The Spoils of War - Part 3
Mar. 6th, 2010 04:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aearwenMy house is a wreck. We got the kids (L&L - son & DiL) moved into Súl's (daughter's) bedroom, and Súl into the apartment - took most of last Sunday to do all the furniture switcheroo'ing. We have our dumpster outside now and a quarter full (mostly because it's been raining here a lot, and we aren't gonna haul stuff out and get drenched.)
My folks - the One bless them and keep them - were packrats!!!!! We discovered this when we first "cleaned out" the apartment two and a half years ago to make room for L&L to move in, ostensibly to take care of Mom's aging cat. We're even more convinced of it now that we're going through all the stuff I just couldn't put myself through back when. Decks of cards, address lables from various charities, twist-ties and bread-bag-clamps. I tell ya: I'm learning what NOT to leave for MY kids when they have to go through MY stuff someday!!
Anyway, my sofa is covered with stuff going to a rummage sale. We aren't halfway through the garage yet, about 1/2 the way through the apartment, and haven't really starting with the rest of the house. The job of just generally getting rid of crud is overwhelming. Hopefully, when the dust settles, my life will be much less cluttered with "stuff".
All this in prelude to the next chapter of Spoils of War. Enjoy.
Chapter 3 - Movement
The clothing Borongil had for her was too big, having been crafted for a nimir and not an Umbari woman-child, and she had eventually had to tuck the extra material of the leggings into the tops of the too-large boots and use a length of one of the chains that had once held her prisoner to both hold up the leggings and snug the tunic to her waist. Soft cloth had been wrapped around the weeping sores and bruises caused from the manacles after her wounds had been washed and treated with a salve that stung slightly, and then protected with a short length of soft leather. He had eventually dug up a comb, patiently tamed the matted ruin that was her hair for her without much pain at all, and then plaited the length and tied it with a thread pulled from the blanket that covered the bed.
Then, refusing to let her prostrate herself to him in gratitude, he took Inzilanî by the hand and pulled her from the tent into a different sort of bedlam. All around her, the tents of the nimîr camp were being knocked down and packed into wains. In the distance, she heard the combined shuffle of many feet, and knew the nimîr forces were getting ready to march. Borongil lead her through the chaos until he had brought her to where many of the frighteningly tall steeds were kept.
He patted the rump of one that was a mottled grey, and Inzilanî widened her eyes. Horses were a rare commodity in the village where she'd been born. Her Umbari owner had possessed a few of these beasts, but never had he allowed or forced her to be near them. The urkan had never had anything but one of the vicious and ugly dog-mounts they called warg, and she'd been glad to walk rather than go anywhere near it. But her nimir keeper patted the rump of the horse again and then bent down and laced his fingers together into a cupped shape.
She stared at him, having not the slightest idea what he wanted her to do. Finally, even though his smile wavered a little, he beckoned her close, then simply lifted her in his arms and swung her up with very little effort at all so that she straddled the horse's rump. He had sprung up into the saddle in front of her before she even had a chance to panic, and caught at her hands and showed her how to hang onto his belt to give herself stability.
When the horse began to move, Inzilanî's hands surrounded Borongil's waist desperately and held on tightly, with her face pressed into his back and her eyes closed for fear that she would be bumped off and break her neck in the fall. She couldn't be certain, but she thought she felt him pat her hands comfortingly as he moved his mount to join with the other mounted riders. It took a while for her to finally realize that she really was safe enough riding behind him and begin to look around.
Some of the other nimîr riders also had passengers at their backs hanging on for dear life. Evidently each of the bed-slaves had found or been assigned a keeper from among the nimîr, just as Borongil was for her. Each of the captives had been relieved of their chains as well, garbed in simple clothing if they hadn't been clothed before, and many of them looked as shocked and disoriented as Inzilanî herself felt. A few were clearly terrified. Overwhelmed and wanting nothing more than to be safely back on the ground, she pressed her face into the hard, metal-covered leather at Borongil's back, wrapped her arms into his belt so that it would take work to dislodge them, and closed her eyes again.
It was a long day of riding, and Inzilanî had gone from uncomfortable to agonized to numb by the time the entire army finally halted. She was hungry and thirsty, but not half as bad as she had been at the end of a day of marching with the uruk. Borongil patted at her hands to rouse her and then helped her unwrap the tight leather from around her arms, but then held onto each hand in turn and massaged where the belt had cut into her skin, aiding the blood back into her hands. Inzilanî held her breath at the small kindness to a mere slave.
