He is cold.
Desert is cold at night. Stretches all around him. Flat, empty. No trees, no rocks. Nothing to put back against. Nothing at back but empty desert. And - what?
He turns.
Nothing. Just desert. He is alone. Sky is black, no stars. He is alone.
Then: not alone. Laugh. Behind him. Deep, scraping. Big Orc. Knows this laugh. This laugh means Big Orc is bored. Bored is not good. And Big Orc is behind him. Not good. Big Orc should not be behind him. Forces hands to stay loose. Big Orc can see him. He cannot see Big Orc. Wants to turn, but cannot turn. Cannot turn unless order. Heart speeds up. But hands must stay loose.
Other noises now. Other orcs, rumbling, muttering, laughing. All behind him. And Big Orc: coming closer. He waits. Waits for order. Or for blow. Which will come first? He hopes for order. Fingers twitch. But hands must stay loose.
And then: Big Orc speaks. Order. But - but. But he does not understand words. Does not understand. Tongue is orc-tongue. But words - words are just noises. He does not understand.
Does not understand.
Mouth dries up. Tongue too large. Shoulders ache. No. He must understand. Why doesn't he understand? He must understand order. Cannot obey if does not understand. Why doesn't he understand? Why?
Big Orc steps closer. Breath on top of head. Close enough to touch. Feels warmth of Big Orc, so close. Stinks of rotten meat and worse. What can he do? There was order. But he cannot obey. He cannot obey.
I did not understand, he says. Says it fast. Throat is like sandpaper. I'm sorry, sorry. Stupid snaga, so stupid. I did not understand. Please.
Words come out of mouth. Grating, hoarse. But they are not right words. Words are not orc-tongue words. Words are fluting, high, like bird. He speaks them, but does not understand them. Wrong language. Wrong, wrong language, wrong, wrong.
Big Orc growls. Spits. Spit lands on cheek, hot, burning. He keeps head down. Why did he speak wrong language? He tries to speak again, speak right. But throat is closed up. Air will not come through. Stomach aches, rolls. And is full. Stomach is full, so full. Bile rises in throat. Stomach rolls. He will vomit. He will - he will. And then Big Orc will know. Will know that stomach was full. Snaga should not have full stomach. Snaga should obey. Should only obey.
Big Orc's hand lands on his shoulder. Claws dig in. Pain. But not enough. Much worse to come. Here is only promise. Promise of punishment. Here is only reminder: Big Orc is behind him. He did not obey.
Claws dig in.
And Big Orc speaks. Same order. Same words. But he does not understand. He looks. Looks to see if anything can help him understand. But he sees nothing. Only desert, empty, flat. Nothing to help him understand what Big Orc wants. He wants to speak. To beg. Please, please, I did not understand. But throat is closed. Even bird-words will not come out. And claws dig deeper.
Orc laughs behind him. Stupid snaga, orc says. It is One-Eye. Laughing. Lost its mind. No use to you now. Give it to me. I'll show it what it gets.
Stomach lurches. One-Eye. Big Orc will not give him to One-Eye. Cannot. He tries to speak. Please, please. But words are broken, mean nothing. Sound like broken bird.
And then: One-Eye is beside him. Big Orc still behind. Claws. Blood running down back, down chest. But it is nothing. Small pain only. Promise. And One-Eye is beside him. Leaning in. Face by his ear. He keeps head down. Hands loose. But hair is gone. Where has hair gone? Nothing to hide him now. One-Eye leans in. Breath in his ear.
Useless snaga, mind is gone, One-Eye says. Laughs. Licks his cheek. His eye. Spit is burning. Give it to me, One-Eye says. I'm hungry.
No - no. Big Orc is master. Big Orc. He is Big Orc's snaga. Does not want anything else. Big Orc's snaga. Please. Please.
Claws are deep in shoulders. Big Orc's claws. Claws mean punishment. Pain to come. But mean he is Big Orc's snaga. Big Orc claims him. He focusses on claws. Pain in shoulders. Blood on chest, on back. Big Orc's mark on arm. He is Big Orc's snaga. He would never be disloyal. Never.
And then: Big Orc speaks. Take it, he says. Snaga who can't speak is no use to me. These words he understands. Clear as sound of hunting-cry. Take it. And claws are gone. Big Orc is gone. He was stupid, did not understand. And now Big Orc is gone.
One-Eye laughs. Grabs his arm, his neck. Big Orc's mark is there, on arm.
