Spoils of War - Chapter 10
Inzilanî's troubles never seem to end, do they? Well, here's the next chapter...
Chapter 10 - Hitting bottom
The dagger was cold against her forearm, tucked into the bandage wrappings so she wouldn't drop it, and the corridor outside the apartment had no rug to keep her feet warm. Inzilanî shook her head at herself; so quickly had she become accustomed to luxury! It was just as well that she was on her way to end it all before she weakened any further and began to believe in the lies she was being fed. She was not cared for, not something to be proud of. She was a monster in a cage, and monsters didn't deserve to live.
The trip to the vat that morning, after a long night of restlessness and bitter thoughts, had finally taught her the path to take. The day had passed even more slowly than before, and keeping her face calm and empty of emotion had taken almost all the energy she owned. Finally, she had forced herself to stay awake despite the tempting songs that lured her into a deep sleep. Borongil had actually leaned down and brushed a kiss across her brow once he thought she slumbered; did he really have to continue to lie when she wasn't paying attention to him? Or had he begun to believe the lies too? Perhaps it was just as well that she die now, so that he didn't have to fool himself anymore.
Inzilanî slipped from pool of shadow to pool of shadow, ducking into alcoves and behind furniture at the hint of approach by another. It was amazing to her that so many of the nimîr were still up and abroad so late at night. It suddenly occurred to her that the vat room might not be empty - that another nimir would be soaking and cleaning themselves - what would she do then?
No. That wasn't going to happen. The spirits knew that her intent was a good one, and they would clear her way. Inzilanî slipped closer and closer, until finally she could dart through the door of the room with all the vats.
It was dark, meaning no one was using the room, and she let loose a sigh of relief; she had made it, and nobody had seen her. She stood with her back pressed against the wall next to the door, her heart pounding hard in her chest, trying to make her mind work. She had thought this through so many times; now that she was here, what came next?
Oh.
She felt her way across the room, through the soft, white curtain that surrounded the nearest vat, and tripped over the wooden stool that sat next to it. Inzilanî grimaced at the pain from her stubbed toe, but began going through the motions she'd only been able to wish for. She picked up and moved the little stool until it was sitting immediately next to the vat, and then put the dagger on the stool, where it would be in easy reach. Then she felt for the top edge of the vat, hiked her skirt and lifted one foot into it. But on lifting her other foot, she knocked the stool, and the dagger clattered to the hard stone floor.
Inzilanî froze, terrified that she had been heard, but released her breath when nothing else moved and no voice demanded to know what was going on. She climbed out of the vat and felt around the floor near the stool until her fingers at last found the cold metal, and then traced to the hilt before picking it up. She didn't need to cut herself now and drip blood where it would make more work to clean. Once more she placed the dagger on the stool, and this time followed the lip of the vat around to the other side, so that climbing in wouldn't knock the dagger to the floor again.
Empty, without the warm water, the vat was cold, but Inzilanî forced herself to ignore that. It wouldn't matter much anyway after a while, and would only be a temporary discomfort now. She carefully put her arm over the edge of the vat and felt for and then found the dagger. She pulled it into the vat and set it on her stomach, suddenly afraid.
Would the ancestors welcome her after all? Surely the spirits had brought word to them of the evil deeds she had done, and how her spirit had twisted until she had become an uruk. Would she be welcomed, or would she be banished to the dark places between worlds, where the demons lived? Or would she be forced to remain in that circle of trees, in the company of the urik she had helped butcher, until world's end?
Inzilanî threw her head back, allowing the tears to flow freely. It was time to release them, because they were the only way the stain on her soul would ever be washed away. Since the day her father had handed her over to the slave-merchant, this had been her end. Destiny had written a hard role for her to play, but it was over now.
One last time she allowed herself to think about Borongil and Malheril. It would have been so easy to give in, to let the lies become her truth, and think that they actually cared for her. This nimîr world was too confusing, too beautiful, for the likes of her. No monster should walk these halls.
