****Author's note****

Longer chapter this time! Hopefully this makes up for chapter 14 being so short!

16

Alaesia limped along, following the olog's directions as he exited the keep. He made her walk in front of him, using the chains and collar to keep her close and guiding her left and right, like a rider might guide a horse. She was still caked in blood, her tunic split entirely down the middle. She clutched it closed in an attempt to keep the wandering eyes of orcs and uruks, going about their business inside the walls of the fort, from studying her like a piece of meat. He led her through the labyrinth of narrow alleys and broad thoroughfares of the fortress, before coming to a stop at a complex of forge buildings.

Sweltering heat from the fires within was unbearably warm even from without the walls of the structure, making Alaesia feel as though her skin was going to start cooking just by standing too close. She miserably tried to duck back to Ar-Tashk's shadow, but he wouldn't let her outside his line of sight.

She couldn't tell what the olog was doing, but a burly uruk, with a hammer in one hand and a metal prosthetic in place of the other, was quickly retrieved by another orc and came to meet Ar-Tashk at the threshold. The pair seemed to bicker back and forth in the gnarled language of such folk, which Alaesia couldn't understand. Their guttural exchange continued as the metal-armed uruk gestured for Ar-Tashk to follow him deeper into the forge.

"Forward, snaga-izub," the olog gruffly nudged Alaesia onward and they followed the uruk who led them to a stock of metaworks, ranging from freshly refined ingots to completed weapons. Ar-Tashk gestured towards a half finished frame of a cage meant to house caragors, asking in black speech what price the uruk forgemaster would require for a completed cage.

The work-hardened uruk eyed the wispy figure of Ar-Tashk's slave, only to have the olog push Alaesia behind his thick arm. The uruk sniggered, "Wot's that then, yer lordship, the great and mighty Reaper gone soft, eh? You a snaga-lover now?"

The forgemaster was mid-chuckle while nudging one of his workers for a laugh when he was suddenly slammed and pinned against a nearby wall. The olog's face was dark as he uttered a threat into the forgemaster's ear before he released the uruk, "You forget rank. Tugl-izish nokhar, thrakuma. See if I am soft."

The uruk bit his tongue to keep from spitting another snide remark and gestured at the human slave, "If ya want a place to keep her, just use the keep dungeons. A caragor cage is overkill for a puny, pinkskin snagalob. Whatchu think she's gonna do, break out of a dungeon?"

As the pair of Mordor's monsters continued their argument, Alaesia was struggling against the oppressive heat of the forges. It smothered and burned, even causing an intense stinging on her scars, both the old and new. The grotesque smell of unwashed forge-workers was inescapable, and their leering eyes felt like daggers needling her from every angle. The weight of the smoke filled air seemed to bear down, and the metal of her collar was beginning to warm uncomfortably against her skin.

Ar-Tashk only became aware of his slave's condition when he suddenly felt her weight press against him. When he looked down, she was fighting the urge to pass out. A faint and ineffective sweat was starting to bead on her brow. Alaesia noted in her hazy delirium that the olog shifted and slightly adjusted his arm, almost as if he intended to allow her to put her weight against him so she wouldn't collapse. The olog's massive size even offered her a shield against the worst of the heat, from a great open furnace to one side, and the forge-workers seemed to avert their eyes when she was in the olog's shadow. When he didn't move to push her away, she couldn't help but think that the brute probably didn't even notice her leaning on him. She was grateful for the support nonetheless.

Ar-Tashk deliberated with the forgemaster until they came to an agreeable price for converting a section of the kitchen into a cell for holding slaves. It would function better to build a wall of bars rather than try to get a fully welded caragor cage through the keep's relatively narrow passageways. Plus caragor cages were designed specifically with great, big, internal spikes, which Ar-Tashk figured would be far too easy for his slave to weaponize for suicide. Custom made bars would ensure she wouldn't have anything with which to impale herself. As he thought about the benefits, he remembered the goblins who had attacked her in his absence and seemed keen on monitoring for the human's death; a strong prison cell set up would keep his slave out of reach of the greedy, little rats' hands too.

