Orcling by pandemonium_213

The grey moth flexed its wings, warmed by the heat of Mélamírë's hand.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

She had not wronged this moth in particular, but her apology made her feel a little better.

The moth did not hear her, did not care. It launched itself from the palm of her hand, fluttered madly, and caught a breeze that might carry it up the vale to join the other moths, or to be eaten by a bird, like its fellow that Mélamírë had released from a collection jar yesterday.

She was still upset, even angry, by what had happened. Not by the bird eating a moth, for that was the way of things, but at Father and his unending expectations of what he thought she should do. She glanced over toward him where he was stretched out in the Sun, like a big cat, with his arm thrown over his face to shield his eyes from the Sun's glare.

For three days, they had been camped by the Glanduin, a swift stream up here in the mountains, on "an expedition," as Father called it, to collect specimens of insects and rocks. He was especially keen on studying the grey moths and their darker-hued cousins that lived in the shadowy dells on the opposite side of the vale, and told her that these moths were excellent examples of adaptation. Yet another lesson to be learned.

She had caught one of those dusky moths in a jar and was strangely horrified when it beat itself against the glass. Father told her to kill it. She knew what he wanted her to do, to probe into the tiny creature's body and recite the Words of Power with him, to set in motion a spell that would make the moth's life-giving pathways run hot, just enough to kill it, but not to set it aflame.

She had refused to do it, and he reached within her and pushed, impatient with her. She pushed back and tossed him out of her head. His response was to grab her arm so hard that it hurt, and he snarled:

I am your father! I will not tolerate such impertinence!

She jerked away from him to run down the trail where she tripped on a stone and fell, scraping her knees. He was at her side in an instant.

I am sorry, I am so sorry, he had said, repeating his words, just as she did with the freed moth. I did not mean to lose my temper.

The sting in her knees went away, but her hurt feelings did not recover so quickly. She wished she could be alone for a while, without him hovering over her, turning everything into a lesson.

Despite the warmth from the Sun and the peaceful song of the breeze and rushing stream, she was restless. Twisting around on the boulder where she sat, she gazed northeast toward the great mountains: Telpenassë, Carnirassë and Fánaicassë, their peaks shining white. She let her sight drop to the upper reaches of the vale. In the distance, but not too far away, she thought, there was an outcrop of grey stone, dark as charcoal.

Maybe it was shale? She remembered what Father had told her: that long before the fathers of Elves and Men awoke, these mountains were once a sea bed and the creatures that once swam in those long-gone waters were now turned to stone, and could be found in deposits of shale. Fossils, he called them in the Valarin tongue. The very idea of such ancient things excited her. She had not found any yet on their expedition, but she wondered if there might be some up there.

Surely it would not take all that long to hike up to those rocks and have a look. It was not even mid-day, so if she left now, she could return well before sunset.

The problem was how to sneak away without Father knowing. He lay very still on his bedroll, not far from the shallow cave where they had camped. Was he asleep? Really asleep? Or was this just a nap? Some part of his mind always seemed to be awake, even when he appeared to be sleeping soundly.

He had been working hard in the forges lately, so maybe that, and the spell he wove this morning to make the barrier around their horses' paddock, had worn him out. His black steed, Mori, and her little brown mare, Birdie, grazed peacefully — and untethered — in the mountain meadow, enclosed by a fence of enchanted pee.

Last night, a warg's howl echoed down the vale from high in the mountains. Although it had frightened her, Father said it was far away and moving off to the North. Nonetheless, this morning, he stared at the mountains and became very quiet, as if listening. Then he brewed a large pot of tea, gave her a cup, and proceeded to chug all the rest down.

"What are you doing?" she asked after she finished her own cup of hot tea.

"Best not to take any chances," he said. "I am going to make a fence that will ward off orc, warg, or any other predator for that matter, from our camp. It will keep Mori and Birdie from wandering off, too."

"How will you do that?"

"You'll see." He drained the last cup of tea. Then he waited with that look of inward focus on his face.

Shortly, he stood. "There now. I can start. Please brew another pot of tea, my dear. I expect I'll need it."

The horses were tethered in a little meadow by their camp, and it was there he paced a wide circle around them. Then he lifted his shirt and unfastened the front of his trousers.

She averted her eyes and busied herself by shaking out their bedrolls and scooping up water from the stream to brew more tea while he proceeded to mark the circle, just like a dog might. Another pot of tea later, and he had completed the fence.

"How will pee keep the horses safe?" she asked him after he finished and returned to the campfire.

"Because I wove the scent of a wolf into my urine." He explained how he had used the art of Changing on the tiny particles within his own body to create such a thing.

She wondered if she could do this or even if she would want to. Best not to ask, for he would certainly want to make a lesson out of it, and maybe even cajole her into trying the trick herself. Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment at the thought of Changing her pee, so she remained quiet while he yawned and stretched.

"I am going to rest for a little while. Casting that spell was more tiring than I expected. Stay close now." Then he lay down and had not moved since, and she had perched here on the nearby boulder.

She listened to his breathing, deep and regular. He was even snoring softly, like the purr of a great cat. Maybe she could test him to see if he was truly asleep. Just as she had when she was a tiny child, when she woke up from a bad dream or when thunder shook the hills and scared her, she reached out in thought to him:

Father? He did not stir. She tried again. Father? Nothing.

It was leave now or not at all. She eased herself off the boulder, thinking of how quietly Tifil, her cat, stepped when he stalked a mouse. She tiptoed to the cave and found her pack. After dropping dried meat and fruit into it, she stuffed her wool cloak on top. She could fill her waterskin when she was further up the vale. Her knife in its scabbard and her pickaxe were both secured on her belt.

When she emerged from the cave, Mori raised his head and whickered at her.

She held her finger to her lips. "Shh, shh!" Mori flicked his ears and returned to grazing alongside Birdie. Father's snores were louder now.

Mélamírë had taken only a few steps when she stopped to look at him once more. She felt a twinge of guilt. Sneaking away like this wasn't right. He had told her to stay nearby. She knew there were dangers further up in the mountains, but it was not as if she planned to hike up the slopes of Telpenassë. Yet, when she went out with her friends in the city or ventured beyond the city walls to walk by herself to nearby villages, she always let Mother and Father or the servants of her house know where she was going. He would worry if she simply disappeared. She picked up a piece of charcoal near the campfire and scrawled on the flat surface of a nearby rock:

Went for a walk. Back by sunset.

There. At least she let him know what she was about. Maybe not in great detail but enough. She gazed once more at the snow-capped peaks. The grey outcropping was much closer than those. Yes, she could hike there and be back before it was dark. Maybe even find a fossil. Surely he'd be pleased with that. She hefted the pack onto her back and set off toward the game trail that led up into the heights of the vale.

Chapter End Notes

Glossary:

Telpenassë, Carnirassë, and Fánaicassë: "neo-Quenya" (meaning my own best guess) for Celebdil (Silvertine), Caradhras (Redhorn), and Fanuidhol (Cloudyhead), respectively. I'm using these due to the notion that Mél is "thinking" in her mother tongue, which is Quenya, and that most around her, with some exceptions, also favor Quenya.

Mélamírë followed the trail that wound through stands of beech, oak, and pine, through clefts cut between massive boulders, and across meadows, bright with new grass and spring flowers. It looped back toward the steam where the water was shallow like a small ford, fanning out with shimmering ripples over a bed of rounded pebbles.

What with the warmth of the spring sunshine and her brisk walk, she worked up a sweat. The cold water of the stream gurgled over the pebbles, inviting her to dabble her feet in it. She sat down on a rock to pull off her boots and socks. Holding these, she stepped into the Glanduin and gasped at its chill. It's melted snow, she thought. Of course, it is cold!

