Out of the Darkness, Into the Light

The grinding of the stone as it was shoved back into place with finality would haunt his dreams for many nights to come. The wind of Outside bit through the meager hides and prickled his skin, long coated by dust and mud from the tunnels. A final glimpse of the elder who condemned him before the door closed showed a pitiless and cold face, an expression close to a sneer. It was the last time he would ever gaze upon one of his own kind.

Turning, he took his first numb look at what the elders called 'trees' and 'sky.' All was barren; the trees appeared as desperate black fingers thrust up from a white ground, eager to grasp the unwary. The sky above was vast, stretching above him as far as he could see in all directions. Almost as dark as the trees, it was pock-marked by tiny points of light that had no meaning in his vocabulary, but stirred something in him nonetheless. Was it awe? Wonder? Curiosity? Squeezing his eyes shut, he bowed his head.

He was flawed. How often had he been beaten or ridiculed for such distractions? Rock was for cutting through to open up space for settlement, not for examining closely and admiring for its delicate formations or amazing colors. Fish were for catching and eating, not for gazing at as they flitted through the sparkling water so gracefully. Orcs encroaching on the Uruk-hai territories were for killing, not for sharing stories.

Nargratûrz and his strange ideas were not things his proud, fierce people could tolerate. That they let him stay among them long enough to reach adulthood was more due to his dam than any other reason. With her fevered death came the removal of any allowance, even that of an honorable death in combat. No, for one such as he, so different from the others, there was only exile.

Looking about him at the cold unknown, he wished even his sire had spoken for him. But Uruk males wanted strong, brave sons, not thoughtful ones. He had not laid eyes on his sire for so long, he doubted he'd even recognize the male's scent, much less his face. But truly, would one lone word in his favor have been enough?

Squatting on the ground, he hesitantly touched the crystalline whiteness. It was colder even than the air that froze his breath in white puffs as it left his mouth. The hides he wore were only that which he had made himself, all that his people allowed him, and hopelessly inadequate in such conditions. No weapons, no armor, no food; he was cast adrift to live or die by his own wiles or the mercy of his enemies. Perhaps his ancestors had been great hunters and trackers when they lived Outside, but none now recalled what they hunted or how they tracked prey. They well remembered who their enemies were, though: shara-hai.

The Uruk had often wondered what shara looked like, what they smelled like, what they were like; none now remembered except as vague references in stories. What he'd always been told was that avoidance meant survival. Grunting at the irony, he suspected he may soon learn the answers to his childish questions.

Rising, Nargratûrz sniffed the air. The air was sharp in his nostrils and caused a prickling sort of pain drawing it in. No scents were familiar; he was accustomed to the noisome still air of the dank tunnels. The silence was unnerving, for all his life had been filled with the echoing sounds of Orcish laughter, yelling, mating. He looked to the sky again, and saw a huge white circle there, shining down and sparkling on the ground. It was like a pale eye, watching him, and he cringed in fear.

Was this what became of the Red Eye? Was it blinded and made milky and unseeing, rather than destroyed utterly as the tales said? Or was it something else entirely?

Heart pounding in his chest, Nargratûrz looked about him for cover, something that might hide him from the Eye. The tales of the Red Eye were not entirely comforting ones; those of the White Hand less so. What malignance might the both together inflict upon him?

Turning, he ran, sinking knee-deep in the ground at times, brittle branches whipping his face like claws, but always behind him the White Eye followed unblinking. Breath coming in gasps, he careened through the trees, glancing off several, until finally his wind gave out and he collapsed in a heap. He looked above him; the White Eye remained watchful.

Slowly, his breathing calmed and his mind settled. He felt no different, and the White Eye was no closer. Perhaps it only watched. The children of the Eye and the Hand had not walked the land in many thousands of years. His presence must simply be of interest to this one.

Drawing deep breaths, he shifted to sit with his back against a tree, and watched the Eye hovering. Could this Eye be... a friend to his kind? Might its awareness of him be a benefit not a curse?

Whatever its intention, he decided he would not give it reason to punish him. Fear of this thing would not win its allegience, and would likely urge harsh treatment. Was not the same said of the Red Eye and the White Hand? Strength of heart, strength of arms, strength of will – these things were of value to the Eye and the Hand. He must assume this Eye craved the same.

I am not weak as they said I am, he told the Eye. I am not worthless. They can strip me of who I was, but they cannot touch me now. I am beyond even their reach. The thoughts gave him some comfort.

The night gave him none. He was startlingly cold for the first time in his life. Orcs and Uruk-hai alike were hot-blooded enough that the chill conditions of the deep caves were no hardship. Hides were hard to come by in the deep underground, so any who had them wore them until they nearly dissolved from overuse. There had never been a need to layer them or line them for warmth, for the temperatures were constant. He had scarcely improved on the crude clothing he wore over the years since laboriously stitching them together, spending most of his time in metal armor when his tribe made war on another.

Now he found the inattention to warmth was a serious mistake.

Standing with difficulty in the deep white earth, he found that his legs and backside were wet. Was there a pool beneath the tree that he had not seen? He had no memory of fording a stream in his panicked flight. Reaching down, he picked up the white earth and examined it, rubbing it between his fingers, clenching his fist and marveling at how the substance formed to the inside of his hand. Leaving it wet.

Calm reason returned to him. Sinking to his knees, he dug through the white earth until he reached the black. Though he had no word for it, he began to understand that the white earth covered what he was more accustomed to. Even Outside, there was earth, rich and black, though this earth was nearly rock-hard. From the cold, he mused. Just as he would soon be if he did not find shelter soon.

He sniffed the air again, but there was nothing on the wind that told him anything. No exiled Orc had returned to teach the others how to survive Outside; no stories told of anything save what the world was when his kind followed the Orcs into hiding. Before that, only incomplete tales told what soldiers marching to and from war had seen. Nothing practical, nothing that would tell him how to eat, where to sleep, what to do to survive. But then, banishment was not about surviving.

Refusing to give in while he still drew breath, Nargratûrz stood and began to search for a hollow, a cave, anything that would keep this unnatural wind from striking him so mercilessly. Then he could think, and plan.

Perhaps even live.

Less than a mile away, a small cabin stood in a clearing. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, only to be dispersed quickly. Inside, a fireplace housed a roaring fire; in front of the hearth a wolfhound was curled, snuffling occasionally in her sleep. In the otherwise dark single-room cabin, a woman sat at a desk, elbows resting on the surface, fingers tangled in her long dark hair, bespectacled eyes staring blankly at the monitor's glow.

It wasn't getting any better.

Freelance work only paid when you had something to submit, and Sam had hit a brick wall. Had all the good stories already been told? She had a list of touchy-feely sort of topics a mile long, but none appealed. A research assignment into a possibly underhanded local legal firm – dullsville. Not even the recent event hosted by a local SCA group down in the village held much interest, even if it did flush several of her cousin's friends out of the woodwork in their best prosthetics and armor.

The serious historian types were not amused.

Sighing, she finally gave up, closed the laptop lid, got up, and stretched her aching back. Her muse had not only left her, he had given her the finger and set her house on fire. Coming to her uncle's cabin may have been a mistake; it was too early to tell. Perhaps another day or two of hiking, jogging, vegging out in the arms of Mother Nature would relight the spark of creativity she missed.

The wolfhound's head rose from the rug when Sam stood. Big floppy ears perked up.

"Don't bother getting up, Darûk," the woman grumbled. "Nothing exciting ever happens around here."