Ashes and smoke poured into the night sky, and sparks sprung to life, only to peeter out quickly in the cold air. After Ar-Tashk had ensured Alaesia was not in immediate danger of the injuries gained from her ordeal, he had carried her back to the abandoned camp where they had taken the wine jug from. There, he salvaged materials from the tents that had been left behind for re-clothing the woman, then altered course to take her deeper into the hills of Nurn to find a safe, isolated place to rest. Now, the pair watched the pyre Ar-Tashk had built, in silence.

Ar-Tashk didn't dare leave Alaesia alone to treat his own wounds; she was in much rougher shape than he was, though he noted the scent of death that earlier he had mistakenly thought was coming from her no longer lingered around the woman. The scent was carried away in the smoke from the body of her whelp. The olog was content to let the woman rest in his arms as long as she would allow him to hold her. He could sense her anxiety ebb and flow as the night wore on.

Alaesia didn't know what had possessed her to return to him back in the cave. She could have crawled out any of the tunnels branching from the chamber, but she had been drawn back to him. Something in her heart had heard his gentle pleas and was compelled to seek solace in the olog's presence. As if by some survival instinct, she knew she wouldn't have the willpower on her own to keep from crumbling away.

She had become so numb, her body didn't feel like her own anymore, like a part of her was now burning to ash along with the body of her infant. The bitter strain that had once been sucking the vitality from her was gone, but the hollow feeling remained. Maybe it was the dark magic of the goblin witch that has left her this way, or maybe the unspeakable cruelty of the uruk overlord had disfigured her soul. She couldn't say for certain. The only thing that seemed to be holding the broken pieces of the woman together was the very monster who held her in a possessive embrace.

Ar-Tashk stroked her hair as lightly as he could with his uninjured hand, while murmuring softly, trying to ease her mind, "Amul rad, isla-izub. Az krampadur lazg."

She hesitantly looked up towards the olog, afraid to speak out of turn, but desperate to find something to distract herself from the pyre, "T-that word you keep saying… isla-izub? What does it mean?"

Ar-Tashk's hand paused, resting on her hair while he tried to articulate a coherent way to explain his blackspeech to her, "Isla is… I call you. Izub is mine." He hefted his ballista to illustrate, "Kruklak-izub. Weapon mine. Isla-izub. You mine."

Alaesia winced. The fact that he continued to perceive her as a thing, a possession, was not lost on her; I am just a slave to him. Something to own, like a trinket . She shook herself, "Isla is a name?"

"Hrrmm…. Nar… ahk, kon," the olog appeared to be thinking hard to find the right words. "Isla name I make, give you. Mean… nar." He paused to correct himself. Ar-Tashk had once thought himself so powerful, an unstoppable force that couldn't be reckoned with, yet he only had that power, because others created what he could only destroy. He had seen something in his slave that was a far greater power, and it had enchanted him. He wanted to find some way to communicate that beauty to her. The brute pointed a finger towards his own face, hoping to show her his inner thoughts, "Az korra. I kill, destroy, bring death. Korra is Reaper. Understand?"

She nodded hesitantly, unsure where the brute was going with his explanation. He turned his hand to point at her, "Lat isla. You make, grow, create life. Isla is life maker. Life maker is mine. Isla-izub ."

Alaesia felt ill at his words, realizing what he meant each time he had called her by that name; what her body had created was a cruel facsimile, a mockery of life that never even took its first breath. Never in her life had she thought she would have children of her own; now, she couldn't stand the thought of carrying another just to have it die before it could live, as she had this time.

Confused tears began to roll down her face. I'm just a plaything to him, something to use to create more slaves… he's no better than that uruk. I was an idiot to return to him. I missed my chance to escape. She didn't know whether she was distraught or relieved to finally understand the olog's perspective; probably some awful mix of the two.

Ar-Tashk didn't understand why his slave began to cry once more; he had been so enraptured that she finally tried to speak with him, understand him, that he felt blindsided when she buried her face in her arms and fell silent, save for the occasional sob that peeped from her lungs. He could only assume she was still suffering from the pain of her fresh wounds.