She wasn't ready for her legs to give out from beneath her entirely when he helped her down from the back of the horse, however, and neither was Borongil. Murmuring something in obvious regret, he picked her up off the rocky ground and held her close as she leaned on him heavily. When he figured out what she had already realized – that her muscles had frozen and now refused to move at all – he simply picked her up.
Several of the other riders, mostly those who hadn't been burdened with one of the other captives, called out in mocking voices; and a mean laughter that made Inzilanî shudder filled the air. Borongil spoke to her again, his voice soft and apologetic, and she leaned her head against his shoulder to show that she wasn't holding him responsible for the actions of his comrades.
Somewhere over the course of the day, she had lost most of her fear of her tall, intimidating keeper. Perhaps it had happened as he had patted her hand from time to time throughout the day, letting her know that he still remembered that she was behind him and knew she was uncomfortable. Perhaps it had been that last smile before the horse had started to move in the morning. Inzilanî was far too tired and sore to want to figure it out.
She wasn't surprised when Borongil finally found a place to let her sit down, wagged a finger at her as if telling her to stay put, and when she nodded, threw her a smile and strode away to join the other nimîr in their labors. As time went by, more of the captives were deposited on the ground there by their keepers. All were equally miserable and unable to move, and once more Inzilanî found herself shunned and ignored. But no warriors guarded them with a circle of drawn swords this night; then again, none were needed.
By the time the keepers were ready to reclaim their charges, the sun had long since vanished. Once more, the chill wind blew down from the north, where legends told of the Dark Lord's former master having built his stronghold, and Inzilanî wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed to warm the thin, coarse homespun tunic. The boys sitting near her had bunched together for warmth, and she wished she could walk over and join them; but not only would her legs still not bear her weight to carry her to them, but the glances at her from that direction had been downright hostile as well as fearful and sore.
She understood the sentiment all too well. She wasn't supposed to have survived. As far as the others were concerned, sparing her life had jinxed the battle and sealed their fates. She was ugru-manô – a shadow-spirit, a walking dead person. No one loyal to the Dark Lord would come near her willingly now, except to do what should have been done days ago.
She didn't care. She hadn't made any friends with the white-skinned dust-hairs from the East, whose language she didn't speak. And she didn't care now, provided none of them came at her to correct the omission that had cost the Dark Lord his victory.
But Borongil was obviously surprised to see her sitting all by herself on the rock, shivering in the cold. He looked at her and gestured for her to rise, and Inzilanî genuinely tried to do as he'd bid her. But the least attempt to move made her thighs scream in agony, and she finally looked up at him and shook her head fearfully. There was no way she could move herself, and the urkan would never have accepted any refusal to obey him. Not certain of what to expect from a nimir, she tensed to withstand more angry blows and being drug by the hair to wherever he wanted her to go.
Never had the difference between uruk and nimîr been made more clear but when her keeper simply shrugged and picked her up again and carried her into the collection of tents and finally into one. Once more, Inzilanî leaned into him, trying with all her might to show her gratitude for the little kindnesses that showed no sign of stopping. Why he was being so nice to her, she couldn't understand, but each demonstration of compassion was like a treasure.
Unlike the day before, the floor of the tent she'd been brought to this night was on rocky ground, and was uneven. The mattress lay on the ground instead of on the wooden bedstead, and there were no chairs. They would not have stood anyway, and Inzilanî didn't miss them. The urkan had never taken time for such luxuries anyway. The ground had ever served a good many purposes.
Her keeper deposited her on the soft mattress, then gestured for her to lie back. Inzilanî was perfectly willing to service him now after the gentle care and good food he'd lavished on her already. It would hurt, but that was nothing new. Her hands went to the chain at her waist, finding the broken link and unhooking it so she could pull her tunic over her head. But before she had pulled the cloth more than halfway off, she heard Borongil's "Baw!" and stopped, letting the neck of the tunic slide back down over her head enough so she could stare at him in confusion. He was shaking his head again, and then making a gesture that looked as though he wanted her to roll over - to put her face-down onto the mattress.
