Reality Check

When he woke, the room was dark. Faint, flickering light at one end told him a fire burned low in the hearth. He still lay atop the woman's table, but now his arms were secured underneath, tied one to the other below it. His feet, too, were bound to the table legs. Whoever she was, for whatever reason she knocked him out, she wasn't stupid. He started when he saw her face suddenly looming over his, scrutinizing him carefully. She touched his forehead with a cool palm, holding it there for a few seconds. Then her attention went to his belly wound.

Staring at the timbered ceiling, the orc lay still as the woman loosened the bandage that girded his abdomen and lifted the compress. She probed the stitched area with gentle hands.

"What you do to me?" he rasped weakly. Her head turned slightly in the direction of his voice but didn't look at him directly.

"Sewed you closed," she said simply. "I didn't fancy orc guts on my doorstep."

"Why?" he replied with a grimace. "'S'an honor."

Nymhriel snorted. "Not to me."

A flash of steel caught his eye. There was a long, sharp knife in her hand. "What you doing now?" he whispered.

"You woke too soon," she explained, hooking a blood-encrusted leather strap of his armor with the blade and neatly cutting it. "I've yet to look at your leg. That other wound was more dire." She gestured briefly at his stomach with the point of the knife, then resumed cutting away his leg armor.

Once his thigh was exposed, she brought a lamp closer to see the damage. Sighing, she shook her head and turned toward a basket of things by her feet, fussing with something he couldn't see. He watched her movements, uncomprehending. When she returned to him with the same cloth as before, he began to struggle in a panic.

"Don't be stupid," she said quietly. "It is best. I don't want to listen to your howling." Taking him by the hair in an unexpectedly strong grip, she forced him to stay still enough for her to apply the cloth once more. It was a stronger dose this time, and his descent into oblivion was swift.

The poppy tears dulled pain as well as granting oblivion when applied properly, so when the orc finally drifted back to consciousness, he was relatively comfortable, considering the terrible wounds he had received. It was now full day, and he was surprised to find he was no longer in her kitchen.

He was on a bed. An actual bed, with blankets and sheets, even a pillow beneath his head. He could feel the crisp, clean sheet against his naked skin. Yet he was bound, wrists and ankles tied one to each bedpost. Still cautious, she had ensured he could not turn on her. A nearby window stood open, letting in a fresh autumn breeze. Outside he could hear a horse snuffling the grass, looking for provender. The door was closed, yet he could hear the voices on the other side.

"What I do in my home is my own affair," he heard her say. The tone of her voice was angry; someone had riled her up proper out there.

"You are the only healer for miles around," a man's voice countered, shaking with rage. "What happens to you is of great importance to all of us. You have exposed yourself to danger. That thing in your bed is going to kill you as surely as the winter comes after the fall."

"Perhaps he will," she said coldly. "That is, as I said, my affair. The beast is contained; he cannot harm me."

"Tied down he may be, but how long will you keep him around?"

"Until he is healed."

"Then what? Set him loose? He would only return, probably with his fellows." The man's tone was unmistakably trying to convey without words what the orcs were likely to do with her first.

"Your concerns are noted, Willem, but unnecessary. I have ways of taking care of any...problems that may arise."

"Answer me this, then," the man countered. "What possessed you to heal the beast in the first place?"

There was a very pregnant pause. The orc strained to hear, for it was a question he would ask as well.

"Because I am a healer," she replied with quiet dignity. He could almost hear her head held high as she said it. "I am oath-bound to heal those who suffer. I do not care who, or what, they are."

"If you beheld the Dark Lord himself in a similar state, would you extend your hand to him as well?" the man snapped, unmoved.

"He is different," she said, her voice revealing unexpected malevolence. "I presume you wish to compare the orc to his master. Grotesque as he is, his kind are still living beings. The same cannot easily be said of the Lord of Mordor. Orcs tend to stay in their holes unless prompted out of them by cruel, inhuman creatures like Him. There is capacity within me to feel pity for the slave, but not so much for the master.

"In any case, your point is moot. The Dark Lord is no more."

"I wonder if you think the beast will feel gratitude," the man replied, a hint of mockery in his voice.

"I have no such illusions," she snapped. "If I did, he would not be bound. The war is over, Willem, and so is this conversation. I thank you for helping me move him, and perhaps I will consider your...other offer. It would be kind of you to leave now."

No further words were exchanged. The front door opened and closed, the sound of a man mounting a horse and trotting away drifted in. The door of his room opened.

She raised an eyebrow when she looked at him. Without a word, she went to the bed and carefully tested the bonds. Satisfied with their security, she re-examined his wounds, checking again for infection. The soft, gentle touch of her hands stirred his member from its slumber. He felt it stiffening as she heedlessly probed his belly.

Not so heedless as he thought, she grimaced with disgust but otherwise did not deviate from her task. She ignored him pointedly as she replaced the bandage on the injury and turned to his thigh.

A sigh of pleasure escaped him at her touch and he closed his eyes, savoring the contact. Infuriated, she struck him across the face. His eyes snapped open.

"I am a healer," she snarled, piercing eyes fixed on his. "I am also an herbalist of great skill. There are many things I could do to you that are not nearly as benign as dulling pain. You'd best keep silent about your filthy thoughts."

"Can't help it!" he roared, glaring at her and yanking futilely at the ropes. He faltered, looking away. "Not held by tark before."

"Get used to it," she snapped, covering his bare leg with the blanket, her examination done. "I am not entirely pleased with how you are healing. I shall have to keep an eye on things." Standing, she looked down at him; he could not mistake the revulsion on her face. "I have treated the women left behind by beasts like you. I have held them in my arms as they wept, sewn them back together, convinced them not to kill themselves for such deeds as... things like you commit. I have disposed of the abominable get that such assaults have conceived. Don't think for one moment that my mercy extends beyond these walls. If my oath had not forced my hand, you would have been killed without mercy, and without thought." Turning on her heel, she left the room and slammed the door.

He found he was shaking, but not from cold.