The Morning After

Exhaustion kept Nûrzgrat from drifting awake until well past dawn, but his eyes finally opened. He barely recalled how he came to be cleaved to Brytta's bosom, or held in her arms. Likely something pathetic and humiliating was the cause. Adding yet another reason to the long list confirming her desire to part with him at her earliest opportunity.

But he couldn't quite make himself release her. He was comfortable here, listening to her heart's thrum in his ear, feeling her chest rise and fall with every breath. Below, he could hear someone puttering in the kitchen. His sensitive nose picked up the scents of pork and bread. His stomach growled like a vicious warg, reminding him of how little he'd eaten the day before.

He should've known. How could he be that stupid fuckwit's commander for two years, his clanmate for another two, and not know? Lies. The fucker lied all the time. To others, to himself. Maybe he believed the wild tale of spirits he told, but Nûrzgrat's doubts should have stayed his hand. He should've shut the bastard's mouth with a fist or a gag. He shouldn't have let himself be talked into...

Wincing, he pressed closer to Brytta's body. He held on firmly, already mourning the loss of her. The long hours of digging gave him the peace and quiet he needed to think about the bond, without her presence interfering with or muddling his thoughts. Yet the thoughts that came to him at first were horrifying.

He knew he would not force his affection on her, or demand she return it, but he was certain that when she left for Gondor, he'd be broken. What little that held him together would be shattered. He would be an empty shell, unable to care. Parting with her would leave such an unfathomable abyss, he doubted he would ever recover. He would be like Frû, reduced to a sniffling pile of dung, begging for someone to end his suffering.

An hour or so of such self-indulgent whimpering led to defiance, and he became briefly certain that she was not for him, and that this 'bond' business was fantasy. He was meant to be the leader of their little clan, and the leader is always alone lest he be adversely influenced. Surely he wouldn't threaten his position by bowing to a whiteskin like a snaga. He was too proud to be so humbled.

He could not convince himself of this argument, either. Hadn't he proven many times over that he was a worthless leader? Without the wizard's foul influence, his decisions had all turned to shit. Ghru would not have been terrorized when freedom and peace were within their grasp, if Nûrzgrat had done something decisive about Nûlkol. He failed his strongest Uruk, and his oldest friend. He'd ignored Frûmâdûrz's suffering, calling it simple lust and advising simple solutions that gave no relief. Then he stupidly let his guard down, and the fuckwit took off. Had he paid more attention, had he known what was truly going on in Frû's head, had he leashed the little fucker even when he was being watched...

And now the boy was dead, another poor decision to add to the long list. How many more would suffer from his incompetence?

Brytta was better off running as fast as she could for Gondor. Leave this pathetic excuse for an Uruk behind and find a Man worthy of her. Given Nûrzgrat's late performances on this journey, almost any would do. This moment in Hengolwen's house, with Brytta sleeping softly beside him, was the only time he'd spend in her embrace. He gained such a boon by being weak and pathetic, just as he'd eased her fear of him, and Orcs in general, by suffering an endless stream of humiliations. How could she respect an Orc who had fallen so far?

Feeling sick inside, he drew away from the warmth of her body and sat up, slumping forward, defeated. His movement disturbed her slumber, and she began to waken. Closing his eyes, he willed himself not to glance her way.

Sunlight was beginning to peek through the windows on the ground floor below, illuminating the loft. Brytta rubbed her sleepy eyes and looked at the Orc's bowed back. So many scars... yet the greatest one could not be seen.

She'd spent so much time in the company of men that it was awkward for her to approach a male as a woman, with soft touches and gentle words. Whether it was clear he required such treatment, or she felt compelled to give it, she sat up and timidly placed her hand on his back. He barely noticed. She slipped her arm about his waist. He might have been carved in stone, so little reaction did he give. Brought nearly to tears by his indifference, Brytta leaned close and rested her head on his shoulder. She had no idea what words to give him, for comfort or encouragement. He offered none of his own, yet he relented a touch, letting his cheek press against her head.

"I won't ask," she told him quietly. "Not today."

He started to say something, but thought better of it, and merely nodded gratefully.

"I worried you might... have a nightmare," Brytta went on hesitantly. "Since you've had them so frequently. You didn't. I'm glad you were spared."

