Bad Things Happen to Good Orcs

"Well, dammit," Sam muttered as she buttered some toast. "What in hell am I supposed to do with him now?" Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the Orc was looking a little... peaked. Her brow furrowed. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he was feeling all right, but she stopped herself with an impatient huff.

"Every god damn thing I want to say...," she grumbled, trudging over to the couch where he sat, and where her pile of papers had been discarded. Sighing heavily, she sorted through the list and the grammar. "Jesus," she growled. "Simple question..."

By the time she'd figured it out, her voice betrayed her frustration over the whole situation. "Lat krai bhoghad?" [Are you feeling all right?]

Nargratûrz flinched at the tone in her voice, but couldn't muster much of a response. His stomach was roiling; it seemed to start shortly after the faces disappeared from the flames. Was it the meat? He wasn't used to eating such rich fare; perhaps it disagreed with him. He tried swallowing a few times, hoping what he thought was coming wouldn't, but his effort was in vain. Doubling up with a grimace, he vomited at her feet.

Thankfully not on her feet; Sam was too quick for that. "Holy shit!" she cried, leaping backwards. The air suddenly filled with the stench of puke and...

Sam's eyes widened, staring at the puddle. In her mind's eye, there flashed a recollection of his leg after the wolf bit it. The spew had a lot of that black shit in it.

"Oh my god," she whispered, and stared at his pale, woozy face with alarm. For one crazy second, she thought razor blades were in the meat he ate somehow, like whatever urban legend terrified a nation every Halloween had just branched out into a different industry.

Weakened by the convulsive attack, Nargratûrz slumped against the back of the couch and gasped for breath for a few moments, his eyes closed. He dimly noted the sharlob cleaning up the mess he'd made. Guilt assailed him, but he couldn't move to help her. Another shuddering wave hit him, and he grunted, trying to hold it back.

"Oh no, you don't," Sam snapped, and grabbed his arm. "Let me introduce you to the Porcelain Goddess," she added, dragging his staggering form into the bathroom.

On his knees and hunched over the bowl, he loosed what felt like all of his internal organs into the water. The force behind his body's ejection was so great, he had little control over anything else. Adding to his embarassment over making the first mess, was the humiliation of adding to it by pissing down his leg and soiling his leathers.

Yet all the while, the sharlob spoke softly to him, stroked his forehead with a damp cloth, and rubbed his back.

"It's okay, don't worry about it," she murmured soothingly. "I guess you suddenly going all Rapey Smurf on me is off the table. Let it out, Nar. Whatever... whatever the hell's wrong with you, we'll... we'll sort it out."

As she knelt by the Orc's side, she made herself acknowledge that the black crap was his blood, and it was extremely likely that large quantities of blood in the stomach was as bad for his kind as it was for hers. It also occurred to her that this could be a disease of some sort, either carried out of his home, or picked up after he left. Was he thrown out the door because he was sick? Would she catch it next?

But she couldn't just toss him into the snow herself. Maybe that sort of attitude was okay where he came from, but her mother would kick her ass if she turned her back on a person in need.

"Here, let's get this stuff off you," she said gently, and began removing the hide shirt. He was too weak and trembling to resist. Even as she eased his arm out of the short sleeve, he convulsed once more. "Jesus," Sam breathed, her brow furrowed with helpless dread. Unsure what else to do, she fished in her pocket for the phone.

"Dale, I need help up here," she said shakily as soon as she heard his voice. "Like, really badly need help. Where are you?"

Coming as fast as I can. What's wrong? Did he make a grab for you or something?

Rolling her eyes impatiently, she snapped, "No, he didn't. He's puking up his guts and I think... well, it's black, but I think it's blood. What do I do?"

What the hell did you feed him? Rancid meat?

"No, numb nuts, it was perfectly fresh!" she retorted. "He's been barfing for like ten minutes, and I'm scared. This isn't post-drinking binge barfing. This is turn-your-insides-out kind of barfing."

Another wave struck the Orc, as if to illustrate how dire his situation was.

Holy shit, he sounds awful. Look, I can't even get my truck started down here. I've got Marty on the horn; he's gonna fly me up there. You think I should get Dave, too?

"Okay, who the hell is Marty?" Sam almost shrieked. "I don't know the names of every one of your stupid little friends! Bring whoever the hell you want to, just hurry, okay?"

Jesus, calm down. Marty flies our mountain rescue chopper, and Dave's an EMT. Both are stand-up guys; they won't... Well, I hope they don't rat us out for having... whatever this guy is. Just tell them he's a, uh... he's like me only on steroids, okay?

"Whatever," she replied, her voice quavering. "I don't want to be here alone, Dale. I don't know what to do. He's... what if he's dying? I don't know what to do."

It's okay, it's all right, I'm on my way. I'll get the guys right now and we'll be there in an hour, tops.

"Faster?" she pleaded, tears beginning to fall. Nargratûrz was leaning on the toilet weakly, eyes closed and breathing raggedly.

