Acceptance
The lone traveller squinted up briefly at the midday sun that beat remorselessly down upon her. Uruks in general could endure the light of the sun, but found it unpleasant and avoided it when possible; Gathraka in particular, after prolonged exposure born of unfortunate necessity, had eventually come to tolerate it, and now found it merely mildly annoying.
Satisfied that her minor tormentor was indeed following its proper diurnal course, she turned her gaze back to ground level and scanned the terrain around her. Off to her west the Misty Mountains rose up, stretching in an unbroken chain from north to south, its upper reaches wreathed in snow, its lower slopes skirted by large stretches of forest. Another forest lay to her northeast, an altogether less friendly looking one. Even from this distance, the trees seemed shrouded in darkness, as though the very shadows of twilight clung stubbornly to the creaking boughs, daring the light of day to break their tenacious hold. This was the Forest of Mirkwood, rumored to have become thoroughly corrupted under the malignant presence of the mysterious Necromancer. And this was Gathraka’s destination; those rumors also spoke of wondrous treasures to be claimed by anyone strong enough (or lucky enough) to survive the claiming of them.
A gentle breeze crossed her path, carrying the barest whiff of fragrance, so faint that few but Orcish noses would even have detected it. She stopped stricken in her tracks as she realized just what it was she was smelling, triggering a jumbled flood of faded memories she’d thought dead and long buried. She turned westward to face into the breeze and inhaled deeply, her eyes closed, letting the conflicting emotions wash over her. The temptation to follow the scent back to its source, in the dim hope of reliving one of the few untroubled moments in her life that she could still remember, was for a moment almost overpowering. But that course would doubtless lead her into the woods at the base of the mountains, and unless she misremembered her geography, that was Elvish territory; she’d probably be slain on the spot for the effrontery of even setting foot among those trees. Besides, she reminded herself, shouldering her gear and resuming her northward trek, her life since then had been nothing but trouble; trying to go back would probably just be tempting fate, and she doubted that fate would need much tempting to make her life even worse.
She made it another dozen or so strides further before the breeze picked up again. This time the scent was unmistakeable, and irresistible. Gritting her teeth as the last of her resolve left her, she turned from her path and began determinedly marching westward. Screw fate, she decided, and screw the Elves; after everything she’d been through, the world owed her one moment of peace, and she was calling in that marker now.
Yes, these were definitely Elvish woods, Gathraka mused, weaving her way through a dense stand of trees which admitted no clear path. She could feel the faint tingle of Elvish magic brushing across her Curse, as though it were carried on the same breeze that lured her ever onward with its maddening hints of fragrance. She even imagined she could taste it, though she knew that was silly.
The trees finally opened onto a shallow, slow-moving stream. Gathraka stopped and knelt at the bank, scooping up a handful of water to slake her thirst. The face that gazed thoughtfully back at her from the stream’s reflective surface was immediately recognizable as an Uruk, though it had changed slightly since she was last moved to consult a mirror. A while ago, when last she was in the human town of Bree, she had succumbed to a foolish impulse and bought a vial of a magic potion that was supposed to improve one’s physical appearance. (And oh, how they had laughed behind her back as she left the shop; “Need a whole barrel to do that one any good,” she’d heard one of them guffaw. Typical.) She had immediately felt ridiculous for the purchase and almost tossed the potion away unused, but had thought better of it and drunk it anyway—no point in completely wasting the money, after all. She had been too embarrassed about the whole thing, though, to ever check whether the potion had had any effect at all. She could see now that there were indeed some changes, small but noticeable: the lumpen misshapenness of her head had diminished somewhat, and the greyish straggles of hair hanging down to her shoulders had thickened a bit and actually turned an almost respectable raven black. Were it not for her mottled bluish-grey skin and rather prominent canines, she might not even look too out of place among the more homely of the human females she’d seen…
She shook her head and stood up, chiding herself for even toying with the notion. Fit in with humans. Right. That’d be the day. She waded across the stream (and she hoped she was just imagining the sensation of the very water trembling in outrage at her passing; probably just her Curse again) and pushed on through the trees on the far side, which were fortunately much less tightly spaced and easier to navigate. The scent was getting stronger now; she was sure she was getting close.
