Alaesia lingered at the edge of a foggy cliff, her toes just keeping her anchored in place. She felt that at any moment, she might be lifted up by a breeze and carried away, and yet the air around her was completely silent and still. She looked across the dark horizon, wondering just how far the sky reached. Somewhere far below, she thought she could hear crashing waves, or perhaps it was thunder; it was difficult to tell. She wanted to reach out, and touch the mountain of fog, but as her hands passed through the vapor, she fell. She could hear the roar of crashing waves rushing up, faster and faster to meet her as she plummeted. The sound was becoming deafening, like an inescapable, charging predator. She thought her head was going to split from the sound, just as an inky-black ocean grew wide below her.

Just as it was about to swallow her up, she lurched as vertigo gripped her head and jerked suddenly awake.

Alaesia moaned and tried to shift so she could survey her surroundings, but her limbs were heavy and resistant. It was such a monumental task, she was almost inclined to stay right where she was. Her head was cradled in place by some stiff bit of fabric, preventing much movement, but as her eyes cracked open, she could at least see the ceiling above her.

It danced with shadows and a powerful orange glow; a swath of heat prickled her skin on one half of her body and a blustering sound told her of the huge fire burning away in the hearth. Right, the hearth in the kitchen, she started to collect her thoughts, of course… the olog's kitchen… where is he…?

Alaesia lifted a shaking hand to roll to her side, only to hear a gruff grunt from the head of the table giving her a brusque order, "Kat-dash. Do not move."

She winced as a sharp pain cut across the back of her scalp, but it didn't stop her from trying to tilt her head towards the voice. There, leaning against one of the stone pillars, sat Ar-Tashk. He was half illuminated by the light of the fire, half shrouded in shadow. His intense eyes were trained on the woman, boring holes through her as though believing she might disappear if he so much as blinked.

"Stop. Do not move," he repeated. He spoke slowly, as if trying to find the right words in their common tongue. His voice was quiet, almost so deep she could feel it more than hear it. "You weak body. Too weak."

Alaesia couldn't recall how she had ended up laid out on what appeared to be an old, oak door perhaps? It was hard to tell from her limited viewing angle, though her fingers could feel the grain of wood and strappings of metal beneath them. Despite her state of complete vulnerability, no unbidden fight or flight instinct arose in her when the olog rose to approach.

A hazy memory creeped unbidden to her mind, as the firelight revealed the whole of his face. Now that she could see him clearly, she saw he was coated in crusted streams of oil-black blood that had dried on his gnarled features. She could only just recall that face hovering over her, but she couldn't pinpoint when the memory was from. Now the macabre creature didn't even seem real to her bewildered mind.

Ar-Tashk carefully wedged his hand under Alaesia's back as delicately as he could manage, helping her to sit up. She flinched as a stitch on her back popped when the olog's rough skin snagged it and what little color was in the woman's cheeks blanched at the movement. The room around her spun, a whirlpool that threatened to drag her back down to the floor.

"Burzash… Steady," he commanded firmly as though believing his words provided a sense of foundation. He waited for her to stop swaying before bringing her fully upright.

For some time, she had to concentrate on breathing and focus with great difficulty to keep the bile from rising in her stomach. She could feel an uncomfortable, warm wave passing through her body and culminating in a needling sensation at the fringe of her throat, waiting to break her nerve and force her to expel anything in her stomach. All she could do was wait it out.

It caught her completely off guard when the olog knelt and placed an oversized hand on her round stomach, while uttering a growl that rattled her whole body. His massive fingers, which easily covered her whole stomach, were full of tense energy. It seemed as if he was fighting the urge to clench them into a fist, resisting the urge to crush whatever his fingers held.

"You soon bear whelp… Uruk whelp." he rumbled, his hackles rising. "Az grat-fakhth za akzurbak-fural!"

Alaesia's breath quickened, suddenly realizing the brute was fully aware of her condition. She had vaguely suspected it, but never had he acknowledged that he was aware; the aggression behind his attention now made her feel horrifically exposed, vulnerable like she hadn't felt before. He seemed to notice her reaction and removed his hand to keep the woman from panicking.

She was still so small, even with her round belly, he mused to himself, and even thinner for having not eaten since early the day before. He wanted so badly to go hunt down Vezhir right now, but he felt paranoid that the moment his back was turned, his little slave would wilt away. She couldn't afford to be neglected any longer without risking her life. Though she was finally awake, the beginning of infection was starting to wreathe around her body in a sickly sweet fog. Her recovery was his first priority.

