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Chapter Text

cut through Fletcher's curtains, he tried to ignore them, but the comforting heat of the southern sun and the slowly growing noise of the town below roused him from his sleepy state. He reached out to his side, hoping to feel the comforting body next to him, only to be greeted with emptiness. He sighed sadly as he pushed himself to sit up in his large bed. His mop of dark hair stood on end like a messy explosion had gone off, pulling himself from his bed he headed towards the window and looked out to his city.

Raleighshire had grown quickly in the last ten years, which made sense to him since his land was one of the few places in Hominum where all people were treated equally. It had made the once desolated town grow into one capable of rivaling Corcillium in productivity and popularity. While all the other nobles were in an ever-long competition on who could make the most profit, Fletcher had made it so that his city had the greatest potential of growth and equality. And the people liked that, humans, dwarves and elves all lived in harmony—well for the most part. There had been many humans who had come to Raleighshire to spread distrust and hate among the people, but Fletcher’s officers, the Foxes, made sure to track it never got out of hand.

He yawned as he put on a simple tan shirt and brown breeches before he headed out of his room. He first headed to the washroom and turned the faucet of the sink—a revolutionary growth in plumbing thanks to the dwarvish artificers had made it so that Fletcher didn't need to send a servant to head down to the well so early in the morning. He splashed cold water onto his face, rubbing the sand from his eyes before taking a look at himself in the mirror. He was twenty-eight years old, the war had ended ten years ago, but he still felt as if…something big was going to happen. He stroked his beard, it had grown quite well though, like his hair, it got a bit wild if he let it grow out. He trimmed it down with the shaving blade he had and headed down and followed the waft of delicious cooking to the kitchen where he saw Berdon, his adopted father, and Alice, his mother, eating breakfast.

“Morning,” Fletcher said as he took his seat at the dining table, eggs and sausages neatly placed upon the plate. He felt his mouth water as he began to cut into his breakfast.

“Morning, son,” Berdon said as Fletcher took a bite. “You got up pretty early today, eh?”

“Mhmm,” Fletcher mumbled before swallowing his food. “I didn't have much to do so I decided to have an early night.”

He continued to scarf down his food before realising that both his parents were staring at him. “What?” he asked.

His mother smiled as she sipped from her mug of tea. “Oh nothing, I was just thinking that I was sure I saw a familiar person sneak out of the house at around dawn is all.”

Fletcher continued to eat as he glanced at Alice. His mother seemed to know a lot of things and he didn't know how she was able. "She was headed to the southern border. She took a quick rest stop here before continuing." Alice nodded before she asked. "That doesn't explain why she was leaving your room."

Fletcher felt his face turn red, he scarfed down the rest of his food before getting up, hurriedly.

“Oh would you look at the time!” he exclaimed before rushing out of the kitchen. “Othello is going to be very angry if I don’t meet him soon. Okay—bye!”

He rushed out of the mansion, donning his jacket over his shirt as he jogged further down the garden towards the town. He slowed when he was a safe distance away, groaning to himself for his lack of foresight. Of course his mother would see Sylva leave—who wouldn't see a griffin and question where it came from?He continued to trudge down the garden, it had grown beautifully, with hedges that had been shaped into mazes that spanned the mansion’s garden. He found Othello further down, standing solemnly in front of the statue that had been erected after the downfall of the albino Orc Khan ten years prior. Othello’s twin brother, Atilla, had passed during the battle on the mountain pass that bordered Fletcher’s land and the Orcish jungles. Many had died that day, Rory, Sir Caulder, Rotterham and Dahlia.

Fletcher sidled up next to his friend. While Fletcher’s beard had only started growing properly a few years ago, Othello, like all male dwarves, had been growing his since the first strands of his beard began to grow. The only time it was ever cut was by inquisitor Rook as nothing more than an act of pure cruelty.

“You’re late,” Othello said, false annoyance lining his voice.

“Oh come off it,” Fletcher said, playfully shoving his friend’s shoulder. They both chuckled, but fell silent as they both prayed for the fallen.

“So,” Fletcher began, “What’s on the agenda today, Sergeant Major?”

“Well,” the dwarf replied, “we’re supposed to be going on an expedition, my lord.”

