No, Really, He's an ORC
By morning, the blizzard was in full force, shutting down all mountain roads, especially those which wound their way to the cabin. Sam scowled as the wolfhound leaped gazelle-like around the drifts and snapped at the whirling snow. Closing the door, she turned and nearly ran into the Orc, who had somehow gotten off the couch and padded up behind her without making a sound. He, too, had seen out the door, though his expression was more along the lines of horrified than inconvenienced.
Skirting him, she fetched the papers. Time for more chatting, she thought. Settling on the couch, she crossed her legs and began hunting.
Nargratûrz followed her to the thing she was sitting on and gingerly lowered himself onto the soft cushion again. It didn't sink as much as before, but something inside it squeaked and groaned.
"Okay," Sam muttered under her breath, "what the hell am I supposed to say to you?" She scanned the pages, trying to find something inspirational. "How about this? Mol Uruk-hai turu slaiat fil-ishi?" [How many Orcs live in the cave?]
She'd thought that was an innocuous enough question, but it seemed to put him on alert. He stiffened and darted a suspicious look at her. Fuck, she thought, and hurriedly tried to find a way to explain...
"Hold on a sec," she said, holding up a hand as she scanned and hunted. "Khl-izg dhurz nar iist-izg. Uruk-hai fauthuzut kû. Honat ash Uruk kul bak." [I ask because I don't know. Orcs have been hidden a long time. To see one Orc is a shock.]
At first he was wary that the sharlob was interested in matters of a military nature – guaging their strengths and weaknesses – but then a completely different thought came to him, one that had often plagued him and for which there never seemed to be a satisfactory answer.
"Mat latu ikhuz-izishu fauthat? Mal krampuz-izgu?" he asked, his head tilted to the side and his brow furrowed. [Why did you force us to hide? What did we do?]
Sam blinked stupidly at him for a moment, then furrowed her brow and searched through the words for anything that looked like it was spelled the way he pronounced it. "Dammit," she swore. Sagging, she shook her head. "Dude, your diction sucks. I have no idea what you just said."
He waited patiently, but she seemed frustrated. Nargratûrz didn't know how else he could ask. Were these things she looked at... something he'd never seen before, like nearly everything else... did they tell her his words? Why could she not understand him, then?
Rallying her forces, Sam held up a finger for him to wait and started formulating a sentence. This was absolutely ridiculous of her cousin, thinking she could shit fluency in a matter of minutes. Maybe he thought the guy would give up the act out of frustration over her lousy grasp of the language. Not really gonna happen when the guy isn't a guy, and he's not acting.
It took her several minutes, but she managed to come up with a satisfactory 'intro' to the way things were going to go down. Taking a deep breath, she dived in.
"Nar iist-izg mal lat ghashn, agh ta nar kulat srinkhshaat uludhu khlaarat. Shaûk-izub* skaatubat zaarsh. Ta iist pukhal-lab. Ta skaatat-zi, pukhl ghashan gaz agh pukhl fûsh zatal kul-izg srinkhshat-lab." [I don't know what you are saying, and it's not easy to understand by listening. My friend* is coming today. He knows your language. Until he comes, speak small words and speak slowly so I can understand you.]
Nargratûrz bristled slightly and looked away, a frown on his face. It was strange that he should feel unsettled by her mention of a mate. There were ancient tales of Uruk-hai mating with sharlob, but none alive knew if they were true. The Uruk females had become so like the males – none of them bore any resemblance to this female, that was certain – that Nargratûrz always doubted there was any connection between their races. He'd assumed the tales were important for their meaning, not their truth. Yet he felt... something... a draw... an attraction to the sharlob. As though it were natural for him to consider her for mating, rather than reject her as an enemy.
Which made the realization that she'd been claimed rather disappointing.
The uncomfortable silence was broken by the sound of loudly shattering glass. The Orc jumped about a foot and his widened eyes darted about in a panic. Sam snorted with amusement and went to fetch her cell phone. The caller ID flashed up Dale's name, and she smirked.
"Well look at you, all up and at'em before the paper boy's even half way through his rounds," she chirped sarcastically. "I hope to hell you're warming up the truck right about now."
Very funny. I'm on my second cup. Do not piss me off.
"No, right, gotta wait for the third or fourth," she replied.
So I take it he didn't do anything stupid last night?
"If by 'stupid' you mean provocative enough to make me shoot him between the eyes, no," she replied. "I put him on the couch, and that's where he stayed. Perfect gentleman."
