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Where might makes right diplomacy is a utility for the weak. The Amurian Kingdom had adopted that mantra to the letter, abandoning all methods of negotiation that weren’t the end of a sword or spear. In both state and society, Amuria’s people were hardened by a self-inflicted lifestyle made to hone themselves into tools of warfare and coercion. Each generation made an obligation of beating the next into following their lead, fueled by a philosophy that was as Spartan as it was cruel. Expressions of empathy towards fellow man were censored and persecuted. Models of success were those who had taken from others and kept it for themselves. If one was capable of taking something by force, then it was always theirs to begin with. The measure of a man’s success was his callousness in the company of misery, be it his own or his loved ones’. The misfortune of his enemies was the ultimate luxury. In a culture so bound by kratocracy, frailty was a crime punishable by familial expulsion and, by those most dedicated to such a way of life, death.

Alas, you reap what you sow.

In a domino-series of mishaps, refusals to act, and plain bad luck, Amuria saw its legitimacy crumble into a state of violent instability and outright civil war. The royal family’s prestigious reputation as Amuria’s divinely ordained leaders withered into incompetent morons no more fit to lead a nation than a bird with a busted wing. Pretenders rose up. Regiments broke off to form their own armies. Bandits prowled the highways and preyed on those foolish enough to travel them. Anyone who was convinced that their authority superseded that of the King’s took it upon themselves to prove that they were worthy of ruling what was theirs, not him.

His Majesty’s answer to the crisis was an expected one: raise as many regiments as possible, ensure their loyalty, then mobilize them into a campaign of brutal, nigh-genocidal put-downs. That was just another bundle of pyre on the growing flame. Unable to levy or collect taxes, the capital suffered unprecedented urban decay. What had been streets remarkable for their cleanliness and safety were now pathways to squalor and filth on account of the throne’s apathy and willful ignorance. Why attend to the suffering of slums when the countryside was rife with rebellion? Crime skyrocketed. Thousands starved.

Those doomed to fight for their own survival, be it on the highways or in the alleyways, were not without representation in the royal palace. Sympathetic to the plight of his people was Prince Harold, the King’s second son and second in line to the throne. His interests in life were much unlike that of his father and elder brother, ones that had he not been so lucky to be born a Prince, would’ve had him chucked into the gutter. For Harold, the greatest asset a man could have was his mind, not his sword or arm. The palace library was entirely his own collection, the lot of which he had read from cover to cover. He had learned entire languages just to be able to read the foreign books, many of which contained knowledge Amuria would benefit to learn from. Not that it made a difference. Books were for intellectuals, not warriors like his father so sorely wished him to be.

The King thought it fit that Harold was the younger brother, and not Prince Raz who much better fit the mold of a daring soldier. While his older brother was a statuesque pillar of stoicism and strength, Harold simply could not compare. Short at only 5 feet and as many inches, he could hardly muster a muscle throughout his pathetically scrawny frame. What would have preferably been a face bristling with bronze-gold whiskers was instead a smooth plain of gossamer skin surrounding pouty pink lips. Lustrous blonde hair fell down into a bob just above his shoulders, an attribute he maintained through a very disciplined brush routine. His attire was more rustic than what was expected of a royal family member, that being of a general on the warpath. Instead he preferred comfortable robes and tunics, clothes his father and brother mocked for being “too soft” which was just how Harold liked it.

It was his failure to meet the hyper-masculine standards set by society and his nagging demands for an end to the fighting that finally threw his father over the edge. One day, without warning, the Head of the Royal Guard and a platoon of his soldiers came bursting into Harold’s study while he was nose-deep in a book. The men were covered in armor, welding swords, and wearing the most threatening expressions Harold had ever had the misfortune of having directed upon him. In just a few words, the Head of the Guard barked Harold’s fate: he was to be married off.

Among a monarchy’s many tools of diplomacy was the royal marriage, most often used to cement alliances and graft future stakes in a kingdom. A facade of goodwill was often painted on if only to make both families happy and to prevent future betrayals. Harold’s forced betrothal was nothing of the sort, that much was obvious. Harold was not to be wedded to a princess, a wealthy aristocrat’s daughter, nor one of his cousins (an unfortunately common practice among many royal families.) He was to be shipped off and wed to a prince- that’s without the -ess -who ruled one of the orc nations hundreds of miles away from Amuria. Harold was not being wedded for the sake of diplomacy. He was being kicked out.

