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Simon ambled through the crowded human marketplace, nodding absently to Bug’s chatter as the diminutive fae trotted beside him, hands in constant motion. Bug was once again waxing poetic about the handsome Knight Garrick, who served as second to the Captain Price, of the Queen’s Garrison. Beneath his mask he rolled his eyes fondly as the little fae sighed happily in mid description of the beauty of the young knight’s ‘golden eyes, as lambent as the sun.’
Roach’s infatuations were many, but this one has endured ever since he witnessed Ser Garrick in battle and later heard the handsome Southlander sing a ballad beside a campfire as he spied on the human troops one night. Simon paid little attention to the people who scattered in front of him, in awe and no small fear of the towering Orc, who bristled with weapons. The treaty between Orcs and Men was still very new, but thanks to Queen Laswell’s skilled negotiations, the peace held firmly. Her Majesty has made it very clear that heads would roll if any man in her realm threatened the new peace treaty.
Ghost towered over them, the tallest human’s head here barely reached his sternum. He was not only tall, he was broad and long legged as well, and thick with fighting muscle honed by years of battle. He paid little attention to the matrons who squeaked in fear and hurried their children away, eyeing his black leather brigantine enameled with bone carvings and the huge battle axe strapped to his broad back fearfully. It probably didn’t help that he wore a white skull face plate on his helm and bristled with blades.
He was on a personal mission today.
The baker, Widow MacTavish has set up her booth in the food section of the market and was busily hawking her famously delicious honey cakes. His nose twitched in anticipation. He could smell them from here. Other than ripe fruit they were the one treat he allowed himself because they reminded him of his late mother’s cooking and it’s been ages since he tasted them. Few knew that the huge albino Orc was a Halfling. His mother had been a human lady from a minor house, whom his warlord father had stolen away. She was the one bright and gentle light in his brutal upbringing. His sire was never kind to his offspring, especially those of his stolen human concubine.
His sire was determined that his half human offspring never shamed him in battle. They had not, his valiant younger brother Tomi proved that by dying in combat along with his father, savagely defending the pass that led to their mountain stronghold. The human General Shepherd, under Baron Makarov had been determined to eradicate the Orcs and steal their mineral rich and fertile lands. Needless to say, both their heads now decorated the finials on the Orc Keep’s Gate, placed there by Simon’s own hands and no one missed the war mongers at all. Queen Laswell ruled the human’s territory now with a firm, no nonsense, just hand and any who defied her had to deal with Price. In fact, Simon and his regiment were here to publicly finalize the new treaty to insure that it lasted
Just as Roach started in on another overly informative description of Ser Garrick’s admittedly fine arse, Ghost finally caught a whiff of the elusive scent he had hoped to find at the good widow’s booth. He felt a flush of anticipation rush up his face and a grin form under his face plate. It was an exuberant scent—woody, spring green and underscored with base notes of rain and clean male musk. Arriving at the saffron tented booth, Ghost politely waited his turn as the man who had just purchased several loaves of fragrant bread turned, startled and squeaked at the sight of him and scurried off, nearly dropping his purchases. He chuffed, annoyed. Humans were like mice sometimes, always squeaking and scurrying away.
The plump little wren of a woman behind the table, with the colorful plaid shawl, and an impressive coil of braids on top of her head that added inches to her height, was utterly unperturbed by Ghost’s size and fearsome appearance. Hands on her wide aproned hips, she narrowed her sharp eyes and glared up at him, one brow arched as she sized him up as a potential customer. Ghost raised his hands and removed his helm and a beaming smile of recognition spread across her face, undeterred by his scarred face. She bustled out of her booth and hurried to embrace what part of him she could reach. Ghost hastily handed his helm off to Bug and bent to gingerly return the embrace, careful lest he damage her. The top of her head barely reached his belt buckle.
”Simon lad! It’s been ages! I am so pleased to see ye well! My, ye have grown!”
