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Spoils of War - Chapter 4 - Nightmares
The urkan's face swam in front of her until it was all she could see, a tug showed her that the manacles were back, and suddenly she was once again naked and chained to the stake driven into the ground. Rough, hurting hands tore at her, throwing her to the dirt and shoving her into a position where he could… The pain that rippled through her body at his entry brought her upright and awake with a scream, and then Inzilanî looked around in fear and confusion. The black tent, the manacles, the chains, the urkan – they all had vanished. It had been a dream: a very bad dream. But where was she, really?
Oh.
This was the tent of the nimir named Borongil, the one she had pestered until late into the evening for as many of his words as her mind could hold at one sitting, and he rolled up onto an elbow from the very far end of the large mattress on the floor to stare at her in worry. The light of the single candle flickered as the tent walls huffed out in the night wind. "Inzilanî?" he asked in a soft whisper.
The tears wouldn't stop, but she could be silent so that her keeper could return to his repose. She waved her hands at him, hoping he could understand that she was telling him not to be concerned, and then lay back into the mattress. She rolled away from him, putting her face against the cold canvas of the tent wall and huddling under the warm covers, and curled herself up into the smallest ball she could. She was safe in her waking hours with the nimîr, but she would never be free of the memories when the darkness of sleep closed in. Even if the nimîr allowed her to remain, even if one of them took her as his own bed-comfort, she would never be free of the uruk. He would still use her in the night, just as he always had. Nothing had changed except that the pain he caused her now would be in her mind, not her body.
She shuddered at the memories that were just too close to ignore. How had she survived that? WHY had she survived? Her urkan owner had not intended to do her any favors in letting her live until after the battle; no doubt the ending he'd had planned for her was one she was lucky to have avoided. But if the nimîr did not keep her as spoils of their war, what would happen to her? Even now, she was still doomed; she would either remain a slave of the nimîr or perish. Her breath hitched; there was no hope for her other than finding a nimir owner who would treat her with kindness sometimes.
"Inzilanî?" Borongil's whisper of her name came from much closer now, and she felt him moving the blankets back slightly and then a very light touch on her head, stroking her hair. More unfamiliar nimîr words tumbled out, soft and gentle, almost comforting, words that were a sweet agony after years of nothing but slaps and growls and being thrown to the floor and… She tried to turn her mind from those more vicious memories, but she couldn't. Even in a soft bed, beneath warm covers, with nothing but a large hand stroking her hair and whispered and unintelligible words of comfort in her ear, she could only think of the many other nights that had come before. The screams she had heard in the distance as the others like her were tortured and killed to appease the Dark Lord on the eve of battle still echoed in her ears, and the memory of hurtful hands and worse things pressed in.
She felt movement next to her, as if Borongil had moved closer to her yet and then sat down, and then he began to sing softly. The beauty of his voice cut through the horror and ugliness that had so filled her mind, driving away the dark shadow of the uruk and his many cruelties. It was a simple song, something that Inzilanî could imagine a father singing to a young child, but she didn't care. Her mind slowly filled with visions of green trees, tall grass blowing in the wind, and the sound of quick-flowing water. His fingers were still moving slowly over her head, smoothing down hair that had been mussed as she had tossed in her nightmare.
Slowly she emerged from under the covers, rolling over onto her back and staring at him as if seeing him for the first time, her tears not slowing at all but paining her much less as they fell. His grey eyes glittered at her in the dim light, his face softening into a gentle smile, but his caress didn't leave her and his song didn't stop. Warm fingertips brushed her forehead, and she closed her eyes at the kind of touch she had forgotten was even possible. His voice rolled over her and imparted the same level of comfort to her wounded soul as his warm hands had done to her agonized muscles only a few hours earlier. This was refuge, sanctuary. For this little time, in the middle of not being in control of anything that came her way anymore, she had found a place that was safe and someone who cared, just a little.
Inzilanî rolled again, this time to face Borongil, and reached out to him, suddenly hungry for comfort. When he shook his head very slowly, she altered the path her hand was taking until she had just the very bottom of the hem of his tunic between her fingers. She didn't ask for more, she didn't tug on the material at all, and she didn't try to touch him in any way; all she wanted was something to hold onto, something tangible that could remind her that she was safe. "Na?" she asked in a whisper, her heart in her mouth as she prayed that he would permit this careful, distant touch.
"Na."
She wrapped her empty hand around herself and tucked it into her armpit beneath the covers, and then she closed her eyes again. The material of the tunic was soft leather, softer than anything she'd ever felt. It was strange, just as the nimîr themselves were utterly foreign. And yet, that little bit of softness between her thumb and fingertips, and even the feeling of being totally lost in a world she no longer understood at all, held security.