And suddenly she was upon it. The trees opened up again onto a field of pale white flowers, ringed by more trees, with a low hill in the middle—not a perfect match for her memory, but at this point she wasn’t going to quibble. She stumbled heedless into the field, her pulse racing, trying to keep her breathing under some semblance of control. Dropping her gear at the top of the hill, she reached up distractedly and unbuckled the straps that held her sword and scabbard at her back, letting them fall to the ground at her side. Then, taking care not to crush any more of the flowers than she absolutely had to, she eased herself down to the ground and stretched out on her back, her head cradled in her hands, gazing up at the scattering of wispy clouds drifting across the sky—another small discrepancy, but by now she was beyond caring. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she gradually let her mind drift and tried to forget…
She wasn’t consciously aware of having fallen asleep, but she knew without doubt that she was dreaming, because she knew the dream—the same one that had made a mockery of her slumber almost every night since her exile, so often that she practically knew it by heart:
…It had started with the ore. Being stronger than average for a female Uruk, she’d been assigned to work in the iron mines in the lightless depths of the network of caverns that formed her tribe’s mountain stronghold. Near the end of her shift one day (or night, it made no difference in the mines), she’d found a vein of strange-looking ore, darker and less grainy than the rest. Her shift boss had called it slag, too impure to be of any use, and had tossed aside the lumps of it she’d extracted; but she was drawn to it for no reason she could explain, so she brought them back with her on the sly…
…She had talked one of the tribe’s weaponsmiths into forging her a sword out of the ore (well, not “talked”, exactly, but she preferred not to think about that part). The blade came out deep black, with a faint sheen, almost as though it had been carved from polished obsidian. Though the sword was nearly as large as the larger, two-handed swords (and just as deadly, as she later learned), it was light enough to be wielded one-handed. It felt uncannily natural in her hand as she sliced it through the air, like it was an extension of her arm…
…Whether it was the sword that had given her the Curse, or the Curse that had drawn her to the ore in the first place, she never knew for certain. What she did know was that shortly after she’d had the sword forged and begun carrying it, the tribe’s shamans had started complaining of something in the air, something that was fouling up their spells, making them go awry. Before long, she noticed that they seemed to have more trouble with their magic when she was standing nearer to them. Eventually, they must have begun to notice this as well…
…The rumors about her had begun circulating shortly after that, probably started by the shamans themselves in their fearful suspicion—rumors that she had betrayed secrets to a neighboring tribe, that she had been consorting with demons (or worse, Elves), that she craved leadership of the tribe and planned to take it by treachery, apparently anything they thought might stick. The mood of the rest of the tribe toward her had drifted fairly quickly from standoffish to suspicious to downright hostile, until finally some of the less reputable of the tribe’s members, drunk on cheap human ale, had cornered her alone in a small cavern and demanded with slurred belligerence to know where her loyalties lay, and what she was willing to do for them to convince them of it. They refused to back off, and she refused to back down, and in short order the floor of the cavern was stained with Orcish blood…
…The tribal council that had been convened to decide her fate was… well, she later learned that humans used the odd term “kangaroo court” to refer to such farcical proceedings. The raw, unfettered hypocrisy of the tribe’s shamans, who routinely dabbled in foul blood magics and consorted with demonic spirits, accusing her of vile witchcraft was, of course, entirely lost on the tribe’s elders. And she knew better than to hope that she, a female, would be allowed to defend herself or challenge her accusers. At the time, she’d considered it a minor miracle that she was merely cast out of the tribe and not executed on the spot; later, she’d realized that the world simply wasn’t done making her life miserable yet…
…The lonely trek down the Grey Mountains from the tribe’s stronghold was tense, as far as it went. She was certain she could hear the scrabbling noises of someone following her, doubtless one of the tribe’s scouts sent to make sure she didn’t double back and attempt some vengeful mischief. She also suspected, on later reflection, that the portion of the ledge that had given way beneath her feet halfway down the mountain had been deliberately weakened, perhaps by a lackey of the shamans or some other member of the tribe who felt the elders had been too lenient. Not that it mattered, really, as she tumbled helplessly down the mountain’s face, falling to—
Even amid the disorientation of sudden wakefulness, she knew she was in danger. She bolted upright and reached for her sword—and found nothing but soil beneath her hand. A moment later she registered her sword, in the hand of a tall dark-haired Elf standing before her and glowering down at her, his other hand on the hilt of his own still-sheathed sword. A moment after that, she registered a dozen or so more Elves arrayed around her in a neat circle, arrows nocked and pointed directly at her.