When she reached the opposite bank, her feet were already numb, but she laughed and wriggled her toes. How strange it was to have frigid water running over her toes, yet to be sweaty everywhere else. After pulling on her socks and boots, she was on her way again, leaving the trail behind her.

Although the dark outcropping was now closer, she still had a fair distance to hike. The higher she climbed, the more her chest heaved for air until she stopped to rest, taking a drink from her waterskin.

The campsite was no longer visible, and blue haze veiled the foothills in the West. Had Father awakened by now? Would he come looking for her? Maybe not, as long as she returned when she said she would. After all, it was not as if she never ventured out alone. Still, her conscience nagged at her:

I walk alone in safe places like the city or the fields and woods near farms and villages. This is the Wild.

Listening, she heard nothing but birdsong, the breeze stirring the pine trees, and the music of the rushing stream, and all she smelled was the trees' sharp green fragrance and sweet mountain air, so crisp and clean, less heavy than in the city. The only animal she saw was a gyrfalcon soaring on the breezes, no doubt hunting for mice or hares. She watched the bird for a while, and thought how wonderful it must be to fly. It was so peaceful and beautiful up here, and without one whiff of danger.

Yes, I am alone, but it is still daylight and will be for some time yet, she answered herself. Besides, I can protect myself. Father knows that.

She patted her knife for reassurance, and recited the Word of Power that, if the song of her will strengthened it, would stop a foe in its tracks, even if briefly, to allow her enough time to escape. Yes, she ought to be safe enough.

Once rested, she was on her way again. The oak and beech woods gave way to stone pines that marched up green slopes strewn with grey boulders. As she hiked further up the vale, the stone pines relinquished their place to short, twisted mountain pines, and up further still, the snow-roses took over, their buds fat and swollen. Wide blankets of snow still clung to the shaded slopes.  Halting again, she panted to catch her breath, and realized she had hiked almost to the tree line.

A low ridge ran between her and the outcrop. She trudged over the rise and at last reached her goal. There above her loomed a wall of dark, flaking stone. Loose rocks were piled at its base. She picked up a chunk of shale from the nearest pile.

Now what to do? She knew nothing of finding fossils, other than that they were embedded in rocks. At least she knew how to break open stone. She extracted her pickaxe from her belt and struck the shale with the blunt end of the tool. Flakes broke off easily, and she quickly reduced the rock to shards, but no creature lurked within. She picked up another rock and tried again.

With no success in one spot, she moved to another and continued her task, breaking apart stone after stone and leaving small mounds of debris in her wake. She was ready to give up, but picked up one more rock and hit it with a sharp blow. It split neatly in two. Turning it over, she examined the newly exposed interior to see an oval shape that bulged in its center. The thrill this gave her shot from her mind to her body and made her shiver a little. She brushed away flakes with the tips of her fingers until the treasure held by the stone for countless years was fully revealed.

In her hands, she held the remains of a creature far more ancient than even the eldest of her people. The fossil reminded her of a wood louse, but it was much, much larger. It had what looked like a crescent-shaped head, and its body had three ridged lobes: one in the middle and two on either side from which many legs sprouted. She wondered if the Ainur, who knew about such things, had a name for it. Father would know.

She chipped off more shale so that mostly the fossil was left, dusted it off, and tucked it deep in her pack. She had found her prize, and it was time to return to the camp. She felt better now, no longer upset, and looked forward to seeing Father's reaction when she showed him the fossil.

The Sun had journeyed farther toward the West, but judging by its position, she still had plenty of time to arrive at the camp before sunset. It was downhill anyway. That would speed up her journey back. Only a few puffy clouds drifted in the mostly clear sky, and Isil would be almost full tonight. Even if the sun went down before she arrived, she could easily find her way back in the moonlight. It was Father who concerned her the most. He would be worried and no doubt angry, and he likely would search for her. She could meet him on the trail if that happened, and her discovery of the fossil would please him.

Thrusting her arms through the loops of her pack, now a little heavier from the weight of her treasure, she adjusted it on her shoulders and picked her way through the jumble of rocks at the foot of the shale outcropping, but before she turned away, she flattened her hands against the wall of stone, still warm from the afternoon sun, closed her eyes, and said a little prayer to Aulë, thanking him for letting her find the fossil.

She walked less than a quarter of a mile when she heard a wail from far up the vale. Stopping dead in her tracks, she listened. The breeze brushed against rocks and pines, and the waters of the Glanduin rushed, but there was no other sound. Wait! There it was again! It came from the North. The wail trailed into silence, but mingled with the sighing of the pines, she heard the faint sobbing of a child's fear and pain.

The cries of a young voice tugged at her. That child must be all alone, possibly lost and hurt. Mélamírë stared back down the vale, trying to decide what to do. Should she wait for Father? The sobs rose and fell. No, she could not return, not yet. She must find the child and help it, if she could. Father would understand. She shifted her pack again until it was comfortable, and set off at a brisk pace toward the North, pausing now and again to listen so the crying would guide her.

The sobs led her to the crest of a ridge where she looked down into a bowl-shaped dell with a clear pond at its bottom. One side of the bowl was steep with a fan of scree and larger rocks that spread across the base of the slope. There she saw a small, hunched figure by a boulder. The child looked to be about her size, from what she could see from here. Its hair was caught in a messy braid, and it wore what looked to be buckskin and coarse cloth. The single foot she could see was bare. What was a barefooted child of Men doing so far up here in the mountains? Its other foot was caught beneath that large rock. Perhaps it had tumbled down the scree along with the boulder.

Mélamírë scrambled down the slope into the dell, her footing unsure from loose stones. The child jumped at the sound of tumbling rocks and turned to scream at her like a wild animal. She halted her downward descent to stare at this child with its pale, mottled skin and black hair. The child's strange face both captivated and alarmed her: a ridge of bone formed its brow, heavier than that of any child of Men or the Firstborn. Its forehead was low, but the nose was high and flattened, and the lower face protruded, almost like a muzzle. Its teeth startled her most of all: the little thing had long fangs that looked sharp.

An orcling! That is an orcling!

Now she really did not know what to do. She had never seen an orc before, but clearly, this was the spawn of a dreaded enemy. Then she remembered the warg's howl that had slithered down the mountainside last night. Where the warg howls, there also the orc prowls. The children of Ost-in-Edhil repeated that many times when they told each other scary stories around the bonfires in the fields on chilly autumn nights, safe from any such dangers. But here Mélamírë was alone and in the Wild, faced with a frightening situation.

She knew she ought to flee, to abandon this creature to the cold night, and to seek out the protection of Father's strong arms and his strange magic. A stone whizzed by her ear, and without thinking, she yanked her knife out of its scabbard, its blade glowing blue. The orcling screamed louder at the sight of the knife and hurled another stone.

If it keeps screaming like that, it will bring its clan running. I must leave. Now!

And yet, she did not. Something, and she was not sure exactly what, kept her from fleeing. Instead, she dodged the stones lobbed by the creature, which was not so hard to do, as the orcling was weakened.

What was it doing here all alone? Maybe its clan had abandoned it. Mother had said that the Engwar sometimes did this: left unwanted children to die in the Wild. That seemed like something the orc folk would do, too. Then she remembered the dreadful story that Lord Celeborn told her of the poor little boys left to starve in the forest by the men from the house of her own kinsman, Celegorm, as Lord Celeborn had named him, and how Maedhros searched and searched for the children in vain. That story, one never told in her own house, horrified her. Even an orcling did not deserve to be abandoned. She thought of the other tales of Nelyafinwë that Mother told her, of his courage and honor. Better to be like him than those cruel servants of Turkafinwë.

The first thing to do was to get the orcling to shut up. She sheathed her blade and eased herself down the slope, all the while speaking with as gently as possible:

"Please, let me help you."

Another stone flew by her left ear. That was too close. Mélamírë could hear what sounded like words in the midst of the crying. Go-lug daga-loor, maybe?