As she released her fear, she couldn't help the sobs. It hurt to live, to survive; it hurt almost too much to bear.
Borongil's hand returned to her hair, and he resumed his song. Inzilanî rubbed her thumb and forefinger together and knew the softness of the leather again. Somewhere between the third and the fourth repetition of the song, she drifted into a deep and dreamless – and finally restful – sleep.
She awoke slowly at last as the cold of the morning air made her cheeks stiff. Oddly, she still had the stuff of Borongil's tunic between her fingers, and she opened her eyes to turn her head and study her keeper, and then flinched back hard. He had rolled onto his back, probably after finishing his song for the last time, but now lay motionless, his eyes staring sightlessly at the roof of the tent without blinking.
It wasn't fair! Why would the spirits want to steal Borongil's soul from him when she needed him so badly? Would Pharazôn – or the other nimîr warriors – kill her now, because he had died while taking care of her? Would they think she killed him?
Inzilanî whimpered and yet crept closer. This one had been so kind to her; he had dispelled the nightmare of the uruk and her former life with just a touch and a song. She could have served him in whatever manner he would have allowed for the rest of her days and been most content. Borongil was the first person since leaving her parent's hut that she'd actually come to care for, and now… Hot tears fell again, of loss and grief this time, and she leaned her head down against his chest, determined to mourn him properly.
And then gave a squeak of pure terror and scuttled away when that chest heaved and Borongil shifted and rolled up onto an elbow to face her. She pressed her back against the wall of the tent as the one she had begun to mourn as dead blinked and sat up to stare at her in surprise. What kind of creature was a nimir, she wondered, to sleep as one dead, and then awaken as if he had just taken a nap?
"Inzilanî?" he asked, putting out a hand to her. He pulled that hand back when she flinched again hard and recoiled against the tent wall. The confusion in his face was clear: he didn't understand what had frightened her so. How could she explain?
She pointed to him, and then at the mattress. Borongil tipped his head at her; he was paying close attention, struggling to understand. She held up a finger, then carefully lay herself down on her back, staring up at the tent roof without blinking for a long moment.
"Ai!" The exclamation was soft. He tapped her shoulder, and she turned her head to look at him. He pointed to her, then lay his two hands by his head, tipped it to the side, closed his eyes and made a sound like snoring. "Na?"
Inzilanî nodded. Yes, that was how she slept.
Borongil pointed to himself and shook his head. "Uin." He threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling and gave a soft snore.
Inzilanî stared. He slept that way? She deliberately opened her eyes wide and thrust her chin out slightly, demanding confirmation. She finally had to tap his shoulder to get his attention and make the combination of expression and gesture again. He nodded again, and then rose. He reached out a hand to her. "Tolo."
Slowly she put out her hand to him at last, and he drew her to her feet. He pointed to the pile of clothing she had shed to put on the sleeping gown again, and she nodded. He wanted her to dress; she could do that. The tunic and leggings were warmer than the gown anyway, and the morning was cold. Then Borongil pointed to himself, then walked with his fingers, pointed to the tent flap, and finally wagged his finger at her. Again she nodded. He was going to leave, and she was to stay put. No doubt, he would expect her dressed when he returned.
"Mae." He smiled at her hopefully, and she gave him the submissive, double-handed salute to the heart. With that he turned and left the tent, brushing his long, silver hair back with a careless hand as he walked.
Her hand shook as she pulled the gown over her head and reached for the leggings. How was she ever to understand the nimîr? Were they too foreign for her?
Then she let herself feel relief. At least Borongil was alive and safe, and still cared about her a little. This would have to be enough to give her the strength to stay with him as long as she could, and for as long as he would allow.
oOoOo
The day was only half-gone when the sound of hooves at a full gallop brought the nimîr forces to a halt. Pharazôn rode out to meet the rider on a black horse that seemed to gleam; and they conferred for a long time, complete with gestures and waving hands that merely told Inzilanî how important the news was. With a nod, the warrior saluted Pharazôn and rejoined the ranks of mounted warriors. Pharazôn eyed the group of riders that carried the captives and barked an order.
Borongil slid from the back of his horse and held up his arms to catch Inzilanî as she tried to follow him. She was stiff and sore, and the insides of her legs were chafing from rubbing against the horse for so many hours, but at least she could stand on her own this time. But the unexpected stop obviously had her keeper rattled. His hand closed around hers tightly, but it almost seemed like a possessive grasp for a change. He didn't drag her behind him either; he walked slowly and deliberately.
