***** Author's Note *****
Longtime no post! I've been working on building up a backlog of chapters.
Now Available! Read up to Chapter 75 on my discord! Link in my bio!
Be advised: This chapter contains content that may be distressing for some. Read at your own discretion with the tags/rating of this story in mind. If you do not want to read such content, a summary of important plot details is available at the end of the chapter.
70
The great Eye was upon Ar-Tashk's back, like the weight of the sun; radiant in its glory and wretched in its judgement. If Ar-Tashk had been a pure-blooded troll, this was what he imagined it would feel like to be scorched to a crumbling stone statue in the light of day. How anyone could endure the ire of the Dark Lord's vicious gaze was unfathomable. It bore down upon him, heavy and oppressive and its sickening Voice whispered darkly to its wayward servant. The layers of echoing tones created an unsettling clamor in Ar-Tashk's ears far more invasive than he had ever heard before.
You've strayed far from your intended path, Reaper. You should be sitting on a throne right now, not wallowing in the wilds with worthless orc filth. As the Voice crooned, the blaze of the eye around Ar-Tashk's shoulders pressed closer and hotter. Before his own eyes, black mist whirled and parted, taking the appearance of plant and earth until it formed a scene that the olog was very familiar with. The great fortress, from the vantage point of his and Vezhir's camp where they had plotted and schemed their invasion upon first arriving in Nurn. They had spent months at the secluded campground overlooking the verdant and rich land, scouting, planning, recruiting, and infiltrating the fortress. This was all meant for you. Every rock, every leaf, every beast, servant, and slave. Anything you could want, it is yours.
The flames of the Eye dug deeper into Ar-Tashk's flesh as the tone of the Voice turned sharper. But of course, the Crow took for himself what rightfully should have been yours. You brought down the gate, you breached the keep, and you all but dealt the final blow to the last overlord. The Crow's greed stole so many things from you. The rightful conqueror. How different things would have been if you had been in command.
The scene slowly shifted to that of Vezhir's throne room at the keep, but instead of the owlish uruk sitting upon the throne, Ar-Tashk saw a vision of himself. He was garbed in fine black leather armor, with metal plating of the best quality forming an imposing, spined silhouette. The scent of a feast, meat, and grog permeated the air, and he knew, even without a word to confirm, it was being prepared in his honor, to celebrate his majesty. The throne itself no longer looked like Vezhir's thorny perch, but instead was built out to accommodate an olog's mass and draped with pelts, hides, and even silks; something Ar-Tashk hadn't seen since living in the South Eastern deserts. Troughs filled with oil were lit ablaze to line the wall with fire behind the central platform, casting intense shadows forward to smother any who would seek an audience with him.
It struck Ar-Tashk as he observed this vision, this visage of himself, that the whole design seemed to mirror the flaming Eye he could feel starting to grasp at his own back with searing tendrils of magic and flame. The agonizing grasp the Eye held over him now, in no way matched the Voice's words. The Eye seemed to threaten to consume his entire being, while the Voice uttered enticing promises of such grandeur. Saccharine tones could not disguise the bait that lay in wait for the olog to take it.
"Az narku bolkuz zam za... Az brusuz kuluk az nargzabuz," Ar-Tashk murmured a wary rebuttal. Everything before him, the ostentatious enthronement, elaborate trappings, it all mattered little to the olog. He had all the power and influence he had ever needed, just doing things his own way. A reclusive warrior as he was, he never wanted lordship; at least not in the same way that Vezhir had wanted it. When they had taken the fort, Ar-Tashk had been more than willing to let the uruk seize command.
Oh, but you do need it, see? The Voice hissed in its eerie echo, and a flow of mist cut across the vision, transporting Ar-Tashk deeper into the keep, to his kitchens, where he could see the wall of bars that he had installed by the forgemaster. The bars were as he remembered finding them the night his Isla had been attacked: painted with her blood.