Inzilanî shrugged and tugged the tunic back down. Her Umbari and urkan owners had exercised all sorts of ways of pleasing themselves, some of which involved using her back passage as if she were a boy. It hurt desperately to roll, but she managed to not only face the mattress, but get her knees beneath her again and then began to slip her leggings down so that they wouldn't get torn or soiled, only to hear another choked "Baw, Inzilanî! Baw!" Again his "No's" astonished her, and she literally fell into the mattress in surprise. She turned her head to try to gaze at him as he stood over her. If not that, what did he want?
Instead of seeing lust in his eyes, as she had expected, she saw him standing with his eyes closed, rubbing his hands together rapidly; and she frowned in confusion again. What did he think he was going to do with her if he didn't allow her to disrobe? Rubbing his hands together would not make her more accessible to him, and he needed to lose some of his own clothing as well. But instead, he knelt next to her, without having touched his armor at all, and reached out to her with both hands and laid them on each thigh.
Oh! Where his hands rested was warm and getting warmer! And his hands were moving, tracing sore muscles and pressing gently. Inzilanî closed her eyes, this time in ecstasy, as that warmth penetrated her legs. In just a very short while, the agonizing ache that had kept her from being able to move at all was soothed down to a very bearable level. Borongil moved his hands up to her rump, and then to her lower back, and she was sure she was dreaming. She must have fallen asleep, or fallen from that tall horse and hit her head after all. Everyone knew it wasn't proper for slaves to be pampered. She was supposed to be pampering him, servicing him.
When at last he sat back on his heels, Inzilanî rolled and pushed herself up on her elbow and then to her knees. Her legs, backside and back still ached, but it wasn't a crippling agony anymore; she could move again. She gazed intently into those strangely glowing eyes, wishing there were some way to let him know that all she wanted to do was show him her gratitude. She had nothing more to offer him than herself, as poor a gift as that might be. She reached out and grasped one of his hands, finding it still warm, and put it on her forehead in the traditional gesture of submission.
But what she got from him wasn't instructions on how to please him, but a look filled with confusion. She gave a light snort of frustration and reached for his hand again, taking it from her head and putting it on her breast. Surely he would understand that!
"Baw, Inzilanî." The refusal was gentle but firm, and the deliciously warm hand was pulled away. Borongil rocked back and rose, wagging a finger in a manner she was learning meant that he wanted her to stay put. Remembering the gesture he had made to Pharazôn, she made it more submissive by pressing both her hands to her heart and bending low. Surprisingly, he gave her his one-handed bow in return, his face unreadable. Inzilanî wondered if she had somehow displeased him. She didn't want to.
She tucked her feet beneath her and settled back to await his return the way she'd always been taught, her mind now restored enough by the warm touch that had soothed her hurts that she could ponder her situation. These nimîr were nothing like the stories told to her. They had been fierce, lethal and fear-inspiring warriors when demolishing the urik camp, yes; but since that time, she had been treated with nothing but respect and kindness. For three years, ever since celebrating her thirteenth summer, she had been the property of others who wanted nothing more than to use her for their pleasure. But for the last day, she had been untouched – all efforts to offer herself willingly in return for the gentler treatment refused.
What did these creatures want of her that they kept her with them, if not that? Surely even they needed the release…
She wanted to know the answers to that question and many others, and she wanted to be able to ask and be understood. She folded her hands in her lap in readiness to practice patient waiting, as her Umbari owner had taught was expected of a well-trained slave. A plan sprang to mind as she waited, remembering Borongil's actions the night before. Through gesture and pointing, she would learn the language of the nimîr. If, as it seemed now, she was not killed when they returned to their stronghold, she wanted to know some of their words.
Borongil was gone for a long time, and Inzilanî's eyes were beginning to droop towards sleep when the tent flap moved to allow him in again. He was carrying two bowls, and handed one down to her. Immediately, her stomach growled from the scents wafting up in the steam, which caused Borongil to blink in surprise. He put the second bowl down on the ground near the mattress and vanished again through the tent flap, only to return shortly thereafter with two of the metal cups, each filled to the brim with water. He handed one down to her and then seated himself on the mattress near her.
Inzilanî waited, watching curiously as he used his fingers to scoop the hot stew into his mouth, and then trying the food herself. It was pleasantly warm, and once again she tasted the succulent venison that had been cut into small bits and warmed in thickened juice, along with bits of vegetable she didn't recognize but ate hungrily anyway. There was no bread to clean the bowl when she had done, however, so she carefully ran her finger along the inner surface of the dish, gathering the last hints of juice. She licked her finger and then drank her water, and placed the empty cup into her empty bowl properly with a sigh of satisfaction.
