The Ties that Bind by Hoglorfen

Tickles And Trades

When Graznikh woke up, the bed was empty. He shot up and searched the equally empty room. Then he raced to the door and threw it open, nearly toppling Whindaër who stood just outside with a clay mug in her hands. He grabbed her with a snarl and made her drop the mug, which shattered against the stone.
”How did you get out??”
”The... the key was in your loincloth,” she said. ”It lay beside the bed when I woke up, and I was thirsty so I thought...”
”There was water in the bucket I brought!”
She shook her head. ”The inside of that bucket is coated with an oil that makes the water unfit for consumption. It will not affect me, but the taste is very unpleasant.” Graznikh loudly composed a long lists of things he intended to subject the trader to next time he saw him. ”Then the food might be bad too. Skai!” Then he looked at her. ”And how'd ya find the spring? This place is a maze, even I get lost at times.”
”I heard it.”
”How the fuck could you hear it and pick out the right way through all the echoes?!”
”I am sorry,” she whispered. Graznikh's anger melted away, but only after he had punched the door for good measure. ”You just gave me a scare, is all. Next time you want water, let me know first. Don't sneak. Now get back inside!” As she passed him to return to the cavern, he wondered if she had lied about the water to save her own skin. It was, after all, only a matter of time before she would start trying to escape. He expected it, but that did not meanthat  he looked forward to it.

Whindaër sat crosslegged on the bed when he entered, patiently detangling her hair with her fingers. Graznikh watched the peculiar sight for a while before lifting one of the heavy bags he had brought back from his little trading trip. The food should be safe, he reasoned, unless all the traders were in on the cheat. But why would they waste food like that, unless it was the prelude to an attack somewhere? ”Maybe the tarks bought them, bloody traitors,” he growled to himself.
”What does that word mean?” Whindaër asked while picking at a particularly stubborn tangle.
Graznikh looked up. ”What word?”
”The one you sometimes say. Ta'arkh.”
He grinned. ”It's tark. Hard 'k' and the 'r' sorta rolls in the back o' your throat like a growl. And it's the Orcish name for those arse cheeks ya mentioned earlier.”
”The Men from Elenna?”
”Aye, whatever.”
”I see.”
They sat in silence for a while, Whindaër combing her hair and Graznikh cursing under his breath while trying to untie the rope that held the bag. Eventually he lost his temper and pulled a knife on it.
”Wait!” Whindaër cried. Graznikh stopped in mid-stab to stare at her. She calmly walked over, untied the knot with an ease and grace that made Graznikh stare dumbfounded and walked back to the mattress.
”...Right. That was helpful... but it didn't ease my frustration with the damn thing.”
”But now you still have a whole bag.”
He eyed her. ”Were you mockin' me just now?”
Whindaër looked up with a worried look. ”Of course not, why would I do such a thing?”
”I don't know, to show off that you're better at knots than me and brag about it to my face?”
She shook her head. ”Would that not be a very mean and spiteful thing to do?”
Graznikh laughed. ”Aye, that's what I'd do.” He cocked his head. ”Don'tcha ever get frustrated? With that hair. Why not just cut it off?”
”If I did, it would soon look like yours.”
”Aye, we wouldn't want that, now would we?” He kept looking at her. She looked so perfect, sitting there with that long shiny hair, moving with all that Elven grace...
”I'm gonna fuck ya so hard tonight.” There was a loud snap as she pulled the tangle she had been so carefully removing from her hair. Graznikh gave her a smug grin, glad to have gotten a reaction from her and broken that damned Elven poise. ”Oops.” He returned to rummaging through the bag, ignoring the shocked Elf and snickering to himself. He was rather impressed that she actually managed to stop both her breathing and her heart for brief moments when he scared her like that.

As he began pulling flasks and packages out of the bag, he noticed a small wooden comb. A little something that he had stolen from one of the traders and then forgotten about. He glanced at the Elf, still combing her hair in silence, and had an idea.
”Hey, little windelf,” he cooed, holding it up. ”I've got somethin' to help ya with that.” There was a new light in her eyes as she spotted the comb. He held up a hand to stop her as she reached out. ”Nar, not like that. On all fours, come to me.” He licked his lips as she reluctantly obeyed and enjoyed the sight of her little breasts underneath the slip as she crawled over to him. ”Now; I can't just give this to ya.” He could barely contain his mirth. ”I mean, you're very pretty and all, but I gotta keep some pride. However, I could trade it.”
Whindaër's face went from bewildered to terrified as she realized what he was looking at. She held her slip with both hands. ”Not...”
Graznikh grinned. ”Oh, ya wanna trade that? Tempting... but I've no use for it. I'm surprised it's stayed together this long. Nar, sorry. However,” he licked his lips again, ”I could trade it for a kiss.”
Whindaër hesitated. ”A kiss..?”
”Just a little kiss.” Graznikh almost held his breath as she slowly inched closer. When she was close enough for him to smell her sweet breath he noticed her lips were closed. ”Ah-ah.”
There was a question in her eyes, those deep blue eyes that kept changing hue from sapphire to stormy skies in the torchlight, when she opened them and met his. ”Not a peck. A real kiss, tongue and all.”
She gave him a pleading look. ”I do not know how.”
”Oh, I think ya do. Use that Elven creativity o' yours, give it a try.” He licked the corner of his mouth to encourage her. The sight of the black tongue made Whindaër feel sick. At first Graznikh thought she would back out. Then he felt his blood rush downwards as she pressed her lips to his. Brave little Elf, he thought and pushed the comb into her hair as she briefly flicked her tongue against his. He held her head steady and thoroughly explored her lips and tongue with his own before allowing her to pull away. ”Good girl,” he murmured. ”You earned that comb.” He brushed her cheek with a finger. ”And now ya know what a whore is.”