Well. Apparently the world didn’t take kindly to having its markers called in prematurely. This was gonna hurt. “Go on, then,” she said resignedly, bowing her head and putting her hands behind it, “get it over with.”
“Were the choice mine,” replied the Elf before her, apparently the captain of the group, “your request would already have been fulfilled. Alas, my orders stay my hands.”
“Huh?” She looked up at him, confused; she wasn’t sure, but it sounded like he was saying he’d been ordered not to kill her.
“My instructions are to bring you before the Lady Galadriel,” he continued, clearly not enjoying the words. “There you will presumably be held to account for the crime of trespassing within the borders of Lothlorien. Not that I see the point of it myself, but the Lady’s wisdom is no doubt greater than mine.”
Gathraka groaned and lowered her head again. “You sure I couldn’t convince you to just kill me here, and spare me the aggravation?”
The Elf captain chuckled grimly. “Tempting though your offer may be, I have my instructions. Stand up.”
“Ah, right,” Gathraka grumbled, struggling to her feet and trying not to spook any of the rest of the Elves into shooting her, “that’ll be bound, gagged, hogtied and dragged through the mud, then.”
“Dragged? Nay, my Elves will not exert themselves on your behalf. You will walk—but you will walk blindfolded, with your hands bound.” One of the Elves behind her stepped forward and took her arms by the wrist; another brought rope to bind her hands behind her back. The captain stepped closer and brought his face to within inches of hers. “And understand this,” he continued in a low but dangerous tone; “my instructions are to bring you before Galadriel ‘unharmed if possible’. You do not want to convince me that that is not possible.”
“No, of course not,” Gathraka muttered sarcastically as the blindfold descended over her eyes. Well, that’s one unsullied memory shot to hell, she chided herself grimly; apparently she would be paying a high price for tempting fate…
Even blindfolded, Gathraka could feel the questioning eyes of the Elves boring into her—particularly those of the captain, who was, she judged, walking a few feet to her left as they led her through what smelled like more trees. “You know,” she taunted him, “if you keep staring at me like that, your men might get the wrong idea.”
The captain snorted. “Unlikely.” After a moment’s pause he continued, “Who are you?”
That was unexpected. “Why do you care what my name is?”
“Not your name,” he replied, annoyed; “who are you, that Galadriel would grant you an audience? What is special about you?”
“‘Special’?” That drew a moment of bemused laughter out of her. “That’s a polite way of putting it. Yeah, I suppose you could say I’m ‘special’, but not in any way that an Elf would care about.”
“Then why all of this?”
Gathraka snorted. “My personal theory, if you want to know, is that some god somewhere has it in for me, and wants to make me suffer some more before killing me.”
“Unlikely,” the captain repeated.
“Oh, and I suppose you speak from your intimate knowledge of how gods think?”
“I find it difficult bordering on the impossible,” he elaborated, “to credit the notion that any of the Valar would spare even a moment’s consideration for such treacherous vermin as yourself.”
“‘Treacherous vermin’?” She gave him an incredulous look, as best she could through the blindfold. “Is that what passes for an insult among Elves?”
“Oh, you don’t like that one? Then how about, ‘twisted Morgul-spawn abomination born of the malignant machinations of a malevolent madman burning with insane jealousy at being unable to create, but merely to corrupt the creations of others’?”
Gathraka snorted derisively. “You’re an amateur. I’ve been humiliated worse than that by my own flesh and blood, and that’s when they were being nice to—ack!” Her foot connected with a tree root at exactly the wrong moment, and she pitched forward, unable to stop her fall, landing face-first in a puddle of water. She twisted awkwardly onto her side, sputtering and spitting mud out of her mouth as the Elves around her laughed raucously at her predicament. Finally expelling the last of it, she chuckled darkly for a moment. “Better—but your heart’s still not in it.”
“Pick her up,” Hiros replied coldly, presumably to one of his men. Ooh, that didn’t sound good, Gathraka thought as she was being ungently hauled up from the ground back to her feet; maybe she’d better leave him alone for a while. The group continued their march in stony silence.
When the blindfold was finally removed, Gathraka found herself in another, larger field of flowers, this time resembling goldenbells—a much closer match for her memory, she realized in annoyance, as though it hadn’t been despoiled enough by now. Before her stood a tall blonde Elven woman with a queenly look about her, no doubt the Galadriel she’d been hearing so much about. Her captors were once again arrayed around her, arrows at the ready. Their captain was behind her, as she learned when he pushed down on her shoulders and ordered, “On your knees before the Lady Galadriel.”