Alaesia had to be half carried out of the building due to the overwhelming heat exhaustion, which amused Ar-Tashk. Of course she would be overcome by the heat that he hardly noticed through his thick hide. Just another quirk that made her so alien to him.

It was sunset as they left, but instead of turning back towards the keep, Ar-Tashk began directing Alaesia towards the gates of the fort. She was wary of the night; her whole life, darkness and shadow had hidden the most frightening nightmares that she could never have dreamed up on her own. The thought of going out as the sun was dipping below the horizon felt wrong, but all she could do was comply.

Ar-Tashk led Alaesia down to the closest shoreline of the Sea of Nurnen, a steep cliff face which the olog navigated down with great care. Once or twice his oversized feet nearly slipped off the ledges as he clambered downwards, but with careful effort, he made it down, with Alaesia following closely on her chain. When her feet landed on the sand, Ar-Tashk began stripping off his armor.

Alaesia felt a pulse of primal fear; vivid memories seized her mind, bringing back images and the clatter of leather and armor each time the overlord, Vezhir, had come to ravage her in Ar-Tashk's absence. In a fit of hysterical terror, she violently threw her weight backwards, yanking and pulling against her chains, anything to put distance between her and her captor.

"LET ME GO! LET ME GO!" She kicked and screamed in vain as Ar-Tashk dragged her back towards him by her chain. The human's mind was lost in absolute horror in the face of the olog's monstrous visage; her thrashing against the chain was like a rabid animal caught in a snare. She was going to break her own neck if he didn't act fast.

"STOP!" Ar-Tashk sprung forward to wrap his arms around Alaesia so she was pinned securely against his broad chest. She tried to kick and batter him, but her limbs were held fast. She even tried to spin around to bite him, but she couldn't contort well enough within the security of his grasp. He stayed perfectly still, waiting for the woman's crying, choking sobs to quiet down and until she was no longer resisting his embrace.

Alaesia was close to hyperventilating, but the olog held firm and and unmoving as he ensured she wasn't fighting back. She had missed her chance to end her life by his knife earlier, now she was sure she would live with that regret for who knew how many years of violation onward. The uruk overlord had been brutal enough, leaving the woman bruised, battered, and even bleeding. Whatever this monster, that held her tight, was planning, she prayed she would die on the spot. But Ar-Tashk didn't move. His hands stayed locked around her sides, not wandering at all. The longest minute for either Alaesia or the olog felt like it took an eternity to pass, then five, then ten. Any minute she was sure, he would begin to have his sick fun with her, but still he was motionless.

Ar-Tashk was lost in thought as he clung around Alaesia. Held like this, she was smaller than he imagined; if he held too tight, it seemed like she would disappear entirely. He could hardly tell that she was fighting against his grip, for the lack of strength behind her struggling limbs. Holding her this close made the olog realize the mellow sweetness in her scent he had once mistaken for fear was something else entirely. The scent was simply her. His sensitive ears narrowed in on the panicked drumming of her heart. It sounded ready to explode right out of her chest, but as each minute ticked by the tempo began to slow.

"Amul-latish, isla-izub. Amul. Lat tur rulum-latish." Alaesia felt the olog's chest vibrate on her back as he murmured quietly to her in a deceptively soft voice. The olog's deep rumble was nothing like the sharp, cruel laughter of Vezhir, but it still made her tremble. She didn't know what sort of game the olog was playing at, talking to her so softly. Alaesia hated it, with every fiber of her being; she would rather he stop playing his mind games. At least then she'd know what to expect.

After some time, Ar-Tashk slowly rose to his feet and lifted her along with the motion. As soon as Alaesia started to resist, he halted and held her fast once again until she calmed down once more. In his broken, foul tongue, he informed the slave, "I will enter water. You must clean. Duth-latish. You understand?"

