Freedom

Recovering himself, Gundshau fretted once again. His stomach was growling. While it was true he'd gone far longer on short to no rations while marching under the banner of the Red Eye, he'd gotten used to regular meals with the band of orcs he traveled with, and particularly good ones here in the healer's cottage.

She left angry. Furious, even. Maybe that thump was the door closing. Maybe she had decided to just leave him to starve. Once more, he absently scraped at the ropes holding his right wrist as he often did without even thinking about it. How long would it take to starve, he wondered. He'd once gone a week, right after the Dark Lord was defeated. Everything was thrown into chaos; getting as far away from the upheaval in Mordor as possible, and the invigorated soldiers of Gondor and Rohan, had been his primary concern. But he'd had water then, once he got past the Dead Marshes.

He didn't like to remember that battle. So much of it was a blur now. What he couldn't get rid of was the memory of the Dark Lord's demise. It felt like Grond itself had pounded straight through his gut, punching his heart out through his back along with most of his other vital organs. He sometimes wondered what orcs as far away as the Misty Mountains had felt, if it was the same all over Middle Earth or diminished with distance.

Then there had been... quiet. Oh, he hadn't noticed it for hours because he was at a dead run, nearly pissing himself with panic and fear as he sought some refuge that didn't have a sword aimed at him. But when he stopped to catch his breath, when he was certain he was not followed, that the tarks were too busy with the Easterlings still putting up a resistance in the shadow of the ruined Gates, he felt it.

Peace.

How could he have lived sixteen years and not known there was a voice in his head, a blackness in his heart, a sickness in his gut?

Even now, the revelation calmed him. He spent days in that hollow, not going out to hunt, just attending to his thirst in a nearby stream. So much became clear to him. Gundshau eventually concluded that tarks hated his kind because of what the Dark Lord made of them, how he used them. With him gone, they were free to be something else.

Unfortunately, he recalled with a bitter grimace, this opinion was not universally held. After attempting to get on with his life, putting the war behind him, traveling in the open like any other person in the world, he quickly learned that the memories of tarks were long. After being chased down by angry farmers and beaten nearly to death, he slunk off, licked his wounds, and resolved to remain in hiding.

He had been angry as well. The attack was unprovoked. He hadn't even threatened their livestock, much less their persons. The only thing that saved him from death was the absence of blades. For some reason, the five men had only been armed with cudgels and clubs. Perhaps Gundshau should have thanked the Powers for that blessing, but at the time all he could think about was the unfairness of it. He was still seething over it when he ran across the band of orcs he joined.

And he seethed now, even in the comfortably warm cottage with its welcoming smells, delicious food, and beautiful woman. He didn't truly mind being tied down so much; he understood why. He didn't like it, the fear she felt, but he accepted it. He would give anything to show her he meant her no harm. He knew exactly who had wronged him and his people in the years following the war, and she had proven that she wasn't among them.

Frustrated, he jerked on the ropes. To his shock, his right hand broke free. Holding it up, he stared at his hand for several moments, his mind blank. His wrist was marred by so many days rubbed raw by the bindings, but otherwise functional. He flexed his fingers experimentally. Yes, all was well. He felt needles drive through his shoulder as he slowly lowered his arm to his side, but they faded after a few minutes. He shook life back into his limb.

Then he reached up to claw at the rope holding his left wrist.

She was floating on a cloud, slowly descending to earth. It was a pleasant dream, for the most part, though there was, perhaps, a bit more red in it than was entirely comfortable. But Nymhriel had slept, finally slept deeply and truly after so many days. She wasn't about to quibble over the quality of her dreams.

A cool breeze wafted across her face, bringing the scent of earth and fallen leaves. She snuggled warmly into the blanket, adjusted her head on the pillow...

Her eyes shot open. She sat up with alarm.

Nymhriel was in her bed. The frayed remains of the orc's fetters still clung to the bedposts, but he was nowhere to be seen. She clutched her heart, and was gratified to find she still wore the same dress. At least he hadn't... Shuddering, she climbed out of the bed and straightened her skirts. It was then she noticed that her wounded hand had been crudely bandaged.

She listened hard. There was no sound in the cottage. She hoped he had taken his leave. Why he would repay her harsh treatment with such courtesies as putting her to bed and binding her injury was beyond her reckoning. Cautiously, she cracked open the bedroom door and peeked into the main room.

Empty. Breathing a swift prayer of thanks, she went into the kitchen. There was evidence that Gundshau had foraged a bit in her vegetable bin, but had not otherwise disturbed anything. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Nymhriel considered herself lucky to have survived the orc's escape.

