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

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96

"Oi, Cyrel! I found that feral girl of yours by the wall while making the rounds."

"In this weather?! What kind of mad— oh."

Alaesia shrank; she wished she could just disappear as she found herself suddenly faced with a handful of men, all variously equipped with winter gear, armor, and weapons, sitting around a table in the guards' common house. They were all staring at her, gawking like a grotesque, little goblin had wandered in, and whoever took the first breath would trigger a frenzy to carve it to pieces; so Alaesia's breath froze in her chest.

It was the one whose retort fell silent that got to his feet first, Cyrel, Alaesia surmised, who grabbed a cloak from the back of his neighbor's chair, and brought it forward to wrap around her shivering shoulders, "Thane have mercy... You shouldn't be wandering around at this hour! You could've died."

"That's what I said," the guard that had brought her there scoffed and wagged his hand dismissively, "But she doesn't want to go back to the healer's."

"Don't think she was trying to run off do ya?"

"Just to freeze to death then?"

"I dunno. Who knows how a wild woman's brain thinks? Cyrel did say there was a snowstorm the night she appeared."

"What if she's a ghost that comes and goes with the snow? Maybe we're just haunted—"

"Don't be stupid, Edrid," the younger one, who offered the eerie idea, received a sharp cuff to the back of his head, from another guard with a similar but gruffer-looking face, "Ghost's ain't real."

It was too much...

Too much chatter, too much noise, too many people!

Alaesia didn't know where to look or who to address. The leering from all directions, though nothing like an orc's gaze, still demanded no less submission than her once-captors. With orcs, there was always an obvious, dominant leader to heed, to obey. These humans, these men, were chaotic, unreadable, for their lack of any immediately overt hierarchy.

"The lot of you pipe down, you're scaring her!" Cyrel barked seeing her countenance, the pallor and shaking, grow worse under his fellows' scrutiny. He received a few grumbles in return, but ignored them, taking a prying look at the strange, frightening appearance she bore, "Besides, I've been meaning to ask you something questions—"

Alaesia took a step back, feeling cornered.

"I'll admit, I'm curious to get to know our little visitor too," another new voice interrupted from the doorway behind them, making Cyrel's expression freeze on his face. The voice was cold, colder than the breeze that entered with it through the open door. "As long as she's not keen on returning to Beordon and Bellora, why don't we get to know this poor, gangly creature?"

A tense hand fell on Alaesia's shoulder, guiding her to the table to sit in Cyrel's vacant seat. The gruff-looking guard sitting across the table got up, allowing the newcomer to take his chair, and Alaesia found herself face to face with a stern, icy gaze.

Another guard perhaps?

This man, dark-haired with steely blue eyes, had a far less patient air about him. The other men quieted, making Alaesia's skin crawl; perhaps there was hierarchy among them afterall.

They moved back respectfully to give the newcomer space as he leaned on his elbows to leer at Alaesia, but she didn't meet his gaze; orcs didn't like slaves brazenly looking them in the eye.

"Your caretakers tell me your name is Alaesia," he prompted.

Was it a question? An accusation? She couldn't tell.

Alaesia swallowed, eyes darting for the doorway.

"Come now, don't be shy. Cyrel, bring the girl a drink. Something to warm her."

Ordering the others about? This man definitely had authority then...

The young guard did as bid, and the ice-eyed man pushed the mug closer when she refused to take it. In the silence, Alaesia could feel every eye upon her, until she couldn't take the pressure and she painfully accepted it, taking a small sip. The taste burned with familiar spark; Gondorian 'firewater' like the old soldier use to share with her at Udun. The burn, or perhaps the memory, made her cough with discomfort.

"See?" The man nodded, a faint, unnerving smile on his lips, "We can be friends here. Bellora wanted me to wait until you were feeling better, but since you're here. I just have a few questions for you, if that's alright."

Something told her gut that wasn't a request.

Wait... Alaesia felt her heart quicken; was he the captain of the guard Bellora had mentioned? She wasn't ready... Not yet! She hadn't had time to come up with the answers to the terrible questions she knew he would ask. Her hosts could do nothing to shelter her from his interrogations now. She could only give a stiff, distant-eyed nod, trying desperately to maintain her composure.