"Please, please, I will not hurt you," she repeated, now adding song to her words.

The orcling stopped shrieking and stared at her for a few moments, its brown eyes reddened. It slumped and bowed its head, weeping.

Maybe it is giving up, Mélamírë thought. She took a few steps closer. The orcling snapped its head up and snarled ferociously, exposing its fangs, and again threatened her with the rock. Now that she was closer, a thrown stone might reach its target.

"Please, please..." Mélamírë sang the words with the same kind of music Father sometimes put into his voice. That had worked to tame Tifil when she had first found him, a lost little kitten in the woods. Perhaps she could tame this orcling, too.

Then the creature dropped the stone, and its face crumpled. It bawled like any frightened child might. Mélamírë took a few steps closer so she could get a good look the orcling's foot. Yes, it was trapped beneath the large rock. She reached out to touch the orcling's hand, still singing.

As soon as her fingers touched warm skin, the orcling yanked its hand away, and pulled Mélamírë's hand along with it. Before she could react, sharp teeth sank into her flesh. When the creature opened its jaws, surprisingly powerful, for a more wicked bite, Mélamírë jerked away before she lost a finger or two, but blood oozed from her punctured skin. She retreated from the orcling, who stared at her with fear and defiance in its eyes.

Anger flared within her like white fire. She reached for her blade. All she had to do was say the Word of Power to paralyze the creature, and she could slit its throat, just like the butcher cut the throats of pigs and kine, to let its life drain onto the stones.

No. It is only frightened, just like Tifil was. He bit me, too.

There was no giving up. She approached again, reaching forward with her palm open. The back of her right hand throbbed, but she continued to sing: I will not hurt you. I will not hurt you. Like Tifil, the orcling might not understand her words, but if she kept singing, it might understand her intent.

She touched the creature once more, and this time, the grubby hand was not jerked away, and no teeth were bared. Swallowing the fear that rose in her throat, Mélamírë gathered the orcling's hand in her own and looked deep into large almond-shaped eyes, brown with flecks of gold, swimming with tears, but beyond any doubt, they were the eyes of a person. She squeezed the orcling's hand gently, and to her relief, the creature squeezed back.

Those eyes rattled her. Mélamírë had been taught that orcs were no more than beasts, beasts that spoke, yes, but still...beasts. Yet strange as the orcling's features might be — and it smelled awful, too — it looked like a human child. The orcling broke the gaze and looked down at her hand, bleeding from the bite wound. The creature raised its eyes to Mélamírë's and said something that sounded like "Narnooloobat." Was that it? Was it saying it was sorry? Maybe or maybe not, but she did not think the creature would bite her again. Hopefully.

"I will help you, yes?" She pointed at its trapped foot. The creature blinked. Mélamírë repeated her words with gestures twice more, and the orcling nodded.

"All right. Let's see if I can move this stone." She placed her hands against the rock and shoved. The orcling screamed in pain.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Let me think."

Pushing the rock must have grated against the creature's injured foot. The stone must be lifted somehow. She was not big and strong enough to do that. Then she remembered what the stonemasons used to move large blocks of stone. A lever. That was what she needed. She looked around and saw a cluster of scrubby pines near the pond. When she stood up to walk toward them, the orcling started weeping again.

"Don't cry! I am coming back. I am just going to find a branch." She pointed toward the pines and made a gesture of returning.

The orcling seemed confused at first but sniffed loudly, swallowed its snot, and wiped its nose with its forearm. Mélamírë ran to the pines and poked around until she found a likely branch, thick, reasonably straight, and not too dry. She returned where the orcling waited, no longer crying. After digging around the base of the stone, she wedged the end of the branch beneath the rock but away from the creature's foot.

"I am going to count to three then lift the stone. You must pull your foot out. Can you do that?"

The orcling squinted and rolled its head around. Did that mean it did not understand? So she held up her hand and flipped her fingers, counting, "One, two, three." She sat down beside it and made gestures of lifting the rock and jerking her leg away. To her surprise, the orcling nodded and said what sounded like, "Akh! Akh! Ash, krul, gakh." It held up three fingers.

Satisfied that the creature understood, Mélamírë gripped the end of the branch. She looked at the orcling, who nodded and bared its clenched teeth.

"Ready? One, two, three!" She pushed down on the branch with all her strength. The rock lifted, and the orcling yanked its foot clear of the stone. Mélamírë let the rock drop back into place and knelt beside the creature.

The orcling's ankle and foot were very swollen, but nothing seemed misshapen. Maybe they were no broken bones then? The creature bent forward, and a necklace with a single tooth, strung through a leather thong, swung from its neck. The orcling rubbed the injury. It probably would not be able to bear that if its bones were broken. Then it sat up and crossed its arms, hugging itself and shivering a little in the lengthening shadows.

Shadows! The late afternoon light had that golden hue, the harbinger of sunset. There was no hope of returning to the camp before dark now.

The creature shivered again. Now that she had freed it, what was to be done with the orcling? Find the creature's clan? She was inviting the worst sort of trouble if she tried that by herself. She must find Father. He would know what to do, but that would have to wait until morning. For now, they needed more shelter against the cold mountain night than the exposed slope.

When searching for the branch, Mélamírë had spotted a little cove between two arms of rock by the pine woods. That was as good a place as any to spend the night. She gestured to the orcling, hoping that it might understand. It made no resistance when she helped it stand. It could bear no weight on its injured foot, so Mélamírë put her arm around the creature for support, and it threw its arm over her shoulders. The thing stank of blood, pee, and fear. She tried not to think how close those fangs were to her neck. They slowly made their way toward the cluster of pines.

The bottom of the shallow cove was covered with a thick cushion of pine needles. Mélamírë eased the orcling down to the ground. Its eyes were teary from pain, and it leaned back against the stone.

"You must be hungry and thirsty."

She offered her waterskin. The creature snatched it from her and sucked on it greedily, water streaming down on either side of its mouth to stain its buckskin skirt. It tossed the waterskin aside when it was drained.

"I guess you were thirsty! All right. Some food then." She fished out the strips of dried meat and fruit from her pack. The orcling snatched them from her hands, and crammed almost all of it into its wide mouth. It spat out the fruit but devoured the meat. After it swallowed the last morsel of dry meat, it looked up at Mélamírë, its brown eyes glinting. It rubbed its stomach and said, "Kul throquûrz."

What strange words with their harsh sounds! It must still be hungry. That made her very uncomfortable. Every child knew that orcs ate Elves and Men, and even each other. If the orcling needed more to eat, it would not be her.

"I am going to find you more food. I will be back, yes?" She repeated herself and made gestures in hope that the orcling would understand. It nodded and said something that sounded like growls and barks. Mélamírë then made her way up to the lip of the dell where she gazed out over the lands around her.

The Sun still hovered above the purple mists that lay low in the West, but she had little time before the night descended. She hoped she might find a rabbit or two nearby and set off to hike up another ridge.

Although she had little experience hunting, she had watched Mother stalk hares and even deer when she traveled with her to Minhiriath, where Mother studied the sickly among Men. "Born of necessity," Mother said, recalling the lean times when she and the remainder of the House of Carnistir wandered the lands during the waning years of the First Age and had to hunt for their food. Mother was a fine shot with the bow and arrow, and thought Mélamírë ought to learn more of archery and hunting. Mother offered to teach her, but she never seemed to find the time. Father, on the other hand, often took her with him to fish, so she was good at that. However, she would not be able to reach a stream with fish before the sun set, and even so, she had none of her fishing gear with her.