Alys MacTavish has no clue to his actual rank and identity. She knew him only as the silent, gangly, unkempt, always hungry child that used to appear silently out of the forest to play with her own small horde of exuberant offspring and eagerly devour the food she always gave him.
Ghost embraced her gently and endured the affectionate cheek pinches and kisses with gravitas although he was warmed through and through with her honest, motherly affection. The scent he was seeking was stronger here and fresh. His prey was nearby and from the tingle on the back of a neck as the hair on the nape rose, already had eyes on him. He hid a smile of anticipation and introduced Bug to Alys. The little fae beamed and bowed and put on his best courtly manners (he’d been practicing for the upcoming audience with the queen).
They cheerfully purchased an enormous bag of honey cakes, wiping out her current inventory and promised to return before they left the town and wandered on, each munching on a tasty cake. Later, the good widow would find three enormous gold coins tucked in her cash box, (enough to buy an entire shop if she wished) expertly placed there by Roach’s sly, deft hand.
Ghost kept an ear out and his nose to the breeze. The enticing scent grew stronger as they crossed the market square towards the road that wound up the hill to the keep. Ghost caught a glimpse of two broad shouldered, armored figures strolling towards a popular public house and cut off Bug’s reiteration of Ser Garrick’s charms simply by reaching out and grasping the top of Bug’s head and turning it towards them.
The little fae ceased his indignant squeak of protest at the manhandling, gasped with delight as he caught sight of the object of his affections and darted off through the crowd in hot pursuit, still holding Ghost’s helmet and snatching an enormous sunflower from a flower vendor’s tall vase as he went. Ghost smirked, pleased that he had kept custody of the honey cakes, paid the indignant vendor, whose outraged, open mouth clamped firmly shut at the sight of the solid silver coin placed in his palm for a single flower, and strolled on.
He munched steadily as he seemingly chose a narrow, closed alleyway at random that wound through the half-timbered buildings leading up towards the keep. The alley was so tight and narrow his broad shoulders nigh brushed either side as he went, carefully stepping over an elderly drunk slumped snoring against a building. His equally elderly dog thumped an amiable tail at Ghost, who paused and bent to pat its scruffy head and give it a honey cake before wandering on, munching industriously as he went. Missus MacTavish had outdone herself with this batch. He hid a smile with a bite as he heard a whisper of sound on the roof above.
He was being stalked.
Smiling to himself he leisurely hooked the bag of cakes onto his belt and prepared himself for the upcoming ambush. It came as he turned a blind corner into an alley behind a stable. Another whisper of sound and he whirled and caught the sturdy, plaid clad body that suddenly launched itself from the roof above and deftly relieved his assailant of the razor sharp dirk aimed at Simon’s throat. Calmly he penned his wriggling attacker against the alley wall with one arm and his own considerable weight and gently pressed the man’s own knife against his throat. He grinned at the scowl he got as the man wriggled vigorously, braids flying and tried to free himself to no avail. Finally, he simply slumped in Simon’s hold and glared.
”Hello, Johnny.”
He got a stream of highland invective in return and calmly waited for it to cease. His lad never surrendered and that endeared him to Simon further. This was a game they have played for years and he never lost, even as the man honed his stalking skills to become the best spy and scout that Price’s company possessed. Simon would never reveal how he always knew when he was being stalked, he enjoyed this game too much. Johnny glared at him through his forelock of improbable hair and huffled.
“Hello, Simon. How tha fook do ye do that?”
He spat out and waited, scowling, flushed a very becoming pink, booted feet dangling above the ground for Simon to release him. Simon did not. Instead he tossed his startled prize over a broad shoulder, one big hand clamped firmly on his kilt clad arse to hold him and shouldered his way into the back door of the dim stable. He ignored the sturdy fist that thumped his back and the indignant demand.
”Oi! Unhand me, ye great eejit!”
He wasn’t mistaken at the sudden treble in that lilting brogue and grinned to himself, pleased at the waft of heat and arousal his keen nose detected. He gave the wriggling rump a complacent pat. He was very fond of that sturdy arse. In fact, he was very fond of the whole person, incorrigible as he was.
