the branch that had already been slightly worked on. “When you work with wood, to get smoother cuts, you go with the grain.” Sliding his hand up to hold Thomas more firmly around both the branch and the knife, he gave a bit of a pull to the branch hand. “Keep this one strong.” Squeezing a bit at the knife hand, he pushed away from Thomas’s body, shaving just a tiny, thin piece of wood off. “Push away from you. Makes smoother and even cuts. Only when you practice more can you feel the wood and bring the knife to you.”

Once the first shaving fell away, Zilrud pulled the knife from Thomas’s hand. The thicker green fingers pulled at each finger length of the red leather gloves the human wore and pulled it free for a few moments, exposing his skin to the colder temperatures. “The wood is still rough. Needs sanding. But feel the grain.” Showing a gentility that the Orkhai perhaps should not have, he lightly drew Thomas’s fingers along the freshly shaved portion of the wood and pulled his hand back. This way, he did not get a splinter.

Having pulled the hand from the freshly whittled wood, the larger thumb remained in Thomas’s palm for a brief moment. Silence once more reigned, but it was because Zilrud was practicing something in his mind. I… I… I… Not Zilrud. ”I have eaten humans. I have killed entire families. I have killed my own kind.” Only when he realized his thumb was still against Thomas’s palm did he pull his hand away and offer the glove back, the knife held in his right hand, having released Thomas’s wrist, allowing him to feel the branch’s weight on his own. “Little one, you will spend a lifetime making peace with what you have done. But it does not define who you are. And... Little One, you belong wherever you want to belong. Not your mates, not your enemies, not big Orkhai. Nobody tells you where to belong except for you.” His head had lingered near Thomas’s, glancing at him out of the side of his peripheral vision and, just then, looking back to the wood. "Like the wood you hold in your hand, your life is in your control. Spirits and Nature give change and change your path, but Little One, you will always choose to go with that path or make your own.”

[Thomas]

While Thomas had not known Zilrud long enough to know many things about the man, he knew that when the orkhai put his weather beaten, callused hands on Thomas', he was expected to do as he was bade. He rarely minded. Looking to Zilrud for continued instructions, Thomas began to whittle, or to attempt to do so.

It was hard, though Zilrud had made it look easy. Some of Thomas' cuts went too deep, and others barely scratched the surface, producing a long elegant wood shaving that was so diaphanous that whittling at that rate would take hours to produce anything useful. Maybe days, he added glumly when he produced three more just like it and could not for the life of him see any difference in the wood between when before he'd shaved off the wood and after.

"How am I supposed to live with myself, knowing that what I've done in the past hurt people, and that there's nothing I can do to really make up for it? Even this," an expansive gesture took in the grounds, the estate, the manor, his fetching red coat, the sum total of what his life had become, "it's just artifice. It's a way to run away from my old life. I can donate all of the money I have access to and it won't make up for what I've done. Not that I have, mind you, because there is no fund for the orphans and widows of some pissant village in Jorikford, anyway."

He fell silent, and focused on wood working, or his clumsy attempt at same.

"I know the answer is to just move on with my life and accept that I've done wrong and to try and be better, but I don't know how to do any of that. I regret everything bad I've ever done, keenly. If I go back out there, I'll do more wrong and end up with more regrets. If I stay, I'll end up disappearing into being someone else and regretting doing nothing at all. I don't think there's any winning in a situation like this."

He paused and looked over at Zilrud. The orkhai was still working on the stick. He seemed almost placid, though Thomas suspected that underneath the meditative concentration was a firestorm of emotion. Were he to use Blobby he could reach out and see, but that's not the sort of thing he liked to use Mentalism for. Only to help people, not to help himself.

[Zilrud]

Zilrud’s red gaze watched the chunks of wood being taken out in uneven movements or watched the knife itself barely scratch against the topmost layer of the grain. He could have smiled if he wanted to. It was like a child trying to do their father’s work without quite understanding or having the muscle memory for it. And throughout Thomas’s speaking of finding ways to live with himself and coming to terms with what he had done in the past, the Orkhai kept his attention either on the wood Thomas was working with or not on the man at all.