With that, she lifted the dagger. Amazingly, it fit her hand well, despite being made for a much bigger, much stronger grip. And it was very sharp. The point sank into her wrist almost before she could feel it; and drawing it across her skin was a smooth process. Only the sensation of wet and a slight stinging told her that she'd done things properly. Now, all she had to do was wait… or… Did she need to cut the other one too, to make sure it happened quickly?
Inzilanî fumbled with the dagger - her fingers were now slick with her blood, and the weapon wasn't light - and she had just finally gotten a firm grip on it when light flared behind her.
"BAW!"
She whipped her head around to see Pharazôn staring at her, his mouth open in shock and horror. In her own surprise, her grip on the dagger slipped, and the blade fell with the sharp point down and sliced easily through her thin sleeping gown and into her stomach.
"Inzilanî, BAW!" the King bellowed and started toward her.
"Please." She put her bloody hands together at her brow. "I die. Better. You go."
"No. Not better," he insisted, moving closer carefully.
Inzilanî shrugged and reached for the dagger again. "I urkan. I die. All others dead. I dead too."
"Wait!" Pharazôn came closer, and Inzilanî's grip on the dagger tightened. "What others?"
Why wasn't he understanding her? Didn't she have the right words? "Others same me. Make urkim dead in trees. I look, not see. They urkim too now. I know you make all urkim dead…" She sighed heavily and pressed the point of the dagger into the unharmed wrist. It didn't hurt much that time either.
"Others like you - the boys?"
"Yes. They dead. They free. I need free. I die, go to…" She stammered to a halt, not knowing the nimîr word for ancestors. "I free."
The large hand of the King reached in and pried the dagger from her hand. "Inzilanî, the boys are not dead."
"They not here. They dead."
"No. They are in Esgaroth, with Men. Men know the boys hurt the yrch, and they will take them back home in time." That made no sense, and her brows wrinkled in confusion. He sighed and tried again. "I give you my word. The boys are not dead. The boys are free."
"I urkan." The truth hurt. Even if Pharazôn had let the others live, it was she that had started the violence, she who had been the worst. The others had merely followed her lead.
He crouched next to the vat. "No, Inzilanî. You are not urkan. You are hurt, yes, hurt here…" A long finger touched where her wrists were bleeding onto her thighs. "…and hurt here…" He touched her head. "…and hurt here." His finger touched her chest over her heart and tapped it. "The uruk make you hurt here. You need…" and he said a word she didn't understand. Even though he otherwise had used words she knew more or less, she didn't understand him at all. And with that, Pharazôn rose, slipped his hands beneath her and then lifted her out of the vat to stand briefly. From somewhere he had found a soft cloth like the ones she'd used to dry herself after a soak in the water, and wrapped it around her. The moment he had her wrapped, he had her back up in his arms and was moving, taking her somewhere else.
"I urkan," she protested. "I start…" And as the words failed her, she tried to make gestures to fill the holes, but the blanket wouldn’t' let her. "I say them… I cut… I…" The tears were streaming down her face. "All black. Smell. Bad. I not stop. No good. I no good."
"Inzilanî." When she didn't answer him, he shook her slightly. "Inzilanî! I cut down the uruk. I made the uruk dead. I am uruk then too?"
Her eyes slammed shut and she shook her head hard. "You nimir. Not urkan."
"I make all black. Black blood. It smelled bad. I did not stop until they were all dead. I am no good?" he insisted with another tiny shake. "I am an uruk?"
Didn't he understand? "You nimir. You Ar-Pharazôn. King. Not urkan. I no good. Better dead."
"No, little one. No. You are good, but you are hurt, badly hurt. You will stay, you stay with Borongil, we will make you better."
"No." She shook her head firmly. "Borongil not need I. I trouble. Borongil not need trouble. Better dead."
Pharazôn shook his head just as firmly. "Borongil will help you. You are no trouble. We will make you better, make your hurts go away."
She looked up into his face, willing him to understand her. "No. Borongil have Malheril. I make not sleep. I trouble. I ugru-manô, I better dead before war. Urkan not dead me right…" How could she explain that she was supposed to be dead already - that this was only correcting a massive mistake? It was getting harder to think clearly, harder to use words that were too new.
