"Do I have to be tied?"
"Yes. Until I decide you are trustworthy, you're going to be tied up."
"So my hands will be tied forever?"
The strawhead flashed a smile at him, but there was no mirth in it. It was cold like ice. "You're finally getting it Beast."
Ashbazg growled. "I told you. My name is not Beast."
Gléowyn smirked and kept walking. He looked like a beast, his voice sounded like a beast, and he growled like one. He even slept like a beast, his feet twitching in his sleep and random growls coming from his mouth while he slept. He kept saying the word ghaash and ufum over and over, almost whimpering when he did. She didn't speak that Black Tongue, but even she could tell that the words held some hold over him.
"Orc. What does ghaash ufum mean?"
Ashbazg growled. "I am not an Orc. I am Uruk-Hai. I wouldn't call you Gondor. Ghaash means fire. Ufum means fear. Why do you want to know?"
Gléowyn kept her eyes on the path and kept walking. "Because you kept muttering those words in your sleep and kept me awake, Orc. What's the matter? Afraid of fire? Wouldn't know it by how many your filthy kind started in the Westfold."
She could almost hear his jaw creaking as he struggled to keep his mouth shut and not say anything. At the end of the day, his life was still in her hands. She had tied his hands together behind his back, and hobbled his legs like a horse. He could walk, but it would slow him down from running so badly that unless he had already killed her, she would be able to shoot him down easily. Or she would just use more of that poison on him so that he would be paralyzed and torture him. He did not relish either of those prospects. She was trying to set what she most likely felt was a punishing pace, but it merely bored him. He was Uruk-Hai, and the stamina of his breed was legendary. He could walk for days and fight when he arrived at where he was going. She was Rohan though, and her own pace was telling on her. Her hair, which was actually red and not dark like he had thought last night, was plastered to her sweating forehead and her leather armor was beginning to turn dark from perspiration. Ashbazg simply keep walking. An Uruk did not stop until he was told to stop, and the only exception was if there was a fight to be had.
Gléowyn felt the aches in her legs and back. They had been walking since early dawn, and it was well past afternoon. The hobbits she had met at Helms Deep would have been calling for either second lunch or afternoon tea by now. They had sat with the children while the monsters screamed and shook the walls, telling them stories of green fields and singing strange songs of the Halfling folk. It had calmed many of them, and she had never forgotten it. She had been told later that they had gone on with the Kings to Mordor and fought at the battle, and another of their kind had destroyed the One Ring! If she kept walking, she would cross the mountains and be able to travel to their land, and she could try to find the two she had met. It would be nice to see them again.
"Where do you plan on going Orc? Some mountain cave?"
Ashbazg snorted. "Not a cave. I want green land, where I can make things. Not destroy."
She stopped and started laughing. And then she kept laughing.
"By Eorl the Young, what do you know of making things? All you know how to do is destroy them! It's what you're bred to do. Go live in a cave with the other orcs, live there, die there."
"I can't."
"Oh? What no doubt wonderful reason do you have for that?"
He finally snapped and stopped walking, staring at her. Those damnable blue eyes seemed to burn right through here, and she felt bad for making fun of him as much as she was. Other than calling her a bitch, he really had shown pretty good restraint from her constant jibes. She put her tough face on and tried to stare him down. There was too much pain and anger in those eyes for her to be able to do it. She looked to the side.
"Well Orc? Why not?"
Ashbazg growled. "My name is Ashbazg, you stupid tark. Not Orc. Not beast. Not filth, animal, or darkie. If you cannot say my name, then call me Ash. I cannot live in a cave because many of the smaller Orc tribes hate my kind. The only ones that were ever kind to me were the forge Orcs. And… I cannot see in the dark like a true Orc. I would be blind in the caves and tunnels. Does that satisfy you? Because I do not want to miss the sun on my face. There are no flowers that I enjoy the smell of in the mountain holes. I would rather die out here, under the sky, than to die in some cave where my spirit will be trapped."
His last sentence caught her interest. "Where do you think your spirit goes when you die?"
He shrugged and started walking, moving past her and forging ahead. She scowled at his back and walked to catch up. "I asked you a question Or- Ash. Where do you think your spirit goes when you die?"
He didn't even look over his shoulder. "It goes to hell."