Ar-Tashk wanted to pull away. He didn't want to see her like that, not again, but the Eye forced him to look deep into the alcove as the Voice continued. Do you think the Crow would have dared touch YOUR Lifemaker if you were overlord? You never had the power to protect her, as you were.
Ar-Tashk couldn't resist, he couldn't close his eyes, for the images were in his own mind. There was no way to block it out as the shadows started to withdraw from the cell. He would have torn his own eyes out if it could prevent that awful sight of his Isla as she turned cold and gray before his eyes. There was nothing he could do at the time to save her. She would have died that night, if not for that nature-cursed goblin witch's repair. He had been so powerless in the face of the very thing he had always claimed mastery over.
It doesn't have to be this way, the Voice soothed the rising agitation in Ar-Tashk's whole body. The pool of blood upon the stone floor siphoned away with the darkness, and the light of the Eye's flames behind Ar-Tashk filled the alcove with a warm, inviting light. At the same moment was revealed the human woman, whole, unharmed, resting peacefully curled up against the wall of her cell. Ar-Tashk's breath caught at the sight; her whole countenance was precisely as he wanted to see her, at ease, all wounds healed over, and no filth hiding the feral beauty in her features. As overlord, you can have anything you want, even her. Safe, protected, preserved. No orc claw will ever touch her again if you put your transgressions behind you and take your rightful place.
Ar-Tashk's gaze settled on the wrought iron rods that made up the cage, that kept his Isla contained in her state of cold, unfeeling perfection, that kept him from reaching her. His gut churned with an ache that felt as though it would tear him in half. He couldn't forget how much it hurt being unable to reach her in the caves after Vezhir stole her away, and how much he craved to have her decide to come to him in her moment of need. Even if he believed the Voice, even if he accepted its offer, even if he could have her locked safely away, there would always be cell bars between them, and somehow he doubted she would ever seek him again, "Nar... No keep Isla-izub in cage..."
Do not fool yourself, Reaper. the Voice's displeasure with the olog's response was palpable. The layers of tones grew more cacophonous with each word. The black mists of the vision began to swirl again as it spoke, You understand she is a slave, a pet, and must be treated as such. She will never warm to you. She will never stop trying to escape. Your leniency thus far nearly cost her life and yours. Such foolish creatures must be kept secure for their own safety.
The flames of the Eye were starting to crown around from the back of Ar-Tashk's head to the point he could see its vivid light blaring at the fringe of his vision. It burned deep, settling into the deepest recesses of his mind, as though ripping up layer after layer until it was burrowed into his flesh. Every deep-rooted thought Ar-Tashk ever had was plain for the Eye to read, no matter how much agony it caused to draw them out, like barbs of metal tearing through the flesh of his mind. Ar-Tashk wanted to tear it from his shoulders, that brutally heavy weight of the eye, but it held him fast.
You know it is true. She threw herself into the hands of orcs and a den of wargs for her folly. The mists started to form a coherent picture again, but instead of beasts as Ar-Tashk expected, instead, he found himself looking down upon a collection of slaves; all pitiful, tiny pinkskins, with sad sunken faces; the same ones he had gathered at Vezhir's command. She will either die trying to escape or die in her success.
"Mash kramp lat urdan?" Ar-Tashk dreaded to understand what the Voice was speaking of, but he couldn't help asking. The crowd of slaves parted as the Eye forced Ar-Tashk forward, wherein the center of them all, he spied the trio of slaves he wanted most of all to forget. That infuriatingly stubborn male slave had a length of chain coiled around his female companion's throat, and their infant's tiny form was limp in her lap. That stranger slave woman's mouth was gaping in a silent cry and gasping for breath, while her fingers grasped desperately at the metal chain. The man's face contorted with a vile satisfaction as his companion slowly lost all ability to resist.