But he wasn't looking at her anymore. She could feel that he was walking very fast, but his voice stayed soft and gentle. "You are no trouble, little one. You are hurt. Badly hurt. We did not know. We will make you better now. You have my word."
She let her head fall against the King's shoulder, too tired and defeated to fight anymore. So after all her planning, all her efforts, she'd failed at ending her life, just as she'd failed at so many other things. And now she would be made to endure again, to live a life that was upside-down, in a world where she didn't belong. The nimîr wouldn't let her kneel or put her face on the floor; they wouldn't let her die either.
A King shouldn't carry a slave through the halls, and she was getting blood on Pharazôn's fine clothing. Trouble - that was what she was; trouble, and a failure.
oOoOo
The healer gave Inzilanî a small sip of something very bitter while she was still in Pharazôn's arms, and after just a few minutes everything began to move far, far away, although it didn't... She tried to frown, but couldn't feel if her face was working. The nimîr voices around her flowed and trickled like music, and she could almost catch a word from time to time, but she had entered a place where everything floated and nothing was real. Had she died? Had she succeeded after all, despite Pharazôn's interference? Where had he gone? Where were her ancestors?
Things were happening to her, things she didn't understand - she felt touches at her hands, her wrists, her stomach, touches that felt funny, like Malheril's sewing needle - but none of it was important. The floating feeling was wonderful. Nothing hurt, and even the ugly memories were but vague hints of darkness that were powerless. This was a good place; she wondered if she would be allowed to stay here until world's end.
More voices swirled around her, worried voices, upset voices. Was that Borongil? Had she displeased him again? Of course, she had. She wanted to go to her knees and let him know she was sorry, sorry that his rest had been disturbed again, sorry that she had made a mess of the King's tunic with her blood, sorry that she had failed; but her arms and legs wouldn't obey her.
Surely she had ruined it all now. They would think that she didn't want to be with them, and they would send her away to new owners. After all, she had finally convinced Pharazôn that she was urkan, hadn't she? He'd stopped arguing with her. But then, he'd taken her from the vat… was she bleeding on someone's bed now? And so it continued; she could do nothing right, not even die properly.
Was that Malheril? She moaned and tried to turn, tried to tell them how sorry she was…
"Sleep, Inzilanî." Pharazôn's voice came at her from somewhere, along with a brush against her eyelids that forced them to close. "Sleep. You will be better soon. I give you my word."
oOoOo
Her wrists and stomach hurt.
Inzilanî whimpered. She wasn't floating anymore; she could feel the press of warm blankets on her, the touch of breeze on her skin. She moved her hands and became aware of the thick bandages at her wrists. She was alive, and she hurt. Was she back with the urik?
"Shhhh…" came a quiet voice, one that was almost familiar. "You are better. But you will drink this now." A small cup was held to her lips, and she swallowed the bitter potion again with a grimace. "Sleep. You will be better soon."
The darkness that overtook her along with the feeling of floating again was not frightening at all. With a sigh, Inzilanî surrendered to the feeling and floated away again; away from everything, because everything hurt.
oOoOo
What woke her was a song, sung softly as if under the breath, in a voice she didn't know. Inzilanî worked hard to make her eyes obey her and open, only to blink in the brightness. Where was she?
The song ceased. "Good morning."
She blinked hard and lifted a hand that was less obedient than it should have been to rub at her eyes. Slowly the world came back into focus, and she discovered that the smiling face and starlit eyes in front of her belonged to the healer that had cared for her hurts before. She stared at him dully, not wanting to try to form words. She was alive. She had failed.
The bandages at her wrist were thicker than they had been before, and the healer gently pulled her fingers away when she began picking at the leather strap. "No. You are better, but not…" He used a word she didn't know.
Inzilanî sighed and looked around her with growing confusion. Everything here was light; this wasn't the cavern. Had Borongil and Pharazôn sent her away, then? It would serve her right. She had done nothing right for them, not even removed herself properly.
"This is a talan," the healer told her, looking around for himself. "In a tree."
Oh. That was why everything around her seemed made of wood.
"Listen!" The healer lifted a finger as birdsong filled the room.