When she reached the crest of the ridge, she looked down on a high meadow, where she saw a group of marmots, newly emerged from their winter's sleep, grazing on the new spring growth. She walked as quietly as she could toward the meadow, and soon was peering from behind a snow-rose shrub at the hungry marmots. She did not have any kind of hunting weapon, just her knife. She could throw a stone, but that was risky because if she missed, the marmots would be driven to their dens. The Word of Power, though, that might work. Maybe she could stun them briefly and kill two or three before the spell broke. That did not seem fair though. Freezing them like that did not even give them a chance to escape. She thought about it for a while as the marmots peacefully munched on new green stems.

Well, that orcling must eat. Better the marmots than me.

She grabbed a rock, big as her hand, and had taken only a few steps away from the shrubs when a marmot — the lookout — popped straight up and whistled an alarm. The other marmots ran and darted into burrows. She spoke the Word with all the force of her will behind it. She was afraid the spell had not worked, but no, there were three animals, frozen in place. She ran to the closest one, threw it to the ground and bashed in its skull with the rock, then did the same to the next two. Three were enough. Slinging them over her back, she hiked back to the dell.

Chapter End Notes

Snow-rose – Rhododendron ferrugineum

Engwar (see The Silmarillion) - "the sickly," a Quenya word for mortal Men.

Orc vocabulary; from the fanon version of the Black Speech created by The Land of Shadow p(lus a few words from Tolkien himself).

golug (n) - elf, elves

dâgalûr (n)- demon

narnûlubat - Orkish way of expressing thanks ("I will not hurt you")

akh - yes

ash, krul, gakh (n) - one, two, three

Kul throquûrz – I am hungry

By the time Mélamírë reached the dell, the clouds above her glowed gold and salmon-pink. The Sun burnished Telpenassë and Fánaicassë copper, and Carnirassë flamed red. The first stars twinkled above the great peaks, but Isil had not yet risen.  

As soon as the orcling saw her and the dead marmots, it yammered and stretched out its hands. Mélamírë planned to skin and gut the creatures, thinking that it would not be so different than scaling and cleaning fish, which she had done often enough during previous expeditions with Father. But the orcling sounded so desperate, like it was pleading, so she tossed a whole marmot to the creature.

It was disgusting, what the orcling did. It tore into the marmot its powerful jaws and sharp teeth, rending away fur and skin to pull at bloody muscle. It yanked out the guts and tossed them aside, but savored the raw liver and heart.

The sour taste of sickness spread into Mélamírë's mouth. No, she refused to throw up. That would show weakness. She swallowed the gobbet of vomit that had risen in her throat and watched the orcling finish off the marmot, leaving not much more than fur, hide, and a few bones. The creature raised its eyes to her again, expectant. She threw the second dead marmot to it, and once again, the orcling ripped into its bloody meal, although at a more leisurely pace this time.

Mélamírë had thought to cook the remaining marmot for herself, but had no means to start a fire, and also found she had no appetite whatsoever. She set the dead animal aside. Maybe the orcling would want it later.

The Sun had set by the time the creature was finished with the second marmot, and Isil rose over the mountains, filling the dell with silver light. The orcling wiped its hands on the pine needles and rubbed the sleeve of its coarse shirt across its mouth in an attempt to clean itself, not that these things did anything more than smear blood across its face. It muttered something to her and touched its forehead at the same time. "Narnûlubat," it said. Then it struggled to stand up. Mélamírë held its arm to help it rise. It pointed toward a thicket of snow roses a little ways off. Why did it want to go there? The orcling, impatient, clutched at its crotch and pointed to the thicket again. It wanted to pee! She held it steady as it hobbled along beside her. When they reached the shrubs, the orcling waved her off, saying something in its gibberish of a tongue.

She moved away to give the creature privacy, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she peeked around the thicket. When the orcling lifted up its garment and squatted in the moonlight, Mélamírë glimpsed the mound of a female.

The orcling is a girl!

The revelation hit her like lightning bolt. All her notions about orcs, all that she had heard from children's dark fairy tales, all of Master Pengolodh's lessons about the spawn of Morgoth, and everything Mother and Father had told her of orcs and goblins were turned inside out.

An animal does not ask to be left alone when it pees and poops. An animal does not talk.

Soon the creature — no, the girl — called out to her, and she helped the orcling back to the cove where she sat back down on the pine needles. Mélamírë settled herself a few feet away. Both of them looked at one another. The orc-girl once again muttered a word and touched her forehead, then splayed her hand across her chest and said, "Stralûb Rak-Murûk." She held up the tooth on her necklace, then pointed to Mélamírë. She repeated, "Stralûb" with her hand over her chest, and pointed again.

Her name is Stralûb, and she wants to know my name! Copying the orcling, she placed her hand against her chest and gave her father-name, which she used with strangers: "Náryen."

"Narrrr-en." Stralûb turned her name into a growl. "Goluglob Narrrrr-en." The orcling snorted and shook her head. "Bugud lorz."  

What's wrong with my name? Mélamírë wondered, annoyed. Then Stralûb looked at her injured foot and back at her.

"Znûg," the orcling grumbled.

"I have no idea what you said."

They sat in silence for a while, watching pale streams of mist ooze down the slopes to pool in the dell like a bone-chilling blanket. Isil became a blurry white disc.

Mélamírë felt a sense of growing dread. She may have camped many times with Mother and Father during their journeys, but never alone in the night like this. Not that she was alone exactly, but her companion was a child of the enemy, whose clan might be searching for her. However, Stralûb did not seem all that threatening as she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "Brrrrrr. Narghaash!" Then the orc-girl said, "Ghaash? Akh, ghaash!"

Stralûb tugged at a small leather pouch tied to her belt, and from what Mélamírë could see in the dim light, pulled out a piece of horse's-hoof fungus and two chunks of rock: flint and firestone, she guessed.  The orcling showed the flint to Mélamírë and said, "Stral!" and then pointed to herself, "Stralûb!" Leaning forward, the orc-girl swept pine needles aside to reveal the bare ground. Mélamírë understood what she wished to do and helped her rake the debris. She chopped the earth with her pickaxe, and between the two of them, they quickly made a fire pit.

The orc-girl scooped dry pine needles and twigs together to make a pile of tinder in the middle of the pit, while Mélamírë gathered wood in the increasing darkness around their camp. Stralûb struck the stones together several times and caught the sparks with the dry fungus, which she used to light the pile of twigs and pine needles. Soon, a small fire blazed, and they huddled close to it.

Now that Mélamírë sat quietly, the painful throbbing of the bite wound bothered her.  She touched the injury to feel how hot her skin was. She had not even washed the wound with water, let alone soap, and could practically hear Mother scolding her for not having done so. She needed to attend to the injury and soon, but that meant falling into the dreams during which her fëa would weave tightly with her hröa to help it heal, and that would leave her vulnerable. Although the orc-girl seemed to be friendlier now, Mélamírë did not trust her. Healing the bite wound would just have to wait.

Her belly grumbled, and she found herself ferociously hungry. Now that they had a fire, she could cook the remaining marmot. She pushed herself off the ground, grabbed the dead creature, and went off to the edge of the firelight where she gutted and skinned the animal. It was awkward work, much harder than cleaning a fish, and the grisly task made her appreciate the butchers of Ost-in-Edhil and their sharp knives. Still, she managed not to mangle it too badly and tossed the entrails and hide as far as she could from their camp.

The orc-girl jabbered when she came back to the fire, stretching out her hands again.

"Oh, no! You are not eating this one raw! I'm cooking it!"  She cobbled together a crude spit and hung the carcass over the fire. The scent of roasting meat was maddening, and her mouth watered while she turned the spit. Drool dripped from Stralûb's lips. The orcling acted like she was constantly hungry.

Her stomach roaring, Mélamírë could wait no longer. She sliced off a hind leg with her knife and was about ready to bite into it when she heard Stralûb whine. The orcling stretched out her hand on the end of a wiry, thin arm. She was very skinny. Mélamírë gave her the roasted meat, and the orcling sank its teeth into it. She even cracked the bone with her powerful jaws and sucked out what little marrow there was.