Galadriel shook her head. “It is enough, Hiros. Unbind her hands.”
The captain, apparently named Hiros, didn’t like that at all. “Is that wise, Milady?”
“She is alone and unarmed,” Galadriel gently rebuked him, “and surrounded by armed Elves. Even if she did mean to harm me, I doubt she would attempt anything under the circumstances. Unbind her hands.”
A moment later, Gathraka felt cold steel at her wrists, and then the ropes were gone. He was none too careful about it, either; she spied a trickle of blood as she brought her stiff arms in front of her to rub some circulation back into her raw wrists. Hiros emerged from behind her and positioned himself beside Galadriel, still holding her sword, eyeing her the way a mother bird might eye a snake skulking around her nest.
“You are Gathraka,” Galadriel began once Hiros was in place, “called ‘Tribeless’.”
Oh, terrific, Gathraka scowled; apparently her status as pariah was so widely known that even the Elves had heard of her. “I’m not just called tribeless, lady,” she snapped back, with a bit more bitterness than she’d intended to reveal, “I am tribeless. And if you mean to rub my nose in it, you’re gonna have to do a lot better than that.”
“Insolent–!” Hiros stepped forward, hand raised, apparently prepared to strike her for her offense.
Galadriel stopped him with a gesture. “Why have you trespassed in the woods of Lothlorien?”
Gathraka groaned and rolled her eyes. “Look, if you’re gonna kill me, just get it over with. A lecture isn’t gonna do me any good in whatever afterlife you think I’m destined for.”
Galadriel closed her eyes a moment, apparently making an effort to marshal her patience. “I have not brought you here to have you killed, Gathraka,” she continued evenly, “nor to ‘make you suffer’ through a ‘lecture’.”
Gathraka winced. Should’ve seen that one coming, she mused grimly; this Elf lady probably had eyes and ears all through this forest. “Then why have you brought me here?”
“To get an answer to the question I have asked,” Galadriel replied, as though that should have been obvious. “Why have you entered our wood?”
Gathraka gaped incredulously at her. “You cannot possibly be serious. You dragged me all this way, under armed guard, to ask me that?”
Galadriel seemed nonplussed by that response. “Why does that surprise you?”
“Because you’re an Elf and I’m an Orc. Aren’t you supposed to just assume that I’m here to burn down all your trees and slaughter your people, or something melodramatic like that?”
Galadriel shrugged. “Normally, we would not have to assume anything. In the past, when your kin have trespassed in our wood with such purpose as you describe, they have made no secret of their intentions, but have set to their task as soon as they were able, with apparent relish. You, on the other hand, passed up several opportunities to do such harm on your way to the field where my scouts found you.” Gathraka flinched; that field wasn’t a topic she wanted Galadriel dwelling on. “But if harm, then, was not your intent in coming here, what was?”
Hmm. This was not at all what Gathraka had expected. Was this Elf queen Galadriel actually giving her the benefit of the doubt? Maybe she could bluff her way through this with an unrelated truth. “Okay, I was on my way to Mirkwood Forest. I hear there’s good loot to be had there, if you can get out with it. I was just resting when your people showed up.”
Galadriel nodded sagely. “Indeed, those rumors seem to have spread to all corners of the land; you certainly would not be the first adventurer to pass this way seeking that prize. But the path to Mirkwood would only take you near our wood, not through it. You have taken a substantial detour to arrive here, and I ask again, why?”
So much for that strategy. Gathraka sighed, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
A corner of Galadriel’s mouth turned up in a faint half-smile. “I might. For you see, tales of some of your other deeds have reached my ears. The story, for instance, of a young Hobbit named Merton Proudfoot…?” She stopped, apparently waiting for Gathraka to fill in the rest.
Gathraka shook her head. “Never heard of… wait, you mean that Hobbit kid that got lost in that maze and broke his leg?” She shrugged. “Yeah, I gave him one of my scrolls of returning so he could get home. It wasn’t that big a deal, really.”
“But it was not by chance that you encountered young Merton,” Galadriel pressed. “You entered that maze specifically to find him and rescue him.”
Gathraka shrugged again, suddenly unable to meet Galadriel’s gaze. “Yeah, well, his mother was hanging around Bree, and…” She threw up her hands. “Look, she begged me to help her, said everyone else had turned her down, I was her last hope, or else her son would surely die. Poor thing, looked like she was half-dead already just from the grief. What was I supposed to do?”