Inzilanî closed her eyes and leaned back into her pillow. She didn't want to hear birdsong. She wanted to see her ancestors. She wanted to be dead. She wanted to see…
She heard the healer move away from her bed and speak softly to someone. Had there been another nimir in the room? She hadn't seen anyone. She rolled onto her side so that all she could see was the wall, a wall that was not so much wall as curtain and a railing and nothing beyond. It hurt to roll, but it hurt more to live.
She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't! But from a small place deep inside, she could hear herself keening because she would never see Malheril or Borongil again. Even Pharazôn, for all his interfering, had ever tried to comfort her - she'd never see him again either. He had given her to Borongil in the first place. She would have crawled all the way back to the cavern with her face in the dust if it meant she could be returned to her owners. She would try to learn to endure. She would live, even if life was all wrong.
There was a tap at her shoulder. "Inzilanî. Drink this now."
"No sleep," she complained, throwing a hand up, as if it would stop him. "Too many sleep."
"No more sleep," he agreed. "This will make the hurt go."
Slowly she turned her head. "No sleep?"
He nodded. "I give my word. No more sleep."
Inzilanî sighed and rolled onto her back. The healer's hand behind her head lifted her so that she could down the potion, which didn't seem quite so bitter this time. "Come." He threw back the covers and pulled a warm robe from the base of the bed. "You sit up now. Eat."
"No eat." She lay back and turned her face to the curtained wall again.
"Yes, eat." Gentle hands rolled her back and, with a strong hand at her elbow, helped her sit up. "You need food."
He was stronger than she was, and very determined. Inzilanî swallowed her despair and didn't fight him. It was easier when she didn't fight. It would be easier if she were dead, but he no doubt wouldn't let that happen.
She was trapped alive, with no hope for escape. All she could do was endure.
Vocabulary - (A)dúnaic (S)indarin
Ar-Pharazôn - (A) Golden King - a title
baw - (S) no, don't
nimir - (A) elf
nimîr - (A) elves
Pharazôn - (A) Golden One
ugru-manô - (A) shadow-spirit (walking dead)
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)
urkim - (A) orcs (nom. case)
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)
yrch - (S) orcs
Chapter 10 - Hitting bottom
The dagger was cold against her forearm, tucked into the bandage wrappings so she wouldn't drop it, and the corridor outside the apartment had no rug to keep her feet warm. Inzilanî shook her head at herself; so quickly had she become accustomed to luxury! It was just as well that she was on her way to end it all before she weakened any further and began to believe in the lies she was being fed. She was not cared for, not something to be proud of. She was a monster in a cage, and monsters didn't deserve to live.
The trip to the vat that morning, after a long night of restlessness and bitter thoughts, had finally taught her the path to take. The day had passed even more slowly than before, and keeping her face calm and empty of emotion had taken almost all the energy she owned. Finally, she had forced herself to stay awake despite the tempting songs that lured her into a deep sleep. Borongil had actually leaned down and brushed a kiss across her brow once he thought she slumbered; did he really have to continue to lie when she wasn't paying attention to him? Or had he begun to believe the lies too? Perhaps it was just as well that she die now, so that he didn't have to fool himself anymore.
Inzilanî slipped from pool of shadow to pool of shadow, ducking into alcoves and behind furniture at the hint of approach by another. It was amazing to her that so many of the nimîr were still up and abroad so late at night. It suddenly occurred to her that the vat room might not be empty - that another nimir would be soaking and cleaning themselves - what would she do then?
No. That wasn't going to happen. The spirits knew that her intent was a good one, and they would clear her way. Inzilanî slipped closer and closer, until finally she could dart through the door of the room with all the vats.
It was dark, meaning no one was using the room, and she let loose a sigh of relief; she had made it, and nobody had seen her. She stood with her back pressed against the wall next to the door, her heart pounding hard in her chest, trying to make her mind work. She had thought this through so many times; now that she was here, what came next?
Oh.
She felt her way across the room, through the soft, white curtain that surrounded the nearest vat, and tripped over the wooden stool that sat next to it. Inzilanî grimaced at the pain from her stubbed toe, but began going through the motions she'd only been able to wish for. She picked up and moved the little stool until it was sitting immediately next to the vat, and then put the dagger on the stool, where it would be in easy reach. Then she felt for the top edge of the vat, hiked her skirt and lifted one foot into it. But on lifting her other foot, she knocked the stool, and the dagger clattered to the hard stone floor.