“No.”
”No?”
”No.”
Simon returned calmly as he peered thoughtfully around the dim interior. A big dappled gray draft horse snorted amiably and reached over her stall door and nosed his arm as he passed and he patted its nose gently as he made his way to the ladder leading to the loft. It was nigh noon and the ostler and his stable hands were off to dinner. The stable was empty except for a fat goat who had pushed the lid off and had its head in the grain bin, munching industriously and the equine occupants. Excellent. They would not be disturbed.
”Wha are ye doing?”
Johnny sounded both surprised and intrigued now as he wriggled and tried to peer about him, curious as a cat about his surroundings.
“Claiming my war prize.”
Simon responded as he reached the sturdy ladder and began to climb carefully. It creaked ominously under their combined weight. He hoped it would hold.
Upon reaching the top he smiled at the sight of the mound of fragrant, new hay and tossed his prize into it, startling and evicting a snoozing stable cat, who hissed and ran away. Johnny made a very appealing sight, sprawled wide-eyed before him, his kilt hiked indecorously high, revealing thick, bronzed hairy thighs. Simon couldn’t wait to sink his teeth in them. Calmly he began to disrobe, sword belt first, carefully set aside. This was followed by the first bandolier of throwing knives, and the shoulder harness his war axe was sheathed in.
The pile of weapons grew as Johnny gaped, blue eyes wide even as he watched avidly. As always his scent betrayed him, thickening with arousal and Simon grinned at him fondly. The clever little shite has yet to figure out that his familiar, beloved scent always betrayed him because Ghost could pick it out of a thousand others and follow it to the ends of the realm if necessary. He could find his lad in a pitch black cavern, deaf and blind, because of that heady familiarity. Johnny always smelled of rain, rosemary, musk and heather.
The human’s eyes narrowed, even as he lay back in the hay and folded his arms beneath his head and wriggled to get comfortable. He arched a brow as Ghost laid the last knife belt in the pile and began to unbuckle his tall boots. More knives emerged and he watched with no small amusement as the weapons pile grew. Ghost has always had an affinity for sharp blades and a gift in wielding them. He reached over and stuck a blade of hay in his mouth, lay back and crossed his ankles, getting comfortable.
This ravishing thing was new and interesting.
Previously they just wrestled after his sneaky ambushes until John was too worn out to continue. He’d never dreamed the Halfling was interested in him as more than a friend and companion and because he valued that friendship he had kept his mouth firmly closed, not wanting to lose it. Bonded men were not unknown among warriors. Simon was his best and longest friend since childhood. Though he hadn’t seen him much during the war started as they were on opposing sides of the conflict.
Price’s company had been in the thick of that, but had miraculously emerged with few casualties. John suspected Simon may have had a hand in that. He has glimpsed Simon from afar, and he was merciless on the battlefield, mowing down any unfortunate stupid enough to attack or challenge him. He had dreaded the day he would have to face him on the field of battle, but that day never came. The Ghost of the Mountain’s men had always clashed hard with other companies—especially Shepherd’s and Makarov’s.
In fact, now that he contemplated it, he realized that Simon had been focused on those regiments almost exclusively. There had even been one incident where he was convinced that Price’s men were about to be ambushed as they traveled through a thick forest on the edge of the Orc’s territory—the signs were all there, the feeling of being under intense scrutiny, a telling silence from forest inhabitants as they passed through a narrow ravine, etc. but the ambush simply never materialized. Later, while scouting he’d found clear tracks revealing that orcs had trailed them for miles and simply let them pass unmolested. Now he suspected he knew why.
A quiet chuckle drew his focus back on the halfling and he blinked as Simon tossed his heavy, black leather brigantine aside, revealing acres of pale, scarred muscle. Simon was now clad only in his black leather leggings. His only ornament was a thin steel chain holding a small quartz pebble pendant. A very familiar pendant. Mouth suddenly dry he realized with a jolt that this was indeed happening, he was about to be ravished within an inch of his life by a man who was thrice his size and weight. He swallowed hard and saw Simon’s face soften.