Oh how great his terror was. Married to an orc prince! His father might as well have had him beheaded. Oversized brutes capable of nothing beyond violence and pillage, that’s what the orcs were. He thought Amuria was plagued by discord. The many orc nations could hardly even be classified as states. They were nothing but tribes whose constant state of war and thievery kept them backwards and savage. The population was nothing but brutes bigger than even the mightiest workhorses. Their bottom jaws jutted to reveal a scraggly forest of bent ivories glistening with a drool so foul that the buzz of flies accompanied it. Their knuckles, when not gripping the hilt of a club, dragged in the dirt. Nothing but the sweet blood of innocent children quelled their thirst, the fat of men their hunger, and the wombs of women their lust.

And it was Harold’s duty to marry one. He began to contemplate which would be less painful: being crushed to death within the leathery fist of an orc, or his own dagger into the throat. Alas it was his nebulous sense of duty to the family that kept him from falling on his own blade. A brief ceremony was held to congratulate him on the coming matrimony (his family wouldn’t dare attend) and to wish him good luck. Behind their smiles Harold could read the true source of their joy: they wouldn’t have to listen to him blab on about the state of the kingdom. With every pat on the shoulder and word of confidence he saw a viper spitting in his eye, a declaration of their good riddance.

The horse ride to his new home was sickeningly long. Accompanying him for the first leg was a company of guards who peeled off the very instant he reached the border. Beyond that was a rolling landscape both kind in its splendor and lonely in its isolation. Every passing mountain or river was a landmark signaling his approaching demise. Numerous times he told himself to pick up a book and distract himself, but none of that worked. No matter the material, he could not ignore the looming death he would face at the leathery hands of his soon-to-be husband, so long as he wasn’t eaten by some other brute first.

At last the caravan passed out of human civilization and into that of the orc’s. He anticipated the transition as a sudden halt of cobblestone roads, either becoming a more decrepit series of dirt roads, or disappearing altogether. The caravan came to a halt at the border crossing. Harold peeked his head out of the window to see the toll booth. Beyond it was an impenetrably dense forest run through by a road paved with cobblestones far more immaculate than the ones the caravan currently sat atop. Manning the toll were two orcs, the first he had ever seen in his entire life outside of illustrations. One of them was talking to the lead carriage driver. Harold was a few cars behind, but from where he was he could hear the orc speaking in clear Amurian. He was tall, as was to be expected, but he was not the lumbering behemoth Harold would’ve suspected. Far from having a hunched back, he stood next to the carriage with the same dignity Harold would expect out of his father’s guard. Harold guessed him to be at least six and a half feet tall, perhaps even closer to seven feet. His shoulders were ostentatiously broad, bloated across every facet with stern muscle. Much of his trunk was bare, covered only by a deerskin sash which was wrapped above a similarly fashioned kilt.

His skin was a pale shade of jade wrapped tautly over a bedrock of stone. His arms, while long and burly, did not drag near the ground, nor did they wield a club. In fact, there wasn’t a single weapon of any sort that Harold could spot. Then again, when you were built like a castle, you probably didn’t need weapons; your body alone was enough. Once his conversation ended with the lead driver the caravan resumed its journey, leaving humanity for a civilization unknown. Harold sat back in his seat, further away from the window he had dared to lean out of. The orc the driver was speaking to passed by, affording Harold a much better look at his face. Yes, his features were strong and his jaw was severely pronounced, but his was not the visage of a trampled mouth-breather. His bottom canines, visible through his lips, were in order and as white as Harold’s. A well-manicured beard fell from his jaw. Eyes the color of spring met Harold’s as he passed, making the young prince tense in his seat. He braced for a sneer of disgust or an aggressive feint to make him flinch.

He got a smile instead.

In the moment before the edge of the window passed over the orc, he gave Harold a polite wave. Harold did not wave back. He was too shocked to do more than stare out the window with a gaping jaw. He finally blinked himself back into reality and made a hurried scoot back to the window to lean his head out. There he saw the orc standing where he had left him, watching the caravan pass by. His smile had not faded, and in fact brightened when he saw Harold again. The orc waved once more. Harold waved back.

[center]***[/center]

The quality of the roads did not deteriorate the farther his caravan traveled. Indeed, their steadfastness impressed the prince. Could Amuria boast of roads so tidy? He didn’t think so. Certainly they would founder the moment they passed into his fiance’s territory. The tribe they were in now bordered human civilization. They probably learned their infrastructure from their neighbors. That became less likely once the caravan passed their first settlement. The sprawling forest around them peeled away to reveal a field so perfectly structured that Harold thought they had taken a wrong turn and winded back in human territory. Ruining that theory was the sight of a dozen or so orcs working among the field’s many emerald rows. They were all the same level of refined as the toll man that had smiled at Harold. With wicker baskets in one arm, they plucked what appeared to be oranges until the short tree was empty then would move on to the next.

