***** Author's Note *****

Don't want to wait for more? Now Available! Read up to Chapter 89 on my discord! Link in my bio!

If you are enjoying YRWYS, please consider leaving a comment! It really makes my day to hear what my readers think!

84

It WAS juss a dream... What'm I s'posed ta do to prove it to ya? Zathra's insistence was met with silence.

In her fretting, Alaesia ignored all of the orc's attempts to communicate with her silently as he followed with diligent awareness. Desperate to deny him purchase, he realized she was latching onto images and sounds of the forest any time he tried to speak to her. She would run the distractions through her head, repeating as many times as was necessary to wait out the orc's persistence. A clever way to drown him out; far simpler than fighting his influence directly.

Zathra might have been impressed with such a simple but effective tactic, if he wasn't so concerned with trying to offer reassurance. However, her adamant refusal also worried him. He could sense Alaesia's mind growing more fragmentary with each attempt he made to influence her, particularly the attempts that she met with resistance. It seemed she was only just holding herself together; the threat of her mind finally breaking was imminent and the orc had no idea if such damage would be reparable either should that line be crossed.

It wasn't unheard of for orcs to be driven mad when in proximity to the varying breeds of magic that wove in and out of Mordor's ranks and bloodlines. Through his many years, Zathra has seen practically all there was to see of broken orcs; blubbering fools who wept like whelps instead of speaking, berserkers who screamed and flung themselves at danger just to feel alive again, and even jabbering wrecks who latched onto a single thought and couldn't shut up about it. The most pitiless, steadfast warriors could be turned into mad dogs or crow meat when magic went awry.

But, of all the curs with miserable fates that he'd met, none of their minds quite compared to seeing and feeling the spiraling descent into madness in progress as he now had the torment of witnessing vicariously through Alaesia, only a hairsbreadth separated from experiencing it firsthand. It was a sickening feeling he gleaned from her, like having his arm get ripped from his body; suddenly what was there, tangible, just a moment before ceasing to exist. Eerie for it wasn't flesh and bone being torn apart, but what the orc could only describe as a wraith. He could feel Alaesia's soul desperately fighting to not crumble into dust, mirroring each sensation into his own consciousness when he opened his mind to hers.

Zathra never imagined there was any need to worry about a human falling ill in the same way as those broken orcs; he never believed it possible, favored children of grander spirits as humans were rumored to be. Granted, neither had he ever inflicted his magic upon the previous slaves he had captured in the past for any prolonged period of time. Not in the same way he had with Alaesia over their brief entanglement. Every probe of magic, the force of his will upon her each time she fought him, or even broadcast her thoughts to the ether between them wore her soul thinner and more tenuous. And were it to finally break, a part of Zathra feared it might take him with it.

Before departing the clearing, he had informed Ar-Tashk of all he had divined over the course of the night, perhaps hoping to further increase the modicum of accordance between them. The orc still had promises to keep after all, though he knew he had squandered what little faith Alaesia had afforded him with his ill-considered compliance with the olog's demands.

It cut to feel the blame in her mind, that had, somewhat unfairly, been placed solely on him; never mind her master's involvement in the previous night's torment. However, Zathra couldn't bring himself to hold it against her; Alaesia's memories made it clear she struggled to separate him from those of his kind that had forced themselves upon her. He could feel the uncontrollable drop of her stomach every time she glanced his way, and it made him just as sick as it made her, until he had to withdraw from his subtle prodding, to avoid outright vomiting. How Alaesia managed to maintain her façade of composure, Zathra couldn't quite fathom.

Despite her conflict and confusion, the orc could at least understand that the only one that made her feel even slightly safe was the olog. So far removed from resemblance to the smaller soldiers of Mordor, ologs, or at least the Reaper, posed a different set of threats entirely; ones that the woman found more sufferable, at the very least. The numerous defenses Ar-Tashk had mounted for her sake had proven at the bare minimum, even if Alaesia wished to reject her instincts on the matter, she was far more protected, if not safe, around him than orcs. Zathra suspected that was one of the few threads keeping her from crumbling entirely.

Zathra's attempts at playing peacemaker grew with desperation with each passing hour as they trudged doggedly on. Bridging the gaps of misunderstanding between the olog and human was a fool's hope, but one he clung to; a hope that perhaps, if he could prove himself trustworthy, Ar-Tashk might grow open to the orc's promised plan to petition for her freedom, and by extension hopefully stop the woman's spiral towards total madness, if he couldn't find a way to reverse it.

So, the orc had offered what information he could to their captor to ensure their odd trio wouldn't be surprised by any ambush, agreeing to use his mind's eye, through his warg, to scout for signs of danger or traps. By some miracle, the olog was not entirely opposed to entrusting some degree of input from the orc. After all, such information was paramount in keeping Alaesia from harm.

