Altair's Dark Years, Chapter Seven - A Fighter Or A Corpse
young whumpee, non-human/monster whumpee, fighting, forced to kill, death, blood, defiant whumpee, healing abilities/healing blood, punishment, bloodletting
Altair grew up. Grew up in the same fashion a broken sapling does – twisted, weird, but still fighting for its life tooth and nail.
She took Beorn’s advice to heart. Become a warrior, or become a corpse. And though the latter would surely be less painful, she still fought for every second of the miserable life she led under the rule of Orcs. Altair was not really sure why, what the point of fighting for every scrap of food and every sip of water was, but she kept on doing it anyways. Maybe it was her childishness, she thought, though that was soon beaten out of her. Yet, the perseverance continued.
Not after long, the presence of the skin-changer became Altair’s main reason to stay alive. Beorn was huge, strong, fierce, and kind. He reminded her so much of Alderan, who tried to help her and protected her from others. Beorn did the same now; in his bear form, he was a formidable beast, and the wargs did not want to mess with him when he was out of his cage. He chased them away when they were tormenting little Altair, until her fangs grew long enough for her to do it herself.
And Altair found that she could help him, too – the first time in her life she could actually be useful to another. The healing properties of Dreamwolf blood were not previously known to Beorn, not until one day.
When they dragged him back from the pit, Altair already knew something was wrong. Beorn was a fighter who walked away from the fights on his own legs. But now, his unconscious human form was thrown into his cage, next to Altair’s. The space between them was just big enough so that she could not reach over it.
,,Avake avhe Hundur,” snarled one of the Orcs and nodded to her. ,,Iav liwo niukh iav.”
After the few weeks that had passed – or was it days? Months? –, Altair had begun to pick up some of their words. Hundur was what they called her. Hound. She did not feel like one, small and scared and beaten. But that was what they were going to mold out of her. Niukh iav, she knew that one. Finish it. It preceded death.
She was dragged out of the cage now. It still angered her how the Orcs just grabbed and threw her around, and she snarled and nipped at them. When she was successful, she could take a whole finger like that, before they found something to muzzle her.
Not today, though. A sharp whack of a club made Altair yelp and cower, sharp pain shooting up through her left shoulder and wing.
,,You try that again and you get the Tamer,” the Orc hissed, making sure that she understood. Altair growled at him defiantly, but still, a chill ran through her spine at the mention. She shut her mouth. The Orc’s eyes squinted and he grimaced at her, showing his teeth.
,,That’s a good dog,” he jeered. His companion shoved her forward. ,,Parpara.”
Forward. Her stomach churned with anger when she was faced with no other option than to obey, burning with a hurt pride she did not even know she had. When her siblings overlooked her or when the Queen berated her or when the other wolves mocked her, she didn’t feel like this, because they were in the right – she was inferior to them, in every aspect. She couldn’t blame them for being disappointed in her. She did not feel angry at them, only at herself, angry and sad for not being better. But the Orcs? What right did they have?
It took Altair a long time before she came to terms that this was not a mistake. That Queen Aldebaaran did really, really trade her for peace. And that it meant that the Orcs – and mostly, their leader, whose pale hand rested upon the handle of the Tamer tucked behind his belt – were given every right to do with her whatever they wished.
But not in those first few months, while Altair was still coming to terms with her situation. In those first few months, she was still fighting back.
That anger was a great fuel. Under the Orcs, she was behaving in all the ways she could not even fathom while living back with the Dreamwolf pack. She snarled and growled and gnashed her teeth, bit and tore and mauled when she could. She barked, hissed, clawed at the wargs that bit her. She hurled insults at her captors. Never before had she been so loud, so willing to fight for herself.
So, when they had tossed her into the pit, Altair was almost glad to have something to take all that anger, desperation and fear out on.
She had seen mountain lions from afar before, but they were never this huge. The animal hissed and snarled, fur bristled, its greyish yellow fur stained by blood running down its chin onto its chest. Beorn’s, as Altair realized.