“‘Supposed’ to do?” Galadriel replied rhetorically. “As an Uruk of the Grey Mountains, you were ‘supposed’ to laugh at her misfortune, draw pleasure from her tears of grief, if not simply slay her outright for disturbing you at all. But you did none of these things. Instead, you entered a dangerous catacomb, risking your own life in the aid of a complete stranger, with no expectation of reward. Doubtless many would not believe that tale were it told to them—but I do. And I think that I could believe the tale that has brought you here, if you will but tell it.”
A sudden bolt of icy fear shot through Gathraka’s stomach. Oh, bloody hell, did she know? Was that what this Elf lady was trying to do, humiliate her by making her reveal the moment of weakness that had lured her to this place? “Look,” she said, holding up her hands in what she hoped was a conciliatory gesture, “you’re right, I shouldn’t have barged into your territory uninvited, I should just go, get out of your hair. You can send your guards after me if you want, to make sure I don’t–”
“You seem awfully anxious to avoid answering the Lady’s question,” Hiros interrupted sharply, suspicion dripping like venom from his every word. “If indeed your purpose in coming to Lorien was not born of malice, what possible reason could you have for not revealing it?”
Gathraka turned to glare at him and snapped, “Because it’s emb–” She stopped with a sudden gasp as a chill ran down her spine. Her Curse had come alive with a frisson of sharp prickles, the sort that usually presaged the approach of some powerful dark magic. She turned and warily eyed the trees at the far edge of the field behind her. “Something’s coming,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
As if on cue, an Elf came crashing out of the trees, obviously badly injured, his garments torn and in some places burnt. He stopped short in stunned surprise at the sight of their group, apparently not having expected to encounter anyone here, much less Galadriel herself. Quickly, though, he resumed his headlong rush toward them, calling ahead, “Spiders from Mirkwood! They breached the eastern perimeter. All the advance guard have been—aaahhh!”
Gathraka could almost see the spell as it streaked out of the forest to strike the running Elf, as an angry gash across her Curse, like the after-image from staring at a bright light. He collapsed a few feet from them, clutching at his eyes and screaming at phantasms only he could see. And then, from the shadows of the trees, they emerged.
To call them ‘spiders’ would give them too much credit for resembling natural creatures. Their knobbed and pitted legs, the thickness of small tree trunks, arched up to a bony knee-like cap higher than a tall human’s head before twisting back downward, each meeting the ground with a large horn-like claw. Suspended between these gnarled appendages hung the bloated sac of their body, covered with what appeared to be crimson hair or bristles, giving them a sickening blood-red hue. The grotesque protuberance that passed as their head seemed little more than a prop from which to hang a pair of bulging insectoid eyes and a pair of two-foot-long mandibles, snapping together like pincers as they chittered incomprehensibly. The strange glint in their multifaceted eyes somehow betrayed an unfathomable, alien intelligence—which the frontmost spider demonstrated by stretching out one of its forelegs like an accusing finger and, with an ear-splitting trill, conjuring up a globe of fire that leapt from its raised talon and struck the ground mere paces from the assembled group, reducing the flowers to ash in a flash of flame.
“Fall back!” ordered Hiros unnecessarily, as the Elves began retreating to the other side of the field, their fallen comrade in tow. But Gathraka stood transfixed, staring in stricken horror at the still smouldering patch of dirt where goldenbells had stood moments before. The acrid smell of burnt pollen wafted up to her nose, borne on the lingering tendrils of black smoke. No, she thought, shaking her head in growing frustration, her anger boiling up within her; this, finally, was too much.
“Come on–!” Hiros hissed in annoyance, grabbing Gathraka by the arm, meaning to haul her bodily back into the trees if he had to. At the touch, she snapped to alertness and spun around to face him, her eyes ablaze with fury. Before he could react, she snatched her sword from his hand, turned back and charged headlong at the oncoming spiders, brandishing the ebon blade above her head and bellowing a roar of incoherent rage. “She’s mad,” Hiros breathed, staring after her in wonder.
When the blood-rage had cooled a bit, allowing her to evaluate her situation rationally, Gathraka found herself surrounded by attacking spiders, clambering over the carcasses of those she’d already slain to get at her. Around her she could hear the shouts and clashing steel of battle being joined, punctuated by the occasional shriek of an Elf falling to the spiders’ mind spells or the *fwoof* of their fire spells. The spiders near her, of course, were trying to use those same spells against her, and chittering in frustration at their failure. She chuckled wryly; occasionally, her Curse could actually be a blessing.