Having remained behind Thomas, the Orkhai listened as the other finished talking and made a choice. Pulling the sets of wood and the tools from their hands, dropping them unceremoniously to the ground, Zilrud crouched and turned Thomas around so they could face one another. The red, glowing eyes of the Orkhai rested on Thomas’s own and, for, perhaps, what would be an awkward silence, did not say anything. “Little One… There is no answer. There is no winning. People died because of you. You hurt because you are not a bad person. You do not know how to live because someone tried to change who you are. Who Little One is in here.” A sharp clawed finger pointed at Thomas’s chest in the general direction of his heart. “Nobody can tell you how to feel or what to do to live with it. You take one foot and put it in front of the other. Do not stop, don’t get stuck.”

The Orkhai’s nose twitched and crinkled a bit as he looked from Thomas to the poor attempts at whittling the wood. He was sure there was some wisdom in all of that, but for his life, he did not have much wisdom to give him, given their most recent prior interaction with one another.

“Zilrud hears…” For a moment, he chastised himself. He was working on not referring to himself by his name and taking ownership of himself. He could not tell Thomas to have pride in himself if Zilrud has lost him and exemplified it by keeping to old, beaten down ways. “I feel Little One is afraid.” The coldness had finally begun to show on Zilrud’s face as his green nose had darkened just slightly as he picked up the branch that Thomas had been working on and stuck the muddled-up portion into the snow. “Here, Little One made mistakes and hurt people.” Lifting the branch out, Zilrud stabbed it into another unbroken snow section. “Here, Little One marries mates. Finds new life, escaping. Zilrud drug the branch, connecting the two holes. “Little One went from one situation to another.

Drawing a circle around the point Thomas had wound up in, he grunted, staring at his rudimentary representation of Thomas’s life. “Little One is stuck in here.” The branch stabbed at the circle. “Little One needs to be brave and make his own path. Not defined by bad choices or by absent mates. The road will be hard. Little One’s softness may make it seem impossible. But Little One has a heart in him noble of a warrior… Perhaps baby Orkhai, even.” The latter part was Zilrud’s poor attempt at a joke. The Orkhai dared threaten his face with a half-smile at his own attempt at comedy but quickly rectified it with a grunt, bringing him back to the situation at hand. “Break out of the shell you and your mates made for you. Little One is strong. Stronger than Little One or Large One gives Little One credit for.”

A raise of the green brow and he looked to Thomas with the closest thing to a playful look an Orkhai could probably have. It was the most the Orkhai had spoken, really. But it was for good reason. Thomas was soul-searching, and sharing, and Zilrud, although not completely worldly, had enough wisdom to help, even if it was only a little bit.

[Thomas]

Thomas smiled ruefully. "I think you see the fear, Sir, but do not understand its source. You say I've a big heart, a soft heart, and I will freely admit you have the right of it. I think I also have a soft head, though, because my head has me do things that makes my heart ache and I go along with it. I married not just because I loved Taelian, but because I hoped he and Wendall would help keep me in line. Ever since I lo-- ever since I was younger," he amended, "and have been on my own, I have done the best with the skills I have. Some of these things, like selling my body, I take no particular issue with. It did not hurt me, and it helped me survive, and it made many fellows quite happy. Other things, though -- I'm not sure there is any good outcome, here, but when left to my own devices, I did it again, and again, and again. On some level, I know it's wrong, but I do it anyway."

He looked down at his piece of wood balefully, then made eye contact with Zilrud.

"You think I think I'm weak. I know I'm not. No one could go through what I've been through and be weak. My problem is not weakness, it's wickedness. I hurt people, and I feel bad, but I keep doing it. Past a certain point, I cannot blame my circumstances, either. I have the skills, I think, to become a proper merchant or peddler, and have for years, but I kept doing what I did instead... why? Because I hate the wealthy and the powerful? Because I delight in tricking them? Maybe so, and in my heart of hearts, I do not feel it is crime to lie to people who will pay more for wine that has been doctored to look as though it's older and of better provenance than it actually is, but I cannot say those are the actions of a good person."

"I think I need someone to tell me what's right. Wendall knows what's right. Taelian knows what's right. If I try to figure it out, I tie myself in knots, like I'm doing right now."

He laughed a bit at himself. "Ugh, I sound maudlin. I'm sorry, Zilrud. You do not deserve this."

[Zilrud]

Zilrud had a plan of action developed by the time Thomas was halfway finished talking. As Thomas continued on, moving from the topic of his continuing to do the same thing over and over and over without a different result to his wickedness, Zilrud’s gaze lingered on the boy’s softer features. His red eyes smoothed over the emotions playing across the human’s face as he spoke. Leaning down, the Orkhai plucked up the knife and tools he had been using and left the branches in the snow. Upon Thomas’s final assessment of his talking, he used the word Zilrud had no idea of what it meant, but if it meant that what Thomas was saying was depressing in any way, Zilrud understood that fact.

