****Author's note****
I am sorry about the delay between chapters. My senior year of university has me a lot busier than I expected. Hopefully, I can post more regularly once I graduate.
31
Alaesia kept a mental note as each day passed of how quickly the olog's mangled hand was progressing in its healing. At the back of her mind, she had a sinking feeling that nagged and grew louder with each degree of improvement; I have to escape… Once he heals and can use his hand again, it will only be a matter of time until he secures a proper kill and then, he'll drag me back to that forsaken fortress. I can't go back there. I can't! The sight of Ar-Tashk flexing his hand every day, both while marching along, and while resting at the makeshift camps, made her tense. The best chance of escape was to do so before he healed fully. That way, he might be impeded by the injury if he tried to recapture her. At least he wouldn't be able to shoot her in the back as she made her escape if he still couldn't wield the ballista.
But Alaesia knew without any doubt that she didn't currently have strength enough yet to survive alone. The life of an outcast was already demanding enough. During her years among the dispersed peoples barred from leaving Mordor, she had quickly learned her survival was her own responsibility. Outcasts simply didn't have the capacity, numbers, or close-knit social bonds to sacrifice themselves for anyone who couldn't carry their own weight. The weak, slow, old, and young were all at risk of being left behind when push came to shove. The fact that Alaesia's parents had sacrificed their own well-being and resources for their daughter was not lost on her. She was incredibly privileged to have even made it to adulthood as one born as an outcast. But the final memories, of all those she had come to care about, haunted her.
A worn gauntlet reached out, holding forward a wine-skin, held by a familiar Gondorian soldier that Alaesia had come to know over the years. Now she sat at the edge of a precipice, her thin back turned towards him as she leaned into one of her knees that was curled to her chest. She glanced at the wine-skin, then away, before taking it from the soldier's grasp without looking at him.
"Why are you here?" a bitter tone was pushed to the forefront of Alaesia's throat, as though it could hide the lump of grief that was threatening to burst forward.
The soldier welcomed himself to sit alongside side her, groaning from his aching back and limbs as he did so. His armored boots hung over the edge of the rocks, sending a couple loose pebbles tumbling down to the ground below. The air was heavy between them, but before he could respond, she snapped.
"How dare you come back! HOW DARE YOU! I begged you for help and you sent me away!" Alaesia clenched both of her hands to the wine-skin, wishing she had the strength to tear it apart. "We found my father's armor, no thanks to you! Those monsters must have torn him apart by the state of it. And you… the GALLANT Gondorian soldiers," she sneered angrily, "couldn't be bothered to lift a finger to rescue my mother. She could have been saved. She believed you Gondorians were heroes. She made me believe it too! I was a fool… You're just as bad as any orc!"
Her eyes darted up to meet the soldier's tired, pitiable gaze, which made her resolve falter. He looked upon her, with his eyes welling at the edges. Alaesia could just make out the faintest hint of a tear that threatened to spill over as he spoke, "I… I just came to say goodbye. I can't keep coming down here–"
"I should have known–" Alaesia scoffed, but he held up a hand pleading to give him a chance to speak.
"I'm getting old. Older tha' a good soldier ought ta be. By all rights I shoul' be retired by now, ta a wee plot o' farmland so I could live out the rest o' my days–"
"Must be nice to have such a rich life waiting for you!" she snipped.
"Please… Let me explain. I've been stationed at the gate far long'r tha' any soldier ought to be, only 'cause there's not enough men ta guard the borders. We are drawn thin an' no soldier is permitted to take unnecessary risks. I never wanted ta abandon ya, but I'm just one man an' I can't turn my back on my duty… Even tha' aside, I don't have any men ta command, and… I hate ta admit it, but my eyesight… I only knew ya were 'ere by the color of yer hair," the soldier's milky eyes searched Alaesia's face hopelessly. The once toughened voice, that he had coaxed her out of hiding with all those years ago, cracked and wavered with pained penance, "I'd give anythin' ta bring back yer parents…. I'd take ya with me if I could! But I'm afraid I'll never leave the Black Gate again, not ta return ta Gondor, not ta see you…"
Alaesia's heart burned with a myriad of emotions; anger, hurt, sadness, loneliness, all confusing her mind. She wanted so badly to be mad at him, but the ill fit of the soldier's armor was stark over his thinning form. She bit back a scathing comment and a bitter tear in her eye, "I can't live like this. All those I know and love are crumbling in my hands, like sand blown away in the wind. What is worth living for if I am alone?"
The soldier held out an arm, inviting his young friend closer, "I don't have any answer tha' can take away yer pain. And who am I ta talk of living when I wanted to give up so many years ago... But even in the darkest o' places, running around the likes o' orcs and Mordor's monsters, there was a light burning. A fiery spark o' life, o' hope in a desolate place. Somethin' worth fighting for."
"What could possibly be worth it when everyone is lost?" Alaesia sniffled, and leaned into the soldier's frail embrace. His hand lifted searchingly to her cheek and did his best to try brushing away any tears that had rolled down her face.
"Ya've always been strong'r than me, little cave bear," the soldier gave a wry half-chuckle and rubbed the misshapen bridge of his nose. "If a hellion like ya can blossom in a place like this, an' give 'n ole miser like me a reason ta keep fighting… then may'aps there's reasons hidden in Mordor's fog, waiting fer ya ta find them. An' I truly hope ya do."
The old soldier shifted so he could pull an apple from his satchel, and he handed it to her. Alaesia choked on a half-snort, half-sob, "It's no wonder you're as thin as you are, giving your rations away to little imps and outcast women!"
"Ach, take it. Not much use fattenin' up a tough, ole goat. The Lord Steward has ordered us to stay indefinitely, and I haven't the strength anymore. You have more use for it anyway."
