***** Author's Note *****

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60

The air inside the warg den turned heavy; Alaesia couldn't choke down a breath due to how it balled up in her throat. If she could, she would have ripped the metal collar off her neck in the hopes it might alleviate the intensity of the pressure bearing down, but there wasn't anything physically stopping her from breathing. It was entirely the dissonance in her own head holding her airways captive. Her lungs were frozen, as if by some fool's hope that might alter the reality of the situation, or perhaps reject it at least.

No... It's just a misunderstanding, a mistranslation, Alaesia demanded of her own thoughts, There's no way he means... The olog's gaze was fixed upon her, making Alaesia suddenly feel very exposed. Acute humiliation started to creep into her skin as she realized her rags were mostly sloughed from her body, putting the bare skin of her chest in contact with the leather and metal of Ar-Tashk's armor. Though it was layered, bunched, and contorted uncomfortably under her, buckles and studs digging into her sides for how she was laid across him, she was grateful. She could only thank Eru that he had maintained his own clothing for the moment; any barrier between direct contact was a blessing. At least for now, however brief such grace might last, that was. If Ar-Tashk was going to move to force himself upon her, he would have the trouble of disrobing first.

But Alaesia suspected, even if she didn't want to believe it, that Ar-Tashk was waiting; waiting for what though? Permission? The incredulous thought sneered as if it was not her own. Was he just letting her stew in fear because it was fun to toy with her like a cat might torment a mouse until its heart gave out? It certainly wasn't because he had even a speck of dust's worth of care about what she wanted. As if any vile thing in Mordor would care about the desires of a human. They took what they wanted, when they wanted, and Alaesia knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, Ar-Tashk would take what he wanted when his game grew tiresome. His eyes were somehow burrowing through her with the intensity of a carnivore observing a hapless creature while at the same time drinking in her appearance with the thirst of a desert, but he was waiting, watching nonetheless.

Why does he have to look at me like that?! She wanted to squirm out of his grasp, out of his sight. She would almost prefer Ar-Tashk just eat her rather than to be faced with his unfathomable desires. But she was the one who had submitted to him, over Frogblood's flimsy and menacing offer of protection. Did she really have any chance at rejecting Ar-Tashk now, once his mind was made up, even if she were to change her own mind? There was no way he had the capacity for anything more than death and destruction, she insisted to herself, but it wasn't like the other option was any more viable. For the conflict in her chest, it was easier to believe Ar-Tashk to be incapable of feelings or thoughts that made him any less of a monster.

A monster... Her mind would have been screaming, if not for how he had controlled himself moments earlier, stopping his assault at her plea. I've known monsters... Alaesia thought in bitter silence. A monster would have taken whatever he wanted from her; Ar-Tashk hadn't. A monster would have ignored her cries for mercy; he seemed intent on drinking in any word she spoke. A monster would have reveled in her pain; Ar-Tashk seemed to be handling her with uncharacteristic delicacy. But Alaesia couldn't help but doubt she wasn't dreaming that up as some pitiful sort of self-defense for what was to come. Delusions had taken hold before, only to be shattered when the reality of being a slave to orcish masters crashed back down upon her. Was Ar-Tashk really any different now than compared to the fiend who had slaughtered Ku'Gohn and taken her for his own slave? Or was she just imagining it? Even if he wasn't throwing her about like a ragdoll as he had in the past, how could she think of him as anything but a monster?

Hazy memories flitted at the back of her mind, of the number of times she had been knocking at death's door. So much of it was a blur. There was a terrifying picture of Ar-Tashk's face looming over her in her mind's eye; he was adorned with huge plates and metal spines that twisted around up over his shoulders like devilish mountain peaks, a hood of tattered leather fallen back off of his wild, coarse mane, his pale skin painted with black ooze that rolled and dripped away, the scars across his face adding to the intensity of his icy eyes and lips curled into a terrible snarl. And yet, that feverish memory didn't bring the sense of dread to her mind that Alaesia thought it ought to. Perhaps that was because his snarl hadn't been directed at her, but rather towards someone else who had been beyond her line of sight at the time. It was so hard to recall, but as the memory slipped back to the recesses, it left her with a question of uncertainty; why, in that moment, had that mental image of Ar-Tashk made her feel... safe? Moreover, why, with Frogblood's threats and accursed promises hovering over her like a storm cloud, did a certain phrase keep coming back to her?

Maybe it takes a monster to keep away monsters...