A thud jarred her, and she whirled around. The orc was standing in the doorway. Nymhriel backed into the cabinets, clutching her heart. Gundshau's sudden appearance was made all the more terrifying by the fact that he wore breeches and a tunic that had belonged to her dead husband. She almost missed the carcass of a wild boar he held by the tusks in one hand.

The awkward silence stretched for several moments as the woman and the orc stared at one another across the room. Finally, Gundshau made the first move. With a grunt, he heaved the boar onto the table, then he took out a long knife.

"Please," Nymhriel squeaked, and he hesitated, looking at her. She cleared her throat. "Please take it outside. Pig guts are little better than orc guts on my floor."

An uncertain smile struggled across his face for a moment, but he sheathed the knife and carried the boar out into the yard.

She was shaking all over. Every woman she had healed after an orc finished with her flashed through her mind in a whirlwind. Cautiously, Nymhriel crossed the room to the front door, and looked out.

It was clear the orc was very experienced at dressing game. Though his work left him covered in blood, he already had the skin off and was piling slabs of meat on it.

How long would this apparent truce last? Her thoughts were broken by the sound of a horse approaching.

Gundshau's head shot up, then he looked back at her. There was fear in his eyes. Uncertainty.

"Don't just sit there," she hissed. "Hide yourself!"

He did not need to be told twice. Leaping to his feet, he took off around the back of the cottage where there were trees and bushes, the edges of a forest.

Nymhriel struggled for several seconds to calm herself before the rider appeared. She wilted when she saw that it was Willem. Of all people to show up now...

"Hello, Nymhriel!" he called, dismounting in the yard. His gaze fell on the bloody mess of flesh and bones on the ground. Nymhriel started; how was she to explain that?

"I see you've been doing a bit of...butchering?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes," she said as casually as she could. "A...patient offered the boar in payment, and I accepted it."

"He did not dress it first?" Obviously, Willem found this omission highly inconsiderate.

"He was in a hurry."

"You don't look like you've been dressing a boar...," he said suspiciously, noting her clean clothing.

"Well, I changed my clothes and washed," she said hastily. "It was quite a messy business."

He seemed unconvinced. "The job isn't finished. There is still quite good meat there."

Fretting nervously for a moment, she caught a flash of inspiration. "I...I cut myself. I needed to bind it, and as long as I was cleaning my hand...," she faltered, trailing off.

"Where is he, Nymhriel?" Willem asked quietly. There was a threatening note underlying his seemingly calm voice.

The bottom fell out of her stomach. "I don't know what you mean..."

"I thought I made my desires clear on this matter," he said, taking a few steps closer. "Surely you could not have been mistaken. You would not invite another man into your bed, would you?"

The relief she felt in realizing he wasn't talking about the orc was quickly replaced with fear of what he was referring to. Squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine with as much dignity as she could muster, Nymhriel said, "What I do in my own home..."

"That argument is stale, Nymhriel," he snapped. Now he was mere feet away. His face was contorted with fury. "I came here to present my offer once more, thinking you had enough time to think on it. Now I find that you have spread your legs for another in my absence. That is not acceptable."

"Willem, I did no such...," she began, but he cut her off with a stinging slap across the face.

"I have been patient," he snarled, grabbing her arms and shaking her. "I have been quite the gentleman, I'm sure you would agree. That time has passed."

Shock paralyzed her. She had expected an attack, but not from one of her own kind, not with the orc free to do as he pleased. She barely got a scream out before his mouth was brutally crushing hers. Then he was dragging her down to the ground. She felt his weight on her, his fumbling hands pulling her skirts up, and she began to kick, to fight. She tore her mouth free for a moment and screamed again, only to be silenced by a fist. The blow jarred her, made her go limp.

Out of nowhere came an enraged roar. Perhaps Willem cried out in alarm. Nymhriel was too stunned to tell. All she knew was the relief of his removal. She curled up on her side in a ball and wept.

When her panic began to subside, she opened her eyes to see Gundshau straightening, turning toward her. For a wild moment, she feared the orc would continue what Willem started. But he only gathered her in his arms and lifted her, carrying her into the cottage and putting her to bed.

But she caught a glimpse of Willem over the orc's shoulder, lying spread eagle on the ground, eyes staring lifelessly at the sky. Face frozen in shock. Throat shredded by sharp teeth. Belly ripped open. Intestines stretched out several feet across the ground. Blood...so much blood...

Even for a healer accustomed to the gore of surgery, the sight was too much for Nymhriel on top of the other shocks she'd sustained this day, and she swooned.