When Mauhûr turned to the woman, he found that she'd retreated to the back of the shelter where she cowered in terror. The stench of her fear permeated the air worse than any he'd scented before. It was not pleasant. It did not stir his nascent bloodlust. No lust of any kind was aroused, for that matter. A completely different urgency consumed him.
Protect her, it seemed to say. Calm her fear.
"Do not fear me," he growled succinctly, in the same way he might have ordered a pizurk under his command. Her uneven breaths culminated in a whimper, and she covered her head with both arms.
For the first time in Mauhûr's life, he did not know how to handle a situation. None of the solutions he'd learned to every other problem seemed relevant to this one. He stood in the center of the hut with a frown on his face, looking about him for some hint, some manner of guide to lead him to the next fight in this battle, but nothing presented itself. All the while that he stood motionless and silent, the woman's choking sobs frustrated him further.
What do I do? he thought helplessly, then shook his head sharply. He was pizdur Mauhûr, trusted by his master, respected by his pizurk. He was undefeated in the field. No whiteskin had bested him in hand-to-hand combat. He certainly would not allow a female to do so now!
"What are you called?" he barked. The woman startled and went silent, but did not look at him.
"Fe-... Fedelm," she whispered haltingly.
"I am Mauhûr," he supplied, again struck with inexplicable awkwardness. Her voice was pleasant to his ears; soft like doeskin, inspiring calmness. He was completely unprepared for it, and could think of nothing else to say.
She nodded, and breathed, "I know."
His throat had gone dry. Mauhûr struggled to swallow, and to fill the silence with something – anything. His eyes wandered the hut once more, noting the corner in which Fedelm knelt. It was neatly arranged and well ordered. Spare clothing was folded and stacked together. The bedding was smoothed. In this one corner, there was comfort and peace. It must surely be hers, for the rest of the hut was chaos. Comparing her tidiness with the headman's obviously scatter-brained housekeeping, his discontent renewed.
"This is your place?" he snarled with distaste.
She flinched as though he'd struck her. Everything he said had the same effect, as though he spoke with fists, not words. How he might change this seemed to elude him for the moment; perhaps he might discover a solution later. That he felt compelled to find one was unexpected as well.
"Yes, pizdur," she whimpered, nodding quickly.
"I smell the headman," Mauhûr noted, wrinkling his nose. "He lives here also?"
Fedelm nodded again, this time seemingly unable to speak.
"Does he rut you?" the pizdur growled. Now her head shot up and she fixed him with a startled, shocked look. He felt the corners of his mouth twitching, as though urging him to smile. He fought the temptation, for he was Mauhûr, and Mauhûr never smiled. It made no more sense to smile at this female than any other strange urge that had assailed him since entering the hut.
"He is my father," she said indignantly.
The Uruk waved a dismissive hand. "I do not know 'father.' Does he rut you?"
She shook her head. "No. I am... his child."
"I see," Mauhûr replied with a frown. Again, the use of the word 'child.' He had no understanding of the concept, except to describe very small Men. Rather useless ones, in his opinion. Too small to hold blades. Too weak to fight. Easily slain. Why Men always seemed to have them around escaped him.
Straightening to his full height, he told her, "I do not like this place. There is no order to it. And it stinks of Drust. You will live elsewhere."
"I do not understand," Fedelm said timidly.
"I will inform your... father that you are to have a different place." Eying the female's corner, he nodded with satisfaction. "You will keep this new place as you keep your corner: neat and ordered."
"Y-yes, pizdur," she whispered. Her brow was pinched with confusion. Huffing impatiently, he reviewed his commands, wondering what he'd forgotten or hadn't made clear.
"I should not have to say it, but I will," Mauhûr growled. "I do not want Drust's stink in the new place. I also do not want any other Man's stink in it. Or on you. You belong to me now. Any who touch you will die by my hand. Do you understand?"
He hadn't thought the repulsive stench of her fear could get worse. Growling and exhaling sharply, he shook his head. "And you will cease fearing me. I do not like the smell. Stop it this moment."
She burst into tears and drew herself into a tighter ball on her bedding. "For-forgive... please. Mercy," she babbled. Her body shook so hard with terror, he barely understood her words.
This was not what he'd expected; not his reaction to her, nor this strange impotence in the face of her apparent cowardice. A pizurk who cowered before him, who begged mercy, invited a clout and a kick; this female made him feel monstrous. He couldn't even identify the myriad urges she inspired, save one. Calling her his, declaring that she belonged to him, felt right. Being in her presence felt right. As though he belonged there with her. To her. Though he had no idea why these feelings were coming to him, they seemed to be guided by some instinct he'd been unaware of before. At least for now, he seemed to be stumbling in the right direction.
