After many days of walking, the trees grow thin. The forest opens like a door that has been pushed for a long time. Light comes out in a wide breath. Orc C steps forward and sees a field of yellow wheat.
The wheat moves in the wind like water made of gold. Each tall stem bends and rises again. The sky above it is wide and pale. The dirt road runs straight through the field, a thin brown line between two seas of yellow.
Orc C keeps walking.
His feet slow. His eyes do not know where to rest, so they rest on everything. On the way the wind makes small waves in the wheat. On the way the clouds move without sound. On the way the road does not turn.
This place feels open.
Orc C breathes and feels the air move inside him. The smell is dry and sweet.
He walks for a long time with the wheat on both sides. The sun climbs higher. The shadows of the stalks make thin lines across the road.
Then Orc C hears wheels.
A wagon comes from behind, slow and heavy. A large buffalo pulls it. The animal's back is wide. Its steps are steady. A man sits on the wagon seat and holds the reins.
When the man sees Orc C, his body stiffens. His hands pull hard on the reins. The buffalo's head lifts, but it does not run. It keeps walking the same slow way.
The man's eyes are wide. His mouth is tight. He tries to make the buffalo go faster.
The buffalo does not fear Orc C.
It turns its head and walks closer. Its nose moves. It makes a low, gentle grunt. Its breath is warm.
Orc C stops.
He lowers his staff and lifts one hand. He touches the buffalo's neck. The fur is rough and thick. The animal leans into the touch for a moment.
The man makes a small sound in his throat. He does not jump down. He does not move closer. He only watches, ready to pull away.
Orc C looks at the field again. The yellow goes far. It does not end where his eyes can see.
He looks at the man and speaks.
"Orc C wants to know how far this beautiful field reaches, so Orc C can see how long Orc C may enjoy it while walking on this dirt road."
The words come out slow. They sit in the air between them.
The man swallows. His voice shakes when he answers. "It goes far... Past two villages... Past the… bend near the low hills..."
Orc C nods.
"Thank you,"
He steps back from the buffalo. The animal snorts once and returns to the road. The wagon creaks and moves on.
Orc C stands and watches it go.
He feels like a stone in a wide field, seen and passed by.
Orc C turns back to the road and walks on between the wheat. The wind brushes his arms. The sun warms his face.
The field keeps going.
The road keeps going.
And Orc C goes with them.
I walk farther along the dirt road and the field opens more. I see people now. Many people.
They work among the wheat. Their hands move in the same way again and again. Cut. Gather. Tie. Lift. The sun sits on their backs. Their clothes are plain and worn. This work looks heavy. Not fast work. Long work. Work that asks the body to stay and not run.
I think it is a lot of work.
Near the edge of the field, children play. They run between the tall yellow stalks. They chase each other. They fall and get up again. Their laughter moves with the wind.
Some adults see me.
They stop working.
They look.
They pull children close to their bodies.
Some step back into the wheat. Some move behind carts and bundles. Their eyes stay on me. Their fear is quiet, but it is there.
Not all the children are pulled away.
Some stand alone. Some are too far. Some do not understand yet. They see me and do not run.
A few of them walk closer.
They look up at me with open faces and curious eyes.
I keep walking on the dirt road. I do not change my pace. I let my staff rest against my shoulder. I enjoy the way the wheat moves and the way the sky feels big above it.
One child speaks. His voice is high.
"Why are you so big?"
I look down at him. He is small. His hair is light. His hands are dirty from the field.
"Orc C was born in a strong clan," Orc C says. "That is all it is."
The child nods, like this makes sense.
Another child points at my back.
"What is that?"
I reach behind me and touch the leather bag. It is worn and soft now. I picked it up in the attic of the broken house. It was empty then. Now it carries small things.
"Orc C carries a bag," Orc C says. "Orc C found it."
The children come closer. Their fear is gone. Their eyes are on the bag.
I stop walking.
I kneel on the dirt road.
Slowly, I open the bag and take things out.
A small wooden horse.
A cloth bird.
A leather ball.
A tiny bow with soft arrows.