Mine now, says One-Eye. Sinks teeth into arm, below Big Orc's mark. Tears skin, flesh. Somewhere, orcs are laughing. One-Eye is making mark. But it is not how orcs make mark. It is how orcs eat. How orcs eat, when too hungry to kill, to cook.
He falls to knees. One-Eye looks up, laughs. Blood-stained chin. Flesh in teeth. He looks at arm. Hole in arm. White bone glints. Big Orc's mark is gone. Gone into One-Eye's stomach. Hurts - hurts.
No use for mindless snaga, One-Eye says.
And then.
He feels something in hand. Solid. Strong. He looks down.
Knife. He has knife in hand. Blade is wicked, sharp, bright. He sees face in blade. Yellow eyes. Pointed ears. No hair. It is him.
One-Eye grabs him by neck. Clamps jaws onto shoulder. Tearing flesh.
And he stands. Stands and swings. Knife. Knife knife knife.
He has knife. He has knife.
And he is not in desert.
He is not in desert. He is in house. Orcs are not there. Orcs were not real. But Bald Dwarf is there, standing in front of him. Orcs were not real, but Bald Dwarf is real.
Knife is real.
Knife is against Bald Dwarf's throat. He is holding knife. Holding knife against Bald Dwarf's throat. Against throat. Against.
He stares at knife.
Blood wells up. Bald Dwarf's blood.
He is holding knife.
No.
No.
No.
Dwarfs. Dwarfs, dwarfs. Dwarfs think he is litter-mate, think he is. Dwarfs gave food, gave - gave shirt. And he is - he is holding knife. And Bald Dwarf's blood.
He is holding knife. He is holding knife. Bald Dwarf is staring. Speaking. Voice sounds far away. And he is holding knife. Knife. Knife. What. What can he. What can he do. What can he do?
He can run. Can only run. Or - or kill. Run, or kill.
Run. He can run.
He takes step. One step only. One. Only one. Then he is caught. Big hand around wrist. World is spinning. Stomach lurches. Heart pounding in throat. And he is trapped. Bald Dwarf's arm across chest. Bald Dwarf behind him. Breath hot against cheek. Like in dream. Like in dream.
Dwarfs thought he was litter-mate. And now Bald Dwarf will kill him. Will kill him, and he - and he would have - would have wanted to be snaga. Be dwarfs' snaga. He would have wanted this. Maybe he could have had this.
He will not have this.
He tries to get away. Tries, tries. But Bald Dwarf is tall, strong. Bald Dwarf holds him tight. Breath hot on cheek, in ear. He holds knife. Holds tight, tighter. Hand hurts. But knife is solid, smooth against fingers. He has knife. But cannot move arm. Bald Dwarf has arm. He has knife, but Bald Dwarf has arm. Arm is not his. Knife is not his. He cannot kill. Cannot run.
He cannot.
Bald Dwarf picks him up. Carries him to table. He tries. Tries to fight. But Bald Dwarf is like stone. Feels nothing. Arm is like iron. Like collar, across chest. And then he is on table. Face against wood. This, this this? This now, this? And Bald Dwarf is slamming his wrist against table. Once, twice, again, again. Wrist hurts, hurts hurts. Arm hurts where One-Eye tore Big Orc's mark away. Back hurts. Stomach hurts. Heart - heart hurts. Hurts.
Once more, and fingers are numb. Cannot hold knife any more. He grits teeth. Orders fingers to curl. To hold knife handle. But they do not curl. Knife falls from hand. Fingers are not his.
Knife is not his.
Bald Dwarf pulls arm behind back. Face still pressed against table. Stomach rises, bile in throat. Snaga cannot have full stomach. They will know, they will know he ate food. If he vomits, they will know.
Bald Dwarf speaks. Voice is far away. And then different voice. Fili. Shouts. Shouts litter-mate's name. And Bald Dwarf looks away.
Now. Now now now. No more chances. If not now, he is dead. He is dead.
He twists. Bites Bald Dwarf's arm. Teeth pierce skin, blood is hot on tongue. Eyes were brown in glass. But he is not like dwarf. He is like orc. He is like orc.
And Bald Dwarf lets go.
And he is gone. Up and away, knife is in hand, and he sees door, door door door. Dwarfs are shouting, waking up, but he can run, he can run. If he can reach door. If he can.
Then what?
Then is not important. Now is important.
He reaches door. Drags it open. And he is outside. Outside house, outside. He can run. Can run. He runs. And then: fence.
Fence.
