Azog had slept fitfully the night before. His dreams always involved the same dwarf; in each one, Thorin got closer and closer to him. It had started with chasing him, running through endless fields in search of a dwarf who was always one step ahead of him. Then, Thorin had been captured a few times or spies had been able to grab him, though Azog himself had never been in front of him. Just before he had woken up, his dreams had shifted slightly, to where he was so close to Thorin that he could see the very fear in his blue eyes; with his free hand, he easily could have wrapped it around Thorin's neck and squeezed.
He woke up before that could happen. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light. Sitting up, he looked around. Yazneg was leaned up against the side of a tree and snoring loudly. The other Orcs were still asleep, either all curled up together or dotted around the clearing, their weapons right by their bodies. A few were even cuddled up against their wargs.
The only other being who was awake seemed to be Diolir. Azog's own warg, Tianil, was asleep. The night before, she had stayed up late to clean her white fur.
Diolir looked over to him for a moment, and then her yellow eyes returned to the ground. Ever since they had stopped to make camp the night before, the warg had laid down and refused to move. Before then, she had howled constantly for her mistress; Azog honestly could not tell which he disliked more. On one hand, her constant howling had been annoying, but on the other hand she looked no better lying on the ground. Every once in a while, she whimpered and moved her tail in just the slightest way. Had Azog not seen it then he would have thought that the warg had turned into a statue.
Diolir had not touched any of her meat the night before.
As Azog slowly stretched out his muscles, he could not help but notice how cold his skin was. Most nights, whenever Tauriel did not curl up with Diolir, she would lean into his good side. He was far larger than her, but she had long since stopped noticing. Using his one arm, he pulled her closer.
He leaned down on his knees and ran his hand through Diolir's fur. The warg stiffened beneath him.
"Relax," he whispered, leaning down until his lips were only inches away from her pointed ears. "Tauriel will be back in no time. We just need to rescue her from Oakenshield and the rest of his scum."
Diolir growled, showing off sharp teeth.
"They'll pay." Azog grinned. "You will make them."
Slowly, Diolir stood.
Azog walked over to where his small supply bag. Carefully, he opened it and pulled out a torn piece of green cloth.
Diolir was scratching herself with one of her legs when Azog returned. She froze when she saw the cloth, and took a long sniff when he held it out to her.
"Follow the scent," Azog said. "There are great things ahead."
Diolir licked his arm.
As the group had climbed down the mountain, Tauriel had felt everyone's eyes on her. Even with shaking legs, she had done her best to walk by herself. No one needed to be touching her, especially not Thorin. That had been an accident.
Right now, all she really needed was to be alone.
It had hit her slowly just how much trouble she was in. The pieces of the puzzle had connected in her mind only after she even realized it needed to be solved.
Tauriel took a step onto solid, grassy ground. Her arms were wrapped around her chest, and she had positioned her hair to block off her vision of the others.
Behind her, a dwarf whispered in his own tongue. A shiver ran up her spine; she had no hope of ever translating it. Just as quickly, the dwarf responded. A whole flurry of whispers began, and Tauriel could already feel the ground on her face.
You shouldn't be here, a voice in her head told her. She hadn't heard that voice in a while, and it was louder than usual, as if to make up for its absence. You have to leave now.
She had heard it even before she met Azog; it had been easier to ignore back then. Even then, however, she had been unable to discover just who the voice was. It had been too deep to be her father's, and sounded too sober to be her Uncle Galion's. Her mother never could have sounded like that (even if she had been able to do a spot on impression of Thranduil), and neither her king nor his son could have sounded like that if they tried. The Orcs had no one similar.
If it was anyone, then it couldn't have been her.
She wrapped her arms around her chest tighter. The dwarves spoke on, chattering away in Khuzdul.
You don't belong here.
Tauriel forced her eyes shut.
You know this is not how things are supposed to be.
Bile rose in her throat, the thick taste of yesterday's meat filling her mouth.
You don't even know what you're doing here.
The dwarves continued to speak in their native tongue while they ate. The wizard, Gandalf, was silent as well, sitting right next to the hobbit Bilbo Baggins. The wizard was taller than his friend even when he sat; he was taller than even Tauriel.
She still had yet to meet him in the eyes.
Bilbo Baggins was much smaller. He ate slowly, taking long sips of the broth in his stew, and slowly tearing apart his piece of bread. Every movement was deliberate. Looking at him was almost as hard as doing the same for Gandalf - both quickly caught on that they were being watched.
Only two dwarves had volunteered to sit near here. One had dark hair and the other one hair much lighter; both had similar facial shapes. She couldn't be one hundred percent sure, but they reminded her of the joking dwarves from up on the carrock.
Tauriel did not take her time to eat. Once the bowl was in her hand, full of steaming hot stew, and the piece of bread in her hand, she had dug in. The bread had been mixed with the broth and vegetables, and stuffed in her face in minutes. The meat had been saved for last, each precious piece untouched until needed.
She took one piece between her fingers, juices wetting her fingertips. She popped it into her mouth and started chewing it. As soon as it was swallowed, she grabbed the next.
The meat was rough against her tongue, and would have been pretty dry were it not for the broth. It certainly wasn't venison, and it lacked the taste of beef or chicken. It wasn't even warg meat; that was tougher, and didn't take nearly as much cooking. Rarely did anyone ever eat it, and not unless needed, but Tauriel would have recognized the taste anywhere.
As questions ran circles inside her head, she continued to put in piece after piece of meat. Every juice that fell on her lips or fingers were licked away.
If she had to, perhaps she could learn to enjoy the taste.
