Chapter 2: Interrogation with Style

Marik, the company's healer, suddenly sympathized with everything his close friend, Captain Delon, had ever complained about Lynn.

"I don't care what condition it's in, I'm not touching it!" he roared. "It's filthy and it smells!"

"Fine! I'll wash him up, but you had damn well better come back and take care of him, or I swear you'll wish you were dead!"

"You wouldn't dare," he hissed, suddenly realizing what 'washing' would entail. "No decent woman should have to look at..."

"I've never been accused of being a 'decent' woman," she snapped. "Now get out of my sight. I'll call for you when he's squeaky clean enough for your delicate sensibilities."

Lynn ducked into her tent and appraised the prone orc. The prudishness of these people was always good for a laugh, but at the moment, she couldn't muster any amusement. He was brutalized; there was nothing remotely sexy about that. Still, this would be the first opportunity she'd had since coming to Middle Earth to thoroughly examine an orc. From an anthropological perspective, it was the chance of a lifetime.

Fetching a bucket of hot water, soap, and several rags, she set to work. It was actually a good thing he was out cold; she was pretty sure at least some of those burns were third degree. Soap and water alone would have made them sting something fierce. His breeches she simply cut off without a thought of preserving them for his modesty. She'd secure other clothes for him at some point, but for now, he would probably heal better if all his wounds could breathe. And he had plenty. Every inch of his flesh was cut or burned, it seemed. Lynn was relieved to see that the blood down the front of his breeches must have come from the numerous deep cuts on his chest and belly; his genitals were intact. She tried not to stare at his impressive package; even flaccid, he was, shall we say, well made. When she inspected his backside, however, it was clear even to her inexperienced eyes that those tears could only have come from forced entry. The thought of anyone enduring such treatment made her stomach flip with revulsion.

His skin had appeared almost coal black, but under all the blood and grime from months of torture and neglect, he was actually a ruddy brown in color. He did not have skin like humans, so much as tough hide. And he had no hair on his body anywhere except on his head. Lynn couldn't help being fascinated by that revelation. It all but proved that, while humans and orcs may be somewhat related, orcs branched off from the primate tree far earlier than humans did. She was rather dismayed when she realized that his long, thick locks were too filthy for her to wash in her tent, and would have to be cut off.

Of course, nobody in camp had a pair of scissors, so Lynn was forced to use a sharp knife and saw through the matted hair. Yet again, she was grateful for his current state. She had a feeling that, as long as his hair was, it might just be a symbol of pride among his kind. He would not be happy when he woke to find it sheared off close to his scalp, no matter how clean he was otherwise. Which may be another thing to piss him off.

Sighing, she finished him up and draped a blanket over his naked body, then went to fetch Marik.

The reluctant healer's initial assessment noted a broken arm, broken femur, cracked pelvis, several broken ribs, eight of ten fingers broken, fractured skull, more contusions and abrasions than could be cataloged, malnutrition bordering on starvation, and clear signs of rape (she had hoped Marik would miss that). His other arm had been broken quite some time ago and healed badly. Marik grudgingly acknowledged that he would have to break the limb again to reset it properly.

He didn't want to give a damn about the orc, not with Lynn practically dancing from foot to foot behind him as he listed off the injuries. But when he thought about the men he'd patched up who'd been captured by orcs, or worse, the women who survived their raids... It was both satisfying and appallingly obscene to see how they treated one of their own. The deeper he delved into the orc's injuries, the closer he looked, the more he realized that this orc was, in many ways, treated far worse than any man. Marik found himself unwillingly curious about just what the orc had done to deserve such brutal treatment.

Setting the broken bones, including the fresh break Marik had to apply, then stitching and bandaging the worst of the orc's injuries, took hours even with Lynn's help. The woman surveyed their work and said he looked like a mummy, whatever that meant. Shaking his head and wiping the black blood from his hands, Marik left her to look after her new pet.

It was a rough night. Lynn paced nervously, checking on the orc several times to reassure herself he still breathed. He was so still, even his chest only moved a fraction of an inch. At some point, he must have drifted from unconsciousness into true sleep, for he took a deep breath, and seemed to settle. Shaking her head to clear it, Lynn dug in her pack and pulled out a book. It was a history of Gondor she'd been trying to muscle her way through for the past month. If it hadn't been written by someone who obviously sought to duplicate The Silmarillion in dryness, she would have been further than two chapters in. Sighing, she sat next to her patient and began to read.