Had she said that? Alaesia wondered but she was almost certain she could recall hearing her own, cracked and broken voice whisper those words. Details were slowly coming back to her, of each of their interactions, with new context shedding upon the hindsight. Back then, she had wanted and made an effort to stay close to the olog's side, sheltering in his shadow. Somehow, in her subconscious mind, she had pieced together that Ar-Tashk's presence interrupted Vezhir's assaults, even stopping them entirely, as if the uruk overlord had needed to hide his actions from his own commander. It all seemed to culminate when Ar-Tashk had become overwhelmed with murderous intent the day that Alaesia learned he was aware of her pregnancy. She had assumed it was just his default state of mind, but now she was questioning if, maybe, just maybe, his wrath was instead directed at Vezhir.

Over what? Over a slave? She wanted to scoff at the idea, but it seemed sickeningly obvious the more she thought about it. In all her life in Mordor, Alaesia had seen orcs get whipped into a jealous frenzy over whose grog barrel was whose, let alone debating ownership of slaves. More often than not one orc would end up on the blade of the other, if both parties in the debate didn't gut each other at the same time. If Ar-Tashk saw her as his own slave, not just a ward assigned to him to preserve for the lecherous pleasure of the overlord, as she had originally believed, as Vezhir himself had convinced her of time and time again, then everything else made perfect, dreadful sense: Ar-Tashk's cruel domination, his violence towards those who crossed his claim, his persistence in the hunt... And his careful explorations of her body. She couldn't deny what was plainly obvious by his word and deed. He was possessed, for some unfathomable reason, with her.

Alaesia's whole body shuddered involuntarily with chills at the thought.

Ar-Tashk frowned as his assertion was met with silence. As his Isla was staring hollowly at the hand he had used to gesture towards his chest, he wondered if his words had even made sense to her. It was loathsome being unable to make her understand.

It had never bothered him, or been a hindrance, when dealing with orcs. He knew enough Westron to understand most conversations well enough, even if he had trouble speaking it himself. Sometimes it even came in handy to pretend he couldn't understand it so unsuspecting orcs would openly blather on about their secret machinations, assassination plans, blah blah blah, all the while believing Ar-Tashk was dumb to their jabbering; letting them underestimate him made it more fun when he got to catch them in their lies. And when it came to the opposite, either they spoke black speech or they didn't, and those that didn't figure it out pretty quick or died for Ar-Tashk's impatience. But now, his lack of knowledge of the human tongue meant his garbled attempts at conveying his thoughts got lost in translation.

Ar-Tashk scowled inwardly, thinking to the orc outside that had mouthed off at him. In spite of his disrespectful tone, he had flipped between Westron and Black Speech seamlessly. Perhaps it was a good thing his Isla had begged to spare the obnoxious shrakh-stain's life; the orc's ability to fluently speak both languages could prove useful, or he could just as well meet his end should he refuse. Either way, it didn't bother Ar-Tashk. He had only just stopped himself from killing the belligerent orc, only because his Isla asked it of him. Otherwise, the olog would have not batted an eye at grinding him to a smear under his heel.

Ar-Tashk started to shift his weight, about to heft himself upright to go fetch the orc, when his Isla shivered, and quietly whispered something he didn't quite catch making the hulking brute pause, "Ma? What say?"

Alaesia flinched at the brusqueness in Ar-Tashk's bass voice. Even when he was quiet, the deep tone still made its way into her gut, reverberating like the aftermath of an explosion. She wished so badly she could steel her own quavering voice. It sounded so distant and shallow, "Y-you call me I-Isla... L-life m-maker..."

"Akh," he dipped his head in a single, firm nod. His hand wandered back to holding the side of her head, teasing her tangled hair with the tip of his fingers. It was like a heatless fire tickling his skin, though dulled with dirt and debris. Ar-Tashk hated how worn and tired she looked. He wished she would just lay against him and rest, "Isla-izub..."

"I... I'm not..." Alaesia tried not to falter, but it was so incredibly difficult to resist biting her tongue. She didn't know how he would react to her being so bold as to correct him, but she needed to know what he meant by his words. It seemed a small test, to make a simple request of him, to not call her by that name, but the question was how would he respond, "I'm n-not I-Isla. M-my name is A-Alaesia..."

"Alai si a... Alaisia?" The olog tilted his head, eyes still boring into her. He rolled the word around in his mouth as if debating whether she was attempting to offend or defy him, whether he should be upset. Alaesia's countenance wilted as he growled, "Nar... Tig'rat narbolk ghashn latish Ku'Gohn-tab bugud ur lat. Lat narkramp alai si. Lat tor Isla-izub. No monster. No call Alaisia. I call Isla."