Zathra's worries of danger lurking in the trees seemed like they might have been unfounded though, even as they ventured deeper into the gnarled and twisted brambles. The serpent seemed to be lying low for now, still keeping as obscured as possible; likely, Zathra suspected, looking to observe and study his quarry before risking another encounter with the reckoning force of the trollish warrior.

However, the orc's warnings could not be a priority at the moment, even if the olog wanted it to be. Ar-Tashk displayed no sign of hesitation carrying on through the woods, as though the threat of the snake hunting them was of no concern to the olog. No, his main concern was getting out as soon as possible; out of this damnable forest. Not for his own sake. He had dealt with the serpent once, and in a matter of brute strength, Ar-Tashk was sure there would be no contest. But time was running out, to get out of Mordor.

The frost fallen across every leaf and twig that morning was the first sign. When he had decided to take his little human beyond Mordor's borders, he had calculated with her slow pace, they would have made it to the base of the Ephel Duath with just enough time to spare to cross the mountain range before the harshness of winter struck its peaks. The mountains were a cage, but not one a determined olog couldn't break free of. However, it would only take one good storm to make the range impassable, at least until the following season.

Now, after their detour, the spare time, that he had hoped they would have had, was all but consumed. For that reason, Ar-Tashk didn't stop. He couldn't afford to. He gave his captives no chance to pause and catch their breath, nor opportunity to rest, even when night came and went.

Zathra could surmise well enough what the olog's plan was; they should have easily reached the river after a day's journey, but instead of going directly Northward, which would have gotten them there by now, instead, he had opted to cut more towards the West at an angle to the river. The orc knew it was a dangerous chance they were taking, to remain in the woods longer than was necessary, but it was also the only way to reach the mountains sooner.

"Yer gonna drive us ta death, keeping on like this," A low grumble, hushed and wary, addressed Ar-Tashk from behind. There had been little in the way of discussion amongst the trio on the first day of their trek, aside from some protesting on the orc's part, which Ar-Tashk had completely ignored. But the orc was persistent, if anything.

Ar-Tashk's small, pointed ear drew slightly in Zathra's direction, but he forged onward, clearing the path with little effort. A thick branch snapped in two between the olog's hands, punctuating his curt retort, "Move orc... No stop."

"Ain't asking fer my sake," Zathra retorted, with a backwards glance. "Na gamurz. Ishi nabz kar... She needs a breather."

"Az ist..." the olog growled through gritted teeth. His loathing for Zathra only grew more every time the orc opened his mouth and insinuated Ar-Tashk was too foolish to comprehend the needs of a puny human. He hadn't fought this hard to keep her alive just to have some orc swoop in and act like he knew his human better than he did.

"I-I'm fine," Alaesia, who has fallen behind both the olog and orc at that point, pinned the orc with a look in the dead center of his back that would have burned a hole through him if she could have.

She didn't want or need this orc's faux niceties. And it wasn't as if Zathra had any idea what it meant if she didn't keep marching. From the very beginning, Ar-Tashk had shown he had no qualms punishing others in her place, if she disappointed him. If her master said march, there was nothing for it but to obey. Exhaustion be damned. But she couldn't hide the leaden drag of her feet; she was all but falling into each step just to keep moving forward. Ar-Tashk turned, just at the right moment to see Alaesia stagger and trip on the chains about her feet, only just managing to stay upright. He and Zathra shifted simultaneously, which earned the orc a sharp warning grunt, as Ar-Tashk moved towards the woman.

She scrambled to right herself at his approach, profusely insisting, "I-I can k-keep up... p-please don't—"

"Nar," Ar-Tashk growled. In one swift movement, he forced her to sit back to the ground, took the portions of chains binding her ankles in both hands, and wrenched them with little effort.

Alaesia let out a yelp as the manacles strained against her skin, but more out of fright than pain. There was a high-pitched screech of the chain links straining to hold, but they were little more than thread to the olog, and they buckled under the strain. Bits of metal clattered to the ground, some pieces having warped and stretched, others having snapped clean in two with a loud TWANG! He made short work of the chains connected to her feet, leaving only the manacles in place with a couple of links still attached, and cast aside almost all of the loose debris.

Alaesia had pinched her eyes shut, not eager to witness her limbs get crushed, but the pain she expected never came. Instead, a sensation of weightlessness filled her extremities and her eyes snapped open, only for that sensation to spread to the rest of her body as Ar-Tashk swept her up with one arm.

"Dronzat, uruk. Ma 'amul' ishi shara-lam?" He growled to Zathra, who responded in turn, but Alaesia was too shaken to pick out the specifics of their squabbling.

The chains binding her ankles... The heavy drag of metal weighing down her pace was gone, just like that... She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. However, he had left the cuffs between her wrists and the lead chain from her collar intact; this wasn't a gift she should mistake for freedom.

"Be calm... You rest," Ar-Tashk rumbled a stern command and shifted the woman into the crook of his arm as he carried her onwards, with Zathra trailing closely behind.

