Sûmatuga might have become fully aware earlier if not for the soothing of his hurts by the sweetmeat. The pain was receding not growing, and he felt stronger. It was the strangest thing; he hadn't even demanded it of the thing. In fact, he barely acknowledged its presence in his cell at all. But as he lay there trembling on the floor by the bars where he'd collapsed, he could feel its hands on him, rubbing ointment into the many cuts down his legs. His shoulders and back seemed to have already been tended, for they pained him less than expected.

He found he didn't care what it did. Nor did he much care that it was a sweetmeat at the moment. He'd been shown the futility of his attempts at escape quite vividly. The snaga would not take his part; they were too much in thrall to the white one. The Goblins were just as useless. Though the thought of endless days in this cell made him tremble with despair, he did not want to go down without a fight. That was not the way of the Shatûpshaatii.

Lying still with only his and the sweetmeat's breathing filling the cell, he could hear the distant howls and roars of his clanmates as the Pitmaster worked his way down the line. There were no coherent words; the lash did not allow it. Not very far away, he could hear a rattling thump, as of someone steadily beating his head against the bars, and there was a sound he never thought he'd hear from his own kind: sobbing.

The sounds of his clanmates had always given him strength. The laughter and good-natured taunting, the boasting of great deeds. Even the eerie croon of a howling to mourn the fallen had filled him with fierce pride. But to hear them in torment, despairing and defeated, sapped his strength and left him feeling alone and bereft.

Perhaps it was the flogging that left his body desiring warmth, or the loss of all his clothing. Maybe he was becoming feverish.

Sûmatuga could tell himself all sorts of lies if he wished, but the truth of it was that he needed to feel his clanmates as much as see them or smell them. He'd gone two weeks without contact with another living being, and now as he teetered on the edge of despair, he craved it.

The sweetmeat was near. It had done for him what a clanmate would. Grimacing with disgust, he reached behind him and grabbed it about the waist, then hauled it over his body to lie in front of him.

Of course, it struggled and squealed like a pig. More of its gibberish talk he didn't understand. Closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at it, he pulled it into the curve of his body and held it close.

It was warm. Its heart was beating, albeit too fast. After a few moments, its struggles ceased and it lay just as still as he. Gradually, its heartbeat slowed, and it sagged in his arms.

Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. If he didn't look at it, he could imagine it was one of his folk. Matirz, for one. He was always a good one to lie next to on the march. Didn't mind so much if you bumped up against him, and Sûmatuga did that often enough, so restlessly did he sleep. Or Dhûrum who'd give you a fuck if you asked her nice. Didn't matter how nicely Sûmatuga asked, though; she'd still make him beg on his knees. Matirz she'd fuck in an instant; Sûmatuga had to work for it.

A chuckle rumbled in his chest for a moment, remembering them. He'd considered bonding to Dhûrum, if she'd have him. Which she wouldn't. Disappointing, that rejection. She was a fine, strong female. He and Matirz had both whelped on her, and she bore them fine sons. Maybe he and Matirz were just a shade more competitive because of her, always trying to outdo one another and catch her favor.

She wound up bonding to a chieftain twenty years ago, only to have him slain a year later by a challenger. Never the same after that. Losing a bonded mate was near ruination among his kind, at least where mating was concerned. Not many went through with it, since the hole left behind was impossible to fill again. But while the bond held, and your mate was at your side, there wasn't anything you couldn't do.

His thoughts drifted away as the here and now returned. To his surprise, the sweetmeat was asleep. Sighing, he shifted to a more comfortable lie, and let himself sleep as well.

When Sûmatuga awoke, his senses sharpened quickly. The sweetmeat still lay in his arms. Down the hall, he could hear the sounds of pick axes. He stiffened; were they digging out more cells? Would more of his folk come to be caged like beasts?

Rather than rush the bars and bellow a protest, he sagged against the sweetmeat's body. He felt it startle awake and stiffen. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed his face into its hair. It was filthy, but so was he, he supposed. It certainly wasn't any better or worse than one of his kind at this point.

It might have been lingering memories of Dhûrum, or a dream of her, that caused it, but he felt his cock stiffening against the sweetmeat's backside. The sweetmeat must have felt it too, for it began to tremble and whimper.

He'd never rutted a sweetmeat outside the heat of battle, when the blood was boiling and the taste of victory was on his tongue. Fucking it now seemed akin to mating, and abhorrent for its implications. Yet he needed it. He needed the comfort of it, the closeness, the pleasure. All else in this place had sought to take his life from him; perhaps a fuck – just one – might give him some of it back.

Fixing the thought of Dhûrum in his mind, he rolled on top of the sweetmeat and pushed its legs apart with his knees. It protested and struggled, but he ignored it. He didn't even look at it, keeping his eyes closed the whole time. Sinking into its body, he tried to draw strength from it as he would have from coupling with Dhûrum.