Inzilanî froze, terrified that she had been heard, but released her breath when nothing else moved and no voice demanded to know what was going on. She climbed out of the vat and felt around the floor near the stool until her fingers at last found the cold metal, and then traced to the hilt before picking it up. She didn't need to cut herself now and drip blood where it would make more work to clean. Once more she placed the dagger on the stool, and this time followed the lip of the vat around to the other side, so that climbing in wouldn't knock the dagger to the floor again.
Empty, without the warm water, the vat was cold, but Inzilanî forced herself to ignore that. It wouldn't matter much anyway after a while, and would only be a temporary discomfort now. She carefully put her arm over the edge of the vat and felt for and then found the dagger. She pulled it into the vat and set it on her stomach, suddenly afraid.
Would the ancestors welcome her after all? Surely the spirits had brought word to them of the evil deeds she had done, and how her spirit had twisted until she had become an uruk. Would she be welcomed, or would she be banished to the dark places between worlds, where the demons lived? Or would she be forced to remain in that circle of trees, in the company of the urik she had helped butcher, until world's end?
Inzilanî threw her head back, allowing the tears to flow freely. It was time to release them, because they were the only way the stain on her soul would ever be washed away. Since the day her father had handed her over to the slave-merchant, this had been her end. Destiny had written a hard role for her to play, but it was over now.
One last time she allowed herself to think about Borongil and Malheril. It would have been so easy to give in, to let the lies become her truth, and think that they actually cared for her. This nimîr world was too confusing, too beautiful, for the likes of her. No monster should walk these halls.
With that, she lifted the dagger. Amazingly, it fit her hand well, despite being made for a much bigger, much stronger grip. And it was very sharp. The point sank into her wrist almost before she could feel it; and drawing it across her skin was a smooth process. Only the sensation of wet and a slight stinging told her that she'd done things properly. Now, all she had to do was wait… or… Did she need to cut the other one too, to make sure it happened quickly?
Inzilanî fumbled with the dagger - her fingers were now slick with her blood, and the weapon wasn't light - and she had just finally gotten a firm grip on it when light flared behind her.
"BAW!"
She whipped her head around to see Pharazôn staring at her, his mouth open in shock and horror. In her own surprise, her grip on the dagger slipped, and the blade fell with the sharp point down and sliced easily through her thin sleeping gown and into her stomach.
"Inzilanî, BAW!" the King bellowed and started toward her.
"Please." She put her bloody hands together at her brow. "I die. Better. You go."
"No. Not better," he insisted, moving closer carefully.
Inzilanî shrugged and reached for the dagger again. "I urkan. I die. All others dead. I dead too."
"Wait!" Pharazôn came closer, and Inzilanî's grip on the dagger tightened. "What others?"
Why wasn't he understanding her? Didn't she have the right words? "Others same me. Make urkim dead in trees. I look, not see. They urkim too now. I know you make all urkim dead…" She sighed heavily and pressed the point of the dagger into the unharmed wrist. It didn't hurt much that time either.
"Others like you - the boys?"
"Yes. They dead. They free. I need free. I die, go to…" She stammered to a halt, not knowing the nimîr word for ancestors. "I free."
The large hand of the King reached in and pried the dagger from her hand. "Inzilanî, the boys are not dead."
"They not here. They dead."
"No. They are in Esgaroth, with Men. Men know the boys hurt the yrch, and they will take them back home in time." That made no sense, and her brows wrinkled in confusion. He sighed and tried again. "I give you my word. The boys are not dead. The boys are free."
"I urkan." The truth hurt. Even if Pharazôn had let the others live, it was she that had started the violence, she who had been the worst. The others had merely followed her lead.