The lion pounced at her the second it saw the wolf. Altair’s wings flapped as she jumped away from its attack. She was less than half its size, it was almost as big as Beorn in his bear form. Only her speed – and her blood – were the only reasons Altair had not yet died in the pit fights. So she dodged and tried to get behind the beast, but the lion was faster. Its claws dug deep into her skin, tearing out pieces of fur, and she cried out. Kicking and squirming, she backed away. The cat was still at her tail, pupils almost invisible in its widened eyes. They were both terrified and angry, and at least one of them was going to die because of it.
Altair’s heart was beating in her throat now. What was she supposed to do? Gashes on her back bled and burned with strain, four claw marks carved into skin.
The lion chased the wolf around the pit, leaping from place to place, trying to pin her to the ground and finish her off. The Orcs jeered and shouted, watching impatiently. Panic clouded Altair’s mind. After a few successful fights, she had almost thought that she could take anything. A foolish thought, as she now realized. The stupid pride of a young pup learning how to bite and feeling that it is invincible.
I do not want to die. I don’t want to die, rang in her head dreadfully. Not here. Not like this. Please. Someone–
Something heavy swished through the air, and then, a pained roar was elicited from the mountain lion. Altair turned around, and saw that a thick jagged spear was struck through its hind leg, burying itself deep into the ground. Red blood seeped through the mud and stained the stone. The cat cried and struggled, trying to rip it out, but to no avail. The weapon had lodged itself deep, and the back hooks running along its tip made removal of it almost impossible. The weight of the spear had slowed the lion down, one of its legs now immobile.
Altair looked up, and a chill ran across her spine – because she saw the Pale Orc standing at the brim of the pit, Tamer in hand. His cold eyes burned down on his wolf. He scowled, gesturing towards the animal.
,,Niukh iav, woravhleuk Hundur.” Finish it, you useless mutt.
Altair winced. The scorn in his voice was clear to hear, even if she couldn’t fully understand him. The lion still hissed and barred its fangs at me, but its pale eyes were now wide with fear.
She had gained an advantage.
Her throat was almost closed with the ache burning through her heart. She felt so sorry, so sorry for the formidable beast now rendered slow and weak by one strike of a weapon. She did not want to kill the lion, not now, when it was no longer coming after her throat. But she had to. And in the end, making its death as quick as she could would be the kindest option.
It could have ended up like me instead, Altair thought bitterly. And that wasn’t a fate she would bestow on anyone.
And so she approached. The lion growled and snarled at her, snapping its teeth in the air. She dodged a tired swing of its paw. The beast’s breaths had become labored now. It was losing blood.
When her jaws wrapped around its throat, bit down and snapped, its last roar rising to the dead sky was an angry confession to the injustice that was dealt.
Altair stepped back and spat out the blood running down her chin and her heaving chest. Only now she realized that she was shaking, shaking with the closeness of death that breathed on her neck. It could have been me, rang through her head as she stared at the corpse of the majestic animal, a mountain of muscles and strength. It was almost me.
She slowly looked back up and dread overran the brief relief of surviving. The Pale Orc was scowling with disdain, his right hand impatiently playing with the whip’s handle.
,,Thrak Hundur avo alnej,” he gestured to two Orcs standing nearby. Bring the mutt over, he said. ,,Iav ukhall geav ij leukon.” It shall learn a lesson.
No, rang through Altair’s head. No, no. Please, no. Not another beating. Now she wished that the mountain lion had ripped her to shreds. A desperate whimper slipped through her teeth, but there was nothing that she could do to stop the punishment from coming. Her skin prickled with anticipation as dread started to close up her throat.
When the Orcs jumped down into the pit, Altair had no longer any space to back down. With fur bristled and mind clouded, a single thought circled through her head – there was no way out.
No other way but through.
The first Orc tasked with retrieving me to her Master tried to grab her. Teeth snapped, a sharp bark rang out, and before Altair knew it, her fangs were sinking and tearing through his flesh. The Orc shrieked and toppled back, kicking and squirming underneath her. A kick to the stomach made her convulse and a ragged howl flew out of her, but she did not let the Orc go. She was skinny, small and underfed – if her fangs yielded, he would kick her right off.
And so, instead, when she saw a glimpse of the creature’s softer, lighter neck, she spat out his arm and sank her teeth right down into it.
His flesh yielded, and blood spurted out. She tore out his throat. The Orc’s howls were muted by the blood he choked on, his hands grasping to his collarbones in useless panic.