The children make small sounds of wonder. They reach out with careful hands. I give the toys to them, one by one. I make sure each small hand has something to hold.
Behind them, the adults watch.
At first, they do not move.
Then one stands up straighter. Then another steps out from the wheat. Then someone goes back to cutting grain.
Their fear loosens. It does not vanish, but it steps back.
Life continues.
The children play with the toys on the dirt road. The wooden horse rolls in the dust. The cloth bird flies for a moment. Laughter rises again, light and quick.
I stand.
I do not stay long. These toys were not made for me. They were waiting for hands like these.
I walk on down the road.
The wheat keeps being cut. The children keep playing. The field keeps breathing under the sun.
The road runs on, but I do not go far.
Behind me, the sound of cutting and gathering keeps a steady sound. It is not loud. It is a quiet that repeats and repeats, like breath. I slow my steps. I turn my head.
A man breaks away from the line of workers and walks toward me.
He is slim. His clothes hang loose on him. His hands are rough, but not thick like a fighter's hands. He stops a few steps away, not too close, not too far. His eyes move over me, measuring, but not with fear alone.
"With a frame like that," he says, voice careful but steady, "you could clear half a row before I finish one. Would you… help me?"
I look at him.
He rubs the back of his neck and adds, "I can pay. Not much, but fair. A few copper coins for a day's work."
I shake my head.
"Orc C cannot," I say. "This body was made for violence. Not for this kind of work."
The man exhales through his nose, like he expected that answer but did not accept it.
"That so?" he says, glancing back at the children with the toys. "Because what you just did back there, giving those away, that didn't look like violence to me."
I do not answer.
He shifts his weight and looks out over the wheat.
"I'm behind," he says more quietly. "Too much field and it's easy to tell that I do not have enough hands. My father's down with a fever. Hasn't left his bed in three days. My mother won't leave his side. It's just me out here."
He turns back to me.
"I won't finish before the weather turns. And if the rain comes hard, the crop's gone."
The wind moves through the wheat between us.
I think of the attic.
I think of small hands holding small things.
I think of the way this field was grown, not taken.
"I will help," I say.
The man lets out a breath he was holding.
"Good," he says quickly, then stops himself and speaks slower. "Good. Thank you."
I lift my staff slightly.
"Orc C does not know how to harvest," I add.
"That's fine," he says. "I'll show you. It's simple once you get the feel of it."
I think for a moment, then speak again.
"When work is done, Orc C wants food. Not coins. Orc C does not know what coins mean."
The man nods without pause.
"Food it is," he says. "A full meal. You'll earn that easy."
We start at the edge of his field.
He hands me a tool. A curved blade with a short handle. It fits in one hand. It is light, but sharp.
"This is a sickle," he says.
He steps into the wheat and shows me.
"Grab a handful like this," he says, closing his fingers around a bundle of stalks. "Keep it tight. Then cut low, near the base."
He pulls the blade inward in a smooth motion. The stalks fall clean.
"Don't hack," he adds. "Let the blade do the work."
I try.
I grab too many stalks at once. My hand cannot hold them tight. When I cut, the blade catches halfway. The stalks bend instead of falling.
He watches, then steps closer.
"Less," he says. "You don't need to prove anything here. Take what your hand can hold."
I adjust. I take a smaller bundle.
This time, I pull the blade too hard. It cuts, but the motion is rough. Some stalks tear instead of slice.
He shakes his head, but not in anger.
"Slow it down," he says. "Feel where the blade meets the stem. Don't go against it."
I try again.
I focus on the place where metal touches plant. I pull with less force.
The stalks fall clean.
I look at my hand. Then at the cut wheat.
"Good," he says simply. "Now keep doing that."
Time moves in work.
I cut. I gather. I place the bundles in small piles like he shows me. My back bends. My arms repeat the same motion. Again and again.
Sometimes I forget and grab too much.
"Easy," he says, tapping my arm lightly. "You'll tire yourself out that way."
Sometimes I cut too high.
"Lower," he corrects. "We want the whole length."
Sometimes I move too fast and scatter the stalks.