Nûrzgrat's brow furrowed. He had no recollection of visiting the breeding pits last night. The visions seemed much longer and more vivid since he'd left the settlement, perhaps as a reminder of the danger he posed to Brytta. Yet last night, he slept peacefully, as far as he knew. Maybe he was too exhausted, or too despondent.

He found he didn't care. At this moment, he wanted to feel nothing. Not the pull of this cursed bond, not the warmth of Brytta's body next to his, not the worry that he'd lost his edge, not the inevitable explanations. It wasn't just Brytta who would want to know what led to Frû's murder. Brianna and Sandy would demand answers as well. He lacked the strength to discuss it right now, and grimaced at this new weakness. Was there no end to it?

They sat quietly for several minutes before their wakefulness was noticed below. Gurvalthen had risen early, letting Hengolwen sleep in. She could just see Brytta and Nûrzgrat's heads as they sat up in bed. In spite of their closeness, the healer did not feel that she was witnessing an affectionate, private moment. They had the look of one in despair, the another in support. Feeling slightly awkward and intrusive, Gurvalthen cleared her throat.

"I beg your pardon, but I've some bacon and eggs ready, if you're hungry."

Brytta disengaged herself from Nûrzgrat only enough to peer over the loft platform and acknowledge the offer. "Thank you. We'll be down in a moment." She turned back to the Orc. "You should eat something."

"Ain't hungry," Nûrzgrat muttered, only to be countered by his loudly grumbling stomach. Brytta chuckled lightly.

"It is said that, when a liar has been revealed, he is caught with his pants down," she pointed out.

Nûrzgrat slowly turned to look at her, his brow furrowed. "What?"

"Nothing," she replied, sagging. "Come down to breakfast. It'll do you good."

He barely responded, other than to shrug a little, but he dutifully followed Brytta down to the main floor. Had he been in better spirits, he might have arched an eyebrow with interest, for his vantage point while she descended the ladder gave him an enticing view down the front of her nightgown. Familiarity with every inch of her body would only have dulled his interest by a small degree. He couldn't look at Brytta and feel anything but the pain of loss.

Slumping into a chair at the table, he stared at the plate Gurvalthen put in front of him, barely registering what was on it.

"Nûrzgrat," she said quietly, "I'd like to have a look at you, if you don't mind."

Frowning, he looked up at her. "What for?"

"Please don't be angry," Brytta begged. "We spoke of the bond. Frû's bond, at first. One thing led to another... I told them some of what the Orcs said. And... what they did to you." Seeing his widening eyes, she hastily clarified, "The beating. Your fits. The fainting and bucking. Only that."

"I want to be assured you are not permanently damaged," Gurvalthen explained gently. "Injuries to the head can be fatal. Since you are not diving into your meal, may I examine your head?"

"Sure," he mumbled. Holding still while she probed his skull, he glanced up at Brytta. He wasn't certain what her expression meant, and he was determined not to use that fucking bond to find out. He'd figured out one thing, at least – he had to make an effort. Those early glimpses were explorations he'd made almost unconsciously out of sheer ignorance and curiosity. Now he knew what was there. He knew that looking deeper was more difficult with the wall between them. And he knew that barrier would stand until the end of all things.

If he defied it, and kept poking his nose in, he'd only make their inevitable parting worse on himself.

"You have quite an interesting skull," Gurvalthen commented as she felt the contours of his head. "I can feel here, here, and here, where you must have been struck. Is that so?"

"Yeah."

"Are they deep impressions?" Brytta asked worriedly.

"Not impressions," Gurvalthen reassured her. "Swellings. Accumulations of blood, perhaps. A bruise, if you like. I am not getting the sense that your skull is cracked, Nûrzgrat. Else you might be making more noise. Does it hurt when I press here?"

"A bit," he acknowledged dully. "Makes my eyes hurt."

"Your eyes, or the part of your head behind them?"

"Behind."

Watching the Orc submitting to the healer's poking and prodding, Brytta absently ate her breakfast. He'd gone to bed shirtless, and was sitting at table in the same state. With light, she could now see not only the scars of his chest, but several tattoos she hadn't noticed before, showing black against his dark brown skin. To be more accurate, she supposed, the marks weren't so much tattoos involving ink, as they were clearly made by branding irons and knives. Purposefully, it seemed.

