Ears Hear One Thing, Eyes See Another
He hung by his wrists, head swaying weakly with each blow. Saliva dripped from his sagging lower lip. His legs had gone numb and lifeless at least a half hour ago. And still Derek struck.
The man hadn't started the lashing. He was the third now. One grew weary and passed the flail to a fresh arm. Fentulk only knew it was Derek this time because of the man's special laughter that sounded like the vale howlers in Stranglethorn's jungle.
At least it wasn't Amarn. He would likely have set the orc's brown skin on fire.
"All right, that's enough," Dorath said in his calm voice, almost too low to be heard. Indeed, Derek got in a few more flicks of the whip before the order had to be repeated. "Now then, Master Fentulk. Are we clear? You do understand that biting will not be tolerated?"
The orc tested the air for a moment, sniffing. No sign that Joanne was in the cell anymore. Sometime during the whipping, she'd been spirited away. He drew a shuddering breath of relief, and nodded.
"Very well," the man said. "You've become terribly possessive of that little cunt in such a short time," he commented, beginning to pace the cell. Fentulk flinched as much at Dorath's description as his proximity. "Very possessive. The deal hasn't changed. You tell me what I want to know, and dear, sweet little Joanne will go free."
"I told you all I know!" Fentulk roared. "There ain't nothin' more."
Dorath leaned into the orc's face, making him jerk backward. "How many more times do you think that girl can take a pounding from us, eh? She's a frail little woman. Hardly enough of her to go around. I've even heard tell the boys are itching to see her outside of their regular work here. Maybe follow her to her own rooms. Give her a little 'extra' without having to wait in line. Do you want that? Hmmm?"
"No, please," the orc begged, and his voice suddenly lost all strength. He'd had to listen to it for several rounds now, sounds that could only be from one thing repeated over and over. They kept her gagged so she wouldn't cry out, perhaps alert their superiors to what they were doing, but he could smell her fear, almost taste her despair... All he could do was beg them to stop, plead with them to let her go, don't hurt her, take him instead, kill him, do whatever they wanted to him, just leave her be...
He heard her speak once, a tear-filled voice saying "Please stop..." that was choked off by a slap that echoed around the cell. That was when he tried so desperately to break free that one of the men got too close in subduing him, and Fentulk got a hold of his arm... drove his tusks in deeply and wouldn't let go until they beat him into blackness once more.
Upon waking, the whip awaited him, and had been teaching him a lesson for his action over the past few hours.
"Then you know what to do, I expect," Dorath hissed, withdrawing.
"I... got... nothin'," Fentulk sobbed. "Nothin' more. Please."
The man sighed. "Derek, go get Joanne back in here. It doesn't appear to be sinking in for our friend."
"No!" the Orc yelled, forcing himself to stand on legs that barely worked. "No, no, no, please, no..." He was broken, he knew it. Had it been just about him, he might have gone to his grave defying them. But they were going to hurt her again, and he could stop it with a word. Just one word...
And a pack of lies.
"Dorath, please," Joanne whimpered as she was brought into the cell. Fentulk's nostrils filled with the scent of her fear.
"Perhaps, Derek, we should see how Master Fentulk feels about your cock in her mouth, hmmm?"
"With pleasure, sir," the sadistic man replied, chuckling.
"No!" the orc cried, rattling the chains in an instinctive attempt to break free. "Stop, please. I beg you. I'll talk. Leave her be. Please."
"Well!" Dorath said brightly. "What have we here? Will the stoic Master Fentulk finally tell the truth? None of this 'mate' business, I trust? No? Good. You have the floor, orc. Dazzle us."
He shook all over. It was not in Fentulk's nature to lie. He'd been schooled in the value of honesty by very attentive parents. Too attentive, at times. There was the matter of the ancestors, as well. Would they forgive such a gross violation as lying to save his skin? What of lying to save another's? He frankly didn't care anymore what they did to him. He almost hoped they'd end it once they had what they wanted. It didn't matter anymore.
But he could not betray the Warchief, or the Horde. Not even for Joanne. Wracking his brains, he dredged up a memory, something Hellscream wanted him to do, but he was headed for the ocean at the time, and the duty fell to another. Something about the Burning Blade...
"It ain't the Warchief's orders," Fentulk said shakily. "He don't know nothin' 'bout it. It's... it's the Burnin' Blade. I'm... a new recruit. Just sent to spy for now. Ain't killin' the king, just... learnin' patterns. Patrols. Where... where the defenses is weakest. That sorta thing."
"Ah," Dorath said quietly, "the Burning Blade, is it? Hmmm... Interesting. I confess, I thought that load of scum-sucking filth was made up of warlocks only. What do they want with... whatever you are? Hmph, I suppose someone's got to do the shit work, eh?" He shared a laugh with his sycophantic men.
"All right, then," he continued, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. "I'll let Mr. Shaw know about this, and we'll see if he finds it... satisfactory. Of course, if he does, don't think for a moment you're off the hook, as it were. I suspect he'll want to explore this tidbit quite in depth. And you'd better not be lying, orc. If you think dragging the truth out of you has been painful up to now... well, let's just say this is foreplay by comparison."
They left him alone longer than they ever had, evidently waiting for word from this Shaw person. Fentulk could feel rivulets of blood running down his back and legs during the whipping, and now his entire backside was itching as it dried. He longed to lean against the rock wall and rub his already raw skin.
His throat had gone completely dry now, and rasped as he tried to clear it. He was desperately thirsty and painfully hungry. How many rounds had passed since the sweet bread passed his lips? Bread he had subsequently vomited, leaving himself empty in more ways than one.