Alaesia bit her lip, only gleaning from the threatening inflection of his language that he was refusing to call her by her name, but at least her request hadn't seemed to anger him any more. If he insisted on calling her that calloused name, there was little she could do to argue. She could feel the tension of his chest underneath her as it rose and fell, a simple gauge by which she figured she might be able to measure his temper, but she didn't dare press that issue any further. Even if his declarations toward her were accurate to her suspicions, who knew how much of that entailed any sense of grace or mercy? That was one question her anxiety wouldn't allow her to hold back any longer. Before she knew what she was doing, a blubbering sob finally snuck out against her better judgement, "I-I can't-"

However, it was his hand that interrupted anything further she was going to say.

The massive, calloused hand that had been running painfully across the mats in her hair jerked suddenly, making Ar-Tashk snarl and draw it away before the involuntary spasm of his half-healed muscles could cause him to latch onto his Isla. Though the sudden movement seemed to startle her anyways. His Isla let out a quiet gasp in pain as a knot in her hair caught on his finger and she drew back into herself, like he had gone to swipe at her. No matter what he did, it seemed she was always on edge, like a paranoid orc making assassins out of cloud shadows.

He groaned irritably, rolling to his side, allowing her to slide off his chest to the ground, then rolled back the other way to deal with his aching hand on his own. The motion unfortunately only added to his symptoms as the den seemed to rock back and forth of its own accord before his eyes. Ar-Tashk blinked to shake off the sensation while trying to uncurl his hand. Yet the other hand seemed nearly just as useless, for the fact that the fresher wounds from the warg claws, both from the night before and his encounter with the pup earlier that day finally seemed to have taken their toll. His fingertips were numb from blood loss.

"Skai warg!" He cursed; the tendons in his hands refused to obey. Why now, of all the wretched luck, did the exhaustion have to catch up with him? There always seemed to be something getting in his way, drawing him away from her. If it wasn't a tactical mission to clear camps, then it was a stupid pit fight challenge, if it wasn't a graug attack, then it was an uruk shrakh nearly killing her, if not stinking orc slavers stealing her away, then now it was his own body fighting against him. Why couldn't he just savor his time holding his Isla?! Frustration rushed rampantly to his jaw, making the olog grind his teeth. If he could stop the world's pestering nuisances for just a few moments, he would have done so without hesitation.

"A-Ar-Tashk..." The soft murmur of his Isla's voice caught him by surprise. There was the unmistakable lilt of shock as she spoke, but also, Ar-Tashk wanted to believe, there was a hint of concern as well.

Alaesia's eyes were ill-suited for the poor cave lighting, but it was impossible to miss the glint of sticky blood caking the mane of black hair and pallid tone of his back, with tracks of fresh liquid streaming from flayed segments of skin that she could now see as he turned away from her. The extent of the damage had left him with great raking marks that had been dug into his tough hide; it seemed, luckily for him, that his natural armor had prevented any critical damage from what Alaesia could make out. Most of the cuts were shallow, no worse than many of the other scars Ar-Tashk sported, except for a row of deep punctures. Tucked behind his arm, at an angle where he wouldn't have been able to see, the mark of a deeply embedded warg bite was actively pouring blood onto the floor of the den.

"Your b-back... Y-you're hurt," she whispered, holding back a wretched twisting in her stomach at the sight. If it hadn't been so long since she last ate, the amount of blood pooling on the ground might have even made her vomit. This wasn't the first time his actions had left him roughed up, however, it was the first time Alaesia was cognizant of why he had thrown himself into danger in the first place. His hand, his arm, the numerous bruises and cuts he had endured, many of which had occurred in the process of saving her. Whether from graugs, wargs, or orcs, he had sacrificed his own well-being for her. Alaesia hesitated to react, hating what was now dawning on her. Before, she wouldn't have thought twice about it, but now, every memory felt colored by his desires. At any time, Ar-Tashk could have easily killed her himself, let anything else do the deed for him, or simply let her die of her own wounds, but he had done everything in his power to prevent that fate including suffering in her stead.

His actions made her sick deep in the pit of her gut, both with sorrow and self-contempt; was she as foul a creature to ally herself to a soldier of Mordor? If her parents or the old Gondorian soldier could see her now, would they think she was a monster, corrupted by uruk blood and cowed in obeisance to a troll? Or perhaps was using Ar-Tashk for self-preservation an act of cruelty toward the olog himself? Was it traitorous to her own kind? What if it was her only means of survival? Could one even be cruel to an olog? If she were to acknowledge that she had chosen the black-maned behemoth she knew over the putrid green fiend outside, could she stomach what that might mean in the end? Could she even bring herself to act accordingly?