The sunlight shining through the entrance to her tent into her eyes stirred Lynn awake. She couldn't remember falling asleep, but must have done so. She still sat with her legs folded, not even straightening them out when she flopped over backwards into an exhausted stupor. Struggling to sit up, she stretched her back and looked at the orc's face. He was still out, or at least deeply asleep, so she rose stiffly and left the tent to rustle up some breakfast.


He must be dead, the orc thought as he forced his eyes open to see a cream-colored canvas roof over his head. There were no laughing orcs jeering at him, poking him with swords, pawing his broken body. In fact, there was almost no sound at all, if one ignored birdsong. He tried to move, but nothing responded. He wasn't entirely surprised; the orcs had been thorough. He wondered briefly where they were. Perhaps they had gone out to hunt? It took him several heartbeats to realize that the pain he was feeling was muted, though it coursed throughout his body as if carried through his veins along with the blood. He had become accustomed to pain. It was a bitter reminder that he lived, if only to feed the malice of his captors.

Voices were approaching, and the orc's brow furrowed. They were higher than he expected, not guttural like the other orcs', or his own. His heart fluttered in panic; they were men's voices.

The tent flap opened and two figures entered, one so slight of build the orc thought it was a child. They didn't look at him, but continued their conversation. It was then he realized the 'child' was actually a female.

"I don't give a rat's ass, Marik," she was saying. "You tell Delon I'm staying right here. He can't be moved. If you had any balls, you'd tell him the same thing."

"Dammit," the man whined. "You are under orders, just like the rest of us. And like it or not, Delon's your commander and you will do what he tells you."

The woman stood straight and nearly bumped chests with the man. The orc noted her fierce expression, how she bared her teeth as she snarled her reply. "He's only technically my commander, as you well know. I owe him no allegiance. I owe no one my loyalty."

Marik took a step back so he could cross his arms over his chest, but he thrust his face forward tauntingly. "You obey our king."

"Only because he's earned my respect. You forget the part I played in the war."

The man rolled his eyes and turned away. "Yes, yes, yes, tell me of your deeds, I long to hear them," he retorted sarcastically. Turning sharply back to her, he pointed at the prone orc. "That is the sort of thing you slaughtered without a second thought at Helm's Deep, on the Pellenor Fields, and in the shadow of the Black Gate itself. What do you want with him now? War's over, so now it's time to snuggle up with orcs?"

He might have said something else, but the woman punched him in the face, delivering an unexpected left hook that nearly dropped the larger male to the floor. "You can take that shit and stick it up your ass, boy. Now get the fuck out of my tent before I rip your dick off and make you eat it!"

Rubbing his jaw, the man smirked. "Hit too close to the mark, did I?" he muttered, but took his leave before the fuming woman could strike him again.

"Mother fucker," she growled under her breath. "Dare show a kindness to anyone, and they assume fucking's involved somehow. Stupid bastards." Her muttered tirade abruptly halted when she glanced over and met the golden eyes of the orc.

Her expression immediately softened, such a huge contrast to how she had looked at the man that the orc was immediately suspicious.

"Hey," she said softly, kneeling at his side. "How ya feelin'?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. Humans could not be trusted. If he was now their captive, it would be information they sought, though he had none to give on any subject. Nothing that mattered, anyway.

"I'm guessing you hurt like hell," she said when he didn't answer. "That's understandable. They just about broke you in pieces. Marik, the douchebag who just left, thinks you did something to deserve it. I'm not buying it, but maybe you can tell me? Did you insult their moms or something?"

"Do...nuh...thing," he croaked slowly, his ragged throat so dry he could barely speak. Nothing had come from his lips for months except rage-filled roars and painful screams. Nobody had ever tried to engage him in conversation.

She nodded. "Thought so. As if orcs need an excuse." She gently patted his shoulder and stood. "I'll bet you're hungry. I'll run and get something. Don't be surprised if the Captain wanders in to pester you. He's kind of a douchebag, too."

