March 1419 S.R.
Mirkwood Mountains
Howling silence surrounds me. These caverns are suddenly much too large for the one orc left alive in them. Copper-eye is dead. I found him myself in the battle near the elf king's palace, his skull-shaped helm having failed utterly against some great blow, blood and gore trailing all down the rest of him and seeping still from several wounds. Then the clouds that had covered the world for days parted and I was stricken with the urge to flee, not only from the light of day, but from the elves and from I know not what all else. So were the rest of the orcs, both those surviving from my band and the others. We scattered through the forest, and of most I cannot tell. Only of the few surviving in my band can I speak, for they are what I saw. I stand in their blood now, all of us managing somehow to get back into the caves where we have lived, but the rest attacked each other after that and though I don't remember how, I was drawn into the fight, too. I stand now ankle deep in the gore of my fellows, the only one still standing at all. What is this? What am I to do?
Howling silence is within me. There is no driving will I can feel now - no overriding hatred, No desire to take vengeance on the elves or the dwarves or the tarks, no desire to find another orc band or to be anywhere or do anything else at all. There is no one for me to teach, no one for me to lead, no one to lead me, no one to aid or kill, nothing to do. What do I do? There is only ringing, hollow, shrieking silence that goes to the very core of me - a magnified version of the hollowness I have felt before because there isn't anything to distract me - hollow silence and the most intense feeling of loss I have ever felt. Yes, loss is what this is. I have lost all. I have no one and the things and knowledge I have are all worthless without someone. I sink onto a pallet and, though I don't know what it is I feel or what's happening to me, salty-tasting water leaks from my eyes and I suddenly can't breathe; muscles that have always been steady even in great exertion and brought air to me are suddenly too tight, heaving, delivering their air only in irregular spasms and even then not enough of it because my chest has a mountain on it, and my nose is all clogged and I can't seem to stop making these odd sounds. Breathing is physically painful, even more painful than the time that troll smashed up my ribs - but the pain's not all physical, is it, Garl?. It's even more frightening than the emptiness. This never happened no matter what bone was broken in battle or training. What is this? Stop it! But I can't stop it for what seems like hours or perhaps days.
The next thing I know, my eyes feel like I've been rubbing dirt in them and it takes a great effort to pry them open - when did they shut, anyway? It's fortunate the caverns are empty and I have all the keys because if anyone walks in on me right now, I'm a sitting duck. Then again, why is it fortunate? Why not just do the deed myself? It's not like anyone remains to miss me. No one needs what I do anymore. Maybe I'll even see my mate again -nah, no chance. I've never believed there's an afterlife for orcs, and if there is it's probably just eternity of what we've already been doing. I don't want to do that anymore, I realize faintly.
I draw my dagger and look at it. It's my best ever weaponwork, masterfully made with a braid of golden hair from a tark wrapped around the hilt for decoration. The light of the golden hair is incongruous in this darkness lit only feebly by torches. Yes, why not do the deed myself. I sit, mesmerized, staring at the dagger with its golden hair wrapped around the hilt and its blade much notched and chipped from the recent battle. One of the notches looks like someone took a bite of it. I've always kept my gear in good shape, but I haven't had the chance to mend it yet. Why not just stick it in right here -? The dagger's point touches a hole in my hauberk. If I drive it in at just the right angle...
NO!
The word's so clear it might have been spoken, a shout of defiance and almost pleading from somewhere, but the voice isn't familiar at all. I look around. Am I perhaps not so alone as I thought? No, there's no one alive here. Naralog's dead eyes stare at me from where someone killed him as he slept off another drunk. That explains why he wasn't in the battle. Lazy snaga got killed in the end anyway. Then what was it I heard so plainly?
NO! NOT THIS WAY!
The voice comes again and I realize it's inside me. I wipe the water from my eyes and turn my thoughts inward, listening.
*Why not, if not like this?* I ask the voice.
The answer isn't words at first. Instead I see pictures and feel feelings. The elf's eyes, alive, intent, a somehow brilliant forest green and somehow different than a Tark's eyes. The feel of my mate's arms around me when we had a moment alone together, that warm, calm quiet that I just wanted to stay in - the hot fire that burned when our lips met -. the faint, never-expressed feeling that I preferred the greener, lighter parts of the forest to the blackened ones that were better for the purposes of my overl-former overlords. The passionate contentment I felt when it was just me and an iron ingot, doing not only what the boss wanted but what I wanted as well. The feeling that filled me when the boss would praise my work or give me some sign that he valued me. The pride I felt during those times I was head and shoulders the best smith in these parts bar the long-beards, and no one in any of the tark towns around could match me. The warm feel of the respect everyone in the band gave me - not from fear, but because I helped keep them alive and in better stuff than most in these parts could get they knew it. The voice comes softer now as it has my attention.
