The Crying Orc

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own. The title is not mine, as well, it comes from a Burzum song, and a bloody awesome one.

Candlekeep was a secure place. The knowledge kept there was thousands years old, thus, it had to be guarded. There, books, made of ink and parchment, had more meaning than living beings, created of flesh and bone. The gates of Citadel would open only before those who had a rare volumine or enough gold to pay the entrance fee. Those, who did not own riches nor valuable books, could not enter. The wise men say that there is an exception to every rule - yet, there was no exception to that one.

The whole Faerun seemed to know of the code followed in Candlekeep. A traveller without fee never approached the gate, and never dared to ask the Gatekeeper to let him in. One day, however, someone came, lifting his feeble, trembling voice in a beg that could not be fulfilled. The news of his arrival spread among the people of Candlekeep with the speed of the flame. A great crowd gathered at the gate, listening to the pleas of newcomer and the calm refusals of the Gatekeeper.
Among the crowd, there was a boy. He was fourteen at the time, yet, taller and stronger than his peers. He did not manage to learn how to read or write, yet, was talented with weapons, and wielded a hammer with skill and power. As the years passed, he was more and more aware of what differed him from others: his skin was darker and thicker, his muscles were powerful, his teeth were sharp, his eyes were yellow. He was a silent one, and did not have a way with words. Alas, he had to deal with one of them. This word was 'half - orc', and it described who he was.

Gorion's ward, they called him. His name was Thyrm, as his foster father chose. There were, however, those who named him differently. Thistle was this given name, for he grew as fast as a weed and into something as ugly. In his younger years, they called him that because his hair was unpleasant to the touch and stang the hands that patted him. Later, he earned this name by growing rude and avoiding others, as if their presence alone inflicted great pain on him.
He seemed to be suffering now, as well, looking at the wanderer who dared to approach the gate without a proper offering.
A beggar it was, and a one who has seen many a winter. He stood there, shaking in the flamerule's sun, two steps away from Thyrm, parted from him only by the iron grating of the gate. The wanderer looked as if the way drained the last bits of strength from him; it was only the hope of a peaceful death that restrained him from collapsing. The eyes were nearly blind and seemed huge in this wrinkled, thin face. His entire body was a wound, barely covered by filthy, ragged clothes. 'Leprosy', whispered the crowd, both compassion and revulsion in their voices. Thyrm knew no name of this disease. He was told such people existed, yet, during the fourteen years of his life, he never saw them.

'By the Gods, let me in!', cried the beggar once again, 'I used to serve Oghma! 'Twas his books that took my eyesight. At least let me die here'
Ularunt and Tethoril themselves came. They had pity, yet, they had rules to follow as well. Many a man believed that they grieved the old man, who asked only for death. If he asked for life, his wish could not be granted by Ao himself. No power, no spell and no prayer could return his health.
'Why won't you let me in? I knew death was near, I wondered through many towns and villages, and every household was closed for me... why?'People grieved him, but were slowly leaving, attending their duties. They wondered, why the beggar chose this place as the last one he shall ever see. It was not rules what made people to close their gates before him, no, it was the fear, the oldest fear of disease and death. Those struck by leprosy had no place to turn, no place to heal, even no place to die.

Thyrm looked at him. There was sadness in his hideous face, a motion that made him almost human. His yellow eyes were filled with compassion, a sight that no one expected to see. Something inside the half - orc told him he should be ashamed. Ashamed of his strong, healthy body, ashamed of his youth, of his life, ashamed of all he had, standing before one that had nothing. He stared at the beggar, unable to say a word. The sun was setting when the boy realised that he was alone there, for the others lost interest, alone with the man who had no more strength to beg. The wanderer was lying on the ground then, too week to keep his feet, shivering from the coldness of night.

The half orc ran off, to fetch milk, bread and blankets, everything his big hands could carry. Silent, he gave them to the beggar, tossed it all before the old man's feet. The beggars hands, however, were too weak, too wounded, marked by disease that nothing could heal. They were trembling, powerless, unable to grasp a cup, to cover himself with a blanket, to lift the bread to his mouth. The orc could not help. His hands were too wide to make their way through the bars. He could not feed the beggar, he could not comfort him, he could not even sit with him and keep his company in these last moments.

The beggar looked at the food, his own, something that he dreamt of for many years. He looked, but he could not taste.
'All in vain, boy', he whispered, 'You'd have to feed me like a child. Your masters won't let me in, but the guards have pity.'
'What will happen to you?', asked Thyrm, his voice scratchy and low, as unpleasant to the ear as his face was unpleasant to the eye.
'I will die, here. I have no strength...'
The half orc formed fists. He was raging, somehow, angry at the guards, the diseases, the death itself. Through his life, he dreamt of being human, of softer skin, of a face that would not scare people away. He never dreamt of strength greater than he already had. Now, the only thing he wanted was to be stronger, strong enough to break the bars, to defeat Kelemvor in a fight for the life of this old man. To cure him. He wanted such strength that would give him the ability to cure.
'But why?', asked the orc. Words were hard. They could not express what he wanted to say, their numbers were to little to match what was inside of his mind.
'Because that what happens to everyone', replied the man, his voice even weaker than before. He was patient, almost as patient as Gorion, yet, his lessons were different, cruel, for they were the lessons of life itself, 'Do you fear not leprosy?'
'What is leprosy?'
Thyrm was sure he knew it once. Gorion told him, or one of the wise men. The half - orc, however, has forgotten this word, among many others.
'Rotting alive', retorded the beggar. 'Do you understand?'
And rotting it was, pain it was, suffering it was, a wound never healed, decomposition before death. Thyrm saw it all on the beggar's body. Yet, he did not understand, he knew that he never would. He did not understand why such suffering existed. He did not want it to exist.
'No.'
The old man's lips formed a light smile.
'You are not wise', he said. 'That is why you have so much pity.'
A long time passed until he spoke again. Thyrm thought, that an era could pass, as well as just a moment, for he lost the trace of time. The beggar's life ended with sunrise, and before he left Faerun, he spoke.
'Ilmater bless you, my child', he said, touching Thyrm lightly, gathering his strength for this gesture. Then, he died, without motion, yet, with a sigh. His body became an empty nutshell, a rag tossed away by a poor man.

Thyrm, kneeling on the ground, did something for the first time in his life. He wept, sounding more like a beast in pain than a grieving man. The people of Candlekeep assembled around him, amazed. 'Thistle cries', they whispered, for could an orc cry?

Gorion came. Without a word, he took his ward to the infirmary. It was, however, not a sickness of the body that made Thyrm suffer.
That night, he dreamt of a man. He had a beautiful face, almost noble, but was dressed in rags. He cried. The tears never ended, always falling from the saddest eyes Thyrm ever saw. He touched Thyrm's head and hands, repeating the words of the beggar: 'you are not wise... that is why you have so much pity.'

When Thistle awoke, he could heal.