Apparently his face was revealing quite more than he wished.
The big hafling squatted and sat back on his heels, arms on his knees, held his eyes with his own and spoke gently, his voice a deep rumble;
“ It has come to this my heart, after years of circling each other like bees to flowers. If you do not wish a bond with me you have only to nay say me now and this will merely be a merry tumble in the hay and a gentle parting after.”
John blinked and suddenly the thought of parting from Simon, never to spend time with him again, was unthinkable, despite the fact they haven’t spent time with each other in half a decade. He sat up abruptly, frowning. He has known this man since he was five and a shy, lanky, pale skinned boy emerged silently from the woods to watch he and his siblings play in the village meadow. Yet, he suddenly realized he knew little about Simon’s rank among his people, the Frost Mountain Orcs. Yes, his reputation as the Ghost of the Mountain was fearsome, but all orcs were known for being savage in battle.
Young John has yet to ever meet a stranger. He ran forward and beamed up at the newcomer. The older boy was pale as the moon, fair skinned with white blond hair. Only his wary eyes were dark—a rich, soft golden brown. He is taller than John with delicately pointed ears and the tips of sharp canines protruding slightly from his lower lip. John has never seen anyone quite like him and he liked him already. He extended a grubby hand.
”My name is John. Do ye want ta play with me?”
The strange boy tilted his head and regarded him for a long moment before slowly nodding and hesitantly taking the offered hand. He has never had a hand extended in friendship before. They played all afternoon in the forest and creek, running wild as all little feral boys do. Later that evening as Simon reluctantly stood to leave, John pressed a pale pebble with a natural hole worn in it into his palm. When the silent boy arched a questioning brow the little boy explained.
“ ‘Tis a wee hagstone! My granny says it will keep ye safe from nightmares and evil spirits. Ah found it in the creek last year. “
Simon had regarded the little stone in awe and raised wondering eyes to the face of his new and only friend. This was the first and only gift he has ever been given and he closed it tight in his fist to keep it safe.
”I will keep it then.”
He vowed awkwardly before lifting a hand in farewell and slipping away into the evening shadows under the trees. He heard Johnny yell after him that he would see him tomorrow. And he would, despite the beatings his sire would give him for disappearing at odd hours, he would hold the secret of his beloved human friend close for years, just as he kept the protective little talisman close to his heart.
John knelt facing the bigger man, unconsciously reaching for the big scarred, sword calloused hand which immediately clasped his tight. The thought of Simon leaving was suddenly unbearable. The war was over now, and there was no need for him to leave, was there? He raised imploring eyes to Simon’s face and got a smile and his hand squeezed again.
”I am King of the Mountain now, Johnny. I must return to the mountains to keep the peace among our people. Many of the orc clans would gladly seek to continue to raid and ravage your villages. I met King Roba in fair combat and took his head and now his bones decorate my armor, just as his head decorates the gate to my mountain holding. They will not defy me as long as I rule them justly and fairly with an iron fist.”
He took John’s other hand and held them in both his and spoke earnestly from his heart. (Roach would be impressed at his eloquence since the fae claimed he spoke only once a month only as necessary.) It was important that his human boy understood his intentions, there could be no error in communication here.
” If I followed the traditions of my people I would carry you off to my keep, no matter what you wished, but you are not some maiden to be ravished and kept in pretty golden chains as a concubine as my poor mother was. I would have you sit beside me as my chosen consort, but the choice is yours.”
He waited for a reply, heart pounding despite his calm demeanor. He simply did not think he could survive if Johnny said no. Yes, he would return to the Frost mountains and take his brother’s widow to wife and her and Tomi’s son Jos as heir, but his heart would be cold and dead. He watched Johnny’s face, seeking answers in those changeable ocean blue eyes.