Mélamírë ate her fill of the gamey, greasy meat, burnt on the outside and raw by the bone, and shared the rest with Stralûb. The orcling made efficient work of the carcass until all that remained were bones, which Stralûb sucked on and crunched. The orc-girl smacked her lips and ran her red tongue over them. Once again, she touched her forehead. "Narnûlubat," she said, grinning.

She is thanking me.

"You're welcome."

What else could she say? She wished she could understand the orc-girl's language. Sometimes, she heard words that resembled those in her own tongue and also the Grey-elven language, but most of the words were strange.

They built up the fire against the increasing chill of the mountains. Mists gathered around and above them. If she were with her friends back at home with adults only a call away, they would all be trying to scare the living daylights out of one another with stories of wraiths, werewolves, and orcs. But here she was, surrounded by wraith-like mists and sitting next to a real orc. No one would believe her.

The mists drew closer yet, and the cold threatened to seep into her flesh. Stralûb shivered and grumbled. Mélamírë reached into her pack and pulled out her cloak. She handed it to the orcling who draped the cloak over her shoulders. Now it was her turn to shiver. Stralûb grunted, lifted the cloak, and nodded, inviting Mélamírë to sit next to her and share the warmth.

For a moment, Mélamírë considered it, but her throbbing hand reminded her that Stralûb, despite those human eyes, was as fierce as a wild animal. She shook her head. The orc-girl shrugged and wrapped the cloak tighter around her scrawny body. Mélamírë moved closer to the fire. Soon her face and the front of her body were burning, and her back and her bottom were frigid.

She strained her ears, listening. Beyond the mists, stones popped and cracked as they cooled in the cold night air. Something rustled in the undergrowth of snow-roses. Her hand settled on the hilt of her knife. Small, shuffling noises came from beyond the firelight. She caught a single, pungent whiff of stoat, no doubt making off with the guts and hide of the butchered marmot. Stoats were nothing to fear. She relaxed a little until rocks clattered out in the black shroud beyond the fire, disturbed by something larger than a stoat. She held her breath, waiting for cruel, shining eyes to appear at the edge of the firelight, but nothing did.

None of the night noises troubled Stralûb, whose eyes drooped and head nodded, then jerked as she struggled to stay awake. Mélamírë was exhausted, too, but she could not risk sleeping, even in a waking dream. It was just too dangerous. Who knew what was creeping about in the dark mists beyond the hazy dome of firelight? Just as dangerous was to sleep with the orc-girl so close.

Stralûb, however, soon slumped, and her breaths deepened when sleep overcame her. Fear should have kept Mélamírë wide awake, but she was so very tired. She fought with herself as the temptation to take a quick nap strengthened.

Just a little nap. No, don't do it! Stay on guard! What was that?

Her vision glazed, and the flames of the fire became watery. Just as her eyelids fluttered, a howl from the South cut through the mists, sending her to her feet, her blade drawn and, to her horror, glowing blue, until she remembered that Stralûb's presence was setting the steel alight. Another howl from the South answered. Wargs! Stralûb sat bolt upright, her eyes wide.

"Vargr krankizub! Vargr krankizub! Rakizub!" the orc-girl cried. Mélamírë did not understand her words, but heard the joy in the orc-girl's voice. It must be her clan, searching for her.

The last thing Mélamírë wanted was for a tribe of orcs to find her in the night, with no more defense than her knife and a Word of Power that might or might not work against fierce and determined orcs. Although Stralûb was in no condition to go running off to seek her clan, she might shout out to them, and even through the thick mists, they might hear her.

Then another howl, distant yet deep and clear, pealed from the West and rebounded off the mountain slopes. The wargs immediately stopped their conversation, and Stralûb's expression became fearful. The howl — that of a hunting wolf — sounded again with a distinct note of warning. Stralûb muttered and edged closer to the fire, her brown eyes blinking.

Mélamírë was no less fearful: wargs and a band of orcs were too close for comfort.  Now another hunting predator was on their trail, and here she was in the night, vulnerable to both. Her stomach clenched with nausea, and despite the chilly air, she broke out in a cold sweat. The fire was far too risky. She threw dirt on it, smothering the flames while Stralûb cried out in dismay.

"Shut up! Shut up!" snarled Mélamírë in response, waving her knife at the orc-girl who snapped her mouth closed, the tips of her fangs overhanging her lips.

After she extinguished the fire, Mélamírë prowled around their little campsite like a nervous cat, her sight straining against the mists and her ears and nose open. The cold, heavy mist made sound deceptive and obscured odors as well as sight. Just as well, she thought. We will be harder to track. But every time she managed to calm herself, odd noises out in the dark set her heart to racing again. She wanted to curl up in a ball and weep, but that would be as dangerous as falling asleep.

As the night wore on, she gave up her pacing and went back to the cove to sit, her knife laid across her knees. Stralûb was curled up on the ground under the cloak, her eyes shut and her breath rumbling, just short of a snore. Mélamírë leaned back against cold stone and waited for the dawn, her heart pounding.

Chapter End Notes

Orc vocabulary; from the fanon version of the Black Speech created by The Land of Shadow p(lus a few words from Tolkien himself).

Golug (n) - elf, elves

dâgalûr (n)- demon

narnûlubat - Orkish way of expressing thanks ("I will not hurt you")

akh - yes

ash, krul, gakh (n) - one, two, three

kul throquûrz – I am hungry

stral (n) - flint

lûb (n) - daughter

rak (class noun) - family, clan

murûk (n) bear

-lob feminine word ending

nar - 1. not; 2. expression of contempt

bugud (n) name

lorz (adj) - stupid

znûg (v) I regret (I am sorry)

narghaash (adj) - cold

ghaash (n) - fire

vargr (n) - Old Norse word for wolf, also has a connotation of evil.

krank (n) - father

-izub – mine

[Stralûb is saying, "Warg father-mine!" = My father's warg!]

Mélamírë opened her eyes to bright, diffuse light. She had fallen asleep. How long, she was not sure, but now the rising Sun burned off the mists. Nearby, Stralûb, with the cloak still over her shoulders, sat flexing her injured ankle and foot, now considerably less swollen. The orcling crooned, her voice making a string of low warbles and growls. Mélamírë realized she was singing. A short, thick branch lay by Stralûb's side. She did not remember picking that up when she gathered firewood yesterday evening. Stralûb must have found the branch herself, which meant that she could hobble well enough on her own to find it. She could have clubbed Mélamírë over the head with the branch — or a rock — while she slept. Yet the orcling had not attacked her.

She scolded herself for falling asleep. That was so stupid, although no more stupid than everything else she had done: hiking up the vale without Father and taking it upon herself to rescue a child of the enemy.

Yet Stralûb had not clubbed her nor run away. In fact, she stopped singing when she saw that Mélamírë was awake. "Narrr-en? Radukh, radukh." The orcling waved her hand in the direction from where they heard the second warg last night: to the South.

She wants to look for her clan. But I cannot let them find me.

The orc-girl pushed herself up from the ground, then walked forward a few steps, using the branch as a crutch. Although she favored her injured foot and ankle, her injury must have healed rapidly overnight, because she put some weight on her wounded foot and moved much more easily. She stopped and twisted around toward Mélamírë, waving her free arm toward the South:

"Radukh! Radukh!"

I guess she wants to leave. Mélamírë heaved herself off the cold ground. Her head swam, and she leaned against the rock until the dizziness passed. Her hand was even more swollen, and the wound was an angry red color. A chill shook her for a moment, and she wondered if she might have a fever. She adjusted the pack on her back and joined Stralûb.

They struggled up the slope of the dell and began their hike toward the Glanduin Vale that lay to the South. Mélamírë decided that she could leave Stralûb there to find her own people while she turned West to return to the campsite, and hopefully find Father. She would tell him of the orcling, and they could decide what to do.