Think about it. If you do this, you'll never know. You'll never understand why you engraved the elf's face so accurately on that knife. It wasn't just part of your vengeance. You were asking a question and now you have the chance to know the question and the answer if there's one. You'll never know what you felt when your mate held you close. Do the tarks have a spirit they worship that is their god of forging without the death and destruction, or perhaps the elves do? You know you were never satisfied with the spirit you worshipped deep down, though you gave lip service when you had to give it. Blood, death and destruction don't bother you and you can dish them out as well as anyone , but the forge was always where you found your most intense pleasure. You'll never know why you like the parts of the forest and the mountains that are undarkened by The Shadow - you do and you know it, or why the shadow in this forest made your skin crawl when darkness is easier on you than full daylight. It's OK to admit it now. You'll never know what it's like to have no will but your own guiding you. You want to know why you were never the thief that many orcs are, and why you didn't want anything you hadn't earned, and why you never seriously considered betraying a chief or anyone else even though betrayal is a way of life for orcs, and why you took such pride and joy in your work and contemplated ways to make things shiny or with more smoothness and beauty than is usual for an orc. You can admit that too now. You want to know why you respected more freely for skill rather than the ability to cause fear and why you preferred to receive that kind of respect yourself although eventually you could challenge anybody in the band with your weapons, too. You want to understand a lot, don't you? Yes, it's a frightening thought, but isn't it worth the trying at least for a little while?
I touch the lock of chestnut hair around my neck. I had to give up using the elf-knife about a year ago, its edge finally ground too far down to resharpen properly, so I took off the lock of hair and braided it differently, then used the elf's teeth to form a clasp and one to dangle in front. That tooth has become something I rub when I'm thinking about something. The elf's remains are no longer a symbol of vengeance, I realize now, but what they are I don't know. I think I wear them as much out of habit as desire.
The voice is right, of course. Whatever this feeling is that makes me wish I had followed the boss and the rest of the tribe into whatever waits is nearly crippling, and so's the hollowness brought on by this feeling of loss, but I refuse to yield any longer. For whatever reason, I'm still alive and somehow have a wit or two about me still. I touch the tattoo I got the last time there was a skilled drawer around other than myself; on the side of my neck and usually covered by my armor, it's the tribe's marking. Then I let my hand drop. I mend my gear and gather some tools, , food, a couple good-sized empty skins I'll fill from the far fresher river outside, soap, torches and all my money (quite a bit from running a shop for a century) from the suddenly enormous cavern, the only sound being the sulfurous bubbling from the drinking pool as I do so.
It can't have been more than a day or two in this still chilly weather of late winter. . The bodies aren't stinking any worse than the rest of the place yet. The soap I usually use in dyeing leathers, but maybe it's time to take another lesson from my mate. These caverns have an all-pervasive smell about them that seeps into anything left on the ground, anything you wear, into your very skin, but if I'm going to get by the elves and tarks, I need to lose it as soon as I get out of here. He's the only orc I ever knew who bathed; he said it kept him hidden from all. I guess I'd best try it too, then.
I go through the whole cavern system, even into the boss's room since I found his key lying next to him in the ruins of his pack along with his money. I guess he'd rather I have it than one of the flower-bloods, so I brought it with me. I take what I think I might need or want, even a wide-brimmed hat once looted somewhere, for something tells me I'll be going places where there'll be no respite from the yellowface. There's still no sense of guilt for looting the dead, I note dully. No one's here to miss what I take, so I take all I can carry, even the keys though I'll never use them again.
Lastly I take a torc I made long ago, the only thing I ever forged and decorated entirely to my own taste. It's covered in depictions of smithing and mining and the tools used therein, with no hint of the tribal symbol or any other orcish trademark. Copper-eye always said it looked more like something a dwarf would wear. I lock the boss's quarters, the officers' quarters, the door to the main hall and then the gates to the cavern behind me. Let the lads lie there undisturbed by anything but maggots for a while.