He crouched next to the vat. "No, Inzilanî. You are not urkan. You are hurt, yes, hurt here…" A long finger touched where her wrists were bleeding onto her thighs. "…and hurt here…" He touched her head. "…and hurt here." His finger touched her chest over her heart and tapped it. "The uruk make you hurt here. You need…" and he said a word she didn't understand. Even though he otherwise had used words she knew more or less, she didn't understand him at all. And with that, Pharazôn rose, slipped his hands beneath her and then lifted her out of the vat to stand briefly. From somewhere he had found a soft cloth like the ones she'd used to dry herself after a soak in the water, and wrapped it around her. The moment he had her wrapped, he had her back up in his arms and was moving, taking her somewhere else.
"I urkan," she protested. "I start…" And as the words failed her, she tried to make gestures to fill the holes, but the blanket wouldn’t' let her. "I say them… I cut… I…" The tears were streaming down her face. "All black. Smell. Bad. I not stop. No good. I no good."
"Inzilanî." When she didn't answer him, he shook her slightly. "Inzilanî! I cut down the uruk. I made the uruk dead. I am uruk then too?"
Her eyes slammed shut and she shook her head hard. "You nimir. Not urkan."
"I make all black. Black blood. It smelled bad. I did not stop until they were all dead. I am no good?" he insisted with another tiny shake. "I am an uruk?"
Didn't he understand? "You nimir. You Ar-Pharazôn. King. Not urkan. I no good. Better dead."
"No, little one. No. You are good, but you are hurt, badly hurt. You will stay, you stay with Borongil, we will make you better."
"No." She shook her head firmly. "Borongil not need I. I trouble. Borongil not need trouble. Better dead."
Pharazôn shook his head just as firmly. "Borongil will help you. You are no trouble. We will make you better, make your hurts go away."
She looked up into his face, willing him to understand her. "No. Borongil have Malheril. I make not sleep. I trouble. I ugru-manô, I better dead before war. Urkan not dead me right…" How could she explain that she was supposed to be dead already - that this was only correcting a massive mistake? It was getting harder to think clearly, harder to use words that were too new.
But he wasn't looking at her anymore. She could feel that he was walking very fast, but his voice stayed soft and gentle. "You are no trouble, little one. You are hurt. Badly hurt. We did not know. We will make you better now. You have my word."
She let her head fall against the King's shoulder, too tired and defeated to fight anymore. So after all her planning, all her efforts, she'd failed at ending her life, just as she'd failed at so many other things. And now she would be made to endure again, to live a life that was upside-down, in a world where she didn't belong. The nimîr wouldn't let her kneel or put her face on the floor; they wouldn't let her die either.
A King shouldn't carry a slave through the halls, and she was getting blood on Pharazôn's fine clothing. Trouble - that was what she was; trouble, and a failure.
oOoOo
The healer gave Inzilanî a small sip of something very bitter while she was still in Pharazôn's arms, and after just a few minutes everything began to move far, far away, although it didn't... She tried to frown, but couldn't feel if her face was working. The nimîr voices around her flowed and trickled like music, and she could almost catch a word from time to time, but she had entered a place where everything floated and nothing was real. Had she died? Had she succeeded after all, despite Pharazôn's interference? Where had he gone? Where were her ancestors?
Things were happening to her, things she didn't understand - she felt touches at her hands, her wrists, her stomach, touches that felt funny, like Malheril's sewing needle - but none of it was important. The floating feeling was wonderful. Nothing hurt, and even the ugly memories were but vague hints of darkness that were powerless. This was a good place; she wondered if she would be allowed to stay here until world's end.
More voices swirled around her, worried voices, upset voices. Was that Borongil? Had she displeased him again? Of course, she had. She wanted to go to her knees and let him know she was sorry, sorry that his rest had been disturbed again, sorry that she had made a mess of the King's tunic with her blood, sorry that she had failed; but her arms and legs wouldn't obey her.
Surely she had ruined it all now. They would think that she didn't want to be with them, and they would send her away to new owners. After all, she had finally convinced Pharazôn that she was urkan, hadn't she? He'd stopped arguing with her. But then, he'd taken her from the vat… was she bleeding on someone's bed now? And so it continued; she could do nothing right, not even die properly.
