moonshadows

“How is it, Taretha Foxton, that you are not afraid of me?”

Grom stands at the very edge of the fire’s light, looking like a demon with his red eyes glowing and his tusks shining in the flickering light. I smile up at him and gesture for him to have a seat. He sinks to the earth on the other side of the fire and watches me intently.

“I am bigger than you, stronger and faster. I have killed full-grown orcs with my bare hands. I could snap your neck in a heartbeat and be gone before anyone knew I was here.”

“But you won’t, because that would violate the love and trust that Thrall has for you.”

“How are you so sure that I am worthy of that trust? I was the first to drink the demon’s blood, after all.”

“You recognize that it was a mistake to do so,” I say quietly. “A mistake that you have devoted the rest of your life to atoning for. You have wisdom, Grom Hellscream, and you have honor. That alone makes you worthy of trust.”

“No…” The word is almost a hiss, seemingly wrung out of him. “You should not trust me, Taretha Foxton, and neither should Thrall. I will betray that trust sooner or later.” He shudders in the grip of the fire that courses within him.

“You fight it every day, Grom. What kind of friend would Thrall or I be if we did not stay at your side to help you battle it?”

For a long minute he stares at me, then sighs. “I see why Thrall took you back with him. Truly, you should have been born an orc.”

“If I had been, I would not have been able to help him as I did.”

He grunts. “The whole of the Horde owes you a debt, Taretha, and most of them will never give you the respect you deserve for it.”

“I don’t mind. I am still respected more here than I was among my own people.”

“That is because you are brave.” His teeth gleam in the fire’s light as he grins at me. “Our females are not so frail and helpless as yours are. Any warrior would be proud to have such a strong, fierce woman as his mate. She would birth him many strong, fierce sons.”

“I’m afraid I do not measure up to your females,” I say dryly. “Seven years Blackmoore plowed my fields, and not a single harvest.”

Grom laughs at that. “Do not blame the soil if the seeds are bad.”

That brings an answering laugh out of me. “Well said, Grom. Well said.”