Swallowing his own bewilderment, Mauhûr mustered enough authority to say, "When I return, I expect these things to be in order: you in a new place, untouched, waiting for me. Do you understand?"
"Yes, pizdur," Fedelm choked, her voice muffled behind her trembling hands as she tried to hold back hysterical sobs.
Nodding shortly, he turned on his heel and strode out of the hut. The bright sun nearly blinded him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. His breath came in short, sharp gasps for several moments as he fought to constrain the wild hammering of his heart. How could he desire never to leave that hut, yet be grateful for having escaped it?
"Pizdur?"
Startled, Mauhûr opened his eyes and turned toward his pizbûr's voice. Dushrûk still stood outside the hut, standing guard for his superior without being commanded. His one eye was narrowed, and he looked at Mauhûr uncertainly.
Apparently assuming that the pizdur's business with his 'child' was concluded, Drust hastened into the hut, limping slightly and nursing a swollen eye. Mauhûr was too distracted to notice the hateful glare as the Man disappeared inside.
"Line them up," the pizdur grunted to Dushrûk. "Ten minutes only."
"Aye," the pizbûr nodded slowly, staring at Mauhûr for another long moment before heading off to gather the company.
An hour into their return march, Mauhûr could stand it no longer. The sniffer hadn't taken his beady little eyes off the Uruk commander ever since they'd left the Dunlending village. It was a calculating look, one that did nothing to hide the suspicious thoughts swirling behind those old eyes. Golmud seemed almost to be taunting him; daring the pizdur to call him out and demand reasons for such a provocative look. Still unnerved by his confusing time with Fedelm – the name alone unsettled his thoughts and nearly caused his feet to stumble – Mauhûr was feeling uncharacteristically reckless.
"You have something to say to me?" he snapped. Golmud, reclining in the wagon with the cringing breeders, smirked at him.
"Been tryin' to figger it out," the old Orc replied. "Seen 'at look before. Ain't seen it on one'uh you lot, though. Seemed you was smarter'n 'at."
"Speak your piece, old one," Mauhûr grumbled. "Make it quick. I have no patience for riddles."
"Nar, this ain't somethin' yuh wanna go spoutin' all about," Golmud said casually, then snickered. "Guess you lads is always spoutin', eh? On the ladies, on the gents; just a'spoutin' every which way." He seemed to be overcome with amusement at his own little joke, wheezing with laughter for several minutes. Mauhûr rolled his eyes and refused to respond.
"Well, the lads're happy fer yuh, anyway," Golmud chuckled quietly. "Figgered gettin' some cunny'd calm yer ass down. Been awhile since yuh put yer dick to use, they say." Mauhûr shot the old Orc a surprised and annoyed look. It was on the tip of his tongue to snarl a retort about minding his own affairs, when Mauhûr noted Golmud's expression. The Orc had a sly, probing look in his eye, and his smile wasn't one Mauhûr would expect from someone sharing an appreciative laugh. "Guess I ain't surprised. Hard to resist, a fuck that ain't tied down. Do her right in her da's hut to show'im who's boss. No surprise you was in and done so quick. Model of efficiency, you are."
Mauhûr could not guess why the sniffer's words galled him. He had no idea why the mere idea that he'd gone into that hut to harm the female would offend him. Eyes flashing dangerously, he felt his lip curl and his fists clench. A low rumbling growl began to build in his chest. Golmud smirked.
"'At's all right, lad," he said in mocking sympathy. "Yer owed, I expect. Important bastard like you, probably too busy sortin' out the spoils to take yer due. Who wants a hasty fuck on the dirty ground with a bunch of jeerin' Uruks about, when you can take yer time, bend her over in the one place she thought was safe?" Sneering with contempt, he snarled, "Ain't never gonna be 'safe' no more."
"Shut it!" Mauhûr exploded suddenly, his voice carrying like thunder to every ear. The old Orc's face went coldly serious, the humor at the pizdur's expense draining away like sand through fingers.
"Stupid boy," Golmud hissed, leaning over the wagon's side board. "What made yuh think 'at was a good idea, eh?" Wrong-footed, Mauhûr stared at the old Orc.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded in an undertone.
"You and me's gonna have a chat, when we get back," Golmud told him. "I was gettin' to like yuh, too, yuh stupid fuckwit."