"Keep it neat," he says. "You'll thank yourself later."
Each time, I listen.
Each time, I change.
The work is slow, but it holds me. My mind does not wander far. It stays with my hands. With the blade. With the sound of the weather.
Cut. Gather. Place.
Cut. Gather. Place.
The sun moves across the sky. Shadows stretch.
My arms grow heavy, but I do not stop.
By the time the light turns soft, we have only finished part of the field.
He looks out over what remains and sighs.
"Two days," he says. "Maybe a little more."
He wipes his hands on his clothes and looks at me.
"You've done enough for today," he adds. "Come on. You can stay at my place. No sense sleeping out here."
I nod.
His house stands at the edge of the field.
It is small, but not broken. Smoke comes from a hole in the roof. The door is closed, then opened when we approach.
Inside, the air is warm.
An older woman looks up first. Her eyes widen when she sees me. She grips the edge of a table.
Behind her, an older man lies on a bed. He tries to sit up but coughs instead.
"Easy," the slim man says quickly. "It's alright. He's helping."
The woman does not move closer, but she does not run.
"You brought… him here?" she asks, voice tight.
"He's working the field with me," the man replies. "We won't finish without help."
Her eyes move from him to me, then to my empty hands.
I stand still.
"Orc C will not harm," I say.
The words are simple, but I hold them steady. Silence sits in the room.
Then the older man speaks, voice weak but clear.
"If he wanted to harm us," he says, "we wouldn't be standing here talking."
The woman exhales slowly.
"Fine," she says. "He can stay but should notify the other folks about his presence."
That night, I sit inside the house with them.
The table is small and made from thick wood. It carries marks from many meals. Bowls are set down, and steam rises from them in slow curls. The smell is warm and full. Not sharp. Not quick. It fills the space and stays.
The man places a bowl in front of me.
"Pottage," he says.
I look inside.
It is thick. Vegetables cut into small pieces. Soft roots. Leaves. Oats that have melted into the broth. The colors mix together, brown, green, pale yellow. It does not look strong, but it feels heavy when I lift the bowl.
There is bread too. Dark and rough. The crust is hard. The inside is dense. It breaks with effort.
A cup is set beside it. The smell is bitter and deep.
"Ale," the man says.
I nod.
His mother sits across from me. Her hands are folded at first. Her eyes watch me, careful and quiet.
I hold the spoon. I feel the heat of the bowl in my other hand.
Before I eat, I stop.
I lower my head.
I bring my hands together.
I kneel inside myself, even while sitting.
The room grows still.
I do not have words. I do not know names. I only remember the kneeling man, the quiet in the church, the stillness that comes when I bow.
So I stay like that for a moment.
Then I lift my head.
The man and his mother are watching me.
He leans forward a little.
"What was that?" he asks.
I look at him.
"Orc C pray," I say.
His mother tilts her head.
"Pray to who?" she asks. "Which god?"
I pause.
The word sits in my head, but it has no shape.
"Orc C does not know," I say.
They both stay quiet.
The man frowns slightly, not in anger, but in thought.
"You don't know who you're praying to?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"Orc C saw a man kneel," I say slowly. "Hands like this. Head down. Orc C did the same."
The mother looks at me more closely now.
"That's… all?" she asks.
I nod.
"Orc C does not know what a god is," I add. "Orc C only knows when Orc C kneels, the inside becomes quiet."
The man leans back in his chair.
Then the man gestures to the bowl.
"Well," he says, "whoever or whatever you're praying to, no point letting it get cold."
I nod again.
I take the spoon and bring the pottage to my mouth.
It is warm. Thick. It fills my mouth and goes down slow. The taste is soft, but it stays. It spreads through my body in a way that raw food does not.
I tear a piece of bread and dip it into the bowl. It soaks and softens. I eat it.
I take a drink of ale. It is bitter, but it warms my throat.
I eat slowly
The sleep was peaceful more than sleeping under the roofless sky
Morning comes early in the house. Light enters through the small window in a thin, pale line. The air is cool, and the sounds are soft, wood shifting, a pot being moved, quiet steps across the floor. I rise without being told. My body feels the work from the day before, a dull weight in my arms and back, but it is not a bad feeling. It is a steady feeling. A feeling that something was done and remains done.