He led her to a protected copse of trees, where the other captives were being congregated. The boys milled nervously, but when Borongil tried to leave Inzilanî with them, she was very forcefully pushed away. He gazed at her worriedly, and she shrugged. Maybe someday, when she had more of his words, she could tell him about the traditions. If there ever was a someday.
Still, the fact that she was being forced to be by herself clearly bothered the nimir, and Inzilanî watched him gaze back and forth for a long moment, thinking. Then he beckoned to her and, taking her by the hand, walked a short distance away with her. Once there was no chance that they would be observed, he reached to his belt and brought up a short dagger and pressed the hilt into her hand. When she stared up at him with her mouth open in shock, he pointed in the direction they had been riding. "Yrch."
Inzilanî heart sank to the soles of her feet. The nimîr word was simply too close to "urik" to be anything but. Now the unexpected stop made sense: the urkim were just over the next rise, and the nimîr were preparing for battle again. She and the other captives were being left behind so as not to get in the way.
And then it hit: Borongil was riding into battle. He might not survive.
Not caring a bit that he didn't want to be touched, she reached out and caught at his arm and hugged it to her. She leaned her forehead against his upper arm and keened softly, wishing she knew how to tell him that she wanted him to return.
But instead of pushing her away, Borongil wrapped a large hand about her head and held her for a moment. Inzilanî felt her heart swell. He did care!
Then he released her and fussed with something at his waist, and in a very short time had the sheath for the dagger in his hand. He unhooked her chain that served as a belt and slipped it on, then fastened it again and showed her how the dagger fit and made it easy for her to pull. His intention was clear: he was giving her the means to defend herself while he was gone.
He stood for a moment, looking at her, and then extended his hand. "Tolo."
Inzilanî nodded sadly and gave him her hand again. She had just about figured that word out: it meant "come." He led her back to the others but this time didn't try to force her to join them. Another quick cradle of her head, and then Borongil was striding away from her, heading back toward his mount. Already she could feel the heightened tension of the nimîr. At a soft command from Pharazôn, the whole army began to move quickly and vanished over the rise and into the forest.
She knew the moment the battle was engaged, because a roar arose from many voices, followed by the clash of metal. The pure notes of a trumpet split the air, and battle-cries of the nimîr rang clearly.
She had no idea how long they had waited, listening to the endless cacophony of urkim and nimîr, screaming in rage and pain, when suddenly she whirled at the sound of someone – or something – pushing through the brush in the direction of the copse. The bushes at the edge of the trees parted violently, and into the copse staggered an urkan.
She stared, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. The face of the uruk was all too familiar: it was her owner, the urkan who had left her behind. His armor was splattered with black gouts of blood, and the arm that didn't hold the sword dangled at an odd angle.
Inzilanî heard a strange sound, and turned just in time to see looks of absolute rage fill the faces of the other captives. As if of one mind, they ran at the uruk and tackled him hard, startling him enough that he delayed starting to swing his wicked sword until there were two boys already hanging from that arm, deflecting its purpose. When the tall, grey figure teetered and then was brought to his knees by the attack of nearly twenty, she shook off her shock and finally rose.
The dagger slid out of its sheath easily, with a smooth, metallic sound. Something resembling a red curtain seemed to form before Inzilanî's eyes as her own rage at what this… this monster… had put her through surged like a white-hot flame. She walked slowly to where he struggled against the mob of much smaller former victims.
"Hold him!" she shouted in the Black tongue of the uruk, the only language she knew she could share even a little bit with the other captives. "He deserves to pay for all he did. He should have killed me, and he would have killed all of you!" The boys glanced back at her, and at the weapon she held, and then parted to let her through to the downed uruk. "Hold him!" she shouted again, and the others began to move.
The urkan's wild red eyes finally caught sight of her, and the mouth gaped. "You!" he gasped, and then shouted, "I should have killed you with the others!" He struggled, but a single urkan couldn’t handle twenty boys with nothing to lose who were determined to keep him down. Down he went, onto his back; arms were pinned to the ground, and then legs.
"But you didn't," Inzilanî said, a sense of unreality creeping over her, her voice coming from farther and farther away. "That was a mistake." And she raised the dagger high.
Vocabulary
ai - (S) ah
law - (S) no
mae - (S) well, good
na - (S) yes
nimir - (S) elf
nimîr - (S) elves
Pharazôn - (A) Golden One
tolo - (S) come (command form)
uin - (S) no (not so)
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)
urkim - (A) orcs (nom. case)
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)
uruk - (A) ord (obj. case)
yrch - (S) orcs
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