The olog began assembling a meager stew in the hearth made of grog and old, semi-sprouted tubers. He had a couple wooden drums of fresh water stored away, but he was hesitant to use it for consumption. It would be needed for rinsing her wounds, along with the scant liquor stock he had secured. There was a salted rabbit curing in the pantry from his last hunt that he was tempted to add to the pot, but thought better of it and started roasting it on the side. Meat always made him heal quicker after battles, perhaps it would do the same for her; a pinkskin as weak as her would need the whole rabbit to herself, he mused.

All the while he worked, Ar-Tashk never took his eyes off her for more than a minute. It didn't take her long to sink back to laying on the table, nursing a throbbing headache by resting on the makeshift hide pillow. She lay on her side; she kept her back facing away from the direction of the fire, as the heat made the wounds across her skin tighten and burn.

Alaesia watched Ar-Tashk with timid curiosity as he dished up a platter of roasted meat and a deep bowl of stew and brought it to the table. With near-unfathomable strength, he lifted her in one hand and placed her on a makeshift stool, a small crate, alongside the table. She wanted to protest, but could only struggle against the disorientation that swam around her head.

"Eat," came his curt demand.

Alaesia did her best to obey, wondering what he might threaten her with, should she refuse. But when her spoon slipped from her weak grasp, he simply moved to assist until she had finished every morsel he had piled in front of her. The familiar ravenous hunger overpowered any sense of resistance she might have had towards him. When she physically couldn't bear to eat anymore, Ar-Tashk took what little of the meal remained for himself; noting in the back of his head that there was precious little in terms of actual rations remaining since he hadn't hunted for himself in some time.

His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet, rasping whisper, asking him, "Why… W-why are you doing this? Why are you… t-treating me this way?"

Ar-Tashk remained silent, trying to think of how to answer. Alaesia kept her eyes averted, not knowing if speaking out of turn had upset him. The silence hung in the air for so long, she wondered if he even understood the question with his limited knowledge of their common tongue.

Eventually the olog grunted and started clearing the mess from the meal away as Alaesia struggled to keep from slumping to the floor. Though the thing she was carrying seemed to feed directly through her, it felt impossible to eat enough to stop the drain it placed on her body. Even after her stomach was filled beyond its capacity, it quickly was reduced to hungered growls. She thought she could actively feel her muscles atrophying.

She rested her head against the table's edge, only to turn when she heard Ar-Tashk finally respond to her query. His tone turned progressively more into a snarl as he spoke, "You, snaga-izub, my slave, but bear whelp of uruk blood. Overlord blood, overlord whelp. Isla-tab."

Alaesia's heart sank, gripped by flashes of what she had endured at the overlord's cruel hand; the memory of her escapist thoughts haunted her. Perhaps she had been wrong, about the olog's presence keeping the overlord away. Her delusion was simply that, a delusion. Maybe he really was just the guard dog watching and attending to the livestock for his master.

Unknown to the woman, Ar-Tashk was absorbed with a myriad of emotions that had never particularly bothered him before: jealousy, anger, betrayal, avarice, protectiveness, and so many more racked his mind. For some reason he felt he deserved the blame for his slave's condition and it left his disturbed most of all.

Never once had it crossed his mind that the overlord wanted anything to do with slaves; a sickening feeling washed over him as he considered the snaga he had captured for Vezhir's machinations. Never once did Ar-Tashk ever think there would be repercussions for bringing a human into the fort. Never once did he imagine his entertainment, the desire to torture her, might transform into something absolutely unrecognizable. It weighed down upon him, an unfamiliar burden. But why it bothered him at all was the hardest part to grasp.

Alaesia curled herself into a ball, as much as her aching body would allow, trying to choke back her own terrible emotions.

"I… I don't want it. This thing inside m-me…" she whimpered. "Please… let me be rid of it. T-take it out! I can't… just get this monster out of me. I beg you!"

"You will die," Ar-Tashk snapped and quickly made sure he hadn't left any cutlery or weapons sitting within her reach.

As he shuffled around her with some sort of task clearly occupying his mind, Alaesia finally looked at him, meeting his eyes with a forlorn expression, "W-when will you free me of this…? When are you going to k-kill me?"

The olog responded gruffly, "You are mine. Make life. Life is mine. Lat Isla-izub, nar isla-tab. I decide death. Az urdan-gurut."

His words only made Alaesia more upset. "Then take it! If my life is yours, you should just take it already and be done with me!" Her voice rose as she implored him, cracking and full of panic. The outburst winded Alaesia, and she couldn't help but double over, trying to catch her breath.

Ar-Tashk loomed close and menacingly over her causing his slave to recoil as he spoke, with bitterness creeping into his words, "Nar. Snaga-izub, sharlob-izub, isla-izub. I decide, you live. YOU ARE MINE. None else. Az korra, shakatroga, lat isla. Your whelp is uruk. Tab-balum. Za zaug-izub."