"Good, I'm glad," the supposed Captain clasped a mug, pawned off one of his subordinates, in one hand, raising it slightly to her, before taking a swig and inquiring, "You're a long way from home, aren't you?"

"I..." She hesitated, frantically trying to think how to respond, "I don't have one... A home, I mean."

"I'm glad to hear you can speak. Might have thought you had no tongue with that many scars," he seemed to notice how the mention of the marks made the girl wither into her own shoulders. The man tilted his head, brow furrowing with focus, "Surely there must be a village you hail from? Somewhere you hope to return to. Your family must be worried sick."

"I don't have one..." Alaesia repeated, trying desperately to steel her voice. Ice-cold droplets from the snow melting on her hair started to crawl down her back, making it hard not to squirm.

"No family?"

The younger guard, Edrid, who'd uttered the sad question, was silenced by the Captain's glance, "Echard, please keep your brother from interrupting..."

Alaesia watched nervously after Edrid as the older guard of the pair from before grabbed him by the scruff and dragged the curious boy out the door; both heading out to patrol for the sake of giving the Captain the order he required for his questioning.

"Alaesia—" her attention snapped back to the interrogator, "—You don't have to be afraid. I have no intention of putting you in harm's way. We can protect you, maybe even help reunite you with your kin. We only need information. I've seen men and women... and children... before. All marked up like you are. I know its hard to think about and I'm trying to be sensitive. But I need you to be candid with me."

There were those politely gritted teeth again, the ones Alaesia hated, hiding brutal realities and veiled threats behind soft, elegant words.

She looked between the faces of the rest of the guards there, wishing there weren't so many eyes to witness the disgusting creature in their midst. They had soft, well-fed countenances, with hardly a blemish among them. She hated how ruined she felt in comparison.

What did they know of harm? What could they possibly know of the nightmares they couldn't even speak of? Why couldn't they just speak plainly?! Why did they want her to expose her darkest thoughts while hiding behind their own sense of decency?!

Another drop of meltwater slid down across the curve of her throat warningly like the ghost of a collar, reminding her to control herself.

"I don't know what you want me to say..." She answered carefully. If only she could give him the answer he wanted, maybe she could get out of this unscathed.

The Captain gave the strangely stoic woman an exasperated look. He waved a hand to one of the other guards who brought over a large patchwork sheet and laid it down before them on the table, "I want you to help me. Any information you can give me. If you can recall anything before you arrived here, directions, locations, even just the name of your home town would be of use."

"W...What?" She looked blankly over the parchment, the scribblings on it utterly useless to her, "I don't understand... What is this?"

A few hushed murmurs passed between the guards who still remained in the hut. The one who'd brought Alaesia there— she had yet to catch his name —leaned to Cyrel, muttering hints of horrified assumptions under his breath, "Just how long do you think she's been out there to not know how to read?!"

Cyrel, whose irritation at having been interrupted was palpable, only grunted in response.

Another sour look from the Captain shut the pair of boys up; neither eager to miss out on hearing whatever strange tale the wild woman might tell.

The Captain continued, ignoring them, "This is a map... See. Osgiliath here, between Minas Tirith and Minas Ithil. We are here, at the edge of Mordor, on Gondor's side of the mountains of shadow—" He noted how she flinched as he pointed out the latter boundaries. "—I ask just to know where you hail from. Your word can help protect our village. To warn others nearby. If your home and family were... taken from you, if you escaped a raid, please tell us what happened. You might be the only warning we get. If there's marauders about, then we need to make ready."

"I'm... I'm confused..." Alaesia hesitated, her façade of calm wavering. Was that all he was trying to ask? Was he not trying to determine the crimes of her guilt? Even so, she couldn't tell him her origins. It would be just as much an admission. "Bellora said orcs don't come here."

The Captain's eyes narrowed, as if he found something he had been digging for, "I wish that were true. Come the thawing of spring, new raiding parties always make their way across Gondor from the north."

So... the healer had just been attempting to reassure her. The woman's hollow stare filled with liquid, shoulders slumping.

Alaesia didn't know if she should laugh or cry. Of course, no matter where she went, the threat of Mordor's beasts was ever-present. Not even Gondor, the place her parents spoke of as if sacred, was safe. And now, here she was, defenseless.