That was only the beginning. The caravan made it into the nearby village. He had planned on shading the windows and sitting at the center of the carriage to hide himself. He abandoned that idea once he witnessed a sprawling metropolis teeming with orcs no more ready to prey on him than anyone else. Passing through the market square he saw stalls full to the brim with the finest products he had ever laid eyes on, at least outside of his castle back home. Orcs barked their wares and prices. Signs were hung above them which stated the same thing. More impressive than the quality of the products was that the signs had writing on them at all. In Amuria it was nearly impossible to find an establishment literate enough to advertise itself using writing, let alone an entire square full of them.

Harold saw his first orc woman. It only lasted a second seeing how he immediately leapt back from the window and shielded his eyes. The woman was behind a stall selling what appeared to be pork. She was doing what everyone else was, yelling out what she had for sale, how fine the cuts were, and how much they cost. Harold didn’t heed any of that for two reasons: Firstly, he didn’t speak Orcish. Secondly, she was completely topless. Tits the size of human men hung from her chest, making her look like she was smuggling a ship’s worth of whiskey in her bosom. Black nipples bigger than Harold’s face sat at their apexes, looking ready to spring a leak at any moment. He had only seen them a second before shying away, but they remained plastered in his mind long after the carriage passed her. He shook the lewd image away and dared to look back out the window, blushing face and all. Perhaps she was just a loony whose nudity was tolerated by the community. If that was the case, there must have been an epidemic of insanity. The very next woman Harold saw was just as naked and even more endowed, this time wearing nothing but a stringy loincloth above her womanhood.

Harold was not so persuasive as to make himself believe that this village was an anomaly. Deep down he knew full well that the next village would exhibit the same level of brashness. Sure enough, he was served enough orc breasts to last him a lifetime. His shyness withered away with each passing bosom, each one seemingly more impressive than the last. He noticed the men too. Their musculatures were like nothing even the most fit human could muster. The average orc female was capable of tearing any man in two. Their dress was modest throughout, letting the world see them in all of their masculine glory. Covering their shames, if they could even be called that in this society, were more often than not just loin cloths. Little was left to Harold’s imagination. Orc men? They could breed any human male out of his own household. Far from appalled, Harold found himself staring unabashedly, mentally cataloging every bulge he saw and comparing them to the rest.

He passed into the next territory without even realizing it. There was no toll to pass through, nor any sign or change in infrastructure. The transition was so seamless that even the lead driver grew concerned that they had missed a turn somewhere. By this time, however, none of them were afraid that they would be pounced upon by bandits. Every orc they had encountered thus far was pleasant and amiable. They felt safer here than they did their own nation, something Harold noticed most keenly.

At last the capital of his new home materialized amidst the landscape. The signal from his driver that they had arrived was not a bell tolling his death like he anticipated, but a cause for him to stick his head back out the window and watch as his new home gave birth to a skyline. It was not akin to anything he was used to, as had become a recurring theme throughout orcish territory. The capital did not erupt from the horizon. There was no singular spire to claim the highest point, nor a sprawling castle complex bristled with ramparts and hung with flags. Floating out of the swelling beyond was instead a metropolis humble in stature but splendid in decor. With no walls to hide them, Harold could see the architecture for what it was: an expansive yet delicately spaced mosaic of humbly stacked homes composed not of mud and thatch but brick and mortar. Similar in shape and size as they all might have been, each possessed a certain flair to differentiate itself from its neighbors. The city would open into squares and larger buildings Harold thought were schools. Though the caravan was too far away for him to be certain, he thought he saw flocks of children meandering about the streets playfully, their stubby green bodies trampling after each other without the faintest care or worry.

A sense of wonder and hope swelled throughout his chest like a warm wool blanket fluttering in the breeze. So quickly had his revulsion for the orc race been squashed in favor of fascination. This was a land described only in books as fanciful utopias, not genuine places. The fact that it belonged to the orcs and not a human community baffled him even more.

They made it to the suburbs where the orcs were gathered for their daily chores. Harold watched them closely, all modesty having been set aside. The orcs’ conversations stopped as soon as they saw the caravan pass them by. Harold saw the recognition pass over their miens. This was a human caravan. Surely they would wonder what it was doing here so deep in orcish territory. But Harold should’ve known better. In the very next instant their curiosity blossomed into celebration. They all knew who was riding in the caravan and why he was there. The entire city had been expecting him.

A flood of green muscle and toothy smiles descended on the newcomers. Harold backed off from the window, if only because he was afraid they’d swamp his carriage with their amiability. Such intrusion on a royal family member’s personal space would’ve earned his countrymen a gauntlet aside the head. The orcs clearly had no such concept, much to Harold’s amusement. They huddled up to the window, gawking inside to have a gander at their new prince. Rugged green faces jostled each other out of the way. They shouted at him in orcish, a brutal language to the human ear, but one currently full of welcome and cheer.