Whindaër slumped down onto the mattress and stared at the comb in her hand. Her mouth felt stale after having been filled with sour Orc slaver. Had she fallen so low already that she would sell her dignity in exchange for simple commodities? She found that she could not go near her captor now without being assailed by memories of his hands and tongue and the sensations they brought. Why do I feel like this? What is happening to me that I would... want... No! She desperately tried to shut that thought out and tried to focus on something else.
Whindaër tried to steal glances at the Orc without him noticing, and now she realized that she had never truly looked at him before. His black hair hung in tresses down the upper part of his back, more felted than tangled, held together by a strap of leather. He had dressed at some point while she slept, and the tunic he now wore was made up of a strange mixture of dark leathers and furs, strapped to his body with crude metal buckles. His legs were covered by chaps of similar make, simple leather tubes that were held up by the same belt as the loincloth. His lower arms and legs were covered by vambraces and greaves of leather with crude and blackened metal sheets attached to them.
His skin was a pale grey colour, like melting snow in spring. Whindaër found that odd. What few stories she had heard described Orcs as black and evil-looking. Graznikh looked gnarly and crude, but not entirely evil. Or was that the memory of his touch speaking? His nose was wide and flat, almost triangular in shape when looked at straight on, the nostrils flaring slightly every time he inhaled. There were no eyebrows, but the heavy, muscular ridge above his eyes served just as well for expressing emotions. He bared his fangs as he reached for something inside the bag. Whindaër knew that Orcs had fangs, but on the rare occasion when she had tried to imagine the look of an Orc she had pictured them as something similar to boar tusks, long and crooked. Graznikh's fangs were more like those of a wolf, fitting well inside his mouth. One hand held the bag steady and Whindaër saw that each gnarly finger ended in a black, thick claw that looked incredibly sharp. Memories of his earlier words and actions came unbidden to her as his black tongue slowly snaked over a fang, and she looked away.

Graznikh had discreetly stopped digging in the bag and now he was sitting still, watching the Elf ogle him from the corner of his eye. He didn't get to be subject to such things very often so he enjoyed the attention. The Elf suddenly noticed that he was looking at her and he gave her a dirty leer.
”See anything ya like?” She looked down with blushing cheeks. ”Oh, come on, it's nothing to be ashamed of!” Graznikh pulled his tunic off, exposing hard muscles honed from years of fighting, running and hard work. ”See these scars? Here,” he pointed at the left side of his chest and made sure she looked. ”That's from a tark blade, cut through my armour and almost took the ribs too. I repaid him in kind by bashing his face with his own shield so bad his own mother couldn't love him after. And this,” he pointed at a large jagged one covering his right shoulder, ”is from when I tried to wrestle a bear in Dunland. Never make bets when drunk is all I'm saying. Damn thing nearly took my arm.” He stepped closer to her, relishing her faint gasp.
”Oh, and this is from my time in the mines.” He turned and flexed his back muscles, showing a criss cross pattern of thin lash marks. ”Those were tough times, but they couldn't keep me a snaga for long. I earned my freedom.” He rolled his shoulders confidently while turning to face his Elf. ”D'you have any scars to show?”
She shook her head with a mortified look. ”I... cut my thumb on a knife while sharpening a feather quill once, but... Elves do not have scars.”
Graznikh laughed. ”What, seriously? So if someone chops an arm off, will it just grow back too?”
”No! Maedhros, son of Fëanor had his sword hand cut off to escape the Dark One, and it did not grow back. He had to learn to use his other hand to wield his sword.”
”Clever guy. But it's more clever to learn to use both hands from the start, then you don't have to relearn if you lose one. See, I use two blades, so my enemy never knows where my next attack will land.” He began to poke her gently with both hands to simulate knife stabs while making ”ch, ch, ch”-sounds. Whindaër wriggled and raised her hands to defend herself and eventually fell over giggling.
The surprised Orc stopped poking her. ”What was that?”
Whindaër got back up, blushing. ”It tickled.”
”...Right.” Must be an Elven thing, he thought. ”Anyway, let's go. I have something to show ya. Here.” He gave her a piece of cloth and a strange cube. ”That's soap and bloody expensive, so don't lose it.” Whindaër examined the cube. It was unlike any soap she had ever seen, crude and oily and full of bits and pieces of grass or perhaps herbs. But it smelled rather nice, despite being so very unlike the silky smooth, scented soaps made by Elven artisans. Graznikh beckoned at the door with a cheerful look. ”Come on!”

Chapter End Notes

On Maedhros and his sword wielding - Elves are naturally ambidextrous, but most Orcs are not so Graznikh misunderstands.