Christ, now I know he's not an Orc.
"Okay, level with me," she snapped. "What are these 'Orc moves' you mentioned in your email, huh? What was I supposed to be worried about?"
Come on. Orcs are the bad guys in every story. They're like the worst monster ever or something. Ruthless killers, likely rapists, and on top of that, they eat us.
"And... this is why you and your dateless friends dress up like them once a month and prance around the woods waving swords at each other?" Sam asked archly. "To make damn sure your friends remain dateless? Good plan. You should publish that. Right up there with The Secret. Sell a bazillion copies."
No! For fuck's sake, Sam.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Color me a whole bunch more nervous than I was before you called. How about you get your ass up here double time, huh? And do you think you could bring a change of clothes or two for this guy? He's wearing dead animal skins that look like he got them out of a museum."
Sure, sure. Will my stuff fit him?
"I'm pretty sure. He's, uh... about your height," she said, scrutinizing the Orc and taking an educated guess. "Oh, and he's an Orc."
Right. There's no such thing, Sam. Is he still spouting that shit at you?
"No, Dale, I mean he's an Orc. I showed him some raw meat and he about took my hand off. He ate it raw, dammit," she told him, still incredulous. "I don't think even your buddy, Mal, would've done that, and he's the most fucked up of all your friends."
Holy crap. Are you serious?
"Yes, Dale," she said, laughing a little, "Mal is seriously fucked up. You should really keep an eye on him."
No! I mean the meat thing. That crazy mother fucker ate a slab of raw meat? Seriously?
"Yes, he did. Claws and teeth and blood and yuck and I'm not giving you any more details; I haven't had breakfast yet, and the thought of it's making me queasy." She took a deep breath and fanned herself for a moment.
Claws... and teeth? Damn. Okay, if he's really an Orc, ask him about Elves.
"What, now? Sweet Jesus, why don't you haul your ass up here and ask him yourself? Look, I am having a shit time of it here, trying to figure out what he's saying and translate it from your dictionary. His voice sounds like a chain smoking bear with a hang over."
Wow... really?
"Yeah, really," she snapped sarcastically. "You think I'm making this up?"
I thought you might be... or he was yanking your chain or something... anything but a real, honest-to-god Orc. Where the hell did he come from?
"Underground, in a cave, up a tree, another planet, I don't know," Sam growled, losing her patience. "You can get the whole scoop when you get here. Which, I hope, will be fucking soon."
Okay, okay! Just let me pack some things. I'm guessing I'll be there a few days until the plows make it up there, right?
Sagging with relief, she nodded. "Likely. I looked out this morning and it's like a winter wonderland for sadistic little snowmen. Be sure to bring your long johns."
Sure, mom. Should I bring my fuzzy slippers, too?
"Oh goody, a sleep-over!" Sam crowed mockingly. "I'm fresh out of popcorn and graham crackers. Could you grab some marshmallows too?"
Good bye, Sam. I'll see you in... a bunch of hours.
Sobering, she replied, "Be careful, okay?"
Will do. Take care.
Sam hung up the cell and tapped it against her lips thoughtfully for a moment. Her eyes slid over to Nargratûrz, staring at the fireplace. He probably thinks I'm a crazy person, talking to myself, she mused. Pointing at the phone, she said, "Shaûk-izub." Then she shrugged and offered a wan smile, hoping he wouldn't ask for a more detailed description. That would take days.
Happily, he was ignoring her. She wondered absently if his people had any kind of primitive concept of magic, and if anything that looked like it made him ill at ease. Deciding she was too hungry to care, Sam headed for the little kitchenette and rummaged around for something to make for breakfast.
That the sharlob talked to a small object in her hand was not as disconcerting as the faces Nargratûrz was seeing in the dancing flames in the fireplace. He sat perfectly still, trying not to let himself tremble too much. Perhaps looking away would relieve him from having to see them, but he couldn't trust it. What if those angry, flame-enveloped faces came out of the fire?
Recalling the hand at the window, he closed his eyes firmly and waited a few seconds, then opened them. The fire held no leering faces any longer. It was simply fire. His brow furrowed with worry. What was happening to him?
A/N: The word shaûk translates in Land of Shadows Black Speech as 'companion.' Because there is no word for 'mate' in this constructed language, I and a few others have adopted shaûk for that purpose. Here, Sam is using it in the wrong sense, and thus gives Nargratûrz an incorrect impression of her relationship to Dale. Bummer.