A/N: Sorry this took some time. This chapter may be a little confusing, so if you don't understand anything, please feel free to e-mail me at skyfiery@yahoo.com .
The Tale of an OrcFive: A Second Meeting
Utíraiel walked amongst the beech trees, staff prodding the ground for the roots and twigs that might lie in her way. She sighed, missing the open plains, for she had promised Alkaré not to wander to the borders of Brethil on her own, for fear ruled him still.
She had protested, but Alkaré was adamant. "Choose, Utíraiel," he had said. "Take the plains, and I go with you; or wander not from Brethil, on your own."
"These are no choices, Alkaré," she had grumbled.
"Aye," he said grimly. "Yet, choose."
Utíraiel chose for Brethil, for though she loved and enjoyed the company of her brother, night was a time she set apart to be alone, to know that she could still stand alone.
Yet, now she regretted it. She could have bore Alkaré's company as she walked, for he was not a talker, and oft was content to be with her in silence.
The forest was silent now, and Utíraiel wished not to break it: she knew how to move quietly. Finrod had tutored her for many months, ensuring that all of Haleth's people (she as well) could be silent amongst the trees, be they blind or no.
Utíraiel took a few steps more, un-lulled into peace by the trees as the plains would do to her. She felt trees, trees and trees.
And then something more.
***
He had waited for Anor to wane ere he descended from his tree, for Men roamed the forest in the day, and if he were to be spotted, he would surely be slain.
Like all the other trees, he had heard this one's murmur, and gained the knowledge that it was old. How old, he knew not. But it knew him, knew his kind, since it was a sapling.
He was puzzled, more so than ever. But when he tried to think, flames burnt in his mind, red and black, riddled with shadows. He growled, but visions and pain of the mind eased not as quickly or willingly as those of the body.
As if his thoughts about them were spoken aloud, the beech trees raised their voices, many as once, others on their own. All said they knew his kind.
The pain returned to his head, and the trees trembled, though no wind blew. But it was dull, not sharp as before, as if the trees protected him from a thing beyond.
"Gurlok," he tried. It came out as a hiss.
The voices of the beech rose in a clamor. Nay! They cried. Not Gurlok! Accursed name!
He growled again, this time from frustration. The clamoring intensified, and the voices of the trees called forth a picture they knew he had; they knew it to be from his memory.
And he saw the same people he had had fleeting visions of: tall, long-limbed, and fair of face.
He stepped forward, and halted in surprise.
It was the girl.
***
Utíraiel sensed him, sensed another presence not of trees or animals. It was him: he who had attacked her. Her assailant.
Her mind went into a clamor of thoughts. Run! Cried one. Flee!
Another spoke: Curse yourself, girl! You should not have lost your guard! This is Brethil, aye, but it is large. And your assailant have roamed free and now returns for you!
Yet another arose, softer in voice but no less compelling, and it asked: Why? Why did you cry?
She had turned to flee, her staff held out in fear, when she had halted as the thoughts came.
How do you know if truly he is your assailant?
O, curse her head! Of course she knew. If aught else, the harsh, ragged breathing from those lips were the same!
Now she turned swiftly and made to run, fear tight in her chest, causing her to stumble.
A hand gripped her arm and offered her purchase. It was rough, and scarred as well, and Utíraiel yelped, jerking away and falling sharply on her elbow.
A cry escaped her lips at the pain. She tried to scramble up, to get away, but in her pain and haste, succeeded only in hurting herself more.
"Daro! The harsh voice growled in the tongue of the Elves of Doriath, then in Quenya. "Pusto!"
Utíraiel halted. To hear the fair speech of the Elves from her assailant came as a shock, and she strained to hear something to form pictures in her mind.
Her arm was grabbed again, and she stiffened but did not pull away. He aided her to her feet (though not gently), and she felt her staff placed in her good arm, and she sensed him not, anymore.
***
He saw the girl, and wondered to see that she was as those in his visions, though not tall or truly fair of face. Yet, she seemed close enough.
He knew not how, but he sensed her curiosity and hesitation amidst her fears as she tried to flee.
"Daro!" He called, and marveled to hear himself speak a foreign tongue. "Pusto!" Nay, two foreign tongues.
Not foreign or stranger.
The pain came again, pushing through the barrier of trees.
He aided her to her feet.
The pain! She had caused it! Curse her! He would rip her apart now!
Morgoth! Master! He cried, turning to flee. But those visions would not depart, nor did Morgoth aid him.
Master! The pain came, more.
The trees protected him not now.