It didn't help when the sweetmeat stopped struggling and went still beneath him. Dhûrum would have been clawing at him as much as he at her. Her receptivity to him would have inspired marking, but the sweetmeat's unresponsiveness didn't invite anything at all. Frowning, he finally opened his eyes and looked at its face.

He'd never once taken note of a sweetmeat's face while rutting it in a raid. They always put up a hell of a fight, though, so this one's quiescence gave him pause. Its eyes were squeezed shut and it was worrying its lower lip. Its head was turned to the side, so not to see him.

Sûmatuga realized the sweetmeat didn't want to be here any more than he did. Likely didn't want him fucking it any more than he wanted to fuck a sweetmeat at the moment. He faltered on such a thought, one that had never occurred to him before. True, he knew sweetmeats didn't want Orc cocks, but... he never cared what they wanted. Why would he care now?

Then, quite suddenly, he knew why. It was there, tickling at the back of his mind. His body, his mind, his spirit craved a bonding. He'd denied it for a hundred years, every time it flared up. But here and now, in this place, when he was so close to letting despair overwhelm him, it was there.

Growling low in his throat, he finished quickly and shot off the sweetmeat. He didn't want this, not with a fucking sweetmeat! Scooting away, he stared at it as it curled itself into a ball and wept.

"Nice," a voice chortled nearby, and Sûmatuga spun on his haunches. A Goblin he recognized as having patrol duties in the hall was leaning against the opposite wall, watching him. "About fuckin' time, meat. Have at her again; I'll call some more over." The Goblin nearly doubled over laughing.

The Orc rose and gripped the bars tightly. "Is the white one satisfied now?" he snarled.

"Pfft," the Goblin snorted. "Not til yuh whelp'er. However long it takes, however many times it takes. You keep at it, meat."

"Then... I will be free?" Sûmatuga asked quietly, hopefully.

The Goblin sprayed spit, he laughed so hard. Then he resumed his circuit, shaking his head at the stupid breeder.

Slowly, Sûmatuga slid down the bars to his knees. Though he'd never known such black despair, he knew what it was, and what it would do to him. The sounds of digging were an endless reminder that the white one would bring more of his folk unknowing to this place, thinking they would slay the horsemen.

Yet his will to fight was flagging, as was his determination to tell his chieftains of their folly.

At a loss, he crawled once more to the sweetmeat and curled around its body, hugging it close. Again, the protestations followed by stillness. Sûmatuga gradually calmed, feeling the warmth of the sweetmeat's body. He was even getting used to its odd smell.

He didn't want to think about bonding, but so close to the sweetmeat, and so close to the bottom of the dark pit, he couldn't avoid it. A bond between mates was a comfort; a bond unrequited was a torment. Returned or not, the bond was irreversible, and once accepted and allowed to take hold, could not be repeated with another. Most warriors of his clan never accepted it, for their lives were necessarily short compared to the rest of the clan. Sûmatuga had seen first hand the aftermath of a foolishly accepted bond when the warrior or his mate was slain, and so never allowed it himself.

Dhûrum was, of course, different. He would have risked it for an Orcess of her quality.

What it would do for him in this place was allow him to share strength with the sweetmeat, he knew. It would give him something to fight for. Loyalty to the clan was of great importance, of course, but the bond to a mate put fire in the belly. If he did it, if he let the bond take hold, that fire he had before would be reignited.

Because he had to try again. He had to escape. The chieftains had to be told the white one was not to be trusted. Even if it meant suffering banishment for choosing such an unworthy mate. The clan was more important even than that.

Maybe it would be different with a sweetmeat, he mused. Since it wasn't one of his kind, perhaps the bond wouldn't be as strong. If he made it to the surface, he could let the wargs have it; keep them busy while he escaped.

Yes, that was a good plan, he thought. Take what he needed from the pitiful thing, build up his strength, then feed it to the wargs as a bribe. They likely didn't get sweetmeats for their meals with the frequency that the breeding stock did.

Settled on his decision, Sûmatuga sat up and pulled the sweetmeat up to sit facing him. Confused, it kept darting its leaking eyes around, lips trembling. He had to grab its face to hold it still and force it to look him in the eyes. He closed his for a moment and searched for that tiny spark that must be fanned to a flame for the bond to stick.

Deep in the blackest depths of his despair, he found it. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked into the sweetmeat's.

Come along, now, he told the bond. Take it. Even if it's ugly.

Gradually, a warmth spread through his insides. It was a heady thing, reaching into every part of his body. It tingled his fingers and toes like a good Orc draught. He could feel something else, as well. He would have expected the sense of protectiveness had it been an Orcess. He wouldn't have been surprised by affection, either.

To his horror, he not only felt possessive of it... her, he wanted to keep her safe. He wanted to wipe the tears from her eyes and comfort her. He wanted to beg forgiveness for making her weep.

He felt exactly the same way for her as his da did for his ma, and he knew he'd made a terrible mistake.