Raising a brow in curiosity at the other, a single large, green finger slid between one of the fastened buttons of that red coat and slid between the fabric, inside the warmth of the other’s clothing, and tugged on it. It was not a tug of trying to pop the button off, but with a flex and turn of his shoulder and arm, Zilrud turned away from Thomas and tugged him after him. If Thomas refused to budge, or Zilrud’s fingers either pulled the button free, popped it off, or slid from the fabric, the finger would give it a firm enough tug so that an open fist could clench the fabric and pulled Thomas behind him. Tossing the tools rather disrespectfully into the shed, he closed the door, and with a firm enough tug, the button popped free from the coat. Still, instead of the momentum going to waste, Thomas felt two large hands going to his waist and hoisted him upwards with enough momentum to send the other over his right shoulder, allowing Thomas’ waistline to rest against his shoulder and fold over and rest against the Ork’s muscled, bareback, the strength in his hand gripping the back of one of Thomas’s thighs to hold him in place as Zilrud began walking towards the large home.

In silence, Zilrud marched, regardless of protests, regardless of questions, or any other noise the human offered him. The bare feet of the Orkhai trudged through the snow until he reached the front steps and, eventually, the door to which he opened it, carrying his prey with minimal effort. The clawed nails of the hand gripping Thomas’s thigh gripped and pricked against the material covering the other’s hamstrings as he trudged, snow melting from his feet as they moved through the halls. Zilrud was not going to his room, nor was he going to Thomas’s, or even a study, or even the bathing area. Instead, Zilrud entered the kitchen and aimed for a spot to plant Thomas’s behind onto a counter. Following the semi-rough placement of Thomas’s backside to the counter, the Orkhai pulled the other’s knees apart and stood between them, bringing him quite close to the human, almost within eye level, without bending over. A deeper growl came from the Orkhai as those red eyes finally found Thomas’s and bore into them. The growl was the only thing coming from the Orkhai for a long moment.

“…Prove me wrong, Little One. I do not think you are weak, but it looks like it. Everybody does things they are never happy with.”

And for a very brief moment, heat poured from the larger male, almost perceptible as his blood pumped fervently through his veins and arteries. Turning his head to the side, a loud, unknown word left the Orkhai’s lips, laced with venom and anger. Whatever word it had been, there was no doubt it was an insult in the Orkhai’s native tongue. Turning his gaze back to Thomas, there was still a lingering fieriness in those red eyes as his lips pulled back into a slight sneer. “Wendall… Taelian… You say these names… Names of your mates. Do they know what is right? Then why do you suffer, and they are nowhere?!” The Orkhai’s voice grew louder, his voice growing deeper as that red glint turned brighter as he stared into Thomas’s eyes. “It is not right… That as a mate… You suffer by yourself. Breeding… Warm bed… Promises of new life… It is all worth nothing if only one part of the mate is left to figure it out alone.”

Letting out a disgruntled sigh, the Orkhai’s face came closer to Thomas’s as he spoke. “They are not here.” Gripping Thomas’s hand, he placed it against the Orkhai’s stained, bare chest, against his defined pectoral. “I am. I am Orkhai. I am a monster to your people. Not a Lord and do not have money. I do not know what is right in your world, but I know honor. I am here, and they are not.” The other, blood-stained hand slid up to hook his thumb under Thomas’s chin and lift his face up, angled towards Zilrud’s. “Why does Thomas look at Zilrud with so much sadness if everything and everyone else is right?”

Careful so the tusks did not gore the poor boy’s cheeks, he would feel the Orkish lips he had felt before against his lips. It was momentary and did not last long. As the leathery lips pulled back mere centimeters from Thomas’s face, his warmed breath would billow out against Thomas’s own lips. “If Little One is so wicked… Hurt Zilrud… Lie to Zilrud.. Trick Zilrud.” There was another soft press of the leathery lips, this time angled more against the human’s lower lip, speaking softly one last time. “You do not have to pretend with me. You do not have to hide who you are with me. You do not have to be right. Little One just has to be Little One.”

And with that, Zilrud would not move. The intimate closeness he had created with Thomas would remain close. He had no intention of moving or pulling his face away, not until Thomas heard what he was saying and would take it for what the words were meant, to be taken at face value and nothing less.