John’s mind went blank for an alarmingly long time and he fought the urge to pinch himself. This was happening. He, a simple scout for Price’s company was sitting in a hayloft being proposed to by the fucking Orc King, who happened to be his best and most beloved childhood friend. He blinked and felt more than a bit dizzy and a bit panicked. He knew very little about Orc culture.
”Don’t ye need an heir to be King?”
Simon grinned crookedly, hope rising because Johnny had not jerked away and immediately denied him. He gave the calloused hands in his a reassuring squeeze.
”My nephew will be my heir if he can hold his place. If not, I can choose another. There will be challenges, I expect, but there is no warrior who can defeat me in fair challenge.”
”Won’t yer people object to a human consort?”
Ghost snorted eloquently.
”Not if they wish to keep their heads.”
He waited breathlessly for Johnny’s reply, watching the emotions flow over that beloved face. His boy could not lie to save his life and the fact that he was blunt to the point of rudeness was endearing most of the time. He seldom had a filter when he had something to say, even in polite company.
He waited, stomach clenching as Johnny slowly withdrew his hands and crossed his arms across his chest, tilted his head and regarded him through his lashes before tossing his head coyly. Then he lifted his head haughtily and peered down his nose at Ghost, who felt warmth begin to spread joyously through his chest. He knew that look. The little shite was flirting with him
”Ah’ve never tumbled a king in a stable hayloft before. Are ye sure ye are a king? Ah donnae see a betrothal ring or any prezzies at all, save for a half eaten sack o’ honey cakes!”
He taunted, white teeth flashing in a teasing grin.
With a frustrated growl, Simon pounced and Johnny squeaked as he was wrestled back into the hay before laughing and wriggling vigorously. As always Simon would have to work at keeping his hands on the little shite. There was a reason his nickname was Soap. They tussled and wrestled, and Simon peeled John out of his clothes, all while tickling him mercilessly because that laugh was music to his ears.
”Stop, Si, stop! Ah will pish mesel!”
In the stall below, Bell, the draft mare, pricked her ears with interest at the odd noises above and snorted when a plaid cloak suddenly fluttered down from the loft, followed by the thud of a boot and no small amount of displaced, drifting hay. Above her head there were growls, snorts, muffled giggles, as well as odd thumps followed by soft smacking sounds, moans and more interesting noises. Humans were odd creatures but as long as they kept knocking those clumps of delicious hay down within reach she didn’t mind at all. She snorted and nibbled a swatch, laying her ears back in warning at Birdturd the billy goat as he tried to steal it.
****
Later the pair would appear in audience with the Queen and she would note with some amusement that while the Orc King politely requested her permission to wed her scout that said scout was already sporting a thick, silver torc with a cabochon sapphire the size of a hen egg set in it and that he was flushed and grinning like a fool and there were bits of straw still stuck in his braids and chaff drifting off his kilt. His hand was also grasped possessively by the towering Orc and she doubted very much he was releasing his prize soon.
She acquiesced graciously and hid a smile because they both wore the same twitterpated look sported by the trio standing at attention to the side of her throne, the two tall knights towering over the diminutive fae tucked possessively between them, who had no shame whatsoever and has not even attempted to hide the fact that he was covered in beard burn and love bites. Ser Garrick, she noted, with amusement now wore a massive sunflower tied with a ribbon on his shoulder pauldron as a favor and Captain Price a daisy chain draped haphazardly over his battle axe.
Standing, she clapped her hands and announced the official handfasting of the King of the Frost Mountains and Ser John MacTavish and the entire court burst into cheers, both human and the orc delegation, as the orc warriors beat on their shields and roared their approval. To their minds their new ruler had just taken a very fine war prize, claimed from under the human’s noses.
Once the noise died down she took deep pleasure in announcing a celebration feast for both the Treaty and the Handfasting and the celebration immediately began as people bustled about for what would become an annual Feast Day for the peace between two peoples that would last for generations to come. The two kingdoms would remain allies and both prospered and the thought of war between them became unthinkable because the Ghost of the Frost Mountains and his heirs held that peace in an iron grip and guarded it well.
FINI
03/29/2026