Eventually Alaesia fell unconscious against Ar-Tashk's chest, too exhausted to keep battling the internal conflict that racked her heart. The olog stared deep into the fire without moving as to not to disturb his slave's rest. He wanted to ensure the miniature funeral was not left unattended.

Mordor didn't have any customs for the dead. Orcs rarely lived long enough to be venerated, and those that did were more useful as fuel than icons of worship. Orcs that were not harvested for meat or materials were simply forgotten wherever their bodies ended up strewn. Such would be the ex-overlord's fate. It was unlikely that his corpse would ever be located in the caves before it rotted beyond use. That was just the way of Mordor, orcs were fodder for the Dark Lord's war and industry, nothing more. Those that fell were only saved for their use. Once it was spent, they would be left to waste.

Worse than knowing the fate of orcs was knowing by scent that his slave's whelp was female, and knowing that Mordor's armies only suffered male orcs to live. Ar-Tashk couldn't help but wonder if Vezhir, himself, had snuffed the life from the little half-breed upon discovering it was female. Had Ar-Tashk been just a little faster, a little stronger, he wondered if he might have been able to save the little one's life. It was something he would never know the answer to, something he could never solve. The whelp was gone, and it felt like it was his fault. Though the act felt utterly human, tending the funeral pyre seemed like it was the only penitence he could pay; the olog was intent on seeing the rite through until nothing but ashes remained.

Just before dawn, when the embers of the fire had grown cold. Ar-Tashk tried to lay Alaesia gently onto the ground without disturbing her slumber. He quietly rose and began gathering stones within the clearing to construct a tiny cairn over the smoldering remains.

His injured hand made the effort cumbersome, and he had to catch a number of rocks that slipped from his weakened grasp. One hit the ground next to the ashes, sending a cloud of smoke up. Alaesia watched Ar-Tashk through barely cracked eyes, perturbed by the humanity he exhibited. She wanted so badly to view him only as a monster, her torturer and captor, but the reverence in his actions was unlike that of any being she knew in Mordor.

When the smoke cleared, Ar-Tashk began to sweep the scattered ashes back into the cairn, only to feel a small point press into his palm. He picked the sharp little object up between his fingers, only to find it was a perfect little nub of a fang, so small in his hand it was hard to keep hold of. He almost startled when he felt a soft touch lean against his shoulder, as Alaesia staggered coming up behind him. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror, and she tried to bury her face.

Ar-Tashk closed his hand quickly to conceal the fang to not distress her, but she whispered, "W-wait."

There was a tense pause, until Alaesia reached out to place her hand on his, softly prompting him to open it to her. The olog complied, letting her delicate hand brush across his as she hesitantly touched the fang.

All Alaesia could do was pray, Eru… Take this little one, don't bar them from your grace. Its fell lineage is my fault… Please, forgive me. She pulled her hand away, and hid her face behind the olog in shame for having ever blamed the child for Vezhir's transgressions.

Ar-Tashk knelt over the cairn, returning to his task of slowly finishing the structure. When it was complete he placed the tiny fang nestled in a frame of stones at the top. He wasn't sure if his attempt to treat his slave's whelp with human-like respect was adequate; his isla seemed to avoid looking at the little cairn, as though it haunted her. There was little Ar-Tashk could do to comfort her, no matter how much he wanted to.

For all his power and control over the human, a lurking truth crept unbidden to his mind, that he could never make her part of his world. Mordor was a land of darkness and death; it held no welcome for creatures like her, creatures of light and life. He instinctively knew, if she stayed, she would inevitably succumb to Mordor. The olog felt a foreign desire rising within himself; he wanted nothing more than to remove her from this land and prevent such a fate. She belonged in the world of men, not orcs… not… trolls.

****Translations****

Amul rad, isla-izub. Az krampadur lazg. - Rest now, my isla (life maker). I will keep you safe.

Kruklak-izub - my crossbow

Nar… ahk, kon - No… yes, somewhat

Az korra - I am the reaper

Lat isla - You are a life maker