***** Author's Note *****
Be advised: This chapter contains content that may be explicit. 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.
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92
A dead end.
Grothraum snarled and yelped as if Zathra's flash of anger had lashed him with a whip of electricity.
The orc's face contorted into a scowl, looking at the rise of stone before him, rain pounding against his face. The ridge had led him to a dead end! Two steep walls converged together at one point, forming a cracked cliff that soared up beyond his line of sight into the clouds above.
A DEAD END! After everything, all the effort of crossing the outer wilds of Nurn, nearly getting killed by an olog, rival slavers, his own boss, wargs, and a great bleeding snake, they were to be stopped only by a damn pile of rocks?
I DON'T S'POSE YA HAVE ANY BRIGHT IDEAS?! Zathra roared at the presence in the back of his mind. He hated it. He hated it so much, but worse, he hated that he didn't know why!
Why had this specter attached to him? Was it some sort of spell or curse placed on him by that viperous pile of firewood? Something to torment him with? He had no clues, except the feeling, not his own, of disgust that kept filling his throat with bile. The orc had tasted that wretched sense before; it was the same one that filled Alaesia's throat at his touch. But this he couldn't shake. He couldn't block it out as he could with her. It was burrowed, like some worm-maggot, deep in his psyche; untouchable and intractable.
That presence was no respecter of his demands or questions. And as it had ignored him before, it ignored him now. The silence was deafening.
Ye know what... Zathra grabbed the pendant from his pocket— it was the only thing that seemed to elicit a response from the presence —and drew it forth. It swung from its chain like a pendulum, taunting the orc, glinting blue with each spin, Is this 'ow yer infectin' me? This rotten elf-shrakh?
His heel pressed into Grothraum's side to turn him about to face the dropoff to their side, arm poised to pitch the pendant into the void. However, just as he was about to lob the trinket, a whisper stayed the orc's hand.
Zathra froze, but still, there was only silence in his head.
Had he only imagined it?
No, it was coming from behind, towards the wall of stone, or rather through it; a tiny trickle of wind was whistling through the cracks where the walls met. Zathra dismounted the warg, tucking the pendant back into his pocket, surveying the crack more closely. A loose stone here, another there; large chunks had long since split from the mountainside, letting the faintest breath stream between the crevices. And if there was wind... That meant...
The orc clawed at the rockface, joined by Grothraum at an impatient burst of magic; together, they pulled one stone out after another until the right one loosened, and gave way. From the crack poured forth rubble and debris. With the warg's help, it didn't take long to open the way.
A gust of air rushed out, ruffling Zathra's disheveled, sodden hair as he peered into the opening before him. A dark stretch lay ahead, far deeper than the original crack had indicated, but even with the way unblocked, the breeze coming through did not fade. Though it carried with it all the scents one might expect of a damp, dank chasm, there was also a hint of sweetness as well; fresh air could mean any one thing; at least, he hoped it did.
Lucky guess, he hissed to the ether, making his way into the belly of the mountain, followed closely by his warg; but the unwelcome companion in Zathra's headspace didn't respond.
"L-Let... Let me prove it to you..."
What was she saying?! Was she really going to—
Any part of Alaesia that might have screamed or begged was pushed deep into the pit of her stomach which flipped and churned. Zathra's plan was a failure, and the orc fled, so only one scheme remained.
There would be no turning back from this now. If Ar-Tashk wanted her— her ugly, mangled body, suited only for orcs and trolls —who was she to refuse; if it would give her an even a mote of consideration against his plans, was it so wrong to try?
Thin, scarred fingers fumbled, stiff from the rain chill, as she peeled back the front of her soggy, makeshift tunic with one hand. Her other hand held tight to Ar-Tashk's cupping her cheek. She could barely feel anything; anything except the heat of Ar-Tashk's hand.
It was so warm, against her cheek, even after being caught out in the rain. Steam poured from his silhouette; through the dark within the cave, the most she could make out was the outlines of shapes, the broad arch of his silhouette. But perhaps that was for the best. She didn't know if she would have had enough nerve if she could see her master clearly. And... there was a kind of safety in heat she stole from his palm with her lips.
"PUZGAT— STOP."
Alaesia flinched.
Ar-Tashk tried to draw back, but she held tighter. If he really wanted to free himself, Alaesia knew nothing she could have stopped him.
Yet the olog's hand hovered, held in place by the faintest resistance of hers.