The woman's eyes were wide and pleading when they met his gaze. She didn't understand what he meant – her confusion was written all across her face.

Ar-Tashk snarled in frustration, unable to find the right turn of phrase to make his intent clearer. He tried to form a sentence, only to have it come out in a garble of two languages, incoherently mixed. He gestured a hand wildly towards the kitchen door, starting to mutter something about the "overlord," only to notice her withdraw even more. Her entire body started to tremble, her face went gray like stone, and the whites of her eyes filled with liquid.

"Not him… P-please, not him!" her whisper rattled. She couldn't bear the thought of Vezhir, his piercing gaze, his brutal claws, his complete and total control over her. Alaesia's breath was quickening in hysteria as she pleaded over and over, "Not him!"

Ar-Tashk wrapped his hands around her shoulders as she began to sway from hyperventilation. He attempted to quiet her with a soft hiss, but she screamed and tried to pull away until he barked at her, "Stop! Amul!"

She fought to choke back her anxious tears even as her body stung from his grip over her wounds; but fear of invoking the olog's anger or worse was far more crippling than any injury. What if his garbled speech was a threat to punish her by way of sending her to the overlord's quarters, just as the witch had once threatened? What was he going to do to her? She wished she could pull free of the olog's hands, but there was nowhere safe to retreat to, "I don't u-understand, just tell me what you want! Any-anything you want! Please, just n-not him!"

He held her fast in silence until he could hear her heartbeat begin to slow; the soft sound seemed to bring even his own emotions under control. He could feel her trembling, the sensation reminding him of the occasional deer he had hunted, before tearing their throats out with his teeth. For the briefest moment, he had to fight the primal urge to do the same to his slave, but he shook himself back to his senses. Ar-Tashk finally found exactly the right words to say: "Not him. Not again."

Alaesia was hesitant, the olog could see it in her face. But given enough time, he was able to coax her to not withdraw any further from his presence even as he released his grip on her. Though she felt sure that she was misinterpreting his words, it was extremely obvious he was trying to avoid manhandling her as he had in the past. She didn't want to dream of hoping the olog meant what he said. She looked into Ar-Tashk's monstrous face, searching for answers. Not him? Can he really mean he won't let that uruk near me?

"Overlord uruk, Vezhir, take life, but life is mine… harm isla-izub… Isla mine. Make you bear whelp…" the olog continued with methodic care while finding the right words. He gestured towards her stomach as it shifted slightly from movement within. "Not again. Not him. I stop him."

The uruk had stolen life from the Reaper, from his slave; that life must be repaid. Ar-Tashk bristled in righteous fury as he envisioned exacting vengeance on Vezhir. The uruk would die, never stealing from him again, never hurting Ar-Tashk's isla again. As he uttered his vow, he carefully swept a stray lock of hair from Alaesia's face with a finger. Though his eyes were still fixated on her, they also seemed to be staring through her as though lost in thought as the olog murmured, "Isla-izub… Isla mine…"

Alaesia didn't realize she had been holding her breath as he brushed against a large bruise on her cheek bone. She flinched and released the air in her lungs; the idea of never again being subjected to the overlord's cruel abuse was unfathomable. Despite his grotesque appearance, perhaps, though she didn't dare to hope, the olog wasn't quite the monster she had thought he was.

****Translations****

Kat-dash - lie still

Burzash - balance (steady)

Az grat-fakhth za akzurbak-fural! - I'm going to slaughter that sneaking traitor!

Snaga-izub - my slave

Isla-tab - his life-maker

Lat Isla-izub, nar isla-tab - You are my life-maker, not his.

Az urdan-gurut - I decide death

Nar. Snaga-izub, sharlob-izub, isla-izub - No, you are my slave, my human (female), my life maker.

Az korra, shakatroga, lat isla - I am the reaper, a destroyer, you are a creator

Tab-balum - His whelp

Za zaug-izub - That is my fault

Amul! - Calm!

(For the sake of clarity, here's Ar-Tashk tirade in context, roughly translated to convey his, poorly communicated, general intent:

"I'm going to kill that traitor…

"You are mine, but he (Vezhir) made you bear his whelp"

"You are mine, not his (Vezhir's) and I will decide when you die."

"No (refusing Alaesia's pleading to die). Everything you are (my slave, my human, my life-maker) is mine. I've decided to keep you alive, because you are my opposite. I am meant to destroy, but you are meant to create. It's my fault you were forced to create his (Vezhir's) whelp."

"The overlord took life that is rightfully mine by making you bear his whelp. He wronged me by hurting you. I will never let him do so again.")