"No, I can't…"
"Ya can," he clamped his hands over hers so she couldn't return his gift, "I want ya ta come ta the base of the gate, every eve, at sunset. I won't be able ta come down, but I'll lower down some food, an' leave it on that boulder, just on the south end, for ya." Before Alaesia could protest, he coughed and interrupted her, "Promise me, ya will. Promise!"
Alaesia nodded bitterly, "I… I promise." She had bid a final farewell to the old soldier that evening, and helped walk him back to the gate, but he dawdled until the stars began to peek through the colors of sunset. The shadows of the mountains surrounding them grew dark with clouds that slowly began to drizzle, making the old soldier throw back his head with a smile. He mused to her before retreating to the Black Gate, that it was good to feel the rain one last time.
The following few days, Alaesia kept her promise, and returned to the boulder as instructed. There she found small kerchiefs bundled around mostly breads, but occasionally, there was a fruit or even a slice of cheese. This went on for a number of evenings, until the ritual simply stopped and Alaesia found herself entirely alone, faced with the prospect of life in Mordor, without a single person to turn to.
Though thoughts of escaping her misery by taking her own life still lingered in Alaesia, she couldn't quite place her finger on what exactly now urged her to fight such thoughts. Perhaps it was the long since suppressed memories of her past that stayed her hand, as they cut deep into parts of her heart that she believed had turned to stone. Or maybe it was just her willful fantasy that had taken control where she had none. Whatever it was, Alaesia felt it in every inch of her body: a burning desire to live even if it was just to spite her conflicting emotions, or perhaps it was to spite Mordor itself. To live would be the ultimate insult within her power to invoke on a land and the monsters that took everything from her.
Alaesia wanted nothing more than escape the overwhelming feeling of helplessness that had taken hold since the night she had accepted her fate at the hands of the orc, Ku'Gohn. Preparing for death in that moment had felt so fulfilling, but now, remembering it made her sick. However, until her traumas were recovered, there was little Alaesia could do. She hated the crippling contractions that left her bleeding and vulnerable in the olog's presence. It was an ever-present ghost of her uruk tormentor and his offspring; as if they still clung to a part of her. Every night that passed was rife with brutal dreams.
A maggot riddled form of an uruk clawed at the ground pulling itself towards Alaesia in the dark mists of sleep. Where a face would have been, there was only a single, glowing eye sat atop the shoulders of the uruk and pierced through her chest with a blazing yellow gaze. From the headless body's decapitated throat, pus and black blood oozed down the body. Alaesia turned to flee, but the weight of her chains became boggish and heavier than she had ever known. The wicked claws of the headless uruk dragged itself closer and closer with every passing moment until it latched onto her feet. The putrid slime of the entity gripped and slithered up about Alaesia as it engulfed her senses. Her lungs seized as it forced black ichor down the woman's throat until she could do nothing but splutter for a grasp of air.
Other nights held guilt-ridden dreams waiting for her to slip into slumber.
Alaesia felt the familiar sensation of deep stabbing as she held a small bundle of cloth in her arms. The bitter smell of burning oil permeated the void of her slumber, making her wretch and gag. She fell to her knees, trying to spy a fragment of light in the distance, but the smothering smoke would swirl to fill her vision each time she did. In a desperate attempt to not lost sight of the light, she began to crawl forward, but the bundle in her arms soon grew too heavy. When the bundle finally fell from her grasp, the corners of the cloth fluttered open to allow the contents to pour forward; a pile of ash spilled out and as it did, numerous tiny bones clattered out with it. The pile of ash and bones grew and grew, all the while the pain in Alaesia's gut burned stronger until she could no longer stay in asleep.
That particular dream often coincided with the worst of her bleeding episodes. Sometimes, in addition to the gut-gripping pain, there was so much blood, Alaesia was sure something was terribly wrong. Perhaps the trauma from the cave was just so much that her body was beyond healing. She wasn't sure. The most surprising part to her was that she hadn't bled out. It was just a seemingly endless wound that painted the ground around her red. In the worst moments, she could only curl up and wait for the cramping to pass. Even as the episodes overwhelmed her senses, she was always keenly aware of her captor, who lingered nearby, ever watchful and attentive. It was impossible to ignore that his keen senses were assaulted by the scent of blood, to the point that he seemed to know better than even Alaesia did when it was about to start again. More often than not, he'd turn northwards from his westward trek before there was any sign of blood, only to have it start up again shortly before they reached the banks of the river again.
Her dreams rarely involved him, in particular, but when they did, she found herself growing more resentful of him.
Ar-Tashk was never actually present in her dreams, but she knew he was there, by instinct. A blackness always filled her vision, but she could hear chains. They rattled and ground together with the screech of metal on metal. The sound was all around her, as she strung up, suspended in the void by the chains. They constricted about her wrists and arms, tightening ever more, threatening to never let her go; the embodiment of all the olog was. His iron grip upon her was exactly as the chains that held her like a piece of cured meat waiting for the day he would finally devour her.
She loathed the control Ar-Tashk still exerted over her, the collar and shackles constantly reminding Alaesia that she was still just chattel to the olog. He never turned his back long enough for her to make any moves and anytime he allowed her to use the shortsword it was only under extremely scrutinizing supervision. He was always careful to confiscate the blade when she wasn't actively using it to prepare the small kills he caught.
Becoming strong enough to care for herself now was more critical than ever, if Alaesia was going to escape her olog captor. It was a dangerous line that she was dancing along: she had to make sure that her master's injuries didn't impede his efforts hunting down the sparse game among the rocky hills. His small successes strengthened both himself and her in-turn, so she would have to simultaneously plan her escape before he grew wise enough, and able enough, to stop her.