“You know, I was just thinking,” his mother began
to prattle as she always did when her son, whom she
believed was fully human despite his parentage, came to
visit her, “it doesn’t have to be like this.” She always spoke
the human tongue to him, and he had in fact learned it
faster than he had Orcish. She was, after all, the only living
creature to ever consistently address him.
She unwrapped his wounds, dabbing gently at the
healing pulp around his wrists, the battered skin and dry
scabs at his ankles, the welts on his back and chest.
“We could leave this place, you and I. You could
guide us out of the caves,” she explained, and took one of
his hairy hands in both of hers and pulled gently until he
knelt before her.
As always, Wank listened but was unable to
honestly soothe her by acquiescing, and unwilling to
disappoint the woman by telling her, “No.” He loathed
these moments, as he at times loathed the woman. He
deemed her dreams a weakness of character, her failing
grasp of the interminable slavery that possessed her a
weakness of reason. The darkness to which her mind had
descended went as deep as any abyss in the caverns under
the Sotus. It was a pitch-black labyrinth in which her sanity
stumbled blindly around, groping at endless shadows.
She began to once again wrap his wounds, her
shaking hands gentle despite their unsteadiness. “And once
we are away from this dank hole, I believe I still remember
enough,” she said, the last words spit weakly through
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