There are a lot of things a soldier doesn't learn on the battlefield.
How to cook without burning everything. How to wash clothes without turning them into rags. And, most importantly, how to build a roof that doesn't collapse the first time it rains.
So naturally, Borgu and I decided we could build a hut.
"What you mean, roof lean too much?" Borgu asked, glaring at the crooked skeleton of wood we'd spent the better half of the morning stacking together.
"It's leaning so much it looks like it's trying to escape," I muttered.
Borgu squinted at it. "…Still stand."
"For now." I kicked one of the logs lightly. The whole thing wobbled like a drunk man on stilts.
Borgu blinked. "…Still stand?"
"Borgu." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "We can't live in something that collapses the second someone sneezes."
"Orc sneeze strong. Human sneeze weak."
"That is not the point!"
Sylvara sat under the shade of a tree, watching us with the wary expression of someone trying to decide if we were complete idiots or some kind of geniuses in disguise.
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered over my shoulder. "This is harder than it looks."
She tilted her head, murmured something soft in Elvish, and covered her mouth with her hand.
"…She's laughing at us," I realized.
Borgu grinned. "Elf laugh mean elf happy. Progress."
"Or it means she's already planning our funerals."
"Also progress."
"…No, it isn't!"
By noon, after three collapses, one splinter in my palm, and Borgu attempting to hammer nails with his tusks (don't ask), we had the skeleton of a hut that actually looked promising.
"See?" Borgu said proudly. "Orc architect."
"You nearly killed us twice," I muttered.
"Nearly only count in horseshoes and fireballs."
"…That's not how that saying goes."
"Yes it is. Orc version better."
I shook my head, but I had to admit, it was starting to look like a home. Crude, yes. Rough, definitely. But with a little more work, it might actually keep the rain off.
Sylvara's eyes softened slightly as she watched. When I caught her gaze, she quickly looked away, muttering in Elvish again.
"See?" Borgu whispered loudly. "Elf touched by orc craftsmanship."
"She's touched by something, that's for sure," I muttered.
The next step was gathering leaves, straw, and bark to weave into a roof. Borgu charged into the woods like a one-orc lumber crew, returning with logs that were far too heavy, shouting proudly the whole way.
I, being the sane one, gathered lighter material. When I came back, I found Sylvara hesitantly picking up a few branches herself.
"…You don't have to," I said gently, crouching beside her.
She froze, then shook her head stubbornly, muttering a word I didn't know.
"…Help," Borgu translated confidently.
I blinked. "Wait—you understood that?"
He shrugged. "Orc and elf both grunt language. Easy."
"…You're telling me you can pick up Elvish but can't figure out how to build a roof properly?"
"Yes."
I buried my face in my hands.
Still, Sylvara handed me the branches, her movements careful. It wasn't much, but it was the first time she'd willingly contributed.
Progress.
The roof was the hardest part.
I held one side of the woven straw mat, Borgu the other. "Lift carefully. Don't—"
Borgu sneezed.
The whole thing slid sideways and smacked me in the face.
"…I told you not to sneeze," I groaned, half-buried in straw.
"Orc sneeze strong," Borgu said proudly.
"That's not something to be proud of!"
Sylvara covered her mouth again, shaking with barely suppressed laughter.
"Glad you're enjoying the show," I muttered, peeling straw out of my hair.
But slowly, painfully, after more trial and error than I care to admit, the hut began to take shape. A crooked roof. Walls that leaned a little too far left. But it was ours.
When we stepped back at last, sweat dripping down our foreheads, Sylvara tilted her head at the finished hut. Her lips curved slightly upward.
"…Home," she whispered in halting human tongue.
I froze. Then smiled. "Yeah. Home."
Borgu thumped his chest. "Orc hut best hut."
"…It's not even your hut," I pointed out.
Borgu blinked. "…Orc squat in corner, maybe?"
"You're not squatting anywhere."
The second hut was for Sylvara.
It felt wrong to make her sleep outside or cram her into ours. And if we wanted her to trust us, giving her space of her own seemed like a good start.
She watched as we laid the foundation, her eyes wide, lips moving in Elvish.
When I pointed at the skeleton of the frame, then at her, she blinked. "…Me?"
I nodded. "Yours."
For the first time since we met her, she looked completely stunned.
Borgu clapped his hands. "Elf hut! With elf door! And elf window!"
"…What makes it an elf window?" I asked.
"Smaller. Because elf skinny."
I groaned. "That's… not how it works."
Sylvara, though, was still staring at the half-built hut, as if trying to process the idea that anyone would go out of their way for her.
Her hands trembled slightly, but she whispered, "…Thank."
It was broken, awkward, but heartfelt.
I smiled softly. "You're welcome."
By the time the sun set, two huts stood proudly at the edge of the clearing. Crooked, rough, and built with more stubbornness than skill—but huts nonetheless.
Sylvara sat at the entrance of hers, fingers brushing over the rough wooden frame. She looked… calm.
Borgu, meanwhile, sprawled in front of the fire, arms crossed. "Orc build empire one hut at time."
"…Let's just focus on not collapsing first," I muttered.
But as the fire crackled, and Sylvara hummed something soft in her own tongue—a song, maybe—I felt it.
A fragile thread of trust, weaving between us.
And for the first time since leaving the battlefield, I thought… maybe this slow life wasn't just a dream.