Altair didn't have the time to see his fight subside. Anger and helplessness built up from everything, from Beorn’s injuries, to the death of the mountain cat, to the beating she was supposed to endure, how unjust and cruel it was and there was nothing she could do about it — it all swarmed through her, making her blood boil.
She turned to the second Orc before he could have the time to attack her. She did not give him time to move. Two leaps and she was at him, going straight for the throat this time. He collapsed, sputtering and squealing.
Fur bristled, blood running down her chin, Altair looked up at the Pale Orc, almost prompting him. Come on, come down here. She was not going to take this whipping without a fight.
What was on the face of the Pale Orc was not disdain now, no; Altair felt a bolt of surprise when she realized that he looked almost pleased. He nodded to another Orc now, prompting him to come down. The Orc snarled, but he did not dare to disobey. Drawing his sword, he jumped down into the pit.
Altair backed up, a faint growl coming out of her throat without her even realizing. She eyed his blade cautiously. The Orc hissed, waving it in front of him.
Azog, standing up high above him, nodded and moved two fingers from Altair to the Orc. ,,Sulmog,” he ordered her. Attack.
Like a snake, she bolted forward, keeping her head low and her stomach close to the ground. Her teeth clamped around the Orc’s leg. She bit down fast and hard, tearing through muscles, and jumped back before the Orc could swing his sword at her. He cried, leg yielding underneath him. Another swift lunge, and she managed to get his arm. The blade rang against the ground. He could not stop the wolf with bare hands. A snap and a thrust against the stone and the Orc was down.
Before Altair knew it, there was another one, running up to her. She dodged his spear at the last second, scurrying away. She snapped at his heels, jumping at his shoulders from behind. He toppled, falling to the ground.
Azog looked down upon his Hound, and slowly, a wicked smile widened his mouth when he saw it tear another one apart. Blood matted the grey fur.
Good. He just might make something out of her.
>><<
Dragged back to her cage, Altair was covered in blood, both hers and Orkish. Legs weak and wobbly, head spinning, and mouth perched and full of the taste of death, she had no more strength to fight the hands touching her.
She got her beating nonetheless, but not before the Pale Orc tired her out. She lost count of how many throats she tore today, but she still knew that her success lessened her punishment – nine lashes. When she tried really hard, she could stay on her legs for a while. Still, the blood weeping from the injuries was making her head spin. The exhaustion ringing in her head was unbearable.
Beorn laid in his cage, curled up in a ball, naked and covered in claw marks. It snapped Altair out of her haze. She realized she had completely forgotten about him, about how they dragged him in unconscious.
,,Beorn,” She called out his name, outstretching one paw through the bars as far as she could. ,,Beorn, please, wake up.”
A low, tired grunt could be heard from the man. Altair whined, all tiredness now washed away by the sheer fear for him. Because if Beorn could not get up and go on, how could she survive?
,,Beorn!” She cried, voice strained and broken. At last, the man quietly grunted, shifting slowly. Quiet whines escaped Altair’s mouth. Without her even realizing, she was almost hyperventilating now. I cannot lose him.
,,Beorn, look at me.”
He did so, slowly, with great difficulty. His eyes were half closed, his face pale and strained. He had lost a lot of blood, and he held on only with the last bits of strength.
,,Altair,” he let out a raspy breath. ,,You… Still alive.”
,,Yes,” Altair whimpered, trying to reach over the vast stretch of stone that divided them, smudging the dark ground with red. ,,Beorn, listen to me. Give me your hand.”
Beorn shook his head, an amused tired smile appearing on his worn face. ,, …No point,” he breathed. ,, ‘m… Dead soon.”
,,Give me your hand, I say!” There was resolution in her voice not heard before, and her command was so demanding that Beorn, at last, did as she said so, outstretching his shaking hand over the cold stone. The red liquid pooling up on the rock, seeping from the lashes and marks crossing Altair’s battered body, slowly crept its way towards his own cage.
With desperate frustration, Altair gritted her teeth. It was not enough, she realized, watching the blood drip. Beorn still could not reach it. Resolution to save him hardened her will, and she sank her fangs down into the already torn fur on her shoulder. Pain surged through her, the lashes burning in agony, but she did not yield, forcing more blood to spill on the cold stone.