Her instincts screamed, and she spun around to find a spider pouncing on her from behind, too close to dodge or fend off. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as it lunged with its razor-sharp mandibles toward her throat, no doubt meaning to snap her head off at the neck—and suddenly its head jerked sideways, two Elven arrows piercing its left eye. A sword swept down, cleaving the head neatly from the body, and Hiros (where had he come from?) shoved the freshly decapitated corpse aside with his foot. “Stay close to the Orc,” he instructed his team of Elves, who were just now catching up to him; “the spiders cannot cast their spells when she is near them.” To Gathraka he said, “Will you aid us?”
“I thought I already was,” Gathraka replied shortly, having by then recovered from the brush with death and been drawn back into the fray by another attacking spider.
“We need to strike at their leader,” Hiros elaborated, gesturing with his sword toward a distant group of spiders that seemed to be hanging back from the battle, clustered around a larger spider of a darker hue. “Its will drives the actions of all the spiders; if we can strike it down, the rest should scatter. By ourselves, we cannot hope to breach their vanguard—but if you will give us cover from their spells…”
It took Gathraka only a moment to decide. Enemy of my enemy, as the humans say, she mused; and besides, he had just saved her life. “What, the big ugly purple one in the back?” She nodded. “Right, follow me in—just stay close, and don’t get in the way of my sword.”
By the time they had fought their way across the field, the spiders’ leader had apparently divined their intentions; all of the spiders nearby seemed to have abandoned whatever battles they were in and were now swarming around the small party, trying to slow their advance. Hiros and Gathraka were at the front of the group, slicing their way doggedly through the onslaught; the rest of the Elves formed a tight semicircle behind them, protecting their rear flank. “I think they’re on to us,” Gathraka commented wryly, slashing the head off a spider that got too close.
“You don’t say,” Hiros replied with a bemused smirk, stabbing his sword into the eye of another spider.
Without warning they broke through the vanguard of spiders and found themselves standing before their leader, hanging back at the very edge of the field where the trees began. Somehow it managed to be even more repulsive than the rest, its grossly bulging body covered in livid purple bristles; yet for all its deformity it seemed agile enough, its body bobbing randomly back and forth in near-constant oscillation, its head weaving side to side with no apparent pattern, as though it were trying to look at every part of the battle at once. And then its eyes turned toward Gathraka.
The glance hit her like a battering ram against her Curse. She staggered back a step with a grunt of surprise, brandishing her sword before her like a shield. “I don’t know how long I can hold this one,” she called out warningly.
“Then we had best make quick work of it,” Hiros replied, lunging forward with his sword. This spider, alas, was apparently more nimble than its underlings; it skittered sideways, dodging the thrust, and snapped with its mandibles at Hiros’ outstretched arm, leaving a small but bleeding scratch as evidence of how close it had come to taking off his hand at the wrist.
Gathraka shouted an insult in Orcish and charged the spider, hoping to divide its attention and give Hiros an opening. For her trouble she narrowly missed being knocked to the ground, as one of the spider’s forelegs swung forward to swat at her. Seeing her opening, she ducked under the flailing limb and sprung forward, thrusting her sword with all her strength at the spider’s exposed flank. To her dismay, the tip of her sword skipped sideways and tore across the surface of its body, leaving a deep but apparently harmless gash in its thick hide.
The *whish-thumf* of arrows striking the far side of the spider’s body drew her attention to Hiros, who had flanked the spider from the other side and switched to his longbow. Judging from the expression on his face, his attack had been as ineffective as hers. And already one of the spider’s legs was sweeping out for a retaliatory strike. “Hiros!” she called out too late as, unable to dodge in time, Hiros took the full force of the blow and was knocked bodily into the air, flying backward into the shadows of the trees.
With a bellow of fury, Gathraka spun around and slashed at another of the spider’s legs, severing it just below one of its knobby joints. The spider’s chittering briefly resolved into a shriek of pain as it lurched away from her. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder at the rest of Hiros’ team, hoping for another sword to draw some of the spider’s attention; but they were barely holding their own against the seemingly endless onslaught of the rest of the spiders. Apparently she was on her own.
