Grom

The heavy iron door of the hut creaked open and slammed shut, cutting off the outside world — the sound of rain and the cries of night birds. Inside, it smelled of smoke, damp earth, and boiled stew. The air was warm and still.

Grom, throwing off his wet cloak from his mighty shoulders, sighed heavily. His eyes, accustomed to the underground darkness, slowly adjusted to the dim light of the hearth. He went to the corner of the room, where there was a sturdy cage made of willow twigs and reinforced with steel hoops.

Inside, you were sitting on a bed of dried moss. Your wings, usually shining with a gentle light, were powerlessly lowered, and their flickering was dim and rare.

The ogre squatted down, causing the floorboards to groan pitifully. His huge, scarred hand carefully slipped between the bars. On it was a tiny, perfectly round cake made of honey and crushed nuts.

"Here, Baby... Eat," his voice, hollow and low, tried to be quieter than usual. He looked at you, and there was no malice in his brown eyes, but some kind of tired, awkward determination.

"There's no need to frown. Honestly. I've got warmth here, a roof over my head... What about outside?" He jerked his head towards the door. "There now... hunting. Other hunters... not as gentle as I am. They have a simpler approach."

He saw that you weren't looking at the treats, and sighed, leaving the tortilla on a small wooden plate inside the cage. Then, rummaging in the pouch on his belt, he pulled out something. It was a small, crudely carved flower made of soft wood.

"This... for the pollen," he muttered, avoiding your gaze. — So that it doesn't crumble in vain. Very carefully... you can collect it. More profitable."

He said the last word and winced himself, as if it tasted bitter. He looked at your bowed shoulders, at the dim light of your wings, and in his eyes there was a strange mixture of guilt, practical calculation, and vague, incomprehensible even to himself, concern for this fragile creature whose life he had so rudely turned upside down.

The heavy air in the hut was thick and sweet—it smelled of honey, smoke, and something else, acrid and intoxicating. Thunder sat with his back to the cage, his mighty back tense. He was muttering to himself, his thick fingers twisting a tiny bag out of a piece of thin paper with unexpected dexterity.

"Damn goblins... They've made it extra expensive, bloodsuckers..." his grumbling was interrupted by a muffled cough.

Abruptly, almost violently, he raised the bundle to his nostrils and sucked in a deep breath. His entire body immediately went limp. He leaned his head back against the cage door and exhaled softly, blissfully. The golden dust that didn't get into his nose settled on his rough lips and dark cheek skin, faintly shimmering in the semi-darkness.

"Phew... here... it's a completely different matter..." his voice became deeper and more relaxed.

It was at that moment that he turned his head and met your gaze. His brown eyes, usually tired, were now dilated, the pupils huge and dark. Panic flared in them for a second before a wave of narcotic indifference swept over them.

"What are you looking at, Baby?" he laughed hoarsely, and his breath smelled of honey and magic. "Did you think I was just milking you?"

He lazily reached for the cage, his finger, stained with the same gold dust, stuck between the bars, inviting you to touch what had just stolen his mind.

"So we're in the same boat... Partners in misfortune. I feed you, and you... And we are... We're warming ourselves by the same fire."

He laughed again, but there was no joy in that laugh—just a bitter, shared fall between you. And that golden gleam on his face was the most outspoken and most shameful confession you've ever heard from him.

The first rays of morning, timid and shaky, made their way through the single window of the hut, picking out dust particles from the semi-darkness, dancing in the air like fairy pollen. There were many of them, these golden sparks, but the very source of this radiance was hiding in the depths of the cage, wrapped in a self-woven cloak of cobwebs and leaves.

Grom was on his knees, and the creaking of the floorboards under his weight seemed thunderous in the morning silence. His breathing was the only sound besides the beating of his own heart, which seemed to be bursting out of his chest. In his hand, which was huge and scarred, he was clutching not a cake, but something else.

"Baby..." his voice was quieter than the rustle of leaves outside the window. "Wake up."

There was a wreath on his palm. Not rough, woven from branches, as one might expect from ogre hands, but incredibly delicate and complex. It was made of forest violets, drops of morning dew, frozen like diamonds, and the thinnest silvery fern stalks.

"Today... I went to get some firewood this morning, and they did... they asked for it themselves." — he lied. He spent several hours at dawn picking up each flower, unsuccessfully trying to make his clumsy fingers obey and weave this fragile beauty.

He slowly put his hand between the bars, giving you time to pull back. The wreath shimmered in his hand, as fragile and perfect as you are.

"Not for pollen," he whispered, and in his eyes, those brown, eternally tired lakes, a genuine, uncovered tenderness splashed. "It's simple... because they were beautiful. Just like you."

He did not move, holding his breath, afraid to frighten away this moment. This first, timid gift, in which there was no calculation, but only a quiet, inept confession that her beauty had touched something deep inside his calloused soul.