These guards surrounding her now, armored and trained as they were, looked pampered compared to the orc warriors she had lived among. They couldn't even compare to the tested and battle-worn soldiers from the Black Gate she had spied upon as a child. Few among them were anything more than mere boys— some she suspected might've even been younger than her. If... no... when the orcs did come, such men would be overrun...

She felt foolish to have believed Bellora so easily.

"But," the Captain continued slowly, methodical with his words, "I said nothing of the breed of such thieves. Why is it those beasts are what comes to your mind, girl?" He watched his visitor with excruciatingly observant eyes.

She froze, stiff and silent, her composure buckling.

After a pause with no response, he asked, "You were taken captive by orcs, weren't you?"

He had suspected as much; they all had. Rumors as rampant as a fire had long since passed through the whole village. It was just that no one had said the ill-manners to say such an awful thing out loud. Until now.

Of all his men present, the Captain was the only one who had ever witnessed the victims of orcs firsthand. Seeing the girl before him turn chill, the way she bristled at his question when she realized just what she had revealed with the slip of the tongue; it was all the reaction of one so heavily conditioned to fear, he had never seen anyone fully recover from such a state.

The hut became deathly still, the other guards absorbed in their morbid curiosity to hear what Alaesia had to say for herself in the face of such accusations.

"W...Why..." Alaesia's voice cracked. "No... Don't ask me that..."

"I have to," the Captain pressed, stern and unyielding. "Alaesia, if there are orcs in the area, holed up in some cave or hiding out in a ransacked village, I need to know!"

"S-Stop it, please, just stop! Th-There aren't any o-orcs!" Alaesia wrapped her arms around herself, turning away as she fought to control her emotions. "I don't know how I got here! I don't have a home, or a family. I... I can't read a map, and there's aren't any orcs!"

Not anymore.

Were those tears stinging her cheeks? Why was that thought what made her cry?! She should have been celebrating the fact she was free of Zathra and Ar-Tashk and the rest of the foul creatures of Mordor! But part of her would prefer the familiarity of her master's enthrallment and dominion to the unpredictability and unknown of her own kind. If they knew... If they guessed why she started to weep... If she let the truth slip...

Skai... Alaesia bit her tongue, tasting blood, trying to swallow it all down.

"Captain... Maybe we should—" The guard, Cyrel, took a half step forward, but was stopped by a raised hand from his leader.

"Are you sure?" Though his tone softened, the Captain's icy eyes bore into Alaesia, seeking the cracks in her resolve. "This is a matter of life and death. If you know anything, anything at all, of any dangers that might threaten the lives of my people. Please, help us, so we can help you."

"I s-swear, there's no o-orcs. I'm alone..." but how desperately she wished she wasn't.


Cyrel was charged with escorting Alaesia back to the healer's and baker's home, but he kept a pace or two ahead, almost as if he couldn't stand to walk next to a wretch like her. She followed behind, head hung.

"I don't get why you lied."

The accusation snapped Alaesia from her quiet march.

Cyrel hadn't looked back at her, his focus dead ahead.

Her step halted immediately, but her heartbeat quickened. If he had been an orc, she was sure he would have heard it give away everything, "I... I don't know what you mean."

The crunch of his feet in the freshly fallen snow stopped.

Finally, he turned, "Come on. There has to be a story. You don't need to hide it. I just want know know what happened before you got here. You couldn't have made it all the way here alone with a spider bite that bad. You're not the only one getting questioned! I was the one who let you in, you know."

"Then you tell me what happened!" She wasn't in the mood for this. She absolutely wasn't! But she didn't want to return to the place she had called home for the past couple of months either. If not for the newly realized danger that even this village wasn't safe from orcs, she would have been tempted to run off into the woods beyond the wall. But there was nowhere else to go. "If you're so certain I lied, then you should have reported it to your master, not me."

"Master— Wha-" Cyrel shook off the confusion for the girl's strange turn of phrase and uttered conspiratorially under his breath, "Nevermind. I know, you know. I just thought you didn't want to talk in front of the Captain. I get it, he scares me too! But you can trust me with your secret."

"You're mad. I remember nothing. There is nothing!" She tried to push past the young guard, but he moved the block her.