She turned back just in time to see the bulk of the spider’s body barreling back toward her. She dove sideways, narrowly avoiding the massive bludgeon, and tumbled across the ground, finding herself on hands and knees in front of the spider again. As she looked up, her Curse lit up with a wash of stinging pain across her skin; and sure enough, above the spider’s head another globe of fire had appeared, this time larger than before.
Gritting her teeth, she struggled to her feet as she tried instinctively to block out the spider’s magic. For a moment she seemed to be getting the better of it, and she grinned with satisfaction as the ball of flames shimmered and began to fade. Then the spider lunged out with its foreleg again, barely missing her as she dodged; and with the distraction she could feel her control begin to slip, as the ball reconstituted and became even larger. “It’s getting through!” she cried out, struggling in vain to dampen the growing orb, by now almost the size of the spider’s body—big enough to take them all out with one blast.
And suddenly a sword tip sprouted up behind the spider’s head, through what would have been its neck had it had one. With a *pop*, the globe of flame vanished like a burst bubble. The spider gave one violent shudder and sprung straight upward in a convulsive leap, revealing Hiros lying on the grass beneath it, having slipped under its loathsome bulk looking for a weak spot. Without missing a beat, he tumbled sideways along the ground, just missing being crushed under the spider’s body as it crashed back to the ground, its legs splayed obscenely, the force of its impact driving Hiros’ sword even further home.
The effect was immediate: the spiders swarming around them stopped dead in their tracks for a breath, then broke and scattered in confused disarray. “A good sign, I'd say,” Hiros observed, scrambling to his feet beside Gathraka as the rest of his team burst out in raucous cheers and charged off after the retreating hordes. “Wait–!” he called out after them.
At the same moment, as Hiros was turning to call back his men, a twitch of movement caught Gathraka’s eye. The lead spider, it seemed, wasn’t quite dead; its splayed legs quivered with tension as its barely attached head lolled drunkenly in Hiros’ direction. It suddenly hit her, with the immediate certainly of instinctive realization, that the foul thing meant to spend its dying gasp taking its slayer with it.
Her reflexes kicked in before her thoughts could catch up. “MOVE!” she barked, slamming into Hiros and knocking him roughly aside—just in time to take the thrust of the spider’s mandibles into her own gut.
“Gathraka!” Hiros cried, reaching out to catch her as she staggered backward. The body of the spider ripped away and collapsed to the ground under its own dead weight, leaving the detached head sprouting obscenely from her stomach, the now unsupported sword clattering to the ground.
Gathraka clenched her eyes shut and gritted her teeth; her vision was already going swimmy as the spider’s poison coursed through her veins. “Don’t worry about me,” she gasped, grabbing the spider’s head by the mandibles and roughly ripping them out of her body—and immediately collapsing to her knees with a strangled cry as agony shot through her. “Did it work?” she managed to finish.
Hiros reluctantly turned from Gathraka to survey the field. “For the most part,” he replied after a moment. “The bulk of the spiders do appear to be fleeing, but it looks like a few are attempting a last stand near the northern edge of the field.” He looked back just in time to see Gathraka fish a small vial of bluish liquid from a pouch on her belt and drain it dry in one long draught. To his surprise, she rose unsteadily to her feet, her eyes again clear and her wounds somehow staunched. “Orc medicine?” he asked.
Gathraka shook her head. “Healing potions. Bought ‘em in Bree.” She paused and hefted the pouch in her hand before continuing, “I don’t have many of these left, but if any of your people need them…”
Hiros seemed taken aback by the offer, and for a moment she expected him to turn her down flat. But then he glanced across the field and nodded toward the continuing fight. “Let us see how the battle fares first.” He turned back and gave her what might almost have been a lopsided grin. “And then I just might take you up on that offer. Come on.” And together they charged across the field to rejoin the fray.
The scene was arranged much as before, but with important differences. Hiros’ squad of Elves, for instance, no longer surrounded Gathraka, but stood behind Galadriel and Hiros, arrayed in what she suspected was some sort of honor-guard formation. Her sword was once again strapped to her back, and the general tone was noticeably less hostile.
“We owe you a great debt, on behalf of all the Elves of Lothlorien,” Hiros was saying. “Without your aid, the battle would likely have gone much worse.” He paused a moment, then continued, “And for myself, I owe you an even greater debt.”
Gathraka shook her head. “Nah, we’re even, remember?”
Hiros smiled and shrugged. “As you wish. What still puzzles me, though, is why you chose to aid us. Certainly, after our treatment of you, you had every reason to withhold your assistance. And, if you will forgive me saying so, you seemed to take this fight quite personally.”