Fletcher felt his mood brighten at the reminder, being the lord of Raleighshire had been hard work at the beginning—even enjoyable at times—but after the battle with Khan and Arcturus’ wedding, Fletcher had begun to feel the responsibilities of being a lord…boring. Yes, he was in charge of the growing town but sometimes it was gruelling work. It hadn't been the first time he had thought about leaving his responsibilities temporarily to go and do something.

“Is the team ready?” Fletcher asked, feeling the excitement build within himself at the prospect of finally getting something that wasn't confined within the office in his mansion. He had thought of renting a room in the town out as an office but decided that he would rather be at home. He had the available rooms to do so.

“Aye. Have been for the last few hours in fact,” Othello replied.

“Well let’s not keep them waiting,” Fletcher said as he held his hand out in front of him, willing Ignatius to appear. With a flash of white light the drake appeared before them, the sun making his red scales almost glow in its light.

They hopped onto the drake, with Fletcher giving his demon an affectionate pat as the drake prepared for lift-off.

And just like that, they were off, the wind whipping through their hair as they flew through the skies over Raleighshire and to the southern barracks. Fletcher loved the feeling of flying, though he could never get berdon to try it his mother quite enjoyed it, so long as she was no more than ten feet from the ground.

The flight was short lived as they landed at the edge of the barracks, the two hopped off and headed to the men and women lined up, a dwarvish woman calling orders to the soldiers. Cress was a good sergeant, likeable yet not a pushover, she knew when to be sympathetic and when to be harsh.

“Foxes!” Fletcher called to his troops. “Who’s ready for a patrol?”

* * *

Fletcher’s arrow took the elk cleanly. When it pierced through its neck he rushed to the downed beast, his knife in hand, but the animal was dead before he reached it.

“Still got it,” he whispered to himself as he let one of his soldiers take the body to prepare. Othello and Cress sidled up to him.

“You could've just said you wanted to go hunting, y’know,” Cress said, wiping away the sweat from her brow.

“I know but it’s not just hunting I wanted to do,” Fletcher responded. “I…” he thought about it. He wasnt exactly sure what he wanted to do but he knew that he needed to be out here. The Orc jungles had been miserable when he first stepped foot into them—and they still were—but he felt almost… at home.

“I don’t know,” he admitted to them. “It’s just—”

“A compulsion?” Othello said.

Fletcher smiled at his friend. “Yes.”

Cress rolled her eyes before seeing something. “Hang on…” she said, squinting. Fletcher turned to look at what had caught her eye, he saw something, heard the rustling of the tall grass that surrounded his patrol.

“Foxes! Defensive position!” he called out, his soldiers instantly huddled together into a circle surrounding Fletcher, Othello and Cress. The front line raised shields that had been strapped to their backs as they made their trek, while the second line stood, their muskets aimed in front of them, while the third line had their muskets prepared for a second volley.

Fletcher kept his eyes in front of him, watching the shifting grass as its movements became more erratic. Someone fell through the dry brush, someone large.

An orc. And they were bleeding badly.

“Hold,” Fletcher said, giving the order before one of his soldiers thought it better to kill the being. He stepped out of the defensive circle and walked slowly towards the orc. They didn't move, Fletcher noticed that the orc was smaller than the male bull orcs he’d encountered so many years ago.

A female, he assumed.

“Do you speak?” he asked in his crude orcish, he had found it to be of use to learn what he could of the language in his spare time. The orc didn’t respond. “Answer me,” he demanded, drawing his khopesh. No response. He looked at the orc, her clothing was rough and bloody. She lay hunched over, as if she was protecting something. Fletcher prodded the orc with his khopesh. No response, he noticed that she wasn’t breathing.

Then he heard a wail from the orc’s body. He quickly backed away, his khopesh ready to strike at the orc when it leapt at him. But it didn’t, and the wailing began.

“Coby, Logan, Gallow, help me out here,” Fletcher called, seconds later he was joined by his three trusted soldiers. “Othello, Cress, keep an eye out.”

The four men headed to the female orc.

“You sure it’s dead?” Logan, a pock-scarred human, said. He was one of the convicts who had been tasked with aiding Fletcher in rebuilding Raleighshire, and even after his sentence had been completed he,and many of the other convicts, decided to stay on, working as the town guard. “I mean I don’t want it jumping out an’ all that.”