,,Beorn,” she urged the man. ,,Beorn, put it on your wounds. I beg you.”
The skin-changer’s eyes, half-closed with exhaustion, flickered weakly. He saw now that Altair was bleeding, and he frowned, his hand shakily threatening to withdraw.
,,Beorn!” she snapped at him, voice almost cracking. ,,Do as I say, please, please. You can’t… You can’t die.”
Beorn was too tired and too confused to have a reason to argue with her. His great palm smeared some of the red liquid as he tried to pick it up with the last bits of his strength. He pressed his trembling hand onto his stomach, onto the seeping gash. His face contorted in pain as he put pressure on the wound. Altair watched impatiently, pressed against the bars of her cage, eyeing him closely. Please, please, let it be enough.
Beorn drew in a sharp, hissing breath through his teeth, as his side had started to burn.
,,Take some more, come on,” the wolf urged him, her heart beating with impatience and desperation. Beorn did as he was told. He gasped for air suddenly and withdrew his hand – and Altair could see the bleeding ceasing and his flesh scarring over where the wound previously gaped.
Relief crashed over her like a wave, and the last bits of strength, fueled by panic, dissipated away. She laid my head down, her nose stuck through the bars.
,,How… How did you do that?” Beorn gasped, not believing his eyes. His hands wandered around his muscles and the fresh scar.
,,That’s what our blood does,” Altair breathed out. ,,That is why Dreamwolf warriors are so feared. They heal fast.”
,,Then why don’t your lashes heal?” the skin-changer frowned. Altair sighed, shifting in a vain attempt to gain a more comfortable position. Her stomach tightened as she searched for as indirect answer as possible.
,,The only reliable thing that can leave scars on Dreamwolves’ skin is another one of their kind,” she managed at last, avoiding Beorn’s eyes.
Beorn’s brows furrowed, then worry appeared in his eyes.
,,So that thing was forged by one of your kin?” His gaze widened when the horror dawned upon him.
Altair tucked her nose under her wing, closing her eyes shut. ,,I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled.
I don’t want to think about it.
A sudden clamor awoke her from her thoughts. She jumped to her feet when she saw the Pale Orc standing there in front of her cage. Beorn shuffled back in his own one, growling at him, and so did Altair, barring her teeth, still bloody from the fight.
,,Lathugi avo avell uuk liav ukecreav, Hundur?” he snarled. Altair could not make out what he was saying, but her heart still beat loud with terror. He opened the cage now, and stooped to grab her. Altair snapped her teeth at his huge hand, pale and merciless, but it only slapped her over the nose and yanked her out. He grasped Altair by the scruff of her neck, lifting her off the ground. The wolf hung in his clutch helplessly, whimpering in pain from the strain put on the lashes crossing her back.
Azog gestured to one of the Orcs he had brought with him to come forth. When the warrior did so, Azog drew a crescent knife from his belt, and slashed him right across the face. The Orc shrieked, toppling forward and grabbing his cheek, from which dark blood now poured, and his companions snarled and barred their teeth at Azog, but their leader only carelessly turned his knife and struck Altair’s neck with it, not heeding Beorn’s angry yelling. The wolf yelped out, feeling the burn as the blade cut, more blood pouring out from the loose skin between the nape of her neck and her shoulderblades. Azog threw the blade to the ground, collecting the red liquid with his other hand. He stepped closer to the wounded Orc, sitting on the ground and clutching his cheek, and crudely smeared the blood over his face. The Orc squealed, but soon his slanted eyes squeezed shut and the cut on his face closed itself slowly. The watching Orcs hummed in wonderment.
Azog chuckled, throwing Altair to the ground. She scurried away from him, hissing and growling like a rabid animal, but to no avail. No matter what she would do, she could not get away from him.
,,Gijak lav-li thag,” he said to the Orcs, pointing at the wolf. Altair did not know what his words meant, but she learned their meaning soon.
Bleed her dry.
taglist - @painwithoutplot
i dont know why this took me so loooong, ahah. anyways, enjoy altair going through the horrors:) i'm thinking of skipping forward and posting something with thorin and the main timeline of altair's story already.