One side of her tunic slid free down her arm. She guided Ar-Tashk's hand back to trace his fingertips from the pulse of her throat, down, across the scar at her clavicle from the knife she had once thrown herself against, to the peak of her marred chest. His touch was like wildfire, leaving scorching skin behind as it brushed along hers. And just like a wildfire, those flames spread, consuming every inch of her senses.
Alaesia's heart felt like it was about to break through her ribs at any second, "I-Isn't this what you've wanted?"
Without warning Ar-Tashk pulled from her grasp, snapping his hand around to snatch the wrist of the hand she was guiding him with. He let out a sound like nothing Alaesia had ever heard before; the sound of mountain roots quaking. In one swift move, he had her pinned to the floor of the cave, growling, "Lat urfurat iz— You fear me."
"N-No..." a traitorous sob burbled up from Alaesia's throat, through the lying clench of her teeth. She hated how her body and voice fought to betray her, and her mind crackled with fragmentary flashes of uruk claws slicing ribbons in her skin and the feeling of being impaled, torn inside and out.
Ar-Tashk wasn't wrong. She was afraid.
If her blood could run any colder, it would have turned to solid ice. But she had to do this; it was the only way she could think of that might convince him to concede his foolish plans. She could only hope he would have the presence of mind to control himself, if he truly wanted to avoid harming her as Zathra had claimed.
"Az narkramp nargzabat lat urfurat iz— Not want your fear!" a bitter, pent-up lilt weighed heavy in the Reaper's voice. Through the darkness, she could just make out the faintest hint of the expression on his face. Not angry, but pained.
"I..." A lump crept into Alaesia's throat. Swallowing hard, she pushed it down. What does it matter if I'm afraid of him?! "You're my master—"
"Latub durba, nar goth!" he snarled.
There were those words again, the ones that had seemingly sparked the orc's sudden desertion. What had Ar-Tashk said that drove Zathra away? Alaesia didn't understand! Nor did she understand why Ar-Tashk had yet to make any move against her.
The olog had her at his mercy, her wrist restrained above her head, half-disrobed, bared vulnerable and willing before him, and still he held back.
Such restraint evoked... something in her, heated and heavy, "I am yours... Your slave. Az latub snaga. Yours to do with whatever you will..."
Every muscle in Ar-Tashk's body grew incensed at the meaning of her words; she was his. In every sense of ownership except one, she was his! Why was that one holding him back?! He'd never hesitated to take was what his before! Why was he hesitating now?
The red just beneath her pale skin called to the olog; his lungs shuttered just breathing it in. The human fear was there, yes, as it should be. That much was undeniable. A cruel, dark part of him still even reveled in it. Her eyes were just glistening with tears just waiting to be spilt.
He was almost tempted to make her beg for her life, to torture her, as he had once fantasized about, before delivering the sanguine release of death. Death was his to command after all, was it not? She was his. Her life was his! He should take it however he pleased!
Why shouldn't you have her? Poisonous thoughts slithered into Ar-Tashk's mind, from the Voice so subtle, so carefully crafted and uttered, he could have easily mistaken it for his own.
Conflicting memories flickered through Ar-Tashk's mind; images of the night he had her beneath him like this once before, back at the warg den. She had screamed that night; begged him to stop. This would be no different. She would cry out. And this time... he didn't know if he'd have the self-control be able to stop; he would tear her to pieces, drink the juices—
"Ar-Tashk?" Alaesia whispered, trying to suppress a crack in her voice. "Please... I'm giving you what you want... We don't need to go to Gondor..."
NO. He was his own master! He would not lose himself.
Ar-Tashk pressed his forehead to hers, uttering a furious growl that skipped through her chest in flutters.
Alaesia turned away, whether out of fear, or submission, it didn't matter to the olog. Holding himself back, when she taunted him like this, was like trying to stop the sun from rising.
His senses were consumed. He needed her. Oh, how he needed her! The way a desert thirsted for rain, or a fire hungered for fuel, he needed her! Something else, something new and tantalizing, washed over the back of his tongue as he breathed her in; excitable with nerves, welcoming, and sweet, the heat of need, coming from her. Primal desire seized him with the urge to mate her, like an animal in rut.
The backwards tilt of her head was too much. Her exposed throat pulsed in flush invitation, and he took it.