“Oh don't be a scaredy-cat,” Gallow, an older dwarf joked.

“Logan, keep aim on her,” Fletcher said as he squatted down, hiding the nervousness he felt. Logan was right, if the orc was feigning death it could absolutely crush his skull in a second, but the wailing was coming from underneath the female orc. So Fletcher, with the help of Cooper, a former slave to the orcs, and Gallow, heaved the female orc up. Even with their strength combined it was a struggle.

“Why… can’t…” Gallow struggled to say. “Get… your demon…?

“Might… hurt… the child,” Fletcher managed. A few moments went by as they struggled to move the body but when they did they were surprised with what they saw. It was as they all suspected, a child, an orc child. But what they didn't suspect was the orc’s skin.

It was an albino.

Chapter Text

The men stared at the albino orc that laid wrapped tightly in a blanket and wail in front of them. It almost took Fletcher a second too long to react as he heard the clicking of a muskets hammer being pulled back. He turned to see Logan being to aim the gun at the child.

“Wait!” he called out, stepping forward and pushing the barrel aside. “What do you think you’re doing?!” he growled at his subordinate. He saw Logan give him a look of utter bafflement.

“It’s an orc!” he exclaimed. “M’lord,” he quickly added.

“They’re a child, Logan,” Fletcher whispered, still holding the gun’s barrel. He saw Logan’s face scrunch slightly before the man put the hammer back. Fletcher let go of it then, giving the man a grateful look before he turned back to the child. They were larger than a human baby and after lifting the wailing baby into his arms the child subsided their cries. Fletcher held the child to himself, turning to his men. They were all staring at him, even Othello and Cress stared at him. He stared back for what felt like an eternity.

“We…” he began feeling no confidence in his words but feigning it nonetheless. “We’ll be taking this child with us.”

The soldiers didn't react, but they all wore faces of uncertainty. Looking to each other for confirmation if their lord was really willing to take an orc child with them.

“Alright, everyone,” Cress yelled at the soldiers. “Get a move on! Pack up and get our hunt ready to move.” And like a well-oiled machine, the soldiers moved at a rapid pace to do as they were told.

“Sergeants. A word,” Fletcher commanded as he walked away from the men, Othello and Cress followed suit as Fletcher took them a few feet away from the soldiers.

“So? What’s going on, Fletcher?” Othello asked, his thick brows furrowed in query.
“You remember Mother?” Fletcher asked, looking between the two dwarves.

“The orc lady with the Gremlins?” Cress asked.

“Yes, she said she was Khan’s mother, and that the orc’s aren’t inherently a violent race. What if—”

“Fletcher,” Othello cut in. “I don't think that’ll be the wisest decision.”

Fletcher turned to his best friend, “Why not?”

Othello ran his hand through his beard, his thick fingers carving crevices through it as he thought.

“Don’t you see, Othello?” Fletcher pushed. “We can prove that the orcs aren’t bad.”
“And what?” Othello snapped, almost yelling. “And tell everyone that they're misunderstood?”

“No,” Fletcher replied, his voice just as sharp. “I will not excuse what they have done. But think about it, it we show that the orcs can be trusted, we might be able to—”

“Forge an alliance?!” Othello near enough roared.

“Quiet down,” growled Fletcher, Othello was his friend but Fletcher was his Commanding Officer. The two glared at each other for a moment before Othello stepped down.

“I’m sorry, Fletcher,” he began, “it just… feels too far-fetched.”
“I know, but there’s a chance. A chance for change.” Fletcher spoke with hope, the previous wars and battles with the orcs had been devastating. “Just maybe, with this child, we can push for change.”

Othello and Cress looked at each other with an incredulous look. But they relented.
“Alright, Fletcher. We trust you, but the men—”

“I won’t tell them. At least not yet, but they deserve to know that I trust them.”

They nodded before heading back to the soldiers, who—though keeping an eye out for potential threats—had been trying to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“Men!” Fletcher called out, gaining the immediate attention of his soldiers, who all snapped to attention. “I know that you’re all confused with my decision to take this orc child to our home.” His eyes flitted over his company, making sure to gain eye contact with them all.