Each step brought more weariness. Had she been wounded back in Ost-in-Edhil, she would have been sent to bed, where, like all elf-children, she could practice linking her feä and hröa together until healing became as quick as thought. Instead, hunger and lack of real rest made the wound worse, like that a mortal might suffer.

So it was that she was not paying much attention when they entered the Vale and hiked along the Glanduin, whose waters rushed through a deep fissure carved between a hill of huge rocks.  They inched along a ledge above the water.  Mist from the rapids glittered in the morning sun before the narrow path plunged into shadow. It was slow going, as the stony ledge was slick, but they emerged into the sunlight. Stralûb winced and shielded her eyes, but Mélamírë looked ahead over a meadow, shaped like a wide bowl; about a half mile away on either side of the stream, pinewoods grew. Behind Mélamírë was the hill of stone through which the Glanduin tumbled. Then she saw something move in the stream ahead, something brown and furry.

She put her hand on the orcling's arm, and held her finger to her lips. They had crept only a little ways forward before they both gasped at the sight of two brown bear cubs rolling about on the bank of the stream.

Mélamírë had never seen a bear so close. The little animals played with one another like a pair of kittens. She stood still, entranced by the cubs that were yet unaware of their presence.

Stralûb fingered the tooth that hung around her neck. "Murûku narduru," she whispered, and then she frowned, like she was worried about something. "Naan mal kulat murûk kranklob?"

Mélamírë hushed her, not wanting to spook the bear cubs that played in the water, but it was too late: the cubs heard them. The little bears squalled in alarm and bolted along the stream. She and Stralûb had only taken a few steps forward when they heard a horrible roar. They turned to see a massive bear on top of the stone hill now about a quarter of a mile or so behind them. The beast reared up on its hind legs. To Mélamírë, it looked like it filled the sky, it was so big. The cubs' mother. It dropped to all fours, lowered its head, and stared at them, huffing and moaning, then launched itself down the slope.

Mélamírë could not believe something so large could run so fast. She yanked her knife out of its scabbard, for as little good as that might do. At least it was something.

Frantically, she searched for an escape. The trees were too far away to climb, the stream too shallow to dive under water, and there were no heights nearby that the bear could not reach. Her muscles and bones were frozen, and it seemed her mind was, too. Her thoughts and Time itself slowed while her death galloped toward her. A deep shudder ran through her body and coursed down her arms to concentrate as fiery heat at the tips of her fingers. The pain snapped her out of her paralysis, and she called out the Word of Power. It only made the bear slow down a little and shake its head, as if flies were buzzing around it, and it resumed its charge.

She struggled to get a good grip the hilt of her knife; something sharp dug into the heel of her hand. Waving her arms about, she yelled at the bear, as loud as she could, trying to sound more angry than afraid. And she was angry. She did not want to die. She did not want to hear the summons of the Dark One from across the Sea.

Something flashed out of the corner of her eye, and a rock smacked square on the side of the bear's head. The impact made it stumble, and its tiny eyes were dazed for a moment, but it swung its head in the direction of the rock. Another stone came flying, clipping its left ear. The bear charged toward the source of the rocks: Stralûb, whose aim and strength had improved considerably.

The orc-girl shrieked and kept throwing stones while the bear bore down on her. Mélamírë watched in horror, certain that the beast would tear into the orcling, but before it reached her, a chorus of hoots and shouts made the angry animal stop: a band of orcs and several wolfish creatures emerged from over the top of the stone hill and ran toward the bear.

A lone orc outran them all and placed itself between Stralûb and the bear, slashing at the beast with a curved, black sword. The orc bared its long fangs, and its angry screams threatened to split stone. Breasts swung beneath the crude leather plate that covered its chest as the orc sliced at the bear with its weapon: Stralûb's protector was a woman.

The bear roared and raked the orc-woman across her upper arm, leaving bloody gouges. The orc-woman cried out in pain and rage, but before the bear could take advantage of her stumble, three big orcs bore down on the creature with spears, driving it back. They plunged their spears deep into the animal's body, and the largest orc drove his long knife into its mouth, heedless of the bear's fangs, and up into its skull. The huge bear crumpled to the ground, dead.

More orcs swarmed over the dead bear, ripping into the hide and flesh, wresting teeth from its jaws and claws from its feet, while others ran to catch the cubs, quickly slicing their throats and fuzzy bellies to spill blood and guts onto the spring grass. Mélamírë felt awful for the poor cubs, but her attention was drawn rapidly to the orc-woman, who had picked up Stralûb in her arms and was covering her with kisses. "Kran'lob! Kran'lob!" the orc-girl cried, wrapping her arms around the orc-woman's neck. The big orc who had killed the bear went over to the orc-woman's side and touched Stralûb's face with startling tenderness.

That is her mother and father. Her family has found her. But they have also found me.

Slowly she backed away, hoping that none of the orcs had noticed her, but it was in vain. Stralûb's father saw her. He drew his sword, but before he took a single step forward, Stralûb cried, "Krank! Krank!" and then frantically jabbered a string of harsh words, pointing at Mélamírë. Stralûb's mother laid her hand on his arm and said something, too. He hesitated, but all around him, the clamor of his clan swelled, especially the yells of the male orcs. He shoved Stralûb's mother aside roughly, all gentleness gone.

"Azat goluglob! Akrat grishtob! Throquat trûtob!" he shouted. Flanked by the two orc-men, he stalked toward her; they grinned horribly with their yellowed fangs, Stralûb's father the worst of all. The other orcs yammered, and their wargs cackled. Stralûb cried, but her mother stood silent.

Rescuing the orc-girl, hunting for her, giving her food and warmth — all of it was for nothing. She had been so stupid to think she could help, that she could actually tame an orc, and now she was going to die for her stupidity and would spend the rest of Time haunting the Halls of the Dark One.

I am so sorry, Mama, Papa. I am so sorry...

A deep, rumbling growl rolled down the rocks behind her, and the orcs halted, their eyes wide beneath their heavy brow ridges. Slowly, she turned her head, wondering what kind of disaster approached now.

A huge black wolf, big as a pony, bounded to her side, its fur bristling and its fangs gleaming in the Sun like swords of ivory. It glanced at her with eyes that were not yellow, like a normal wolf, but red like fire. Her knife dropped from her hand, her knees wobbled, and she sank to the ground, waiting for death.

She felt the huge wolf's hot breath against the back of her neck, and hoped its bite would be swift and sure so that it would be over quickly. Instead of jaws clamping viselike on her neck, a cool, wet nose nuzzled her, and she heard Father's calm voice within her thoughts:

Stay put, child. I will take care of this.

Papa?

Astounded, she raised her head to stare at the monstrous wolf and reached out to touch its fur, to make sure it was real, but it was the scent of lightning beneath the wild odor of a predator that assured her this beast really was Father.

The wolf growled ferociously, and slowly approached the orc band. The wargs went wild with terror, and two bolted.  The clamor of the orcs changed from hoots of cruel laughter to wails of fear, but Stralûb's father and the other two big males made not one sound as they stood their ground. One of the orcs had a bow, and he fitted an arrow to it, but before he could draw it back, a wizened old orc with one eye and a necklace that clattered with many bear claws smacked aside the arrow with his gnarled wooden staff.

The old orc yelled at his tribe, repeating the words "dushatâr" and "naur" while the black wolf snarled at them all. Stralûb's father lowered his sword, his expression uncertain and fearful, then made his decision.

"Ukhat," he hollered. "Ukhat!"

All the orcs and their wargs turned and withdrew slowly toward the pines to the North while the wolf watched. As the band departed, Stralûb, walking alongside her mother, raised her hand and waved at Mélamírë before the orc-woman jerked her daughter's arm, yanking her into the shadows of the pine woods and leaving the mangled carcasses of the bear and her cubs behind.