The Orcs had retreated from Mirkwood; all the while, Tauriel had kept her eyes open for extra soldiers that were not coming. Her throat had tightened, and had she had any weapons left then she had no idea what she would actually do with them.
From the back of the dirty cart that she had been shoved in, she watched Mirkwood retreat into nothing. The enchantment that the forest held became nothing; if the Orcs were bothered by the forest, then they did not show it. Tauriel's own parents had struggled with it many days while out fighting, and her parents had trained to fight for years. There were some days where she had waited for them to return home, heart racing and skin pale; one wrong step or one hallucination and they could be gone forever.
Sometimes she wished for a spider to appear, the thought dancing in and out of her head. It would have been so fitting, especially since more and more had started to appear recently.
No spider ever came, however, though she did watch large, empty webs pass them by. The webs looked like the blood of ghosts.
Beside herself, no one was in the cart. It was a large, empty space, with only a few areas open for peering outside. Darkness filled most of it, and it smelled like piss and old wood.
With most of her energy drained and her leg aching, she lay against the edge, her back supported by old wood.
The next time that she looked outside, all that she saw were miles and miles of empty green fields. Not one single tree could be seen in the distance.
She walked to each side and looked out through every hole in the wood that she could find, no matter how big or small. The sea of grass appeared only thicker, and she saw a few Orcs with supply wagons.
Collapsing against the side of the cart once more, she closed her eyes and cried.
"Go on," the blond dwarf said, "take it." He shook the bowl slightly, precious broth dripping over the side; Tauriel's heart skipped a beat.
Her throat was dry, and in only moments after finishing her food she was hungry again. The food before her seemed to sparkle.
He was only half finished.
The darker haired dwarf beside him looked at her curiously. Across from them, she could feel the eyes of the rest of the company.
Without thinking, she grabbed the bowl, careful to not spill anything. Using the spoon, she carefully took each piece of meat inside and put it in her own bowl. Once she had finished, and checked to make sure that she had not missed even the tiniest bit of meat, she handed it back to him.
She popped a large piece of meat into her mouth and began to chew. It was easier to ignore the flavor if she kept it away from her tongue. In the end, taste didn't matter; all she needed was the food inside her. Anything was better than a rumbling belly.
The blond dwarf was wide eyed, still staring at his own bowl.
"Well, Fili," the darker haired dwarf said. "I think that means that she's happy to meat you."
The blond dwarf, Fili, turned red, and the other laughed. He pulled his bowl back and continued to eat.
By the time everyone had finished eating, a dwarf wearing a large hat offered seconds to anyone interested. She raced over to the pot and grabbed the largest piece of meat from the very bottom with both of her hands. Stepping away from the pot, she bit inside, pulling off chunks of meat. She chewed and swallowed what she could, and then spit out the bones. The fat was juicy, and the meat was not as dry as earlier.
The bones littered the ground, and it was only when she finished and saw them untouched that she realized that Diolir was not going to chew on them.
Once she had licked every bit of juice from her fingers, she crushed the bones into the dirt.
The cart shook, giving her little chance to sleep. The times that she did, Tauriel dreamed of what had happened. Everything played out the same, and Tauriel woke up to find herself in a world somehow not covered in red.
Sometimes, the cart would stop, and some food would get thrown inside. Most of the time, it was a piece of meat, and other times a piece of hard, dry bread. She had to touch the bread carefully, or risk having it turn to nothing but dusty crumbs in her hands.
They never brought any water, and Tauriel's throat turned dryer and dryer. Her tongue hung limply in her mouth, and it took great effort to swallow.
Whatever she could not eat immediately, she saved. For hours sometimes she would hold a piece of bread or meat, taking small bites until finally she had managed to eat it all. As soon as she finished, the cart would stop, Orcs would chatter, and more food would be thrown inside. The process repeated itself.
Night and day were all the same to her. The cart was dark either way, and she had stopped bothering to look outside. It didn't matter what she saw, because it certainly would not be Mirkwood.
Sometimes the cart would stop for hours, and all she would hear was an occasional Warg crying out. Her heart would race, and she would only be able to sleep for a few hours at a time.
Those happened rarely, however, and she could not have been more thankful. Those were the times when the cart opened, and for a few brief minutes Orcs would enter inside. One would grab her legs and the other her arms. They scribbled down notes and spoke with each other, surveying nearly every inch of herself. Her clothes remained on, though they often would pull up the the sleeves of her shirt and pants to analyze the muscle around it.
New bandages were applied to her legs, and larger food rations came. After a while, they even started to bring water, letting her swallow entire buckets if she needed to. If they seemed bothered by the cart's smell, then the Orcs never showed it.
Once they left, shutting the door behind them, she would readjust her sleeves and lie on the ground, staring at the wall. Her heart throbbed in her chest, neck, and head. Every breath was a battle.
The worst, however, was when the Orcs surveyed her hair. Those were the days when Azog came with them, and wrapped his large, meaty hands in her hair. They commented among one another in their native tongue.
Tauriel froze. They had not looked at her too differently as other elves had, with wide eyes and testy fingers. Before, she had been able to fight the elves off.
Still, the Orcs did not look at her as some elves had. For all his faults, Azog had never looked at Tauriel's hair and his eyes widened and face paled (though Tauriel was not sure if that was even possible for an Orc of his complexion). No Orc had whispered in quick, scared Elvish, and weakly tried to hide their pointing finger.
No Orc looked at her as though she were Death's mortal incarnation.
She no longer wondered why her mother had wished that Tauriel had gained her mother's complexion and dark hair.