Was that Malheril? She moaned and tried to turn, tried to tell them how sorry she was…
"Sleep, Inzilanî." Pharazôn's voice came at her from somewhere, along with a brush against her eyelids that forced them to close. "Sleep. You will be better soon. I give you my word."
oOoOo
Her wrists and stomach hurt.
Inzilanî whimpered. She wasn't floating anymore; she could feel the press of warm blankets on her, the touch of breeze on her skin. She moved her hands and became aware of the thick bandages at her wrists. She was alive, and she hurt. Was she back with the urik?
"Shhhh…" came a quiet voice, one that was almost familiar. "You are better. But you will drink this now." A small cup was held to her lips, and she swallowed the bitter potion again with a grimace. "Sleep. You will be better soon."
The darkness that overtook her along with the feeling of floating again was not frightening at all. With a sigh, Inzilanî surrendered to the feeling and floated away again; away from everything, because everything hurt.
oOoOo
What woke her was a song, sung softly as if under the breath, in a voice she didn't know. Inzilanî worked hard to make her eyes obey her and open, only to blink in the brightness. Where was she?
The song ceased. "Good morning."
She blinked hard and lifted a hand that was less obedient than it should have been to rub at her eyes. Slowly the world came back into focus, and she discovered that the smiling face and starlit eyes in front of her belonged to the healer that had cared for her hurts before. She stared at him dully, not wanting to try to form words. She was alive. She had failed.
The bandages at her wrist were thicker than they had been before, and the healer gently pulled her fingers away when she began picking at the leather strap. "No. You are better, but not…" He used a word she didn't know.
Inzilanî sighed and looked around her with growing confusion. Everything here was light; this wasn't the cavern. Had Borongil and Pharazôn sent her away, then? It would serve her right. She had done nothing right for them, not even removed herself properly.
"This is a talan," the healer told her, looking around for himself. "In a tree."
Oh. That was why everything around her seemed made of wood.
"Listen!" The healer lifted a finger as birdsong filled the room.
Inzilanî closed her eyes and leaned back into her pillow. She didn't want to hear birdsong. She wanted to see her ancestors. She wanted to be dead. She wanted to see…
She heard the healer move away from her bed and speak softly to someone. Had there been another nimir in the room? She hadn't seen anyone. She rolled onto her side so that all she could see was the wall, a wall that was not so much wall as curtain and a railing and nothing beyond. It hurt to roll, but it hurt more to live.
She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't! But from a small place deep inside, she could hear herself keening because she would never see Malheril or Borongil again. Even Pharazôn, for all his interfering, had ever tried to comfort her - she'd never see him again either. He had given her to Borongil in the first place. She would have crawled all the way back to the cavern with her face in the dust if it meant she could be returned to her owners. She would try to learn to endure. She would live, even if life was all wrong.
There was a tap at her shoulder. "Inzilanî. Drink this now."
"No sleep," she complained, throwing a hand up, as if it would stop him. "Too many sleep."
"No more sleep," he agreed. "This will make the hurt go."
Slowly she turned her head. "No sleep?"
He nodded. "I give my word. No more sleep."
Inzilanî sighed and rolled onto her back. The healer's hand behind her head lifted her so that she could down the potion, which didn't seem quite so bitter this time. "Come." He threw back the covers and pulled a warm robe from the base of the bed. "You sit up now. Eat."
"No eat." She lay back and turned her face to the curtained wall again.
"Yes, eat." Gentle hands rolled her back and, with a strong hand at her elbow, helped her sit up. "You need food."
He was stronger than she was, and very determined. Inzilanî swallowed her despair and didn't fight him. It was easier when she didn't fight. It would be easier if she were dead, but he no doubt wouldn't let that happen.
She was trapped alive, with no hope for escape. All she could do was endure.
Vocabulary - (A)dúnaic (S)indarin
Ar-Pharazôn - (A) Golden King - a title
baw - (S) no, don't
nimir - (A) elf
nimîr - (A) elves
Pharazôn - (A) Golden One
ugru-manô - (A) shadow-spirit (walking dead)
urkan - (A) orc (nom. case)
urkim - (A) orcs (nom. case)
urik - (A) orcs (obj. case)
uruk - (A) orc (obj. case)
yrch - (S) orcs