Slowly, the orc raised his head slightly, looking down his body. He was covered with a blanket, and he could feel wrappings on his limbs and torso. Other than that, he could tell he was clean and unclothed. He tried to move his arms, but both were in splints, held rigidly and slightly bent, his hands resting on his belly beneath the blanket. He couldn't move his fingers at all. He found he could move one leg, the one that hadn't been broken, and weakly raised the knee. He felt a draft strike his abused lower regions as the blanket lifted, and he shuddered. He let his leg fall quickly. Memories crowded into his mind, of an orc at each limb holding him down while the other two took turns...

If he'd had anything in his stomach, he would have emptied it on the tent floor. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to banish the memory, but it persisted, followed by other recollections of violation, then beatings that almost made him wish they would go back to what they were doing before, until he was close to hyperventilating with fear and humiliation.

His thoughts were interrupted by the woman's return, but she was not alone.

"Look what I found nosing around the feed trough," she said, rolling her eyes with clear annoyance. A man dressed as an officer of the Gondoran army followed her inside. The man looked as if the orc were the most foul thing he'd ever beheld.

"Tell me where the others are, orc," the officer said coldly.

"Oh, blow it out your ass, Delon," the woman said dismissively as she knelt beside the orc with a platter of food. "All right, I'm going to prop you up some so you can eat, but try not to help, okay? You've got several broken ribs, and I think if you tighten any muscles at all, you're going to wish you hadn't. Ready?"

At his uncertain nod, the woman lifted him behind his shoulders and began wedging blankets and pillows behind him. He tried not to clench, but it was awkward and painful, and he finally gave in. She was right; it hurt like hell and he was very sorry for doing it. A groan escaped him.

"Told you," she commented, her voice strained from holding him up with one arm. Finally, she had things set up to her satisfaction and gently lowered him onto the linens. "Comfortable?" she asked. He nodded again. Now he could see around him better, though the hate-filled eyes of the officer held his attention.

"I didn't know what you'd like, but I know what you need," she bantered on, bringing the platter closer and cutting the meat into small pieces. His mouth watered at the sight of so much food after so long on little more than scraps when his captors troubled themselves to feed him, which wasn't often. "Don't snarf this down, now," she warned as she held a piece of meat up to his mouth. "You're going to have to eat slowly. Don't want to shock your system."

"And don't bite the hand that feeds you," the Captain snarled. The orc shot him a malicious look before taking the morsel from her fingers. She followed it with a sip of cool water, admonishing him gently when he tried to gulp it down.

"When you are finished coddling the beast, let me know," the officer said. "I have some questions for him."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm sure you do," she replied with little interest, offering the orc another bite of meat.

"Oh, and before I forget," he said at the tent entrance, flashing a cruel grin that only the orc saw, "I've sent word to Elrohir about your little discovery. He'll likely be here within a day or so, anxious to have a look for himself."

Though the woman didn't turn around, she stiffened, frozen in place and staring past the orc. He wasn't particularly good at reading human faces, but she looked rather agitated by this news. It clearly didn't mean good things.

Seemingly satisfied by her reaction, the officer left.

"Bad?" he asked when she finally resumed feeding him, her hands shaking slightly. She met his eyes.

"Yeah. Pretty god damned bad."

She said nothing else to him, keeping a thoughtful silence. He watched her face as she fed him bits of meat, bread, and some sweet fruit she called an apple. She didn't look him in the eyes, seemingly only interested in his mouth and the sharp teeth within, and only because she was delivering food there. Otherwise, her thoughts seemed to be miles away.

The silence continued until he had consumed all the food she brought. Shaking herself, she turned her full attention on her patient.

"Now that you have some solid food in you," she said, "you'll probably have to...at some point...you know." She jerked her chin several times, cocking her head to the side and raising her eyebrows. The orc just stared at her, baffled. Sighing deeply, she finally said, "Relieve yourself. Piss, you know? And...the other as well."

Now he got it, and frowned, looking away. The orcs hadn't cared much whether he soiled himself or not; why should she?

"So?" he said, shrugging dully. The movement, though slight, aggravated his shoulders, making him wince.

She blinked at him, bewildered. Remembering the state of his meager clothing, she sighed, and nodded. "They're dead." He slowly turned his head to look at her, his expression unreadable. "I found you and brought you here. Believe it or not, you're safe, and I'm trying to help you. If you need to relieve yourself, tell me. You don't have to lie in it."

"What you care?" he snarled bitterly. "Beast, me. Thing you kill. Leave in filth." His thin lips curled in disgust as he turned away. "Don't care."