She couldn't see the tears that streamed down his face. He knew his very life was an affront to everyone. The Orcs despised his Man blood. The Men refused to accept that he had Man blood in him. Three years ago he had met a Wizard like the master, except this one wore brown and was well loved by the creatures of the woods. He had explained to Ashbazg why no one would accept him. He had told him of the great corruption of the elves to create Orcs, and how Ashbazg was a thrice made corruption, elf corrupted to Orc and Orc corrupted with the blood of Men. He was abhorrent in ever eye, and the flaws he had made him as bad in the eyes of his own kind. He would never be accepted. But no one understood what he wanted. He didn't want to become a member of a community; he didn't want to be accepted. He wanted to live his own life, until he died. He would gladly be alone forever if he could just live for a little longer. Just a little longer.
Gléowyn followed the Orc, troubled by his words. It wasn't what he had aid, it was the finality with which he had said it. Like there was no other options for him, as if that was the only choice he had.
"Your kind doesn't go to the halls of Mandos?"
"Why would we? We are monsters. I'm a filthy beast, remember?"
Any of her other attempts at conversation were met with grunts. Finally, she was done. She just couldn't keep up the pace they had been walking at, and needed to call it a day. Her legs screamed with the exertion. She was used to long treks and hikes, but she had pushed herself harder than usual for a greater distance and speed, and it hadn't even done its job of tiring the Uruk. He looked like he could still walk for another six or seven hours easily, and the only discomfort he was showing was the harsh ropes had rubbed on his wrists and ankles. Sighing, she sank down in front of a tree and watched as he sat across from her. She took a long drink from her water skin, and then tossed it to the Orc. He carefull lifted it, squeezing the water out so it didn't touch his lips.
She laughed at that. "What's wrong? Afraid you'll catch something?"
"Don't want to make it so you won't drink from this skin because I touched it."
Gléowyn felt uncomfortable for a moment. Was she really being that vile to him? Granted, he was an Uruk-Hai, and they were the slaughterers of Men. But this one was different. He was emotional, and he didn't seem to have many violent tendencies. To be honest, every time he had become angry, it was in response to something she had said to him. Other than that, he was pretty quiet. She had noticed him looking at the plants and animals when he could, those most of the animals had turned and fled at the sight of the two tramping through the woods. If she looked at his eyes, and just his eyes, it was almost easier to assume he was one of the wild men that had always fought with the Rohirrim. But when you looked at his tusks, the black skin, the talons on his fingers, that image was ruined. No matter how nice he seemed, he was still a beast. One that bore watching, for she knew he would betray her to his baser instincts eventually.
She was pulled from her thoughts by his voice.
"Ghaash-hair. I need you to release me."
She scowled at him. "My name is Gléowyn, not whatever you said. And no chance."
He stood to his full height, which was an intimidating seven feet. "I need to bathe. There is water over there. I am not content to sit here and smell like this."
She huffed and rose. "You're not getting off that easy."
She checked the pool. It was wide, easily ten feet from one side to the other, and looked to be around eight feet deep in the middle. Next to the bank it looked a more manageable three feet. She removed another piece of rope and tied it around the tree, holding the loose end.
"Here's the deal. You get the ropes taken off if I tie this around your neck so you don't run away. After you get in the water, I stay here and make sure that you don't untie the rope. Understand?"
The big Uruk growled his agreement. She made him bend down and tied the rope around his muscular neck. She removed the ropes from his wrists and ankles, trying not to wince as she looked at the raw and oozing flesh. Maybe she had tied it just a little too tight. She walked to the other side of the tree so she wouldn't have to see him disrobe and waited to hear him get into the water. Once she had made sure he was in, she came around the tree to keep him under watch, her daggers loose in their hip sheaths. He seemed scared of the deep water. He stayed in the water that wasn't deeper than his navel, and scrubbed at himself with his hands. She watched as he washed his long hair, dipping it in the water and clawing at his scalp. She noted the tattoos that ran his body. A yellow swirl dominated the center of his chest, with white swirls, dots, and dashes running in other spots. Tribal Markings? Kill counts? She guessed that the numbers burned into his left shoulder stated something and decided to ask him later.
He grabbed his clothing from the bank and dunked it in the water, rubbing it with a rock she guessed he got from the bottom of the pool. Apparently satisfied, he laid them out on the bank for the last bit of sunlight to catch. She briefly wondered why he hadn't washed the undergarment he had been wearing. Then he looked at her.
"Are you going to turn around so I can get out of the water or stare some more?"
She decided to be spiteful.
"Maybe I want to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't brain me with a rock when I'm not looking."