Suddenly a fist reached through the window, startling Harold out of his skin and making him recoil backwards once more. The fist opened, letting something [i]thump[/i] to the carriage floor below. Harold panicked. He kicked his feet up onto the seat and scampered away. [i]A firebomb![/i] he screamed in his mind. His arm flew up in front of his face to guard the oncoming conflagration.

It didn’t come. He lowered his arm and saw not a firebomb but… a cucumber? His scrawny frame leaned closer to get a better look. Yes, lying on the carriage floor was, in fact, a fat, long cucumber, perfect for a salad. There came another [i]thump[/i], this time behind him. He turned around and saw that someone had gifted him a freshly baked loaf of bread. Soon there was an invasion of thick orc arms reaching into his cabin, drowning him in a King’s ransom worth of food stuffs pleasant to smell, if not to sit with. By the time the caravan was able to grind its way through the genial crowd Harold’s lap was inundated with the freshest fruits and vegetables the orcs had to offer. He surmised that maybe, just maybe, the orcs were a more welcoming bunch than he had supposed. [i]Maybe they’re trying to fatten me up.[/i] Such an intrusive thought did not sway his enjoyment. Indeed, it made him chuckle to himself. [i]No. There’s nothing to worry about here. Not anymore. [/i]

The caravan made it to the city palace, a building greatly alike in style to its offspring. Its only major difference was the scale which approached something more like a Duke or p-rince would live in. In front of the palace was a small roundabout driveway circling a hanging fountain. Several tiers of marble bowls towered out of a gurgling basin. Heavy tendrils of moss were draped from the pinnacle, drinking from the constant waterfall around it. Harold was mesmerized by its presence up until the caravan finally came to a complete stop. Torn from his admiration of the fountain, he looked out the other window and saw a welcoming party there to greet him. It was a family of orcs dressed in their normal attire: sashes and loincloths. They were equal parts male and female, none more garish in appearance than the one next to them.

That was the case except for one of them. He was a beast, even by orcish standards. Standing head and shoulders taller than the next tallest counterpart, he had enough size to fill out perhaps a dozen human men. The loincloth draped over his legs came down to his shins, covering what had to have been an even more monstrous set of breeding organs. Calling him muscular was an egregious understatement. Every inch of him was crawling with sinewy stone that looked ready to burst through his olive green skin. The hair on his head and chin was pitch black. The beard was an onyx stalactite that stabbed its way down to his chest. His hair was wound into a thick braid, the full length of which Harold could only estimate. [i]Long, very long.[/i] Looking at the brute, Harold surmised that however friendly the orcs were to him, they still took their security very seriously.

Harold’s driver climbed down from the seat and opened the door for him. Harold got out, careful not to step on the smorgasbord that had been piled in the carriage. He stepped down to the cobblestone driveway to the thudding cascade of grapes and kiwis which rolled out of his lap. Wearing a long red robe, he stood out like a sore thumb amongst the more agrarian looking orc folk. Outside of the carriage’s protection, he suddenly remembered how small he was compared to his new brethren.

That feeling became more succinct as two orcs, a man and a woman, came to greet him. He forced an uneasy smile as the woman’s gargantuan breasts floated towards him, apparently without any burden to the woman who carried them. Her counterpart was even more intimidating, sporting the usual assortment of rocky muscle and monolithic height. The man extended his hand to Harold.

“Welcome, Prince Harold, to Orminia,” he said in a voice rough with an orcish accent.

Harold relaxed. He laid his hand in the orcs and grabbed it. His palm was surprisingly smooth and uncalloused. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“I’m Malbor. We wish the life you live here provides every luxury you ever could want.”

Harold inhaled through his nose involuntarily. Malbor. His fiance quite suddenly had a face and a name. Harold bowed his blushing face, unable to look the orc in the eye. “Why, thank you, Malbor. Your kingdom, er… principality… territory…” [i]God, what can I call this place?[/i] “Is a majesty I was not prepared for. I’m humbled to be accepted here so readily.”

Malbor and the woman both chuckled. “No, humans never are.”

Harold managed to lift his head and make eye contact with the woman, Malbor’s sister, perhaps. “And you are?”

She extended her arm in the same manner as Malbor. “Kaleo, an honor.” Harold shook her hand, trying his damndest not to ogle her breasts, something he failed at with every darting glance. Amazingly, it was her palm that was rougher than Malbor’s. “My husband and I wanted to be the first ones to greet you upon your arrival.”

Harold’s smile faltered. “Oh. You two are-?” He looked between them. “Wedded?”

Malbor nodded proudly. “We are.”

“Oh.” [i]Does that mean the arrangement is polyamorous?[/i] He found it much easier to look at her bosom now. “I see. So… When is the marriage ceremony? What are the arrangements? How many wives and husbands are allowed in one family?”

