Orcling by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 2: A Discovery

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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.

 

 

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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