I'm coming. I promise.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sam held the phone to her heart for a moment. All she could do was finish getting Nargratûrz out of his dirty hides and clean him off. She found that the black blood wasn't just in his vomit, but coming out the other end as well. She fought nausea the best she could as she wiped him down. He didn't say a word; had it not been for the growling sound of his breathing, he could have been mistaken for dead.

When she picked up his hides to throw them out the door into the snow, a handful of red seeds tumbled free and scattered across the wood floor. Furrowing her brow, Sam discarded the hides and began gathering the odd seeds. There were about a dozen of them, and they were bright, cheerful red with a single black dot. Unsure what they might be, she put them in an empty cup on the desk.

Nargratûrz loosed his weak hold on the white seat and slowly eased himself onto the cool floor. He'd never been so sick in his life. He was fairly sure he'd never seen anyone spew blood from their mouth unless they'd received a gut wound. Fear lanced through him; what did this mean? Was he going to die? Banished and left at the mercy of Outside had not killed him as was intended, but he'd at least had a chance. He could have found some way to survive, or gone down trying. Now that a helpless death was looming, he feared it as he hadn't before.

He could not fight something that stole his strength and forced the blood from his body without employing weapons. He couldn't see what was assailing him; couldn't get his hands on it, couldn't stab it with a spear or a knife. It would take him to the void, to the nothing that comes after all breath has left. Ineffectual as he'd proven himself in battle, he would be defeated by this thing without even the chance to fight.

The sharlob, Sam, was trying to sooth him. She dampened a cloth and bathed his sweating body, but he was not warm. He felt chilled, as though he were still Outside. He shivered, and she put a cool hand on his forehead. Whatever the gesture told her, she whimpered, standing up quickly and leaving the little room. Nargratûrz could only lay there, unwilling to move.

In moments, she had returned with a blanket and began tucking it around him. His body ached; the floor was hard beneath him, and the racking convulsions had left him weak and trembling. "Ghûlb-izish," he begged, his normally strong, rumbling voice barely a whisper. [Help me.]

"Ssshh," Sam said gently, stroking his forehead, his cheek. Though she tried to smile, there was no encouragement in her eyes. He could see she was afraid, and his own fear mounted. "Are you cold? God, never mind." Standing, she urged him to get up. "Come on, over here. You'll be more comfortable on the couch."

Nargratûrz leaned on her heavily as she guided him to what must be 'couch.' He let her position him, and lay down gratefully on the cushions. Now she covered him more warmly with the blanket.

"I'm just gonna... fetch some wood," she told him unnecessarily. What the hell was the point? Even if he knew what she was saying, he didn't look like he was in any condition to care. Sam could barely swallow as she pulled her coat on and dove out into the swirling snow.

Shivering under the blanket, Nargratûrz slowly turned his head. Darûk was sitting in a corner watching him, her long body crouched on the floor, her chin resting on her outstretched paws. Large brown eyes stared unblinking into his. To his shock, the beast reddened and seemed to acquire far longer teeth than before, and her mouth opened wide. The Uruk froze, and his breath quickened in terror. Darûk's great head lifted off the floor and she snapped at the air, snarling menacingly.

A figure passed between Nargratûrz and the hellish beast, startling him. When Sam was past and beginning to lay a fire in the hearth, he looked back at Darûk and blinked. She was her normal self, grey-furred and curiously tilting her head at him as though he'd done something odd.

Sam worked quickly, if clumsily, and soon had the damp wood beginning to smoke. Wadded up newspaper stuffed under the logs was crackling merrily, but would likely burn away before the stupid logs got hot enough to catch completely. Rubbing her forehead with frustration, she willed the fire to take hold.

Turning to Nargratûrz, she looked at his wan face. He'd been a rich olive color before, but was now very pale. "I just don't know what to do," she murmured helplessly. A lump formed in her throat as she looked at him, his eyes on the ceiling as he gasped rapidly. He almost seemed panicked.

"You didn't ask for any of this," she went on, talking just to fill the silence. Moving to sit on the edge of the couch at his side, she found she couldn't restrain the urge to touch his face, as if gentle contact made everything bad go away. It always worked when her mom did it. The longer she looked at him, though, the closer to losing control she came.

He didn't need to speak; his eyes did all his talking for him, and they pleaded with her to save him. Perform some miracle that would take the pain away. She wanted very badly to be able to give him that miracle.

"Hang in there, Nar," she said tightly. "I don't know where you came from, or why you're here. You have to tell me everything, you know? All of it. I want to know all about your mom and your dad, whether you have brothers and sisters. I'm sure you've got at least one crazy, batshit uncle. Who doesn't, right?" Her smile was forced, her laugh brief. "There's a treasure trove inside you, and I want to count every coin, okay? So you... you stay with me. You've got a story to tell, and I want to hear it. Will you promise me? Promise you'll tell me everything?"

"Narâdhn-izish," he rasped. [Don't leave me.] The sound of her voice, though speaking incomprehensible words, calmed him somewhat. He struggled feebly to free his hand from the blanket. She took his hand in both of hers and held on.

"They're coming, Nar," she whispered, kissing his rough-skinned knuckles. A tear spilled from her eye and ran down her cheek. "They're coming."