Vengeance, Thy Name is Woman

It was hours before she returned. Boredom made him sleep on and off during that time; he could see that she had not slept at all. Dimly he recalled voices intruding on his dreams; undoubtedly they were patients come to see her. Eyes hollow and smudged darkly, she looked exhausted. And still the patients came and went, their voices a susurrus of gentle sound on the other side of the closed door.

"My armor?" he asked.

Her expression was weary yet hostile. "It was filthy, as were you. When I washed you, I just left it off."

"You... washed me?" he asked, incredulous.

"Of course," she replied, sitting down on a stool next to the bed and pulling the blanket down in a businesslike fashion to expose his belly for an examination. "I would not put something as disgusting as you in my bed without at least an attempt at disinfection."

"Not disgusting," he mumbled sullenly, glaring at the opposite wall.

"You were quite disgusting," she remarked. Sighing, she stood. "Not good at all." Without another word, she left again. The cool evening air coming in through the window now made him shiver.

A few minutes later she returned with a basket of materials he couldn't identify. "What is not good?" he asked.

"Your belly is too hot," she commented, but didn't elaborate. Again, she produced the cloth.

"No," he whispered, terrified. Glaring at him, she clutched his hair roughly and applied the cloth. The room went black.

This time, he dreamed, but he could never afterwards remember what he saw. He only knew that he woke with cold chills, his body covered with sweat, his heart beating wildly. He made an immediate attempt to free himself, only to gasp with pain. Disoriented, he started roaring for his commander, his fellow orcs, anyone to come and help him. He did not even see the woman approach until she had slapped his face hard, knocking sense back into him.

"Be still!" she hissed, fury in her tired eyes. She looked him over, then glared at him. "You are such an idiot. You've torn open the stitches. I shall have to mend you. Again."

"No cloth," he pleaded. He did not know how many days he had been in her care, how much time he had lost to unconsciousness.

"I used too great a dose before," she said. "I will cut it back, but I must put you under. You will not stay still or quiet if I don't."

He shook from head to toe as she came at him once more, cloth at the ready. He resisted as much as he could, but it was in vain. Again, he slipped into oblivion.

Nymhriel was exhausted. Having grudgingly given up her bed, there was no place for her to get a proper night's rest. The creature needed to be gone from this place as quickly as possible, yet the injuries would take time to heal, at least enough for her to send him on his way. She fretted over his wounds day and night, often slipping him a whiff of the opiate just so he wouldn't wake while she touched them. And him.

Grimly removing the ruined stitches, Nymhriel set about the task of sewing him closed once more. Glancing up, she saw the lines of his face smoothed and peaceful. So different from his waking expression, though he didn't often look angry, near as she could tell. She would have expected fury, given the need to restrain him. Yet he accepted it.

Finishing the re-bandaging, Nymhriel swallowed hard. She watched her hand reach out and lightly rest over the orc's heart, feeling the steady thump against her palm. Her pale skin contrasted so completely with his dusty gray tone. Smooth soft flesh with rough, leathery hide. Drawing in a shaky breath, she eased the blanket down, exposing him.

He was made so like a man, yet he was not. How long had it been since the war that took so many young men had ended? Four years? Five now? So many men lost to creatures like this one. She pulled the blanket completely off his body. His bandy-legged form appeared suited to crouching hunched over like a beast. His hands and feet ended in talon-like claws.

Succumbing to what she preferred to think of as morbid fascination that had apparently not been satisfied when she washed his body before, Nymhriel lightly touched his uninjured thigh with her fingertips. Slowly drew her fingers down to his knee. Then up the outside to his lean hip. Over the jutting hip bone.

She hesitated, her face hot with shame. Biting her lower lip, she felt like the helpless observer of an indecent act as her hand completed its journey to end cupped over his flaccid member. For an all too brief moment, she noted the difference in the flesh of his body with that of his penis. It was so soft and smooth. So like a man's...

Infuriated with herself, Nymhriel hastily pulled the blanket over him. Each time she gave in to the temptation of unhindered exploration, she hated herself more, and resented him.

The orc drifted to wakefulness in the late afternoon to the sound of weeping. Blinking against the sunlight, he listened hard; the voices were often too soft to hear, but they were both female. The healer and a patient.

"I understand why you feel this way," the healer said gently. "But you have children, a husband..."

"He will not look at me," another voice quavered, hitching over sobs. "He will not touch me."

"I spoke with him. He is confused. He does not want to frighten you. It is not..."

"He saw the thing... do it," the other voice wailed. More weeping followed. "I am... soiled..."

"No, no, you are not," the healer's voice said sternly. "You are blameless in this. He knows that."

Their voices quieted again, too low for him to make out the words for several minutes. Then...

"You... have one here, do you not?" It was the weeping woman's voice, slightly stronger, and just outside the door.

"Yes," the healer replied cautiously.

"I wish to see it."

"That is not wise," she said. "You have suffered; you do not think clearly..."

"Show it to me," the weeping woman demanded, no longer weeping. Her voice was cold and angry.

"As you wish." The door opened.

In the doorway stood a woman, trembling with the effort to look at him without showing weakness. Pure hatred contorted her features and clenched her fists. Her eyes were red-rimmed from tears. Her lips curled. Behind her, the healer stood watching, arms folded over her breasts.

The weeping woman's malice billowed into the room like a heat wave. The orc's eyes widened in fear; he was utterly helpless before one whose rage required blood to quench it.

"It cannot escape?" the weeping woman said. The healer nodded.

Like a wildcat striking, the weeping woman buried both fists into his groin at once. Stars burst before his eyes as a bellow of enraged pain erupted from him. But she didn't stop; she kept pounding on his most vulnerable area until the healer dragged her from the room. He didn't need the poppy tears to slip away after that.