“But I assure you, I will explain everything soon. I just require time to commune with my council. I wish for you all to keep this encounter a secret, I don’t want to bring unwanted panic.”

His company replied in union without skipping a beat. “Yessir.”

* * *

The ride back to Raleighshire had Fletcher feeling more worried than and panicked than he thought he could be. How would he tell his parents? He needed to send Arcturus and Lovell a letter, but they were in Corcillium and that would take at least a few days before they were able to discuss the matter.

“Unless they fly over,” Cress said, as the trio sat in their cart, barely speaking above a whisper. “She still has her Alicorn.”

Fletcher nodded. “That’s one problem solved. Now, for Sylva. She's heading to the southern border, she’d have probably made it there by now. If my estimations are correct she’ll return in two days.”

The three nodded and agreed on a date, they all heard the wooden wheels of the canvassed cart roll onto the cobblestones of Raleighshire. He was home, and soon, he would have to explain to his parents why he had a child in his hands.

The ride home had felt the longest, Fletcher as alone as Orthello and Cress had left with the soldiers back to the barracks. He felt as if his stomach weighed a hundred pounds as he stepped out of the cart onto the estate grounds. He looked down at the child he cradled in his arms, they were fast asleep, exhaling softly as they dreamt whatever it was babies dreamt of.

“Hopefully you’re having a better time at this than I am.”

He took five deep breaths before striding to his home, holding the child that could make Hominum a better place. Or bring it to its knees.

He opened the front door and was greeted by Amelia, his head maid. She was a tall woman—taller than Fletcher—with a matronly look and spoke with a tone of a woman who had been in this line of business her whole life.

Covering the baby's face he spoke to her.

“Amelia, please inform my parents to visit me in my office in a half-hour.”

“Certainly, my lord. Will you be wanting dinner?” she asked primly, not even glancing down at what Fletcher was holding.

“Yes, have it brought to my office,” Fletcher replied as he headed up the stairs, waving away the maids who tried to take his jacket off his shoulders, before he stopped and turned back to Amelia. “Can you also bring food suitable for a baby?”

“My lord?” Amelia asked, her almost permanent composure shifting to confusion.

“I will explain everything soon, but I do require food suitable for a child of about 5-10 months. Is that possible?” he asked, the sweat on his brow not solely from his short uphill walk.

“I shall make it possible, Lord Raleigh.” She stated before giving quick commands to the other maids. Fletcher smiled, she had been a reliable woman since the day he had met her, though she argued with Berdon the first time he had taken to himself to cook breakfast for them. It had been the most mild mannered argument Fletcher had seen and she had finally relented after tasting Berdon’s cooking and deemed it “adequate”.

Fletcher opened the door to his office, an average sized room that had once been his birth father’s. The walls beside the door were adorned with bookshelves filled with everything Fletcher had deemed important. He had two paintings hung up the wall behind his desk. On one side was old, though Edmund, Fletcher’s birth father, had embedded with corrundum crystals to shield it from any damage. It depicted a newborn Fletcher in his mother’s arms and his mother in his father’s arms.

The one beside it was much more recent, it was a painting of Fletcher and his parents, but Fletcher was twenty and he held onto his mother’s hand while Berdon stood beside him, his burly hand clasping Fletcher’s shoulder. He stared at them for a moment as he always did, thinking of the father he lost and loving the one he had gained.

Placing a few pieces of paper in front of him as he took a seat, Fletcher carefully propped the child onto his lap as he began to draft his letters. The letter to Arcturus and Lovell was easy, with a simple but affectionate introduction leading to why he was writing to them, leaving it vague enough so that a paid off messenger boy wouldn't look at it twice. After proof-reading the first draft of the letter, he found it to be adequate and sealed it, ready to be sent.

He then moved onto Sylva’s letter. And he hesitated. What would he write? She had left at dawn that day and he was already sending a letter. Well it was a dire matter, so it made sense, but what if she thought he was being clingy? He had drafted three separate letters before he heard a loud knock.

“Fletcher?” he heard Alice call.

“Doors open,” he replied, not being able to resist the smile play on his face as he looked at their expressions of utter bafflement seeing the albino orc child in his arms.

“Fletcher,” Berdon said, an eyebrow raised, “why do you have a baby orc?”