Ar-Tashk lifted Alaesia to bring her shoulders to his mouth, the way a beast would take its prey. A mere hairsbreadth separated her from a broken neck, a shattered spine, or suffocation between his jaws. The points of his tusks clicked against her collar, testing, seeking vulnerabilities. He traced from just under her ear to the meat of her shoulder, interrupted by the thin metal band, irritation boiling in his throat. He would have torn it from her neck there, if not for the reminder it gave him to control himself.
Absolute torture.
Frustration hummed from his chest in a groan, "Isla..."
Alaesia trembled at the feeling of Ar-Tashk enveloping her. His touch was nothing like the ragged, sharp claws that once flayed open her flesh; the hewn roughness of his grip could have taken her apart piece by piece, she was sure, but if she couldn't trust him now, it wouldn't really matter... So, she allowed herself to melt into the power in the muscle and sinew that so carefully maneuvered her to his whims.
He started by exploring; he wanted to sate his curiosities about this fragile thing, to learn how and in what ways he could have her; to discover just what made her tick.
His lips brushed along every mark that had been left on her before, starting from the top and moving down. Melted flesh across one palm, from her efforts to interfere with Frogblood's attack upon Ar-Tashk contrasted the perfect, smooth digits of her other hand. Ghul claws had once raked long lines across her forearms. One arm was dimpled with the fang marks of an uruk and talons had dug grooves across the silken surface of her skin, from her head, to her breasts, across her belly, down between her legs...
His explorations were not without such bitter reminders. Every bite and scratch that had healed to knotted tissue mocked him; his folly was allowing Vezhir to take what was rightfully HIS. He burned with the urge to leave his own marks, to overwrite the uruk's claim.
The thought barely crossed his mind before the prick of his tusks cut two thin lines across the breadth of her delicate clavicle as he moved.
Alaesia stifled a small cry, more from surprise than pain. It wasn't terrible. She had suffered far worse... Small tears stung at the corner of her eyes, but she blinked them away as her master's tongue curled greedily, capturing and counting the beads of blood that bloomed from the cuts.
The taste sent thunder through Ar-Tashk. No honey was so sweet, no wine so exquisite, and no poison, more treacherous. It threatened to blacken his senses beyond all self-restraint.
The olog sucked in a sharp breath, swallowing the thick current of must wrestling for dominance. He needed to stay in control!
His motions slowed to a deliberate, and even restrained, pace; the need to fight himself swelled with the rush of fire through his veins.
His hands had started to draw across her, first up her thigh, following the curve of her hips, and around to the small of her back, forcing her to arch for him, so he could carefully taste every inch of her.
The pair of Ar-Tashk's tusks tickled along either side of her abdomen as he moved again, even a twitch threatening to gore her. He only just managed to leave her skin intact; the soft meat there must not be for his taking, no matter how sweet he imagined it would be.
A hot breath cascaded across the hollow curve of her hips, down between—
Her stomach jumped.
She squirmed involuntarily against her master's trespass, but that only seemed to goad him more. Sparks leapt up her spine as his tongue caressed just the very edge of the contour between her legs, evoking murmurs of a moan; she should have hated it.
Something pressed against Alaesia's heel. She pinched her eyes shut; erratic, shallow breaths caught in her lungs at the thought of what it was. It took all of her willpower to not kick.
But then, without warning, it felt as though she had been stabbed!
*****Summary To Skip Explicit Sequence *****
Under the impression that Zathra has deserted her, Alaesia thinks her only option to sway Ar-Tashk's plan to go to Gondor (for fear of rejection/condemnation by humans) is to attempt to seduce him, to prove she won't attempt to run away or escape anymore. She baits him and he finds he cannot resist. However, Alaesia screams, feeling as though she has been stabbed, leaving the chapter on a cliffhanger.
***** Translations *****
Zathra: Shrakh - Shit
Ar-Tashk: PUZGAT - STOP
Ar-Tashk: Lat urfurat iz - You are afraid of me.
Ar-Tashk: Az narkramp nargzabat lat urfurat iz! - I don't want you to fear me!
Ar-Tashk: Latub durba, nar goth! - Your owner, not master! (Referring back to the contextual meaning of durba meaning a master by force versus goth meaning master by desire, Ar-Tashk is expressing frustration that he knows she is subjecting herself to him only because he owns her, not because she wants him as her master in return. He wants her to want him back.)
Alaesia: Az latub snaga. - I am your slave.