Music for This Chapter
"We could keep her for a meal," cried an orc. "Or take her to the master. I say we keep her. Master didn't ask us for a healing elf. And we're the ones out here swinging our blades. We should get to decide!"
"We stay with the plan and take her to Daguth," said an orc with a gaping scar where his nose ought to be. "He will decide."
I sat quietly against a tree stump, trying not to draw attention to myself. My hands were bound...although, truthfully, I could easily have loosed them with my Elven dexterity. Yet I did not let on.
As far as I could tell, these orcs were quite stupid where the rules of elvenkind were concerned. Aside from their pathetic rope tying abilities, there was a more dangerous bit of information I would not reveal to them any sooner than they might find it out for themselves-- specifically, that Grace can only be used upon those in possession of it themselves. As orcs were not, my hands would do nothing for them. I was as good as any other elf to them.
I understood full well that the moment they knew this, I was dead. I only hoped I could find an opportunity to escape them before this happened.
"Don't we have to feed her something? Or she'll die," said an orc with a high, grating voice.
"Meh. Give her somma' that bread," said the noseless orc.
One of them threw a stale, dirty chunk and it hit me in the chest, then fell to the ground beside me. There were ants all over it.
"I cannot...I cannot eat this."
"She can't eat this? You too good for our old bread, elf-trash?" spoke the high voiced orc.
"It is only that my hands are tied."
"Then hold it with both hands," said another orc, and they laughed obnoxiously. "You'll manage."
In fact I was not feeling hungry at all. Between my sadness and now my fear, hunger was not an issue, and elves did not need to eat so often as mortals did anyway. But I would need drink.
"May I have some water?" I asked.
"Water? Do we look like a river to you?" said the large orc who had carried me upon his warg wolf. "But if she has a thirst, go on, give her some draught."
One of the Orcs crossed to me and squeezed my jaw, trying to open my mouth. I turned away, but it did not stop him pouring some of the thick, brown liquid down my throat.
It was vile, and tasted of rotting things and vinegar. I heaved at once, throwing up a bit, but it was not enough to stop the pain from starting.
I had heard our Marchwarden in Lorien speak, once, of Orcish draught.
He said it was the Dark Lord Sauron's version of Elvish Miruvor, a drink meant to restore health and well-being. But Orcish draught, though speeding them up and quelling hunger, also inflicted pain, which I now felt deeply in my guts, twisting and churning as a firey snake. I doubled over.
The orcs laughed harder still. "Her belly's not taking the draught," said the one without a nose. "I reckon she's too delicate."
"A mountain troll would be too delicate for this!" I bit back, angry with pain.
What I needed was water, now more than ever.
"If you do not bring me some water, or allow me to fetch it myself, I will die. And then you will have no one to heal your wounds should you become injured. So suit yourself."