Laughter rang out among the welcoming party and the crowd behind him. “Just one, I’m afraid. Although I wouldn’t mind having another maid to share my bed with!” Malbor quipped, earning a sharp elbow in the arm from his wife.

Embarrassment hit Harold like a train. His face turned as red as the robes he wore. “O-Oh… Sorry… I thought… My apologies.”

“You thought you’d be marrying me?” asked Malbor.

Harold gulped. “Sorry. I see I was mistaken.”

“I told you I should’ve welcomed him first!” thundered the voice of what had to have been a god.

The earth thudded beneath Harold’s feet. With the oncoming pound of foot falls, the prince’s heart dropped. Malbor and Kaleo stepped aside, allowing the monster to step forward. Coming at Harold, growing with each step, forcing the young human to crane his head backwards, was the leviathan “guard” he had spotted earlier. He came to a halt in front of the trembling prince, smiling down at him with a menial a smile as his hyper-masculine visage could muster. “Hello, Harold. I’m Mordin.” His voice crushed the air in front of his jaws like a smith’s hammer, beating Harold’s face with each syllable. The stone beneath his feet seemed like they would break. His hands could not crush Harold alone, but his entire family back home. “In a few days’ time, you and I are to be wed.”

Poor Harold was paralyzed. Nothing but an awestruck stare answered the orc, twitching between slack-jawed terror and an intense urge to keep his mouth shut lest he say something to offend the beast. [i]This is to be my husband?[/i] He became excruciatingly aware of the Draconian loin bulge hovering just feet away, close enough for him to inspect if he had the gall. Truth was, he didn’t, nor would he so long as he stood beneath the presence of such a monster.

But the monster had no intentions of squashing him, or breeding him for that matter. He only wanted to get to know his miniature fiance, something that couldn’t be done so long as he just stood there looking like a deer in headlights. “Prince Harold, I welcome you to my Duchy.” His hand came forward like a howitzer through a gun port. Harold gulped, then meekly produced his own hand and placed it into Mordin’s. Those huge fingers closed around him, swaddling his entire hand and wrist within a warm coffin of fist. “I’m happy to finally meet you.”

Harold blinked. His eyes shot around and noticed the crowd of onlookers. It wasn’t polite to just stand there! A sharp inhale swelled his chest and straightened his back. He tried giving Mordin’s hand a pump. He failed miserably, although Morbin was kind enough to follow along and pump back. “Yes. So pleased to finally meet you too… er…”

“Mordin.”

“Mordin! Yes! I thank you for welcoming me so warmly.” They let go of their hands. In just the few seconds of having his fist wrapped by Mordin’s fingers Harold felt like his hand had been removed from a cast. “I apologize for being so reticent. Your nation has done nothing but strike wonders with every passing road and home. I must admit I wasn’t prepared for such amity.”

When Mordin chuckled it was like someone beating a timpani. “Surprised? You thought you’d find a land of dolts and simians, didn’t you?”

There was no point in lying. Harold nodded. “I did. I fear human regard for you and your people does you no kindness.” He hung his head in shame for having fallen so deeply for such false rhetoric.

Mordin nodded sadly. “We are keenly aware, but that’s no skin off our backs. We’ve done much to prove humanity wrong, haven’t we?”

Harold turned around to see the carriage he had stepped out of. There was food scattered on the driveway below. Dozens of orcs crowded behind it, watching and listening closely. Many of them carried bundles of food, ready to bathe their prince in yet another storm of plenty. There wasn’t a single sour face among them. It was a landscape of geniality and kindness. “You certainly have.” He turned and looked up at his fiance. “If you’d permit, I’d like to see more of it.”

Mordin cocked an eyebrow, striking some fear into Harold. “Permit? Who needs permission?” He struck his massive arm out towards his people. “This city is yours as much as it is mine and theirs! I’d be offended if you didn’t explore it!” The giant took a single stride forward, bringing himself next to Harold. He laid a massive paw on the prince’s shoulder and spun him around to face the city that apparently belonged to him now. “Come! Let me show you what we have forged.”

The crowd erupted in cheers. Harold smiled, this time with sincerity. “Alright then.” He walked forward, out of Mordin’s guidance, straight towards the populace. “Let me see.”

Harold could enjoy the rest of his introduction to the city without having the barrier of being inside of a carriage. His every step was hounded along the way by admirers and gift givers. His poor human hands couldn’t have hoped to carry a fraction of what was forced upon him, making Mordin’s escorts take the food away and haul it back to the palace. Gradually the euphoria died away, but remained a giddy simmer. Orc children scampered in front of them, jabbering at Harold in a language he didn’t understand a lick of. Mordin would shoo them off and send them prancing away, giggling their little heads off.