When he chuckled at her as she stacked his used dishes with hers, remembering how her Umbari owner had insisted on things being done in a very distinct order and with precise movements, she decided that perhaps the moment was right to begin her lessons. She straightened, looked at him directly, held up her hand, tapped the back of it, and said, "Pâ?" and then reached out to tap his hand. She cocked her head, showing she was waiting for a reply. Borongil frowned for a moment, visibly confused. Inzilanî sighed, then pointed and listed several other body parts in a row in her language, and then returned to hand. "Pâ?" she said again, and then tapped to his hand and pointed to him.
His eyes narrowed. "Cam," he answered slowly.
She tapped her own hand again. "Cam," she repeated carefully. She tapped her nose and tipped her head again. Did he know what she was wanting now?
Yes, the smile was back. "Nem," he replied immediately this time.
She tapped her hand again. "Cam," and then her nose, "Nem." She touched her eyelid.
"Hen," he supplied without delay.
She touched each part in turn. "Cam. Nem. Hen." Now for more important words. She shook her head and pointed to it as she did so. "Baw?" she asked, her head tipping again.
Borongil nodded. Inzilanî nodded back, pointed at her head as she nodded and then tipped it at him in obvious question. "Na," he supplied.
That made sense. He'd used both those words with her before. At least now she could ask permission and know whether it was given her or not.
And with that, she was wide awake and determined, all of her fatigue was gone. She would learn their language, just as she had eventually learned the ugly language of the uruk out of self-defense. She smiled shyly at Borongil, hoping that he wouldn't tire of indulging her questions from now on, remembering the many painful consequences for mistakes she'd earned as she had learned the Black tongue of the Dark Lord. She needed to learn as many nimîr words as she could as quickly as she could, just in case her willingness to learn their ways could spell the difference between execution and being taken as a personal slave.
She had survived, when she'd had no hopes of managing it. She would not waste the miracle granted her by the spirits. She would do whatever she had to in order to learn the ways of the nimîr, and perhaps win herself a new, kinder, owner – maybe even Borongil.
She wouldn't mind belonging to him at all.
Vocabulary (A) Adúnaic (S) Sindarin
baw - (S) no, don't
nimir - (A) elf
nimîr - (A) elves
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)
urkim - (A) orcs (nom. case)
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)
My folks - the One bless them and keep them - were packrats!!!!! We discovered this when we first "cleaned out" the apartment two and a half years ago to make room for L&L to move in, ostensibly to take care of Mom's aging cat. We're even more convinced of it now that we're going through all the stuff I just couldn't put myself through back when. Decks of cards, address lables from various charities, twist-ties and bread-bag-clamps. I tell ya: I'm learning what NOT to leave for MY kids when they have to go through MY stuff someday!!
Anyway, my sofa is covered with stuff going to a rummage sale. We aren't halfway through the garage yet, about 1/2 the way through the apartment, and haven't really starting with the rest of the house. The job of just generally getting rid of crud is overwhelming. Hopefully, when the dust settles, my life will be much less cluttered with "stuff".
All this in prelude to the next chapter of Spoils of War. Enjoy.
Chapter 3 - Movement
The clothing Borongil had for her was too big, having been crafted for a nimir and not an Umbari woman-child, and she had eventually had to tuck the extra material of the leggings into the tops of the too-large boots and use a length of one of the chains that had once held her prisoner to both hold up the leggings and snug the tunic to her waist. Soft cloth had been wrapped around the weeping sores and bruises caused from the manacles after her wounds had been washed and treated with a salve that stung slightly, and then protected with a short length of soft leather. He had eventually dug up a comb, patiently tamed the matted ruin that was her hair for her without much pain at all, and then plaited the length and tied it with a thread pulled from the blanket that covered the bed.
Then, refusing to let her prostrate herself to him in gratitude, he took Inzilanî by the hand and pulled her from the tent into a different sort of bedlam. All around her, the tents of the nimîr camp were being knocked down and packed into wains. In the distance, she heard the combined shuffle of many feet, and knew the nimîr forces were getting ready to march. Borongil lead her through the chaos until he had brought her to where many of the frighteningly tall steeds were kept.
