Orcling by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 3: A Long Night

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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.

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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!]