Men-folk would rather slaughter their own at the mere thought of orcs touching them. What would they think of someone who has already carried the enemies' spawn? It doesn't matter where in the world she goes, where you think you can take her, by hand of man, orc, or beast your Lifemaker will be killed. The Voice was turning increasingly chilled with each word. It forced Ar-Tashk to watch the sequence play out until the slave woman finally fell still in her male companion's grip. The Eye shoved Ar-Tashk closer until its light fell upon the vision of the corpse and in doing so, transformed the stranger slave into a vision of his own. His Isla lay there in the place of the dead slave, strewn limp upon the ground, vibrant red hair flaring out in all directions like a bastardized crown of blood and fire, like a mark of the Eye. You are the only one that can prevent this fate. You can keep her alive and safe, but only if you do what must be done.
"Nar... Az urdan gurut!" Ar-Tashk couldn't stop himself; his hands reached out, trying to scoop the corpse up into his arms, but her tiny, frail form started crumbling away as though she was made of ashes. The tendrils of flame from the Eye crawled down his arms from his fingertips, consumed the graying form, and carried it away into the black mists of the vision once more. The olog was left in complete isolation, with only the burning Eye pushing him down to his knees. No amount of resistance could stop it, to the point Ar-Tashk felt the rising fear that he would be crushed and suffocated.
You cannot protect her. You cannot save her. Without power, you are dooming her. Without control, you are nothing. The Voice lorded, loud and contemptuous. And what of control... You lived a fat, luxurious life in Nurn, but you're throwing that all away, and for what? To wander desolate lands trying to cling to a slave who will flee from you every chance she gets? What of when the seasons turn dark, food runs out, the waters run dry, and wasting takes hold of your mind once more? Will you tell yourself that she cares enough about you to let you devour her to save your own hide? How can you possibly believe you have control of yourself?
A wave of cold nausea flooded Ar-Tashk's gut and crept up his throat. There was a terrible part of him that knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the Voice wasn't wrong. Every moment of every day in his slave's presence, he had fought with himself, conflicted on whether to eat her or not. Yet, the madness of true starvation had never been a factor throughout that whole time. Should it come down to it, Ar-Tashk didn't know how to answer, if he would be able to resist when pushed to the brink.
The Voice continued, Do not fail to account for starvation of other kinds either, Reaper. Your title is not just a platitude. Your heart calls for death and destruction. It will tempt you. If desertion means your Lifemaker is your only choice, will you slake your hunger with her blood? Or perhaps you will cave into your other desires?
The dark mists parted once more, taking the form Ar-Tashk dreaded most. Another image of himself, crouched upon the ground, huffing, grunting, and shifting with mindless must. A hateful, loathsome scent filled his nose. The mirrored form's face, hands, mane, everything was stained in so deep a red it almost seemed black.
"Puzgat... PUZGAT!" Ar-Tashk snarled hoarsely, wishing desperately that the vision was a lie, or a trick, but unable to deny the uncontrollable lust that had been awakened within himself.
This doesn't need to become reality. Return, Reaper. The Eye's flames crawled across the ground, engulfing the vision, snuffing it out as Ar-Tashk's countenance shuddered. You will have power, you will learn control, and the Lifemaker will be kept safe and alive and be entirely yours.
***** Translations *****
Az narku bolkuz zam za... Az brusuz kuluk az nargzabuz. - I never needed that... I had everything I wanted.
Nar... - No...
Mash kramp lat urdan? - What do you mean?
Nar... Az urdan gurut - No... I decide death. (He is saying Alaesia won't die because he will decide when to take her life.)
Puzgat... PUZGAT! - Stop... STOP!
****Summary To Skip Dark Sequence****
The Voice of Sauron seems to change its approach after failing to spur Ar-Tashk to act on his base desires previously. Now, while unconscious, Ar-Tashk finds himself subjected to visions of grandeur being promised to him by the Dark Lord to tempt the olog to return to serve him. The Voice even offers to allow Ar-Tashk to keep Alaesia, playing off his fears of what awful fate might befall her in his absence. After digging up such feelings, the Voice doubles down, forcing Ar-Tashk to endure seeing Alaesia dead in various scenarios, including the implication that if he doesn't submit to the Dark Lord's control, he will be unable to control and stop himself from raping and killing Alaesia in the process.