He patted the rump of one that was a mottled grey, and Inzilanî widened her eyes. Horses were a rare commodity in the village where she'd been born. Her Umbari owner had possessed a few of these beasts, but never had he allowed or forced her to be near them. The urkan had never had anything but one of the vicious and ugly dog-mounts they called warg, and she'd been glad to walk rather than go anywhere near it. But her nimir keeper patted the rump of the horse again and then bent down and laced his fingers together into a cupped shape.
She stared at him, having not the slightest idea what he wanted her to do. Finally, even though his smile wavered a little, he beckoned her close, then simply lifted her in his arms and swung her up with very little effort at all so that she straddled the horse's rump. He had sprung up into the saddle in front of her before she even had a chance to panic, and caught at her hands and showed her how to hang onto his belt to give herself stability.
When the horse began to move, Inzilanî's hands surrounded Borongil's waist desperately and held on tightly, with her face pressed into his back and her eyes closed for fear that she would be bumped off and break her neck in the fall. She couldn't be certain, but she thought she felt him pat her hands comfortingly as he moved his mount to join with the other mounted riders. It took a while for her to finally realize that she really was safe enough riding behind him and begin to look around.
Some of the other nimîr riders also had passengers at their backs hanging on for dear life. Evidently each of the bed-slaves had found or been assigned a keeper from among the nimîr, just as Borongil was for her. Each of the captives had been relieved of their chains as well, garbed in simple clothing if they hadn't been clothed before, and many of them looked as shocked and disoriented as Inzilanî herself felt. A few were clearly terrified. Overwhelmed and wanting nothing more than to be safely back on the ground, she pressed her face into the hard, metal-covered leather at Borongil's back, wrapped her arms into his belt so that it would take work to dislodge them, and closed her eyes again.
It was a long day of riding, and Inzilanî had gone from uncomfortable to agonized to numb by the time the entire army finally halted. She was hungry and thirsty, but not half as bad as she had been at the end of a day of marching with the uruk. Borongil patted at her hands to rouse her and then helped her unwrap the tight leather from around her arms, but then held onto each hand in turn and massaged where the belt had cut into her skin, aiding the blood back into her hands. Inzilanî held her breath at the small kindness to a mere slave.
She wasn't ready for her legs to give out from beneath her entirely when he helped her down from the back of the horse, however, and neither was Borongil. Murmuring something in obvious regret, he picked her up off the rocky ground and held her close as she leaned on him heavily. When he figured out what she had already realized – that her muscles had frozen and now refused to move at all – he simply picked her up.
Several of the other riders, mostly those who hadn't been burdened with one of the other captives, called out in mocking voices; and a mean laughter that made Inzilanî shudder filled the air. Borongil spoke to her again, his voice soft and apologetic, and she leaned her head against his shoulder to show that she wasn't holding him responsible for the actions of his comrades.
Somewhere over the course of the day, she had lost most of her fear of her tall, intimidating keeper. Perhaps it had happened as he had patted her hand from time to time throughout the day, letting her know that he still remembered that she was behind him and knew she was uncomfortable. Perhaps it had been that last smile before the horse had started to move in the morning. Inzilanî was far too tired and sore to want to figure it out.
She wasn't surprised when Borongil finally found a place to let her sit down, wagged a finger at her as if telling her to stay put, and when she nodded, threw her a smile and strode away to join the other nimîr in their labors. As time went by, more of the captives were deposited on the ground there by their keepers. All were equally miserable and unable to move, and once more Inzilanî found herself shunned and ignored. But no warriors guarded them with a circle of drawn swords this night; then again, none were needed.
By the time the keepers were ready to reclaim their charges, the sun had long since vanished. Once more, the chill wind blew down from the north, where legends told of the Dark Lord's former master having built his stronghold, and Inzilanî wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed to warm the thin, coarse homespun tunic. The boys sitting near her had bunched together for warmth, and she wished she could walk over and join them; but not only would her legs still not bear her weight to carry her to them, but the glances at her from that direction had been downright hostile as well as fearful and sore.
She understood the sentiment all too well. She wasn't supposed to have survived. As far as the others were concerned, sparing her life had jinxed the battle and sealed their fates. She was ugru-manô – a shadow-spirit, a walking dead person. No one loyal to the Dark Lord would come near her willingly now, except to do what should have been done days ago.
She didn't care. She hadn't made any friends with the white-skinned dust-hairs from the East, whose language she didn't speak. And she didn't care now, provided none of them came at her to correct the omission that had cost the Dark Lord his victory.