He forgot fence. Gate is closed. Behind him, shouts, voices. Dwarfs. Dwarfs are coming. Looking for him. He has knife. But dwarfs are many. And he - and held knife to Bald Dwarf's neck.
So stupid. So stupid.
Legs feel weak. He wants to sit. Sit down. Hide face. Cover head with hands. He wants to bury himself in earth. Press his face against grass. But he cannot. Cannot sit. Cannot stop. Dwarfs are coming. If they catch him-
He runs. Runs along fence. Maybe another gate. Or place where fence is lower. Or - or - or.
No. There is nothing.
He stares up at fence. Breath is caught in throat. Can he climb? It is tall. Smooth logs. No handholds. He tries. Tries to climb. Braces self on tree near fence. Tries to climb. But fence is tall. So tall. He cannot climb.
Noise. Noise behind him. He turns. Dwarfs are here. He is too late. Cannot climb fence. Cannot do anything. He has been so stupid. Now it is too late.
He swings knife. Does not hit dwarf. He crouches, waits. Waits for dwarf to attack. But it is not dwarf. It is Hobbit. Hobbit speaks. But he cannot hear words. Ears are roaring. Heart is pounding in throat. He cannot hear words.
Let me go, he says. Let me go, open gate. I'll kill you. I'll kill all dwarfs. I'll - I'll kill, I'll kill. Let me go.
But Hobbit does not let him go. Does not open gate. Only raises lantern. Looks pale, ill. And now another light. Someone else coming, fast. He tries to run. But not fast enough. Something hits him. Big, heavy, moving fast. He falls.
Bald Dwarf.
He gets up. Gets up, swings knife. He wants to run. But Bald Dwarf will catch him. He must stop Bald Dwarf first. Kill Bald Dwarf. Swings knife. But Bald Dwarf ducks away. Grabs his hair. Pulls. Head snaps back. Eyes water. He tries to turn.
And then: Fili. Fili is running. Fighting. But does not grab him. And Bald Dwarf lets go of hair. Falls back. And he is free. Free, free. But other dwarfs coming. Close now, close. And Bald Dwarf is between him and gate. And gate is closed. And he cannot run. Cannot run, cannot run, can only kill. Can only use knife. But Bald Dwarf is too strong. Too fast. And other dwarfs, too many, too many to kill. They will kill him. Unless. Unless.
He leaps forward. Swings arm around Fili's neck. Knife to throat. Will they care? Fili is ill. Maybe weak. Will they care? He does not know. But there are no other choices. There is nothing, nothing.
He presses against Fili's back. Arm across Fili's chest. Knife to neck. Peers over Fili's shoulder.
Dwarfs are all there. Stand in silence. Watching him. Do not come forward. Do not grab him.
Yes. Yes, they care.
And now. And what now? Dwarfs are between him and gate. Gate is closed. And he has Fili. Has knife and has Fili. Has never held killing-knife before today. And now knife is at Fili's neck. If he pressed down - slid his hand down - it would be so quick. He knows where to cut. Has seen it often. Where to cut for slow death. Where to cut for quick death. Where to cut for no death, only pain. He knows. He knows.
He could do this. Could do it.
And then. And then dwarfs would kill him. Not quick death for him. No - no. Not for him. Not any more. He cannot kill Fili. Needs Fili alive. Maybe they will let him go. Let him take Fili. Take Fili out of gate. Into dark lands beyond. Where orcs live. Where orcs. It is - it is only thing. Only thing. Get out. Go back to orcs. Maybe - maybe Big Orc will not kill him if he brings Fili. Maybe only punish. Or - or maybe kill quick. It would be better.
Or he could - he could do it himself. He has knife. Could do it. Not so hard. Just reach up to own neck. He knows where to cut for quick death. He feels heart beating in throat. In ears. Feels pulse of blood in fingers, in neck. He knows where to cut.
Maybe it would be better.
Big Dwarf speaks. Says words. Kili. Brother. He tries to remember what brother means. But ears are buzzing. Nothing in mind but knife. Knife and dwarfs and Fili's hair against his cheek, Fili's heart beating against his arm. Fili's heart, his own heart. They are loud, these hearts.
Someone else speaks. And then. And then Hobbit. Hobbit speaks. Kili, he says. Other words. Voice is not like before. Higher, now. Hoarse, scraping. Like broken bird. Hobbit is scared. Scared he will kill Fili.
He is scared, too.