Ashbazg shrugged and climbed out of the pound, the clear water sparkling as it fell off his ebony skin. He kept his hands over his privates so she wouldn't see, but she caught a glimpse between his fingers. It was big, even soft. It would probably be truly large when excited. She stopped her thoughts. No telling how many women got to see that by force. Screaming women that tried to kill themselves like the ones they brought into Helms Deep and had to keep an eye on. She tied his hands and hobbled him again, walking back to camp with him. She took the rope from the tree and tied him to another, ignoring his look.
"This way, you can't get at anything while I take my bath, or when I sleep tonight."
With that being said, she walked back to the pond. She checked carefully to make sure he couldn't see, and when she was satisfied, she stripped off her dirty leathers and sank into the water. Which was shockingly cold. The damn Uruk had made it look like it was warm and fine, but it was ice cold. By the time she had washed her hair, her teeth were chattering and she was sure her lips were blue. Getting out and putting the spare clothes she had brought on, she walked back to camp, shivering.
"B-b-b-b-b-bastard. W-w-w-w-why d-d-didn't you t-t-tell me it was c-c-c-cold?"
Ashbazg looked at her. "Because it didn't feel cold to me?"
"I-i-i-mpossible."
As she sat down, Gléowyn added a few more sticks to the meager fire, trying to coax more warmth from it for her limbs.
"Ghaash-hair. Get the furs out of my pack. Warm you up."
She waved her hand dismissively. "I'm fine."
"Your lips are blue. And you're shaking. If you get sick, I will die because I am tied up. You will die because I cannot care for you if you are sick. Nor could I hunt for food. Get the furs and cover yourself."
Reluctantly, she did so. The furs weren't luxurious or anything like that, but the wolf furs would keep her warm. Wrapping her legs and hands in them, she sat by her bedroll, eventually laying on it and drifting off to sleep.
Ashbazg was ready. Reaching into his mouth, he pulled the sharp edged rock he had found in the pool and began to saw away at the ropes that bound his hands. With a snapping noise, the rope finally fell away, and he was free to use his sharp nails to pick away at the knots that bound his feet and his body to the tree. Freedom! He was free of the ropes of the evil Ghaash-hair. He didn't gather his bag; there was nothing left in it now. He just ran, dodging the branches he could see. It was still twilight, so even his useless eyes could see well enough to get him away. Then he smelt it. He smelt... man flesh. Like the men the Master had fight for him, and used their women for breeding. He crept forward and almost stepped into their camp, five men ranging from 20 to 40. He could hear their conversation, but couldn't understand their tongue. Then he caught the words that sounded like the Common tongue.
"Rohan… Woman..." He watched the man who had mention a woman grab his crotch and laugh, his friends joining in. Ashbazg was a fool, but even he knew what that meant. Smirking, he began to walk away. That would teach her a lesson about the way she treated people. He stopped as he heard a voice in the back of his head, and it sounded like the brown Wizard he had met in the wilds.
Ashbazg! If you let those men harm her, you are as guilty of what they do as if you had done it yourself. And do not forget, this will only reinforce the opinions of people about your race. You would leave a sick and defenseless woman on her own against five armed men? For shame Ashbazg. Maybe I was wrong to help you.
Ashbazg froze. He had not heard a Voice like that since the death of the Master. While the Masters voice was harsh and yelling, this voice whispered and was soft. It did not order him; it explained to him why what he was doing was wrong. With horror on his features, Ashbazg remembered the screams from the breeding pits as the slave women were bred by other Uruks. The Snaga had told him that it was wrong, better to kill than that. Of course, some had said that it was the best part of raiding, but others, the ones who influenced him, had disagreed. He had no weapons, what could he do. A large tree branch fixed the problem. Ashbazg set his feet and his jaw, pulling it with great force and the strength of his people. With a great thunder-crack, the branch was free. He now held 5 feet of solid oak in his hands, ad he would go to war with it.
Racing back the way he came, he ehard the first screams. They were not the screams of the ghaash-hair, but the screams of a man. Bursting into the campsite, he saw one of the wild men down, bleeding from dagger cuts to his neck and chest, his screams becoming gurgles as blood filled his throat and the light left his eyes. She stood strong with her back to the tree, fighting off the tentative stabs of their crude spears with the steel daggers she carried. As he watched, one of the attackers suddenly lunged forward, the stone spear tip stabbing into the soft meat above her hip. With a cry of pain and anger, she cut through the haft, the flint still buried in her flesh.