But Borongil was obviously surprised to see her sitting all by herself on the rock, shivering in the cold. He looked at her and gestured for her to rise, and Inzilanî genuinely tried to do as he'd bid her. But the least attempt to move made her thighs scream in agony, and she finally looked up at him and shook her head fearfully. There was no way she could move herself, and the urkan would never have accepted any refusal to obey him. Not certain of what to expect from a nimir, she tensed to withstand more angry blows and being drug by the hair to wherever he wanted her to go.
Never had the difference between uruk and nimîr been made more clear but when her keeper simply shrugged and picked her up again and carried her into the collection of tents and finally into one. Once more, Inzilanî leaned into him, trying with all her might to show her gratitude for the little kindnesses that showed no sign of stopping. Why he was being so nice to her, she couldn't understand, but each demonstration of compassion was like a treasure.
Unlike the day before, the floor of the tent she'd been brought to this night was on rocky ground, and was uneven. The mattress lay on the ground instead of on the wooden bedstead, and there were no chairs. They would not have stood anyway, and Inzilanî didn't miss them. The urkan had never taken time for such luxuries anyway. The ground had ever served a good many purposes.
Her keeper deposited her on the soft mattress, then gestured for her to lie back. Inzilanî was perfectly willing to service him now after the gentle care and good food he'd lavished on her already. It would hurt, but that was nothing new. Her hands went to the chain at her waist, finding the broken link and unhooking it so she could pull her tunic over her head. But before she had pulled the cloth more than halfway off, she heard Borongil's "Baw!" and stopped, letting the neck of the tunic slide back down over her head enough so she could stare at him in confusion. He was shaking his head again, and then making a gesture that looked as though he wanted her to roll over - to put her face-down onto the mattress.
Inzilanî shrugged and tugged the tunic back down. Her Umbari and urkan owners had exercised all sorts of ways of pleasing themselves, some of which involved using her back passage as if she were a boy. It hurt desperately to roll, but she managed to not only face the mattress, but get her knees beneath her again and then began to slip her leggings down so that they wouldn't get torn or soiled, only to hear another choked "Baw, Inzilanî! Baw!" Again his "No's" astonished her, and she literally fell into the mattress in surprise. She turned her head to try to gaze at him as he stood over her. If not that, what did he want?
Instead of seeing lust in his eyes, as she had expected, she saw him standing with his eyes closed, rubbing his hands together rapidly; and she frowned in confusion again. What did he think he was going to do with her if he didn't allow her to disrobe? Rubbing his hands together would not make her more accessible to him, and he needed to lose some of his own clothing as well. But instead, he knelt next to her, without having touched his armor at all, and reached out to her with both hands and laid them on each thigh.
Oh! Where his hands rested was warm and getting warmer! And his hands were moving, tracing sore muscles and pressing gently. Inzilanî closed her eyes, this time in ecstasy, as that warmth penetrated her legs. In just a very short while, the agonizing ache that had kept her from being able to move at all was soothed down to a very bearable level. Borongil moved his hands up to her rump, and then to her lower back, and she was sure she was dreaming. She must have fallen asleep, or fallen from that tall horse and hit her head after all. Everyone knew it wasn't proper for slaves to be pampered. She was supposed to be pampering him, servicing him.
When at last he sat back on his heels, Inzilanî rolled and pushed herself up on her elbow and then to her knees. Her legs, backside and back still ached, but it wasn't a crippling agony anymore; she could move again. She gazed intently into those strangely glowing eyes, wishing there were some way to let him know that all she wanted to do was show him her gratitude. She had nothing more to offer him than herself, as poor a gift as that might be. She reached out and grasped one of his hands, finding it still warm, and put it on her forehead in the traditional gesture of submission.
But what she got from him wasn't instructions on how to please him, but a look filled with confusion. She gave a light snort of frustration and reached for his hand again, taking it from her head and putting it on her breast. Surely he would understand that!
"Baw, Inzilanî." The refusal was gentle but firm, and the deliciously warm hand was pulled away. Borongil rocked back and rose, wagging a finger in a manner she was learning meant that he wanted her to stay put. Remembering the gesture he had made to Pharazôn, she made it more submissive by pressing both her hands to her heart and bending low. Surprisingly, he gave her his one-handed bow in return, his face unreadable. Inzilanî wondered if she had somehow displeased him. She didn't want to.