The wolf waited until the last of the orcs had vanished before he gave a flip of his bushy tail and trotted toward Mélamírë. He sniffed her, ran his red tongue over her face, and wagged his tail, just like a happy dog. She wrapped her arms around his neck, hugged him, and forced herself not to cry.

My dearest, you nearly turned my hair white with worry. I ought to be furious with you for disobeying me...

She cringed.  He was right.  He had every right to be angry, and she wondered what sort of punishment her foolishness would merit.

But I am far more relieved than angry.  You were very difficult to track, even for me. Now let's return to camp, shall we?

She stood up, dazed. She did not think she could walk all the way back to camp.

"Father, I can't..."

I will carry you, but first, do something about your hands. I don't fancy those things digging into my skin.

She raised her hands, and to her astonishment, discovered why she had been unable to grip her knife well: her flat nails were now long and sharp, like claws or talons. When she become so frightened, she Changed without even thinking about it.

Impressive. You've never been able to Change both hands. Until now.

Taking a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on the churning substances within the tissues of her hands, commanding the twisting chains to unwind and form new chains of a different kind. Then she bent and folded the sheets woven from them. Her hands burned. When she opened her eyes again, her nails were short and flat, and the swelling of her right hand was gone although the bite marks were still a little pink.

Now go find your pack, and we'll be off.

Her pack? She had not even noticed that she cast it aside. There it lay, near a cluster of snow rose shrubs. The wolf lay down on the ground while she climbed onto his back. When he rose to his feet and trotted a few steps, she almost slipped off. This was nothing like riding a horse or a pony. He halted.

Flatten yourself against me and hang on tight.

Then he bounded off over the land, following the stream. The ride was wild and exhilarating. She clutched his thick fur in her fists so she would not fall off.

Now that she was safe, she allowed her thoughts to drift. As the wolf's — Father's — muscles bunched and stretched beneath her, she remembered one of the tales that Lord Celeborn told her this past winter when she had sneaked off to the Sindarin quarter, as she had for the past four years, to visit him in his garden. The Sindarin prince spun tales that were not told in her household, where Mother favored the epic tragedies of her and Tyelpo's family, or those of Father, who preferred stories of the natural world or the wondrous fables of the Eastern lands where he wandered many, many years ago during one of his sojourns in Middle-earth, long before he came to Ost-in-Edhil.

As the world flashed by, Mélamírë thought about Celeborn's story of Lúthien, the daughter of Melian the Fay and King Thingol of the Sindar, and Huan of Oromë's House, who took the form of a great wolfhound. Was Lúthien's ride like this? Did the hound's gait feel like a wolf's? She remembered the part of the tale when the powerful sorcerer, Thû, Changed into a huge wolf to do battle with Huan, and how Huan and Lúthien had defeated him, forcing him to give up his fortress.

Then something strange occurred to her, a chilling thought like cold winter air that seeps around the cracks of a door. Father, a Fay like Thû, ran beneath her in the form of a huge wolf. Thû had been the Lord of Werewolves. A terrible question formed from that thought: had Father once served Thû, back in the time of legends?

She untangled the threads that threatened to weave themselves into an awful — and surely wrong — conclusion. It could not be, for Father lived in Aman and served Aulë during that time. He had returned to Middle-earth after the War of Wrath in another guise, that of a Man of the Eastern tribes, then returned once more to Aman before he came back here as one of the Eldar. So he could not have served Thû. It was impossible. Besides, Father was a good man: Istyar Aulendil, the respected and admired teacher.

He is loved, she thought. Mother loves him, Tyelpo loves him, and I love him, and he loves me. He would never serve evil.

She relaxed, the terrible thought vanquished, and buried her face into the wolf's black fur, inhaling the comforting scent of lightning.

It was almost midday when they reached their camp. After she slid off Father's back, he lay down on a soft patch of grass and stretched out. Then, he Changed.

She watched with horror and fascination as his legs lengthened and straightened while his sinews and bones popped and cracked. His forelimbs became arms, his muzzle retracted, the fanged jaws diminished to become a human face, and fur disappeared to reveal the pale, naked skin of a man.

He lay there in the Sun for a long while with his eyes squeezed shut. At last, he sat up and shook his head, rubbing his hands over his face, and then massaged the scars on his neck — old wounds from an accident in Aulë's forges — that were now inflamed.

"It has been a long time since I've done that." He sounded extremely tired. "Be a good girl and fetch my clothing, would you? In the cave..."

She hurried into the cave to find his shirt, tunic, and trousers neatly folded by his boots, his wool stockings rolled and tucked inside them. He thanked her when she brought them. He could not stand, so he awkwardly thrust his long legs into his trousers, wriggled the shirt and tunic over his head, and with her help, pulled his black hair out from under the fabric. He closed his eyes and again rubbed his face and neck where the scars had now turned white and were barely visible. Then he opened his arms to her.

She fell into his strong, warm hug, and could no longer hold back her tears. Her face crumpled against his shoulder. "Oh, Papa..."

He held her tight while all the fear poured out of her. "You are safe, my little love, you are safe. I will never let anything or anyone hurt you."

Her tears subsided, and he wiped her face with the hem of his shirt. "There now. All better?"

She nodded.

"We will talk more about your adventures later, but for now, I must rest. That took a lot out of me, and I am not feeling well."

She felt badly that her nearly disastrous adventure had compelled him to Change and now to feel ill because of it. "Shall I get you anything, Father? Do you want me to keep watch?"

"Yes, water, please, and plenty of it. I am dreadfully thirsty. You may keep watch, if you wish, though I doubt anything shall disturb us. And do not go wandering off!"

"Yes, Father." She fetched water for him, and he gulped down three full waterskins before he rose and walked unsteadily back to the cave with her help. He lay down on his bedroll, pulled up a blanket, and promptly fell asleep.

She left him there and occupied herself for a while by feeding apples to Birdie and Mori and petting them. The horses basked in the attention, swishing their tails and nickering at her. For the remainder of the afternoon, she sat on the ledge, just above the cave, that overlooked their camp.

She yawned, wishing she could sleep, too, but the sight and sound of Father's limbs lengthening and his face crumpling troubled her.  She kept seeing them again and again in her head. A few years ago, when they were out fishing together, he had played the game of shapes for her as he so often did. She especially loved the way he could shift from fox to mouse to frog so swiftly, and how those creatures danced and pranced about, singing silly songs to make her laugh, but they were all illusions, tricks of sight and mind, and not actual Change. Once, and by accident, one of his illusions had taken the guise of a large black wolf, and it had frightened her. Nightmares haunted her for months afterwards.

This time, the wolf was real, but she was not so frightened, because she was older now and understood. She wondered if she would ever be able to fully Change her form like Father. She doubted it. She was only half-Fay, and after watching his body warp and twist, she was pretty sure she did not want to.

She examined her hands. When she deliberately tried to Change, she could only affect her left hand, turning the nails into claws. Father tried to understand that her talents were not as great as his, but she sensed his disappointment. But this morning, claws — longer and sharper that ever before, and more like a bird of prey's rending talons than the claws of a cat — had sprouted on both her hands without her even thinking about it. Why, she did not know. A yawn stretched her mouth again, and this time, she allowed herself to slip into a waking dream so she could at least have a catnap.

The Sun was sliding down into the haze that covered the Western lowlands when Father at last emerged from the cave. After her nap, she had managed to spear a couple of trout and brought them back to the fire to spit and roast, but he took the fish from her.

"Sit. I have lazed about long enough." He cleaned the fish and set them above the embers, turning them so they would cook just right. The sun had set by the time they ate their supper.

"Now," he said, picking a bone out of his teeth, "tell me about your little adventure."

So she did, omitting nothing. He nodded and made a remark now and then to encourage her.