We go to the field while the sun is still low.
The wheat is wet with morning dew. When I walk through it, the water touches my legs and leaves dark marks on my skin. The man hands me the sickle again. This time, my grip finds it more easily. My hands remember.
I step into the row.
I take a small bundle. Not too much. My fingers close tight. I bring the blade low and pull.
Clean.
The stalks fall together.
I place them in a pile, neat, like he showed me.
There is no need for him to correct me at first. He watches, then nods, and moves to his own row.
We work side by side.
The rhythm comes back quickly. Cut. Gather. Place. The motion repeats, but it does not feel empty. Each movement has a place. Each bundle adds to something that can be seen when I lift my head.
The field slowly changes.
What was once standing becomes ordered lines of cut wheat. What was wide and untouched becomes shaped by hands. I can see where we have been. I can see what is left.
This is different from wandering.
This work has a direction that stays in front of me.
The sun climbs higher. The air grows warmer. My body grows tired, but not in the same way as before. This tiredness is even. It spreads across me without sharp edges. When I stop for a moment and breathe, the world does not press in. It waits.
We rest at midday.
His mother brings food to the edge of the field. More pottage. More bread. Water this time, cool and clear.
I sit on the ground and eat with them.
I kneel before I begin.
They watch for a moment, then begin their own meal.
The pottage tastes the same as before, but I notice more now. The way the oats thicken the broth. The way the herbs sit at the back of the tongue. The way the bread holds the liquid and makes it heavier with the favor.
Simple food.
But it fills me much better than the time at the clan.
After we eat, I lie back for a short time. I look at the sky. It is wide and without weight. The sound of the wheat moving in the wind is soft. It does not ask anything from me.
Then we rise and work again.
By the second day, my body moves with less thought.
I do not need to watch my hands as much. They know where to go. I feel the right moment to cut. I feel the right size of the bundle. When I make a mistake, it is small. I fix it without stopping long.
The man speaks less now. Not because he has nothing to say, but because there is less to correct. When he does speak, it is simple.
"Good line," he says, looking at the rows behind me.
I nod.
We work in silence after that, but it is not empty silence.
It is shared.
The field grows smaller. The piles grow larger. The wagon is filled, then emptied, then filled again. The work stretches across the day, but it does not feel long. It moves, like the wind through the wheat.
I begin to understand something.
This work is not about strength alone. It is about staying. About repeating a small action until it becomes something large. About trusting that each cut matters, even when the field still looks endless.
I think, as I work, that being a farmer would not be bad.
There is food. There is a place to return to. There is work that does not change its shape into something else without warning. There is a kind of quiet here that does not come from being alone, but from being part of something that grows.
I do not know if I belong to such a life.
But I can see it now.
When the last section of wheat stands before us, the sun is low again.
We move slower, not from weakness, but from care.
The final stalks fall like the first. The same motion. The same sound. The same steady breath.
When it is done, there is no more standing wheat in his field.
Only rows of cut bundles, laid out in order.
The man stands and looks across it. His shoulders drop, not in defeat, but in release.
"It's done," he says quietly.
I look too.
The field is different now. Changed by our hands. Finished, for this time.
I turn to him.
"Thank you," I say. "Orc C learned."
He gives a small laugh.
"You did more than learn," he says. "You saved the harvest."
I do not know what to say to that, so I nod.
His mother comes out from the house and looks over the field. She says nothing at first. Then she places a hand on her son's arm.
"You finished," she says.
He nods.
"We finished," he corrects, glancing at me.
She looks at me, longer this time. There is no fear in her eyes now.
I take my staff. I take my bag.
I bow my head slightly.
"Orc C will go now," I say.
The man steps forward.
"You're always welcome here," he says. "If the road brings you back."
I nod.
Then I turn to the dirt road.
The field stays behind me, golden even in its cut form. The house stands at its edge. The people remain.
I walk forward.
The road continues.