Another phrase rolled through her head, the words of that infuriating, mind-manipulating orc, Zathra; you do what you have to, to survive. But even that felt wrong somehow. Sure, while trapped in the cave before its collapse, she had treated Barbaurak's near fatal wound on the basis of that exact sentiment, and he seemed to have returned the favor by driving Frogblood away before the green orc could harm her. For a moment, Alaesia wondered, if the reason she felt wrong for viewing it only as a matter of survival, might've stemmed from the sense that just as Barbaurak had repaid her for her care; that she might, in some warped sense of the word, owe Ar-Tashk for all he had done for her.

While his back was turned, Ar-Tashk heard rustling behind him followed by the feathery touch of his Isla's small hand tracing the wound on his arm. He only just resisted jerking back around, knowing that throwing his bulk around without warning was liable to injure her if he wasn't conscious of where she was at any given moment. He wanted to know what she was doing, but also knew how timid the human was; made bolder when he kept his attentions averted. Instead, he held himself perfectly still, waiting for her to come to him of her own accord.

Ar-Tashk had missed the feeling of her touch. Though he was becoming lightheaded and dizzy, he wished this moment would last forever. She hadn't retreated, even as he could scent her fear grow at his snarls of irritation. It seemed she was drawn to his injuries, but not because she found a weakness to exploit as an orc would, but because it needed mending. Just like she had treated his arm before, he wanted nothing more than to hope she might do the same now. He silently cursed to himself that he had ever ripped off the rabbit-skin bandages she had been so careful to apply. It seemed so unnecessarily whelpish that he had thrown such a fit and destroyed the one thing she had done specifically for him, even if he was infuriated at the time.

"Y-you're in r-rough shape..." He heard her breathe, and shifted slowly to look over his shoulder at her.

She didn't even stand as tall as the width of his shoulders, Ar-Tashk mused. When her eyes flicked up to see him leering back, she withdrew her hand quickly only to be met with the olog's curt order, "Narkramp irzkrat... Stay. Treat wounds..."

Alaesia swallowed hard. Her mind wouldn't stop racing, repeating the same mantras of indecision over and over. The last time she had done so, it had only been for the sake of ensuring he could hunt and by proxy strengthen her for her escape plan. Knowing what she did now of his feelings towards her, could she in good conscience continue using him, especially when she now realized escaping into Mordor's brutal wilds was entirely unviable? And even if he were to shelter her from the impending threat of Frogblood's treacherous bargain, how might the olog react if he were to realize she saw him only as a means to an end? Would his pettiness or jealousy make him eventually turn on her if her intent came to light? And why did it feel wrong to take advantage of his strength now? Was it just because she owed him her life?

The air was so thick and heavy, Alaesia felt it might crush her if she didn't get out of the den soon. She stammered, trying to think of the best way to alleviate the guilt rising in her chest, "O-one of th-the orcs outside... h-he's a h-healer. He c-can help y-you. L-let me go get-"

"NAR," Ar-Tashk snapped, turning fully back to face her. Even as he demanded, it didn't feel the same to have her tend to his wounds when he was forcing her to. There was no evidence in making his Isla obey that meant she reciprocated his care. His voice turned to a low murmur, "No want orc. Want Isla, you, treat wounds."

Alaesia took another nervous step back. Even lying prone on his side, he was an intimidating creature, like a gigantic lion lounging in wait for its next hunt, "I-I-I can't. I think y-you nicked a v-vein-"

"Quit arguin' with yer MASTER and do as yer told, slave!" A sharp voice cut across the den, making Alaesia startle. Frogblood must have slipped back into the den unnoticed by either Alaesia or Ar-Tashk until he spoke up.

***** Translations *****

Ma? - Huh? (Shortened from Mash, meaning what?)

Isla-izub - my lifemaker

Akh - Yes

Alai si a... Alaisia? - beast like one (one who is beast-like)

Nar... Tig'rat (conj. tig grat) narbolk ghashn latish Ku'Gohn-tab bugud ur lat. Lat narkramp alai si. Lat tor Isla-izub. - No... there is no need to call yourself Ku'Gohn's name for you. You aren't beast like. You're my beautiful lifemaker.

- Context: Ar-Tashk misunderstands that Alaesia is telling him her Westron name and mistranslates it into the closest words in Black speech ("alai" - beast, "si" - like, "a" - one who is) and concludes she was given a name by Ku'Gohn that means she is a monster, so he tries to reassure her that its okay to accept HIS name for her (Isla), completely missing the point.

Skai warg - Damn warg!

Narkramp irzkrat - Don't leave

Nar - No