"I'm talking about..." the lad glanced around, to check if they were alone. Alaesia scowled; of course they were alone. No one else was mad enough to be running around in the cold at this hour... no one, but her. Satisfied their conversation was private, Cyrel whispered, "...your friend."

"I don't have any friends," Alaesia hissed viperously.

Cyrel couldn't help but notice how the young woman grew rigid. If this had been a tale, like those his mother told him as a child, he might have thought her a witch, cursing him with her eyes.

He balked under the poison green gaze, which allowed the woman to slip past with her hands clamped to her ears, leaving the brash, young guard to trail after her, insisting as they went, "Oh yes you do. That shifty-eyed elf! I couldn't remember at first, but it came back to me later. Quit walking away from me! He stole my cloak—!"

Alaesia rushed through the door of her accommodations and locked it behind her before the nosy guard could pester her any further; finally finding a moment of quiet.

Except... It was quiet— it wasn't supposed to be quiet...

Bellora's cries had stopped.

The silence filled Alaesia's chest with dread.

Every tiny hair on her body stood on end. She didn't want to see, but she couldn't stop herself from looking. Alaesia quietly made her way to the door of Beordon and Bellora's room, expecting to see bloody carnage, and a corpse, or two.

But no...

The scene that greeted her was beautiful in the most exquisite way. The couple was resting in the warm glow of a lantern, Bellora with her head, beaded with sweat, resting on her husband's shoulder, and cradled in her arms, a tiny cooing bundle. Any hint of blood there might have been from the woman's ordeal was cleaned away and tucked away neatly into a bucket of water in the corner of the room. The way Beordon stroked his wife's cheek, teasing her hair with his fingers, unable to pull his own teary gaze from his newborn child's face broke Alaesia's heart.

She retreated, giving the couple the privacy such an intimate moment deserved. Life moved on, but she felt left behind; trapped, alone, at the graveside of the slave she used to be.

Try as she might that night, in the isolation of her quarters, Alaesia couldn't summon any specter to hold her, as Beordon held Bellora...

As Ar-Tashk had once held her.


"Alaesia?"

Early one morning, she heard Beordon calling for her, but she didn't respond.

"A guard says Omannon is asking for you."

Omannon? Under the heavy wool shroud of her blanket, Alaesia stared at her scarred hand, unmoving, trying to think. She didn't have enough fingers for everyone. There were too many names, too many people in the village to keep track of. Never in her life could she have fathomed so many individuals, each with their own identities, personalities, and lives. Orcs didn't count. They were always just... A horde. A mass with a singular purpose.

Except maybe Zathra... But he wasn't exactly very orcish.

A small painful part of her wondered what had happened to him, but she suppressed that too at the dull throb that pressured the backs of her eyelids.

An excruciating headache ebbed and flowed as she tried to focus and recall just who Beordon was referring to. Omannon...

Was that the Captain's name? Or maybe Cyrel's friend, the one who'd found her at the wall a fortnight ago? That pest of a guard kept trying to find new ways to question her, harassing her to satisfy his awful curiosity. She wouldn't have put it past him to get one of the other guards to coax her out under false pretenses, just so he could try to get her to admit she was hiding something.

Staring at her hand she concluded a couple of things. Cyrel was definitely counted as one of the pair of ugly, scar-fused fingers on her mangled hand. Omannon could be the other one, whoever he was.

Alaesia felt the small cot her hosts had granted to her move, to shift and creak under her as the baker took a seat at the end of the bed, "Alaesia? Did you hear me?"

"I can't... Not now. Please, send them away," She couldn't bear to face the guard, especially if it was Cyrel, his friend, or worse, if she was being summoned to meet with the Captain. Not if any of them intended to question her again.

The headache couldn't stop her mind from racing, coming up with all the possible reasons the Captain would want to see her again. Did he perhaps put together the clues of her identity? Who else but an outcast would have nothing and no one in all of Gondor?

"If you're sure..." Beordon frowned, but he left to dismiss the guard, without much further protest.

However, when he turned back around, Alaesia had made her way out from the spare quarters they had granted her use of. She looked first to Bellora who was nursing their daughter by the hearth, then to Beordon.

"I..." Her voice was shaky, as she addressed them both. "I want to leave..."


***** Translations *****

Skai - Damn