It was so much to absorb all at once. He wasn’t a spectator anymore, but an entire piece of it. Despite his elevated position, it still felt as though he were just a tiny cog in what was a well-run, if chaotically operated machine. Watching Mordin waltz through the streets among his people without protection from any of his guards was a bizarre sight Harold didn’t think he’d get used to. Quite frankly it made him anxious. His father had entire companies escort him through the countryside and especially through crowded streets. All it took was one well-aimed arrow to empty the throne, and here Mordin was amidst them with nary a leather plate to protect his vitals. Of course, it might not have been necessary given his clear adoration and the fact that he had enough muscle to halt a battering ram.

Speaking of, Harold’s attention was periodically brought down to Mordin’s crotch. There his manhood was hung, swinging pendulously with every step. Harold could hardly hear a word he said beyond the imagined [i]whoosh[/i] sound of such a magnificent organ swaying back and forth. As soon as he would start staring he would realize what he was doing and snap his head away, blushing. It didn’t help much given the swarm of virility that surrounded him. While not nearly as endowed as their Duke, all orc men were absolute behemoths when it came to their love weapons. Even when compared to their husky frames, the weight of their cock and balls more than made up a significant portion. They weren’t modest about it either, wearing skimpy loincloths or aprons at the most. But why should they be? When you packed an entire armory down there, why not show it off?

Harold subconsciously formed a habit of wringing the robe in front of his crotch where he could feel his penis hardening. Even by human standards it was paltry. Now he felt infinitesimal, especially when he happened to look at Mordin’s extravagant nethers or a woman’s bosom.

His self-consciousness was given some respite once they reentered the town square. Here was where the merchants sold the same products Harold had been smothered in earlier. Now that the excitement of the prince’s arrival was over, they filed back to behind their booths to continue making a living. Mordin stood amongst the square proudly, arms akimbo, chest lifted high. A rolling inhale flared his nostrils, then returned as a sigh. “This is where the kingdom thrives. This is where our people make a living, Harold.”

“That much is plain to see,” Harold said, gawking at the pulse of business surrounding him. “You said the kingdom just now. Is it a Duchy or not?”

“Both,” Mordin said.

“Both?”

“Both.” Mordin pointed out west with his palm turned upwards. “The heart of the Orcish Kingdom lies further west. My grandfather rules our territory, or maintains the peace, at least. Much like the human lands, we are not one nation, but neither are we fractured into completely different realms. My ancestors fought very hard to unite our race. We were once just a land of nomads who knew nothing more than the way of sword and ax. For the longest time we suffered more from our own hands than we did from the humans or elves.”

Harold knew what that entailed all too well. “What changed? Who united the Kingdom?”

Mordin smiled down at him. “We did.”

Harold frowned. “You?”

“No, not me, nor any other orc, at least not on their lonesome.” Mordin held his giant arms aloft, gesturing to the Kingdom in its entirety. “We, as in Orckind, pulled ourselves together to form a better union.” He brought his fists onto his chest and clenched them hard enough to shake. “It was a common bond that brought us together, an unstoppable desire to make something bigger than ourselves, the link of a thousand orcs, hand-in-hand, hearts beating as one.” To Harold’s shock and mild discomfort, it looked as though Mordin were about to shed a tear. “Yes, we were once brutes, no better than the civilizations other races lived in. But we also knew that we were no worse. We could not let our differences shatter our chances at making better lives for our future generations. We have so much to thank the brave orcs who laid down their weapons for a more common pursuit. We could not let our passion for war blind ourselves from the dream of a more perfect community.”

We. Mordin did not describe the orcs in any other way. Not “they” nor “them”, and especially not “I” or “me”. The orcs were one, a collective, a society not splintered by their differences but bound by their similarities. The man describing it all would’ve been hailed a champion by his physique alone back in Amuria, but he refused to land any credit for himself or even a singular orc before him. They were all equal.

As beautiful as it was for Harold to witness and become a part of, his indoctrination within his own society was hard to unlearn. No matter how much his logical side would praise the orcs for their successes, it was his Amurian-drilled emotions which drove him to become defensive. “So are there no wars here? No issues whatsoever? Is the orc toiling among the maize on equal footing with a Duke such as yourself?” He tried not to sound confrontational.

He failed. Mordin cocked a brow at him. “Well, there are certainly disputes, but we never go so far as to kill one another over them. Hardships come, be them natural or orcmade, but we refuse to ever let them tear us apart. And while there are certainly more workers harvesting our crops and only a very select few Dukes, we do not let that demean either of their stations. We all have a job to do, and if they ever see fit to leave it, they can.”