Though crude in execution, the central image of a clenched fist was clearly outlined. On either side, barely discernible amid a confusion of battle scars, were crookedly drawn numbers, deeply gouged into his flesh by hand: 2993 to one side, and 9/3, 6, and 1/3 descending separately on the other. More markings appeared to have been deliberately cut, not branded as the fist was. Upon his left breast were carved four stripes, each roughly a half inch apart. The topmost stripe had an 'x' through it. His right breast bore two large 'V' marks, yet another mystery.

Brytta wasn't the only one intrigued by the tattoos. Hengolwen paused in sipping her tea to question him.

"What is that mark in the center? It looks quite like a fist."

He glanced down at himself briefly. "Aye. A fist. Supposed to be for my name."

"Truly?" Gurvalthen leaned over to look. "My goodness. How could I have sewn...? I confess, I did not even notice. Your skin is quite dark enough to hide it. When was it done?"

Nûrzgrat shrugged. "I was maybe a week old. Give or take."

"What does it mean? And your name...?" Brytta found herself positively itching to ask after all the marks upon him. She'd never noted whether the Orcs she'd encountered before were marked in this way, and was curious to understand what each one meant, though her gut response was disturbing.

The scars told her the Uruk-hai were little more than cattle to be branded by their owner, their bodies marked in painful ways to satisfy the record-keeping of their breeder. The numbers spoke of Nûrzgrat's slavery, of his reduction to a piece of meat made for one purpose only. She hoped, though with little assurance, that this was not the case.

He sighed, giving every impression that he'd rather be left to brood in peace. "Angry leader." He grunted ironically. "I was, uh... a bit of a bastard when I was born."

"Were you? I never would have guessed." Brytta arched her brow in gently mocking disbelief.

He half smiled. "Uh... kind of a... bastard every day I lived in Isengard, actually."

"Not you, surely," Gurvalthen chuckled. "What of the others? Morkoth and Ghrûlagûrz? I must say, I am very curious. I had no idea your names had meanings, or that you were... marked with that meaning so... vividly."

"Morkoth's name means 'black claw,'" Nûrzgrat supplied half-heartedly. "Got a big claw on his chest. Like these." He held up his finger, briefly showing the curved, talon-like claw. "Ghru's ain't been seen for twenty years, not since the fire."

"Do you recall what it was?" the healer asked.

"Was a... line, in the center," Nûrzgrat recalled hesitantly, narrowing his eyes. "A line with a circle on top, like... a person, I guess. And around it was more lines, but they was supposed to be swords pointin' at the one in the middle." He furrowed his brow, trying to remember.

"Surrounded," Brytta observed worriedly.

"Broken," the Uruk corrected. "All them swords around him was broken. And he was in the middle... undefeated. 'S'what his name meant. His real name."

Gurvalthen and Brytta exchanged a confused glance. "His 'real' name? Ghrûlagûrz is not his real name?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," he replied tightly, looking away.

"What of... Frûmâdûrz?" Hengolwen asked quietly. "His name, and his mark. What were they?"

A pained expression crossed Nûrzgrat's face, and he didn't answer for a moment. Seeing his returning sorrow, Brytta awkwardly stepped in. "Perhaps another time..."

"A broken shackle," he muttered hollowly. His breaths shuddered, then he continued. "'Cause his name means... meant 'free spirit.'" He leaned his elbow on the table, and covered his eyes with his hand. Swallowing was clearly difficult.

"Well, I suppose... it is quite interesting," Gurvalthen said softly, and rubbed Nûrzgrat's back to sooth him. She glanced down, and her brow furrowed. There were many scars across his back. What a horrible place he'd come from, where branding and whipping were commonplace!

"We should be going," Brytta informed them, hoping to extract Nûrzgrat before he suffered any further. It was clear to her that continued questioning would only make matters worse. "While we have a chance to do so."

"Oh yes," Hengolwen agreed, rising from her chair. "But I insist that you take some provisions with you. It's a long jour-..."

The sound of knocking startled her into silence, and all eyes turned toward the front door. No one spoke for long enough that a second rapping followed the first.

"I'm certain... it's nothing to worry about," Hengolwen stammered awkwardly. "At such an hour. Surely..."

"He is a guest here," Gurvalthen said imperiously, and marched toward the door. "And known to the king. There is no need to hide." Still, Brytta positioned herself between Nûrzgrat and the doorway, hoping to block him somewhat as the healer opened the door. For his part, Nûrzgrat sat unmoving, as if he no longer cared if a host of Riders was outside, anxious to haul him to the gallows.

"Why, Ælfgar! Whatever brings you round so early?" Gurvalthen said casually to the caller.

