A/N: I may not be able to update frequently 'cause I'm working part-time, and having exams coming up. This chapter is a little weird…I still don't know why. And a friend of mine pointed out that an Orc wouldn't smell *that* good, so Utíraiel should have smelt him (and be able to) at first. My mistake. Sorry. Maybe I should try being blind, eh?
Rose Cotton: I hope that the language is toned down this time.
Moonstone Tears: Hey! Are you trying to compete with me for the Guiness World Record for who takes the longest to update???!!!
*…* = Quenya
The Tale of an OrcSeven: Healings
He found that he could think more clearly now. How, or why, he did not know. Mayhap it was because of the…lembas, the girl called it. Lembas by the Elves; even if she had not told him that, he would have guessed it by the taste.
He still shunned the starlight and sunlight, but did not loathe them now, and he had even stood at the borders of Brethil, watching the dawn and the evening.
The girl—he knew not her name yet—had met him every night in the clearing where he had tasted the fare of the Elves, and he had no worries for food.
He briefly remembered the kindred of his Master. The Orcs, they were named. That, he remembered clearly enough: he had been one, though not in the start; he was still an Orc now, was he not?
It felt like it, yet did not.
He strained to recall, to bring back memories of the times he had been an Orc, and the times before. They came in broken pieces.
He and his other kindred far more sundered had been part of an army sent to…Doriath? Aye, Doriath, but he understood not the tongue.
His party had been waylaid as they had sought retreat. His scarred face frowned. In the midst of battle, it had been confusing, and as many were killed, he had fled. Aye, he had fled, yet not out of…Doriath. Nay, not Doriath. His frown deepened, and a growl escaped his throat. Beleriand. That was what the girl had said in his tongue.
His tongue. He shook his head in frustration, growling yet again. His tongue was that of his kindred, of the Orcs, for that speech was what he had been taught, and he spoke and thought it.
Yet, why could he understand what the girl spoke of, if what she spoke be not his tongue as well? Though he did not remember using it at all.
Nay. He had used it, under the stars in the first and now in Brethil. Cuivíenen, he had said. Cuivíenen. It laid…in the east, but the lands have changed. The Waters of Awakening is lost.
He shook his head again. It was nearly dusk, and the stars would begin their waxing. He backed away into the trees.
The stars would come, but he would not face them yet. He growled. He was still an Orc.
***
Utíraiel sat in the clearing on a fallen log, and ate small pieces of dried rabbit that Alkaré had hunted down. The men traveled frequently outwards to the borders of Beleriand to hunt, for Thingol would not permit the animals in his realm to be killed, and even his own Elves hunted far from Doriath.
Alkaré had grumbled then, as he had done for many times before, of the madness of the king. Utíraiel chuckled to herself. Nay, the king of Doriath was not mad, but he liked Men little, and many of Haleth's people returned that dislike, though both sides were held in a truce by Finrod.
Then, a smell reached her nose, and she could do naught but laugh lightly. She did not know how she had not noticed the smell of a long un-bathed body in their first few encounters, but when she had noticed it, she had ordered him to bathe in the nearest lake.
O! How he had refused, and growled at her at first! And when she heard that, froze in fear. But he had not attacked her, and she had gathered up her courage again and spoken firmly that if he would not at least douse himself with water, his scent would cling to her and he would be caught.
He had grumbled like a child as he departed in search of a lake, though not in Quenya or Sindarin. The words were coarse and vulgar, but Utíraiel was certain that he grumbled.
Yet, now that she turned to her thoughts, she was not certain if her words were just empty threats, for he had indeed touched her body with his in a few encounters, and she worried that her people—and Finrod—would have smelt that and be suspicious.
*You—laugh,* he spoke with uncertainty.
*Nay, do not mind me.* Utíraiel giggled slightly. *Here. Lembas and rabbit.* She remained still, listening to the sounds of his meal. *Do you remember aught yet?*
*No.*
Utíraiel waited for more, but he was silent. She reached out and touched his skin, coarse, but different from that of a tree's bark. He allowed and suffered her touch, and she thought that some of the ridges on his skin were smaller. Could it be—? Nay. It could not.
*Do you remember your name?* She ventured.
He grunted, but said naught, and Utíraiel knew that his speech had not returned to him fully, and did not prod further. Mayhap she could speak to Finrod and ask about the first Elves. What she learnt could aid her in deciding what to do, for she had not the skill to hide him for long.