How humbled Harold felt. He looked down with some level of shame. “Apologies. I must admit I’m envious of what your people have achieved. I’ve only dreamed of such a life for my own people.”

Mordin’s expression softened. “It doesn’t have to be a dream. Rest assured, if the orcs can do it, so can the humans, or the elves, or the dwarves.”

Harold sighed. What a fantasy all of that was. “One can only hope.”

“You’re absolutely right. All we can do is hope, and hope we always will, both to do the right thing and ensure happiness for our loved ones.”

Harold thought back on the family that had thrown him away to what they thought was certain death. He wished his father and brother were here to see such magnificent creatures, ones that could grind them into pulp with the faintest pinch of their fingers, living lives far more meaningful than they ever could. Harold’s fists clenched and his teeth gritted. [i]I’m never going back. I never want to see their faces again. They didn’t think I belonged? Good. I never hope to see a human ever again. [/i]

But what about him? He hardly fit in any better here seeing how he was an entirely different species. How the hell was he supposed to feel like he was a part of something he was married (which hadn’t even happened yet) into rather than born into? He didn’t even speak their language. Was he stuck being an outcast here like he was with his own people? How long until the friendly welcome wore off and was replaced by bitter tolerance?

Mordin could read his doubt and discomfort. He brought Harold out of his funk with a calm hand on his shoulder. “Come on. I think we’ve seen enough of the city. Why don’t we return to the palace and I will show you around there?”

That erased some of his trepidations, at least for now. Harold smiled. “I would like that a lot.”

[i]***[/i]

The ducal palace was a step down from the rest of the city, if only because Harold was much more used to the brash pride that defined his father’s castle. Regardless, it was pleasant to tour and learn about. Within every hall was a portrait or an heirloom harboring an expansive history of its own. The portraits of Mordin’s ancestors were in much greater detail than what the Amurians boasted. They existed closer to 3 dimensions than the mostly flat caricatures he would expect from a portrait of his father. Best of all, the palace had a library. Naturally the books were mostly Orcish, but there were a handful of those in human, just enough to keep Harold entertained. Many of the books he had brought with him the orcs already had copies of. More often than not they were in better condition too. The orcs had a much better priority on knowledge, clearly.

Lunch time arrived and Harold was served an unsurprisingly huge meal consisting of the juiciest turkeys, chickens, ducks, pork, and beef. Such banquets were not unheard of back at his father’s castle, but Mordin’s casual mention of the fact his people could serve their own meals if they fancied came as a shock. By this point it was out of place to not be surprised by anything Mordin said about his Duchy. It wouldn’t have been that great of a shock if it turned out the orcs had bred the unicorns back out of extinction.

It wasn’t long before the human prince was stuffed to the gills and slouched back in his chair, unable to eat another bite. Mordin and his family continued chomping away, not even close to being full yet. Watching them hack away at their meals, Harold could not help but come back to feeling like a fish out of water. His dress felt gaudy again and his body felt frail. While the fellows around them smacked away at the bounty in front of them with grease and juices dribbling down their chins, Harold just sat there with what felt like a stone in his belly, fighting off a coming wave of nausea. Is every meal going to be like this?

Mordin was just opening his mouth to chomp down on a turkey leg when he noticed Harold’s torpor. He put the leg down and subtly gestured to his family to calm it down. They obeyed, quieting the cacophony of chomping into a rustling of nibbles. “Full, are you? You can excuse yourself. Nobody’s holding you here,” he told Harold.

Harold’s face came alight. “Oh no! I’m fine. I am stuffed, but I haven’t anywhere to go,” he said while patting his portly gut. Truth was he itched to get back to the library if just to have another look at their huge collection.

“Well, you don’t have to sit there and wallow. Take a nap, why don’t you?”

Harold scoffed. [i]A nap? A lesser man would be flogged for even saying that word.[/i] “No need. I’ll just… wait here.”’

Silence rang through the dining hall. Every orc there looked on to him with some concern, most Mordin most severely. Without a word he scooted his chair back and stood up. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”

“No! There’s no need. You can-”

“Now. Let’s go.” His voice was heavier than it ever had been, falling on Harold’s heart like a poleaxe.

Quite suddenly, Harold remembered his station. “Er, right.” He struggled to scoot his oversized orc chair back and then stood up. He and his fiance excused themselves from the dining hall and walked down one of the halls. Once they were out of earshot, Harold apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to act ornery.”

Mordin shook his head. “Don’t apologize, not for that. Humans, you don’t talk much do you?”

Harold frowned. “Talk? Well, yes. We talk all the time. You should talk to other humans. They’re much more chatty than I.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He looked down at the diminutive prince as they walked. “I mean you don’t talk about what you feel, whatever happens in your mind, do you?”