"Oh!" he replied with surprise. "I didn't expect you, Gurvalthen. Is Hengolwen well? She hasn't taken ill, has she?"

The healer scolded him good-naturedly. "Heavens no! My goodness, am I not allowed to call on a friend without the town believing the worst? So worried, you look. I am not the harbinger of poor fortune, young man!"

"Apologies," he chuckled with relief. His searching eyes peered beyond her shoulder. "I merely came to see if Hengolwen might like to walk with me into town. I have some errands..."

There was no mistaking the dark-skinned figure slumped at the table rubbing its forehead, paying Ælfgar no heed. Perhaps even daring him to notice.

"Gurvalthen," the man breathed, fumbling for his sword. It seemed an age since he'd drawn it, but the last two years of peace soon faded away as his warrior instincts revived. "Stand aside."

"Oh, do stop it," Gurvalthen snapped, and rapped his wrist smartly.

"Ælfgar, please," Hengolwen urged, stepping around the healer. "He means no harm. He is... Believe it or not, he is a dear friend."

"How...?"

"Don't stand there, gaping on the stoop," Gurvalthen told him. "Come in, come in. And sheathe your sword before entering a lady's home. Gracious! What are they teaching the young men these days?"

Ælfgar's bewildered gaze swept the women in the room. An Orc sat among them, indecently shirtless at the breakfast table, and they were looking at him as though he'd committed a grievous social blunder.

"He is Nûrzgrat," Hengolwen said firmly. "You might recall the name of the Orc from Isengard who..."

"… Fought the Dunlendings attacking your village," Ælfgar finished, his eyes wide with awe. "You're him. Béma's ba-... I beg your pardon, ladies."

Nûrzgrat slowly turned his head toward the Man, gave him a short nod, and looked away again.

"Oh." Struck speechless, and nearly as awkward as he'd been when he met King Elessar in Minas Tirith after the coronation, Ælfgar clumsily sheathed his sword. "You are... well known, and honored,... Nûrzgrat. What... what brings you here?"

"Our business is personal," Brytta supplied. Though the man was apparently awestruck, Brytta suspected the nature of the visit might not be taken well. "And is quite finished. If you will excuse us, we really should be getting on."

"Yes, yes," Hengolwen nodded. "Just let me fetch some things for you." She hurried outside, aiming for the smokehouse.

"You traveled together?" Ælfgar asked, only now noticing that Brytta was not conventionally dressed.

"Yes," she replied. "We are... friends."

"You should really let Merol know you are here," he said to Nûrzgrat. "He speaks highly of you. I'm certain he'd want to see you again."

"Oh, that's right!" Gurvalthen cried. "I nearly forgot. Aeda, his wife, gave him a son last year." The Orc looked up, and she beamed at him. "Because of you, she lived to do so."

A spasm of jealous pain darted across Nûrzgrat's face, and he looked away again. Brow creased in sympathy, Gurvalthen sought to cover the awkward moment. "But I understand you have to be going. It is a long journey, after all. You take care of him, won't you?" She turned pointedly to Brytta.

"Of course I will."

Gurvalthen hesitated a moment, then fetched the sword from her things laid by the front door. She slowly brought it to Brytta. "It was my husband's. I've never learned to use it. Clumsy thing. It's... a sometimes unwelcome reminder. I want you to carry it."

"Oh... I couldn't," Brytta protested as the healer pressed the sheathed sword into her hands.

"Think nothing of it. You lost yours, you need another. I hope it serves you well."

"Your husband was an Eorling?" Ælfgar asked, admiring the workmanship of the hilt, and the unique tooling of the leather scabbard.

"At one time, yes," Gurvalthen replied, her smile fond yet sad. "He rides with Béma now."

"I shall wear it with honor," Brytta promised, buckling the weapon to her waist.

On Hengolwen's return, laden with a pack bursting with delicious-smelling food, Ælfgar begged her pardon for the unannounced visit.

"I suspect I arrived at a difficult time. I'll just see myself out."

"I do apologize," Hengolwen said sincerely. "Any other day, I would gladly accompany you."

He smiled warmly and briefly clasped her hand. "I'll call later, shall I?"

"Please do."

Once the young man had left, Brytta snorted with amusement. "Now who must be restrained?" She arched her brow provocatively.

"Cheeky," Hengolwen remarked, even as she blushed and smiled.