I don't own anything from anyone else. If you recognize it from somewhere else, it's not mine. And I also apologize for any confusion I might be putting you through: this story has been in my head since I first developed a crush on the elf (I have a lot of thoughts to let out), and for not posting this chapter sooner (military moves are a nightmare).
"Blahblahblah" = Draconic
"Blahblahblah" = Sindarin
"Blahblahblah" = Dwarvish
Blahblahblah = translation (makes things easier, right?)
Hatchlings = 14 years and younger Fledglings = 15 through 49 Little Ones = 50 through 99 Lords/Ladies = 100 through 999 Masters = 1000 years and aboveChapter 6Orc-Death fled into the gardens, away from the fear that had seized hold of her in front of all of those beings. Fear is shame and shame is weakness and weakness is death. she reminded herself harshly. Fear is shame and shame is weakness and weakness is... oof! She suddenly ran into someone, knocking them both down. She flew to her feet in a sudden rage, cursing the other person as he scrambled up and started apologizing at the same time.
"I am sorry, I should have been watching…"
"Well, you should be sorry, you over-sized, good-for-nothing…"
They looked up at each other, cut themselves off, and just stared in shock. Apart from a couple of minor differences (gender being one of them), they looked very much alike! They had light-blonde hair, were the same height and skin tone (if one failed to notice her scales), and had arched ears. After several moments of staring, the silence was broken by a voice they both recognized: Gandalf's.
"Ah, I see that you have found each other. Good! Orc-Death this is Maskaraid, from Mirkwood. Mask, meet the Death-of-all-Orcs."
They didn't say anything for a long moment, then both said, "Mae govannen." However, they didn't look away from each other. In actuality, they both had the strangest feeling rush through them, as if they should know each other. Orc-Death noticed with mild annoyance that Maskaraid seemed to be shaking uncontrollably and had fear radiating off of him. Mask noticed with concern the tattoos and scars that decorated her body.
After another long silence, Orc-Death spoke first. "So, you are a healer, yes?"
Mask swallowed hard and nodded. "Aye. So, you are a warrior, yes?" He mimicked her tone as best he could.
The former Taggerung almost smiled at the attempt. Almost. "That would be correct." Her tone was wary. Too many had made the leap to fleeing or attacking for it to be anything but. So she was genuinely surprised when he simply hummed neutrally and did nothing else. The strange elf managed a hurried and somewhat apologetic bow before beating a hasty retreat when the group heard the Mirkwood prince calling for him. She watched him go, then turned back to the wizard.
"Was there a particular reason for you to want us to meet?" the dragoness demanded.
Gandalf smiled sympathetically at Orc-Death. "Indeed." At her raised eyebrow, he elaborated further, "If anyone can convince your friend's brother to listen to your side of the story, it is his own friend."
She sighed, shoulders slumping for a moment, then turned back to the house. "I am sure that Mordor will be host to a blizzard before he listens. In case you failed to notice, Greybeard, I have already failed twice now to keep my word."
"I did notice," was the reply, "It is how I know that when the next time comes, you will not." With that, he left her to her thoughts. She tilted her head to gaze toward the stars, asking for forgiveness and strength from her first true friend, and wondering how she could have possibly known an elf-healer who had never left his home.
On the other side of the garden sat another she-elf wearing a green dwarvish cloak with the hood covering her fiery hair. She gazed at the stars as well, emerald eyes filled with unshed tears. And cupped in her hands was a labradorite dwarvish runestone that she had carried for just over sixty years.