She tucked her feet beneath her and settled back to await his return the way she'd always been taught, her mind now restored enough by the warm touch that had soothed her hurts that she could ponder her situation. These nimîr were nothing like the stories told to her. They had been fierce, lethal and fear-inspiring warriors when demolishing the urik camp, yes; but since that time, she had been treated with nothing but respect and kindness. For three years, ever since celebrating her thirteenth summer, she had been the property of others who wanted nothing more than to use her for their pleasure. But for the last day, she had been untouched – all efforts to offer herself willingly in return for the gentler treatment refused.
What did these creatures want of her that they kept her with them, if not that? Surely even they needed the release…
She wanted to know the answers to that question and many others, and she wanted to be able to ask and be understood. She folded her hands in her lap in readiness to practice patient waiting, as her Umbari owner had taught was expected of a well-trained slave. A plan sprang to mind as she waited, remembering Borongil's actions the night before. Through gesture and pointing, she would learn the language of the nimîr. If, as it seemed now, she was not killed when they returned to their stronghold, she wanted to know some of their words.
Borongil was gone for a long time, and Inzilanî's eyes were beginning to droop towards sleep when the tent flap moved to allow him in again. He was carrying two bowls, and handed one down to her. Immediately, her stomach growled from the scents wafting up in the steam, which caused Borongil to blink in surprise. He put the second bowl down on the ground near the mattress and vanished again through the tent flap, only to return shortly thereafter with two of the metal cups, each filled to the brim with water. He handed one down to her and then seated himself on the mattress near her.
Inzilanî waited, watching curiously as he used his fingers to scoop the hot stew into his mouth, and then trying the food herself. It was pleasantly warm, and once again she tasted the succulent venison that had been cut into small bits and warmed in thickened juice, along with bits of vegetable she didn't recognize but ate hungrily anyway. There was no bread to clean the bowl when she had done, however, so she carefully ran her finger along the inner surface of the dish, gathering the last hints of juice. She licked her finger and then drank her water, and placed the empty cup into her empty bowl properly with a sigh of satisfaction.
When he chuckled at her as she stacked his used dishes with hers, remembering how her Umbari owner had insisted on things being done in a very distinct order and with precise movements, she decided that perhaps the moment was right to begin her lessons. She straightened, looked at him directly, held up her hand, tapped the back of it, and said, "Pâ?" and then reached out to tap his hand. She cocked her head, showing she was waiting for a reply. Borongil frowned for a moment, visibly confused. Inzilanî sighed, then pointed and listed several other body parts in a row in her language, and then returned to hand. "Pâ?" she said again, and then tapped to his hand and pointed to him.
His eyes narrowed. "Cam," he answered slowly.
She tapped her own hand again. "Cam," she repeated carefully. She tapped her nose and tipped her head again. Did he know what she was wanting now?
Yes, the smile was back. "Nem," he replied immediately this time.
She tapped her hand again. "Cam," and then her nose, "Nem." She touched her eyelid.
"Hen," he supplied without delay.
She touched each part in turn. "Cam. Nem. Hen." Now for more important words. She shook her head and pointed to it as she did so. "Baw?" she asked, her head tipping again.
Borongil nodded. Inzilanî nodded back, pointed at her head as she nodded and then tipped it at him in obvious question. "Na," he supplied.
That made sense. He'd used both those words with her before. At least now she could ask permission and know whether it was given her or not.
And with that, she was wide awake and determined, all of her fatigue was gone. She would learn their language, just as she had eventually learned the ugly language of the uruk out of self-defense. She smiled shyly at Borongil, hoping that he wouldn't tire of indulging her questions from now on, remembering the many painful consequences for mistakes she'd earned as she had learned the Black tongue of the Dark Lord. She needed to learn as many nimîr words as she could as quickly as she could, just in case her willingness to learn their ways could spell the difference between execution and being taken as a personal slave.
She had survived, when she'd had no hopes of managing it. She would not waste the miracle granted her by the spirits. She would do whatever she had to in order to learn the ways of the nimîr, and perhaps win herself a new, kinder, owner – maybe even Borongil.
She wouldn't mind belonging to him at all.
Vocabulary (A) Adúnaic (S) Sindarin
baw - (S) no, don't
nimir - (A) elf
nimîr - (A) elves
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)
urkim - (A) orcs (nom. case)
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)