Gathraka blenched. “Oh, well, I, um–”
“I think,” Galadriel interrupted, the beginnings of a knowing smile spreading across her face, “this brings us back to my original question, which I note you still have not answered—‘because it is embarrassing,’ I believe you were about to say.” And to the astonishment of everyone present (Gathraka not least), Galadriel stepped forward a pace and knelt before Gathraka, taking her by the hands. “I give you my word, Gathraka,” she continued with soft reassurance in her voice, “no one here will think you foolish for speaking truly. Please…”
“I…” Gathraka stammered, her eyes cast downward, unable to meet Galadriel’s gaze. Were she human, she was sure she would have been blushing furiously. “It was…” she found herself saying, much to her surprise, “it was the flowers… After I was thrown out of my tribe, when I was traveling down the mountain, the ledge gave way and I fell… I thought for sure I would die…” She looked up at the field around them. “When I woke up, I was lying in a field of flowers, a lot like this one. I remember the air was full of the smell of the flowers, the sky was clear blue, I think there might even have been birds singing…” She giggled weakly. “For just a moment, I actually thought, ‘Wow, all the goody-goodies were right, there really is a beautiful place you go when you die…’” The fleeting faint grin vanished from her face as swiftly as it had appeared. “It’s one of the last few memories I have left that isn’t stained,” she finished, barely above a whisper.
Galadriel’s knowing smile broadened. “Hear all ye elves!” she cried out, plucking a goldenbell from the ground and rising to her feet. “You stand bested this day in honor and compassion by one whom you would never have credited. For who among you would have risked life and limb defending the stronghold of a mortal enemy”—she lifted the flower above her head—“for the sake of a simple flower?” She brought the flower down and slipped it carefully behind Gathraka’s ear, beneath the thin strands of her hair. “Gathraka the Tribeless,” she continued, “in honor of your selfless acts of valor this day in the Field of Laurëlos, I name you Arátiel malloso, Champion of the Golden Flower. And though I cannot offer you a tribe to replace the one you have lost, I can offer you sanctuary. From this day forth, you are welcome in the woods of Lothlorien, for as long as my word holds sway.” She stepped back to her earlier position beside Hiros and waited.
Gathraka stood stunned, her eyes wide, her jaws agape, her stomach busily tying itself in pretzel knots. “I…” she finally managed to get out, “I don’t know what… hell, I don’t even know how to say it. The language of the Uruk-hai has no words for this, and the human words that might fit I never understood—until now…” Moved by a sudden impulse, she dropped to one knee with head bowed and drew her sword, offering the hilt to Galadriel and hoping like hell she was doing this right. “I can’t imagine the service of a lowly Orc would have any appeal to the Lady Galadriel, much less any use, but such as it is, I offer it, in gratitude for your kindness.”
A ripple of astonished murmurs swept through the Elves above her. Amidst this Galadriel’s soft voice replied, “And now you have bested even me…”
Gathraka looked up, her heart suddenly cold, convinced she had somehow committed some horrible offense. But Galadriel was smiling a somewhat chagrined smile, her eyes atwinkle, and blushing slightly. “No, Gathraka,” she reassured her, seeing the panic in her eyes, “there is no fault or shame in the offer; it would simply be the height of hubris for me to accept it. Please.” She gestured for Gathraka to rise. “Though my people sometimes call me ‘Lady,’ I am no queen, that I could accept the service of a liege, no matter how noble or worthy the offerer. Do not think, though, that I esteem your bold offer lightly; indeed, I can only hope to live up to the honor you have bestowed upon me.” Unable to respond with her heart welling up in her throat, Gathraka simply bowed her head in silent gratitude.
Hiros stepped forward and brushed a tear from her cheek. “No one capable of shedding tears of joy can be truly evil,” he said. “Come, your wounds still need tending, as do those of my men; with Milady’s leave, we will return to camp.” With Galadriel’s nod of consent, he took Gathraka’s hand and led her into the forest, whence the rest of the Elves were already departing.
The breeze picked up again, carrying the soft scent of goldenbells to Gathraka’s nose once more. She stopped for a moment and turned back to gaze at the field of flowers. The clouds she had seen earlier were long gone, she noticed, and the sky was now an unbroken blue. Somewhere in the distance, the twittering of a songbird piped up.
And for the first time in as long as she could remember, Gathraka smiled.