Ar-Tashk felt her tense, but eventually she nodded. Alaesia felt the water lapping at her feet, then creep up to engulf her lower half in a brisk tide as the olog backed slowly into the wake. When she flinched at the cold, he continued to murmur, "Amul… Do not fight."

To her surprise, as they reached a point just about to a depth of her ribcage, the olog gently released his constricting grasp on Alaesia, letting her drift away from him. There was a moment she was tempted to dive into the waves, but she noticed he held the end of her chains firmly at the ready to fling her from the water if necessary.

It took some time to clean off all the foulness Alaesia had accumulated in the last few weeks; the visit to the cistern under the fort, while with the witch, hadn't been much more than a bucket of water splashed over her head. The grime and blood that was caked across her skin began to dissolve and muddy the water around her. It was almost a bittersweet relief that it could be scrubbed away. A kick within her gut reminded Alaesia that she couldn't cleanse herself of everything, and a knot formed in her throat at the thought. Still, under the olog's piercing gaze, she could do nothing except obediently scour both her skin and clothing in the chilly waters.

Each time her hand passed over the tender scars that disfigured her body, she winced in pain. She didn't want to know the extent of the mutilation; reflections on the water could only show distorted and fractured glimpses of the scarring. It wasn't as if she could recall whether or not she ever considered herself beautiful. That was a luxury that outcasts could rarely afford to invest in. But she was sure now that any beauty she may have once had was spoiled. Mordor had ruined her permanently, turned her into a monster.

Ar-Tashk stood alongside the woman: a strange sentinel that simultaneously desired nothing more than to take her life, but also standing guard to protect it. He was briefly captured by the silhouette of the woman, as her wet tunic clung to her body revealing the growing bump at her midriff.

Razarza, he thought to himself. He was almost positive that she hadn't had such a prominent belly when he first captured her; in fact he was sure of it. She had had more muscle but was still thin as a rail just a couple weeks prior, he recalled the first time he had cauterized her wounds from the ghul matron's claws. The olog was completely unfamiliar with how long human pregnancy lasted; perhaps it was akin to the short term of caragor litters, or it might be as long as a drake's for all he knew.

As Alaesia stood upright from rising her hair, he caught a small glimpse between the cut sections of her tunic, spying the gnarled scars on her body. Despite all his presumption of the human being weak, he was rather impressed she hadn't succumbed to so many wounds. There were even orc warriors who didn't have that many scars. For such a tiny thing, Ar-Tashk felt like she ought to be proud; scars meant she was a fighter, a survivor.

When he was satisfied that she had cleaned up well enough he reeled Alaesia's chain to shore, pinned it down with a massive stone slab, and then returned to the waves himself. He was lost in thought as he moved into deeper water. For the first time in his life, he questioned his insatiable drive to kill; would he kill the infant growing inside her when he finally decided to take her life? Would he kill her before it was born?

The more he thought, the more agitated it made him, and nothing seemed to make sense. If he waited till after, what would he do with the infant? Keep it alive until it too could beg for its life? The idea made him snort; despite his surprise at his slave's durability, there was no way he could feasibly keep a human infant alive. He'd do better just to kill them both at the same time… but for some reason, for the first time ever, the desire to slaughter failed to set his blood on fire.

On shore, Alaesia was starting to shiver from the chilly winds that raced inland from the sea. She curled her legs as tight to her chest as her belly bump would allow. She could almost feel it growing larger by the second. It was impossible to ignore or dismiss; whatever unnatural magic the witch had used, or perhaps there was something about the mix of uruk and human blood, but the creature she was carrying was growing far too quickly.

****Translations****

Snaga-izub - My slave

Tugl-izish nokhar, thrakuma - Try me again, low-rank (subordinate).

Snagalob - Female slave

Amul-latish, isla-izub. Amul. - Calm yourself, my life-maker. Calm. (isla-izub is a new title/name to call Alaesia, created by Ar-Tashk)

Lat tur rulum-latish - You will injure yourself.

Duth-latish - Clean yourself

Razarza - Strange.