With a roar, Ashbazg joined the fray, swinging his great club into the closest head, watching as the side of it cracked inwards, blood spraying into the air. The man fell to the ground and did not rise. Not one to stop and think of what he had just done, he kept swinging, his muscular frame delivering devastating blows to the attackers. Gléowyn had pulled the spear from her side, and out of the corner of his yes he watched her drive both the daggers hilt deep into a man's chest, killing him. The final Dunelending broke, running through the woods. He would later regal his tribe with tales of a Uruk-hai and a flame-haired warrior maiden killing the others with nothing but two knives and a log, and was eventually killed for his assumed lunacy.
Ashbazg stood, panting, drenched with sweat, his muscles screaming and his senses tingling with what had just happened. Out of the corner of his eyes, he say the woman advance on his, daggers still out. He turned and lifted the log to his shoulder.
"Do not do something you will regret Gléowyn."
She stared at him. She had told him her name, but this was the first time he had used it. And he looked so the beast now. Covered in blood, his ostrils flared, the pupils of his eyes dilated, the whites shot through with veiny streaks of red. His voice had taken on an even rougher quality, and the blood dripped from the head of the tree branch he had wielded so efficiently.
"How did you get loose?"
He stared at her. "A rock. And then I ran, to get away from you. I found these men and I almost continued but… something brought me back. And you're bleeding."
With a mention, the pain of the wound ripped through her and she grabbed at her side, cursing. "Son of a whore that feels terrible."
Ashbazg grunted. He walked off a ways, and returned with a clump of tree moss. Batting her hands out of the way, he stuffed the most against and a little into the cut, ripping the sleeve from the shirt he wore to make a bandage. "Here. This will help."
Gléowyn looked at him. "What's this? Uruk field craft lessons?"
Ashbazg snorted. "Uruk field craft involves alcohol and fire. I learned this from the Brown Wizard."
"The who?"
"He was a Wizard, dressed in brown. Animals liked him. He taught me a few things to survive. How else do you expect an Uruk to survive this long in the wilds of Rohan? We weren't taught anything. Not how to survive on our own, how to make food, nothing. Just how to fight and kill."
Gléowyn sat in silence as he finished bandaging her wound. By now, the stench of death was over powering. "I suggest we find a new camp."
The big Uruk nodded and grabbed another stick, wrapping the end with the torn off sleve from his other arm to create a torch. Gléowyn searched the bodies of the Dunelendings, looking for anything worthwhile. There was no food, but there were two extra water skins that she gladly took. As they left the campsite, they wandered in a general west direction, finally finding another clearing and stopping there. As they sat there packs down and prepared the area, Gléowyn noticed the dark black bloodstain that ran from the Uruks back and down his leg.
"You're hurt!"
"I know."
She huffed angrily. "Take your shirt off and lay down so I can look at it."
Ashbazg stiffly complied, the wound make the motions of lifting a shirt off painful. She looked it over in the firelight. The cut wasn't deep, but it ran down from the middle of his back to just over his left hip. Tsk-ing, she washed the wound. Great white scars ran across his back, some thick and raised and others sharp and thin. There were even a couple that were depressions in the flesh, where skin and tissue had been ripped away. And those deep burns on his shoulder.
"What do the numbers mean?"
Ashbazg grunted. "Five for fifth harvest of the year, the two means second legion, and the small three means third company."
"And the tattoos?"
He chuckled. "Given to me by the smaller orcs, the ones from the mountains. They could mean anything, but I chose them for what was told to me."
"Where you anything special? A commander or a leader?"
His voice was muffled. "I was a coward."
The silence after that was strained. As she sewed the wound shut, she ventured another question.
"Why are you afraid of fire and water?"
His back tensed and she could see the smaller hairs on his neck rise.
"I was there when the tree lords came and broke Isengard. Down in the pits, so far down we never saw the sun or moon. Down with the forge orcs, snaga from the mountains who had helped me since I had to hide. The Isen… they broke the dam that held the Isen back and it poured into the pits, and the fires and heat down there made it hot. That's why I have some of these scars. So many… so many drowned, or boiled alive. I managed to swim and fight and kick my way to the top. I crawled away like the coward I was, and then I hid until I could walk again. I had not eaten in so long I could count my ribs and back bones. As far as I know… the men I knew are dead. My friends most likely died at Helms Deep. I am alone."
Gléowyn rose, and watched as he stood as well, towering over her. "Thank you for your help, Gléowyn."
She nodded. "You are welcome Ashbazg… If you promise not to run away, I will not try to tie you again."
He chuckled sadly, pain in his eyes. "where would I even go?"