"Okay," she said, relenting a little. "Suit yourself, I suppose. Since you're in my tent, and I'm still going to be sleeping in it, I just thought I'd keep it smelling fresh. By all means, though, if you'd rather wallow in your own waste like a pig, that's your business."

Casting about for some other subject, Lynn said, "So...which gauntlet did you survive? Helm's Deep, or Isengard?"

He kept his eyes on the tent wall, anger boiling up in his gut. "Isengard," he snarled, his guttural voice low.

"That must have sucked hard," she commented quietly. "What were you doing there?"

He shot her an annoyed look. "Make weapon."

She nodded. "A smith, then. That'll be why you didn't march with the main host. I was at Helm's Deep."

He shook his head and curled his lip with disdain. "No. You, woman. No fight."

She chuckled and patted his shoulder. "No, dear. I was on the battlements. I pushed ladders down, I gutted orcs with my swords, and I kicked many of your fellows back over the wall." Pulling her linen tunic open a few inches, she slid it aside to show a ragged scar where her neck met her shoulder. "Lucky blow. Not so lucky orc." She drew her finger across her throat.

Staring at the scar, the orc felt a familiar tremor pass through his lower gut. The old injury clearly dipped down between her breasts. If she would only pull her tunic a little lower, he might see more than just a tantalizing hint of rounded, soft flesh... He scowled, curling his lip and exposing his jagged teeth. "Kill you," he snarled.

Again, the woman laughed. "Not today, you won't. It'll take at least six weeks for your leg to bear weight again." Getting up, she went to a pack lying at the back of the tent. She pulled out a flask and a couple of small cups, then returned to sit cross-legged next to him. She poured some of the liquid into each cup, and held one up to his lips for him to drink. He jerked his head away.

"It's not poison. Look," she said, and sipped from the cup she was offering him. "Drink it." Still suspicious, he complied.

She smirked at his disgusted grimace. "Yeah, it tastes like shit, but it's the only booze I could find on short notice. Minas Tirith isn't exactly the party capital of Middle Earth." She took a long drink from her own cup, blanching in an almost exaggerated manner, and shaking her head like a dog with an ear mite. He grunted a short laugh.

"So, what shall we talk about, we two war veterans?" she said with a grin.

"Tell you nothing," he replied, looking away stubbornly, yet he accepted another sip of the vile alcohol.

"That's fine," she said, her tone amused. "We'll just get roaring drunk on this piss, do a few things we'll regret in the morning, and vomit in a bucket for the rest of the day. How's that sound?"

He slowly turned his head to look at her. He'd not spent much time with humans, none with their females, but he had certain expectations of their behavior. She was not living up to a single one. And she appeared to be a lightweight in terms of drinking. Already, her eyes were slightly hooded as she threw back the contents of her cup and refilled it.

"Well," she went on when he didn't answer, "it looks like I'll be doing most of the talking. No problem. I've been accused of having a lot to say. Or having nothing to say, and using a lot of words to do it. Something like that. Anyway, I had a really awesome adventure last year, you know." She emptied the cup in one gulp again and topped it off. As an afterthought, she let him have another drink from his cup. After a few swallows, it became more tolerable. He felt a pleasant buzz in his mind and felt almost like he could relax. Almost.

"Yeah, hauling ass around the countryside," she went on. "Kickin' orc ass here and there. No offense. Mostly trying to keep the kid with the Ring from dying." She focused her wandering eyes on him for a moment. He was staring at her intently. "Oh, yeah. I was with that guy. The Ringbearer. Frodo. He took the Ring to Mount Doom, tossed it in, and fwoosh." She threw her arms up in the air, sending the contents of her cup flying. "Sauron blows up like a fat guy in a Monty Python movie, all the orcs we were fighting suddenly drop like flies, hell breaks loose, the ground opens up, people are freaking out all over the place...Bad scene. Really bad. Sucked to be in Mordor that day, let me tell you." She stared into her empty cup with clear confusion and annoyance, then shrugged and refilled it.

Lynn scowled at the orc, glared at the murky liquid in her cup, then shot him an accusatory look. "Either I'm shit-faced, or you aren't as ugly as you were ten minutes ago."

His eyebrows rose in surprise, then he sneered. "Must be shit-face."