Harold was taken aback. “Oh.” He looked forward and thought about it. “Yes. I mean… no. Well…” Goodness, was there even an answer? “I suppose it’s complicated.”

“Maybe it is, but you’re a smart lad, smarter than most humans. Talk to me about it.” Mordin came to a stop and faced him. The two of them were completely alone.

Harold didn’t know what to say. Nobody had ever asked him or anyone else such a queer question. “Well, we can talk about our emotions if the emotions are good ones. The bad ones we’re not allowed to talk about.”

Mordin frowned. “What good emotions are there other than joy and love?”

“Ah, ‘good’ might not be the right word for it. I think ‘acceptable’ works better.” He nodded. “That’s right. Some emotions are acceptable to have. Others not.”

Mordin’s frown deepened. “Is that so? And what are they?”

“Oh dear. Well… we can be happy, of course. Everyone likes to be happy and joyful, though I suppose there’s a limit.”

“You limit how happy you can be?”

“Outwardly, yes. It’s not becoming of a man to be overly gay lest he become a pest.”

“I see. Go on. What else is acceptable?”

“Ah, well if the occasion calls for it we can be angry.” Harold shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid we Amurians hardly ever find reasons not to be angry. We’re sooner to lop a man’s hand off with an ax than shake it.”

Mordin nodded. “Yes, I’m familiar with that. What else is there?”

Harold had to think. “Envy.”

“Envy?”

“Yes. If a man has something another man wants, he’ll often express it and challenge the other man’s right to it, be it his home, his livelihood, his woman, whatever.”

“A man can stake claim on another man’s possessions? Even his betrothed?”

“Yes.” Harold sighed. “It sounds quite asinine once you say it out loud.”

Mordin nodded grimly. “It does.” He jutted his chin. “What else is there that’s acceptable to express?”

That’s where he had him. Harold shrugged. “That’s the lot.”

“That’s it?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What of sadness?”

“Oh heavens, no. A man who sheds a tear’s liable to have his property usurped for such weakness. It’s troubling, I know.”

Mordin’s face was twisted into a sneer. “Revoltingly so. I reckon fear is taboo as well?”

“That goes without saying.”

“Grief?”

“Only under the veil of revenge.”

“Guilt?”

“A man does not do wrong if he believes he was in the right.”

It was Harold’s turn to shock the orc. The mighty Mordin was appalled, shaking his head out of grief for the human race. “Now I see why. I’ve noticed your discomfort and wondered why you remained reticent. I see why now.” He gave a sorrowful look. “You are not burdened by such restrictions here, you know. It would pain me to know you harbor any feelings you think you must withhold. There’s nothing you can’t tell me or your new family.”

If only it was that easy. A lifetime of bottled feelings and thoughts did not pour forth upon command, but could only burst when it wanted to. Helping the process, fortunately, was the 8 foot, half-ton orc staring down at him and imploring him to be open about his feelings. “If I must be honest-”

“You do.”

“Er, right. If I must be honest, I still feel out of place here.”

Mordin looked hurt. “Have we not welcomed you warmly enough?”

“Nonononono! You have! Far more than what was necessary, in fact. I cannot express enough how gracious I am for such a kind embrace from your people.” [i]Especially compared to what I thought would happen[/i]. “It’s just that no matter how much you do to welcome me and no matter how kindly you do it, I’ll still be a tiny human.” He held his arms out at his sides like someone who had just gotten out of a mud puddle. “For as long as I’ve been here I’ve done nothing but compare myself to you lot. You’re the most extravagantly built bunch of folk I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing in person. While I greatly admire your physiques, I fear it’s more of a bane to my own esteem.” He let his arms fall. “Even among my fellow humans I am but a stalk of wheat who would bow under the breeze. Among you orcs I am even more pathetic.”

Mordin listened, nodding along and not interrupting. “I understand why. You know, among you humans we orcs feel like lumbering oafs.”

Guilt stabbed Harold in his chest. “Ah… I’m sorry. I-”

“No. It’s not like that. I only bring that up to point out that I know where you’re coming from.” Mordin sighed and crossed his arms. “Comparison is the bane of satisfaction, I’m afraid. That goes for humans as well as it does for any other race, hence our pursuit of equality.”

“I admire that, but…” Harold scoffed and held his arms out again. “There isn’t much you can do for me in that category, now is there?”

A long pause followed. “Actually, there is,” Mordin said.

Harold frowned. “What?”

“There’s a way we can help you with your human condition, not that it’s anything that needs to be fixed, but if it bothers you that much, we can.”

“My… human condition? How..?” When fixing someone’s “condition” Harold pictured a man being struck down by a hail of whips. It didn’t quite comfort him. “How will you do that?”

Mordin smiled. “I’ll show you.”