He pulls back. Away from dwarfs. Pulls Fili with him. Hair against cheek. Knife against neck. Fili, Fili Fili. Fili killed orcs. Killed One-Eye. Fili's heart is beating against his arm. He could take Fili, give Fili to Big Orc. Hope for punishment, or at least quick death. Or he could take knife, do it himself. Just reach up, just reach up. Own heart is beating in throat, blood beating in neck. He knows where to cut for quick death. He could do it himself. Maybe better. Maybe.
Hobbit raises hands. No kil, he says. And this, he understands. Yes. He knows what Hobbit wants. Wants Fili to live. It is all he has. All he can use. This: knife against throat. It is all there is.
I'll kill him, he says. I'll kill him, I'll kill him. Should say this in bird-language. But tongue is thick in mouth, cannot make bird words. He will kill Fili. He will, he will. They must let him go. They must.
Hobbit steps forward. One step, two. Stares at him. He stares back. Hobbit. Hobbit, hobbit. Hobbit cannot fight him. He has knife. Hobbit does not have knife. Hobbit cannot fight him. He could kill Fili. Could kill Hobbit. Why is Hobbit coming near? Doesn't he see knife?
But Hobbit keeps coming. Three steps. Four. Close now. Stares at him. Not angry. Face is not angry. Hobbit shakes head. Points at Fili.
No kil, Hobbit says. Brother.
And he remembers. Brother means litter-mate. Brother should care for brother. But he does not care for Fili. He is not litter-mate. He does not care. Why doesn't Hobbit understand? He will kill Fili. He does not care.
But dwarfs do not move. Do not come closer, but do not move away. Do not make space. Do not open gate. They care for Fili. But not enough. Not enough to let him go. It is not enough. Fili is all he has, and it is not enough.
They will not let him go.
Hobbit reaches out. Puts hands over his. Closes hand around his. Now hand is not his own. Knife is not his own. He could still kill Fili, perhaps. Knife is still against throat. He could pull down, surprise Hobbit. Only take one little cut in right place. Could still kill Fili.
But it is not enough. Fili is not enough. He can kill Fili, and they will not let him go, and it will not matter that he killed Fili, except Fili will be dead and own death will be slow, slower, slowest. He could kill Fili, but it will not matter. And knife is not his now. He cannot kill himself. Cannot move hand far enough to kill himself.
He cannot do anything. Cannot do anything.
He lets knife go.
Knife falls. Falls away from hand. Knife is not his. Knife was never his. Hand was never his. He does not own. Snaga cannot own.
Legs are weak. He falls. Falls to knees. No more, now. No more. No more. He cannot do anything. Everything he has done has only made it worse. And now there is no more.
Dwarfs are talking. Voices sound far away. Knife is gone now. Knife was never his. He does not have anything. Does not even have life, now.
Hopes it will be quick.
Hobbit sits down near him. Speaks. Hits him. Feels warm. He feels this, warmth on arm. Remember this. Remember what it was like, to have water. To have food. To be without. Remember singing. These things. Remember these now. Remember these.
Then Fili comes. He is not ready. Is not ready. It will not be quick. Knows this. Will not be quick. But stays still. Does not flinch. Fili grabs him, but he does not flinch. He is good snaga. Could have been good snaga.
But Fili does not hurt him. Only grabs arms. Holds tight. Fili's hands warm on arms. He feels Fili's heart beating in hands. Own heart beating. Loud, loud. Fili says litter-mate's name. But he is not litter-mate. They must know this now. Is not litter-mate.
But Fili does not hurt him. Hands are warm. Heart beats. He is not ready.
And then: Bald Dwarf. Kneels down. Ties hands. Grabs him. Lifts him up. Runs hands over him. He waits. Tries to be ready. But no pain. Only hands. And Bald Dwarf finds second knife. Holds it up. But does not kick. Does not hit. Does not stab with knife.
They will make him wait. They will make him wait. It will not be quick.
Bald Dwarf pushes him forward. Into house. Bald Dwarf is behind him. It is not good. Not good, not good. Nothing can be good now. He tries. Tries, tries to be ready. But he is not ready.
Bald Dwarf ties him to pillar. He sits on floor. Sits still, still. He hears Bald Dwarf in corner. Finding other knives. He was so stupid, so stupid. If he had not taken knives -
But he took knives. Dwarfs gave him water and blue shirt and honey, and he took knives, and now there is nothing more. There is only waiting, and remembering, and trying, trying to be ready. It will not be quick. It will not be quick. He would have wanted to be snaga. To have this.
He will not have this now.