Resistance reared its head in the pit of Alaesia's stomach, but the sway of his gait was comforting in its familiarity, and she was feeling exhaustion overcome her as the dawn of the second morning broke behind the trio. Perhaps, she figured, it was better to just take what favor he afforded her, at least for the time being. Better than being strung across his shoulder like a bloodied caragor carcass— comfortable almost.

"Th-thank you..." Alaesia let out an unsure whisper, earning a low grunt in return. Not keen on letting Ar-Tashk's perplexity get under her skin, she tried to find something to occupy herself; without something to concentrate on, Zathra was sure to weasel his way into her head.

However, it was harder to get the olog off her mind than she would have liked. Before long, the passing of dappled leaf shadow over Ar-Tashk's back and interplaying with the oil-black tone of his mane caught her eye. A part of her felt as if she were looking at a creature she could almost reach out and stroke; she was almost certain Ar-Tashk wouldn't oppose, but she kept her hands firmly tucked around her sides.

Her mother had once told Alaesia of a big, black cat that she had when she was young, sharing many a fond and wistful memory, if only to pass the long isolation of exile. Alaesia had always loved her mother's stories, particularly of that cat curling up on her lap or shoulder on cold winter evenings.

Attempting to correct the bizarre comparison that overtook the memories of Anorae's stories proved strangely difficult; how could one correctly imagine a creature they had only heard tell of, having never seen one themselves? Now, each time she tried to think of her mother's cat, the olog was all Alaesia could picture. She had watched him catch rats in the kitchen at the fortress, as her mother's cat had done; Ar-Tashk had even fretted over her wounds, even those he had inflicted, much like Anorae's cat had after scratching her.

Her mother's musings had always been punctuated by a sense of fondness for the creature, a fondness that as a child Alaesia had often wished to experience for herself; she lamented silently as just such a spark threatened to corporealize itself inside her, in spite of her wish to suppress it. The fact that the swaying of Ar-Tashk's mane in the chill air summoned such thoughts made Alaesia's breath catch and she gave her head a little shake as a fleeting chastisement sprang to her mind— What is wrong with me?!

Ar-Tashk was no harmless pet sharing its warmth, presenting rodents as trophies for Alaesia's approval, or nuzzling her to make her feel better. There had to be something that might cast out such frivolous, and dangerous, thoughts; she began wracking her brain, smothering the spark as best she could.

What had her parents told her about trolls? Supposedly, they couldn't survive in sunlight... A painful, petrified death awaited any of their ilk who dared venture into the day; but no, that couldn't be entirely true, for the olog showed no hint of bother at the cloak of sunlight around his shoulders from the sun peeking between the horizon and the smog above. Of course, ologs were not just trolls. They were some sort of foul mix of troll blood, magic, and... who knew what else. She had not the stomach to speculate.

Soon enough, she became lost in the back and forth of her thoughts and allowed her eyes close and her cheek to lean against Ar-Tashk. Even if unease wouldn't allow her to fully give in to sleep, the respite became more welcome with each passing hour. By the time the sun had touched the distant mountain peaks ahead, they finally came to the banks of the river once more.

It cut across the landscape like a great scar, reaching beyond sight to the west and east. Across the water, to the north, stretched the barren lands thoroughly stripped of most signs of plant and animal life, and in the distance as far as Alaesia could see, a pillar of black smoke rose above the heart of Mordor and crept out across the sky; its source, Orodruin, was impossible to see at this distance and low elevation of their vantage point, but the billowing black clouds it belched were an ever-present reminder of the evils waiting for the slightest glimmer of hope to squash it within their shadow.

Alaesia balked from the sight of Mordor's darkness, as Ar-Tashk let her down to the ground for a moment to stretch her legs. Zathra joined the olog at his beckoning, at the edge of the river. The orc's eyes lit up once more with blue mist, scanning and scouting, while Ar-Tashk took a few strides upstream, then back down again, as if he was searching for something— a place to ford the river Alaesia concluded, if Zathra's mutterings were anything to go by.

Neither orc nor olog was fully aware of Alaesia as she found a small perch of stones alongside the bank; Ar-Tashk only had his back turned for a split moment, when a silent voice bid her, Clossser...

Her head snapped towards the mute call, emanating from among the reeds lining the river. Something shifted through the muck and mire, rising up in silence to meet the woman at eye level. The tangles of his plant-like skin, roots and leaves protruding from every inch of his body, made the forest entity nearly impossible to spy through the fauna and the dim light of sunset, save for by movement. Half submerged and coated in moss-slick like a strange cloak, Ammatar lifted a single finger to his human-form lips, and a jolt of compulsion shot through Alaesia's throat and mind. He wasn't about to make the mistake of allowing her to cry to her demons for help again.

***** Translations *****

Na gamurz. Ishi nabz kar. - She's sick. In her head.

Az ist - I know...

Nar - No

Dronzat, uruk. Ma 'amul' ishi shara-lam? - Translate, orc. What is 'rest' in human-tongue?