A sound he thought never to hear again came to his ears: the soft footsteps of Joanne. Could it really be her, or was he delirious? He raised his head as the door opened and he caught the scent of meadow grass carried on an air current wafting into the dank cell.
"Be silent," she whispered. "Nod or shake your head only."
Hardly daring to breathe, Fentulk nodded.
"You lied about the spying, did you not?"
He nodded vigorously. His breath quickened with desperation. If she did not want him speaking, she must understand this at least.
"But... you were not lying about... about the other," she said, her already softly whispering voice pitching even lower. "You seek a mate. You do not wish... harm."
Fentulk nearly wept as he slowly nodded. Grimacing, he could stand it no longer. "I am sorry," he breathed. "For what was done. So... sorry." His tears once again soaked the blindfold.
She was so close now, he could feel her breath on his skin. He suddenly stiffened with surprise when he felt her hands on his head, slowly untying the cloth that had kept him sightless for so long. When it was removed, he was unable to open his eyes for several moments; even the dim, flickering light of the torch on the wall outside the cell was too bright.
Upon opening his eyes a slit, the accumulated tears spilled down his cheeks, and he gazed upon Joanne's face for the first time. She was unlike Karie in nearly every way: her hair was a dark blonde, nearly the color of straw. Rather than pale blue, her eyes were a rich brown, almost the color of his own. Her face was shaped like a heart, rather than Karie's oval; there was no spark of mischief in Joanne's eyes as there was in nearly every feature of Karie's. Joanne was slighter in build as well; though clearly an adult, she had the bearing of one who is nearly as innocent as a child.
She was the most beautiful person he had ever laid eyes on, and he knew his heart was lost in that moment.
"Fentulk," she whispered urgently, "They lied. None... laid hands on me... in that way. They tore cloths. They clapped their hands, so you would think they struck me. They silenced me, it is true, but only so I would not give away their deception."
He gasped for breath that his lungs seemed unable to hold. "It was... lies?"
She cringed from him, taking a step back. "I am sorry. I wanted to tell you. I thought... you should know."
"Please don't go," he begged. "I'm glad. I don't give a fuck what they do to me." Taking several breaths to calm his racing heart, he nodded. "It's good. You... you're safe. They ain't touched you. Thank the ancestors."
"You are not angry?" she asked timidly.
He shook his head firmly. "At them, I am. Not at you."
It suddenly occurred to him that she was spending an unusually long time with him. The last two times she'd visited, she'd been rushed and had to leave almost immediately. As an awkward silence stretched between them, he forced himself to ask. He hated being suspicious, but...
"Why're you talkin' to me?" he rasped. "Ain't Dorath comin' soon?"
She shifted uncomfortably. "I am a scullery maid," she said quietly, hanging her head as if such an admission were shameful. "Indentured by a debt my mother was unable to pay. She taught me many things before her passing, one of which was how to silence the tower if needs be. I knew I should not have a chance to hear... your side... unless... there was... silence."
The orc's face slackened. "What... how did you... whattayou mean, 'silence'?"
"Oh!" she said, suddenly realizing what he must think. "They but sleep! I have not the skill, or the will, to slay them, though there are times... No, they will waken on the morrow. Much aggrieved by nausea, but alive." She offered a shy smile that thoroughly sealed his fate.
He didn't know why he should feel relief that she hadn't soaked her hands in so much blood on his behalf, but he did. Fentulk may have the blood of warrior kinsmen running through his veins, and he may have more reason to slaughter the lot of them than any, but he was never one to lift sword against another man if he could help it.
"Thank you," he said finally, forcing himself to smile a little. "I'm glad they didn't... hurt you. I think... I can probably... whatever they do next... I can probably take. Long as you're safe."
She bowed her head, the stray tendrils of her hair brushing her forehead. The rest was pulled up in a bun on the back of her head, likely the standard manner in which the maids wore their hair in this place to keep it out of their work. "I cannot... let this continue, Fentulk." Joanne looked up into his brown eyes. She shook her head and firmed her mouth into a straight, stern line. "You are innocent. I believe that now. They will continue to... pursue their 'truth' until you perish. You are not the first..." She squeezed her eyes shut and shivered. "You will not share such a fate. It is not right, and I will not... I will not stand for it." Straightening with conviction, she reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a key.
A slow smile spread across Fentulk's face. "Joanne, I think I'm in love with you."
She blushed as she unlocked the manacles at his wrists and ankles. "Save your talk of love until I have seen you to the door," she replied. "There is still a chance someone did not wish to sample my Westfall Stew. Here, drink this." She handed him a flask with a murky liquid inside. "You have not moved much for weeks; this will invigorate you enough to leave this place."
"You're coming with me," he said firmly, chafing his wrists and urging the blood flow back into his hands. She began to protest, and he frowned so fiercely, she snapped her mouth shut. "I ain't hearin' no argument about it. If they think you got somethin' to do with me escapin', they'll do worse'n pretend to rape you." She flinched on the word, but held her ground.
"I am indentured," Joanne insisted. "I have a contract I cannot break. They will hunt me."
"Gotta find ya first," he retorted. "You think they're gonna go to Orgrimmar after a lost servant? I don't fuckin' think so."
"You... you cannot take me there!" she cried, a hand flying to her throat in terror. "Your Warchief... he would not allow it, would he?"
Fentulk's brow furrowed. He had no idea, and he'd actually known Garrosh slightly back in Garadar. The orc being as non-military as one could possibly be and also be an orc, Fentulk hadn't really spent much time in the warrior's company. Garrosh hadn't even remembered him when they met years later, after he accepted the mantle of Warchief.
But there was Garadar. His home. His family. Perhaps they would be safe there...
"Joanne," he said hesitantly, "you ever been to Nagrand?"