When she finished her tale, he asked, "What have you learned from this?"

She thought for a moment then answered, "That orcs are people like us."

She did not think his eyebrows could rise much higher. "It is best not to think of them as people," he said.

"But they speak and they sing! They may be ugly and nasty, but they have something, I don't know...something a little good in them."

"I said, it is best not to think of them as people. I should not have to tell you that again."

"Yes, Father."

"What else did you learn?"

"That I should not wander off alone into the Wild."

"And what else?"

"That I should listen to you."  She readied herself for his judgment of her answer, expecting to hear him announce that she would not be allowed to set off on her own for at least a yén, but that was not what he said.

"That's my girl.  The danger you put yourself in is punishment enough, I think, for your disobedience, but there is something you must do. Do you know what that is?"

"I think so."

"I think you do, too." He gently cupped her face with his hands and looked deep into her eyes. "You must tell no one — absolutely no one — about my Change into the wolf. Do you know why?"

"Because they will know you are a Fay, and they will think you are a monster."

"And?"

"They will think I am a monster, too."

"That's right, and that is why we must keep this a secret."

Father had told her this from the very beginning, when she first became aware she had abilities that other children did not — she must guard his secret as well as hers, for not all folk looked upon the Fays favorably. A few years ago, not long after Lord Celeborn had told her a few stories of his life in Doriath, she asked Father if Melian was a monster, and he answered emphatically that yes, many considered her to be so. The next time she visited Lord Celeborn, she asked him the same question: was Melian a monster? He seemed startled at first, but then became thoughtful and had responded, "Yes, I am afraid that some did see her as a monster — a beautiful monster, but a monster all the same."

She looked into Father's silver-grey eyes. "But Mother knows you are a Fay." She also wondered about Tyelpo. He and Father were such close friends that she could not see how her cousin had not guessed.

"Yes, and only you and she know. We must keep it that way."

"Then why can't I tell her about the wolf?"

"Because it will worry her too much. You say you want a little sister or brother to join our household, do you not?"

"Yes..." It was no secret that she envied her friends who had brothers and sisters.

"If your mother worries too much, she and I will not be able to make a baby, so you must not worry her, which means you must not tell her about my Change into the wolf."

"I will not tell. I promise. But what about the orcling? May I tell Mother about the orcling?"

"Stars' blood, no, you may not! She will throttle me if she finds out I let you wander away like that."

"May I tell my friends?"

"Certainly not!"

That deeply disappointed her. It was bad enough that she could not tell Mother about the orc-girl, but even worse, now she could not tell her tale to her friends. It would have been an excellent scary story to tell around the autumn bonfires, and a true one, too.

"May I tell Mother and my friends about my fossil?" She hoped she could at least share that small part of her adventure, even if it was not as exciting as the rest.

"Yes, of course, you may tell them about your fossil. Speaking of your treasure, may I see it?"

She dug around in the bottom of her pack and pulled out the stone, handing it to him. He examined it carefully in the firelight.

"This is a splendid specimen. You say you found it at the shale outcrop?"

"Yes. What kind of animal is it? It looks like a big bug."

Father grinned. "You're close. It is an extinct sea creature without a spine and skeleton, but with a hard shell to protect it and give it structure, like a lobster or a crab, but more ancient. This creature and its kin swam in the sea that once covered what became the Misty Mountains when they rose out of the water, from the time when Melkor was the only one of the Ainur who dwelled here…when he was the Sentinel."

"Does it have a name?"

"Yes, Ulmo named them trilobites." This new Valarin word grated against her ears, but she tucked it away in her memory. He gave the fossil back to her. "By all means, show this to your mother. She will be very interested in it. Now come, it's time for you to go to bed. You must be exhausted."

"May I sleep out here by the fire? By you?"

"Of course. Get your bedroll."

She was so tired that she stumbled on her way to the cave. After arranging the bedroll on the ground, she curled up beneath her blanket, and rested her head on Father's lap while he stroked her hair. The vault of the sky was filled with Varda's stars. The sounds of the rushing stream and chirping crickets blended to make a pleasant nighttime melody. Father then sang softly. It was her favorite lullaby, the song of the wine-dark sea and the violet sky full of stars. He had sung this lullaby to her since she was a baby, as his own mother had sung it to him in an unimaginably distant time and place.

Her eyelids drooped and soon closed. Her last thought before she plunged into the soothing waters of deep sleep was if Stralûb, too, lay on the verge of sleep while her mother sang to her.

Chapter End Notes

Orc vocabulary; from the fanon version of the Black Speech created by The Land of Shadow (plus a few words from Tolkien himself).

 Golug (n) - elf, elves

dâgalûr (n)- demon

narnûlubat - Orkish way of expressing thanks ("I will not hurt you")

akh - yes

ash, krul, gakh (n) - one, two, three

kul throquûrz – I am hungry

stral (n) - flint

lûb (n) - daughter

rak - class noun family, clan

murûk (n) bear

-lob feminine word ending

nar - 1. not; 2. expression of contempt

bugud (n) name

lorz (adj) - stupid

znûg (v) I regret

narghaash (adj) - cold

ghaash (n) - fire

vargr (n) - Old Norse word for wolf, also has a connotation of evil.

krank (n) - father

-izub – mine

[literally warg father-mine = My father's warg!]

rad - now, immediately

ukh- (v) - go

[Radukh - Let's go now!]

Murûku narduru - little bears

Naan mal kulat murûk kranklob? - But where is bear mother?

"Kran'lob" – probably Mama or Mommy (my invention)

"Azat goluglob! Akrat grishtob! Throquat trûtob!" - Kill (the) female elf! Drink her blood! Devour her brain! 

dushatâr - sorcerer

naur - werewolf

Self-Important Bloviating.

Although I used the Bechdel Test Challenge as an excuse to write this story, it was been rattling around in some form or another for a few years now, in part as a response to the following excerpt from History of Middle-earth, vol. X, "Morgoth's Ring," in which Tolkien discusses the nature and origin of orcs:

In  summary:  I  think  it must  be assumed  that 'talking'  is not necessarily the sign of the possession of a 'rational soul' or fea. The   Orcs   were  beasts   of   humanized   shape   (to   mock  Men and  Elves)  deliberately perverted  I converted  into a  more close  resemblance  to  Men.   Their 'talking'   was  really   reeling  off  'records'  set  in  them  by Melkor.  Even their rebellious critical words  -  he  knew  about  them.  Melkor   taught them speech and as they bred they inherited  this;  and they had just as much independence as have,  say,  dogs  or   horses of theirhuman masters. This talking was  largely  echoic  (cf. parrots).  In The Lord  of the  Rings Sauron is said to have devised a  language for them.                                                            

To my mind, the assertion that the orcs are "beasts of humanized shape" and that their speech was largely "echoic" are cop-outs of the first order, a blatant attempt to turn the orcs into mindless "cannon-fodder" or "sword-fodder" in the case of Middle-earth.  Hence, killing these beings "without souls" becomes less morally problematic, quite unlike the scenarios in which the orcs were closely related to Elves or Men, that is to say, human.  Orcling asserts that orcs are human with their own traditions, beliefs, and culture, however strange and repugnant these might seem to Men and Elves. 

In the Pande!verse, which takes inspiration from Darwinian evolution (with demiurgic interference) as opposed to Tolkien's apparent penchant for Lamarckism, orcs are derived from a hominid species ancestral to mortal Men (Homo sapiens sapiens) and Elves (Homo sapiens eldarensis), probably similar to Homo heidelbergensis, but "Melkorized."  My recent self-indugence — Saltation — touches upon the concept of orcs being derived from an eariler Homo species.

The lullaby that Sauron sings and the origins of the Maiar, which (in the Pandë!verse) are organic rather than angelic, are referenced in Light Over the Mountain.