Chapter Eleven: Nature of the Beast
Within minutes of Dalthu leaving, Samson was back in the giant tub. Behind him, Dalthu's human mother, Rachelle, was humming a bright tune while scrubbing his back.
"We have a little bit of time," she said, taking a bowl of water and rinsing the suds off. "Not as much as I'd like, but don't worry, we'll get you ready."
Yes. I certainly wouldn't want to be late to any more of this nightmare.
As if she'd heard his thought, Rachelle spun Samson around. He averted his eyes from her nakedness as she continued to wash his front. From his hands, she worked her way up his arms to his chest. The scrub felt good. It wasn't gentle, but it was satisfying. As if she were purifying him before worship, this bear woman was scouring the sin from his flesh with her rough sponge.
Still humming, Dalthu's mother grabbed a stiff brush from the bath's stone ledge and went to work on Samson's nails. Samson snuck a glance down at her. The first thing he noticed was her eyelashes. They were long and dark, like a doe's. They made her deep-set eyes even more pronounced and gave her a tragic look that belied her fiery attitude. With her head bowed over his cuticles, Samson could see all the silver hairs that radiated from her crown like spider thread.
"How long have you been here?" Samson asked.
She dunked his hands into the water and, tossing aside the brush, picked up a wet cloth. "Nearly twenty-five years."
"That many?!"
"What a face," she laughed, grabbing his cheeks and squishing them together. "Yes, that many. What? Did you realize I'm old enough to be your grandmother?"
"T-that's . . . that's not what I meant . . . "
"Close your eyes."
Samson obeyed and Rachelle began to wash his face. The cloth gently massaged the delicate skin on his face. He felt the warm towel trace over his features, following the grooves around his nose and mouth.
"Dalthu said you were beautiful."
Samson twitched as the washcloth went over his eyelids. There was something about what she'd said that bothered him. Something niggling at the back of his mind.
What is it? Why does that sound so familiar?
Then it dawned on him.
"You're the second one to say that," he said slowly.
Rachelle chuckled. "Then it must be true," she teased.
"No," Samson opened his eyes to Rachelle staring curiously up at him. "I mean, when did Dalthu tell you this? We've only just arrived today."
Rachelle's brow furrowed, accentuating the fine lines around the corners of her eyes. "He told me after he saw you the first time, of course." Her tone made it sound like the answer was obvious, but for Samson, the mystery only deepened.
The first time?
"Move over to the steps so I can get your lower half."
Lost in thought and forgetting his nakedness, Samson waded over to the stone steps that led out of the pool. A sharp gasp from behind shattered his concentration. Dalthu's mother was staring at his back in horror.
Samson craned his neck back to look. Running up and down across his buttocks and legs, angry welts had bloomed where Baronk had caned him. He'd hit him so hard that several blood vessels had broken, and the ugly purple and crimson marks stood out against his pale skin.
"Did Dal—" Rachelle cleared her throat. "Did my son do that to you?"
"No, it was another one."
She muttered furiously under her breath. "Pushuruk! Such savagery—"
"What else can we expect?" Samson gave a harsh laugh. "They are orcs, after all."
Rachelle was silent for a moment, staring thoughtfully at Samson's wounds. Then she shook her head slightly, like she was knocking a thought to the side. "We are running out of time." Dalthu's mother set down the wash rag. "And I want to treat those wounds before we have to leave."
She guided Samson out of the tub and over toward a wooden table.
"Bend over a bit," she said, grabbing a small vial from the assorted bottles sitting there. Samson obeyed, placing his hands flat against the rough wood tabletop. He heard the pop of a cork being unstoppered and then felt a cool, soothing sensation spread over his skin.
"Orcs can be quick to anger," she said, dabbing the ointment on, "but also quick to laughter. Just like any race, there are bad ones."
The image of cold, gray eyes came unbidden to his mind.
"Twenty-five years . . ." Samson shuddered. "How did you stand it for so long?"
"You get used to it."
Samson snapped. He spun around and grabbed Rachelle by her wrists.
"We don't have to get used to it!" His exclamation made Rachelle flinch. Samson lowered his voice apologetically. "We can escape," he whispered. "Together. You probably know all the ins and outs of this place. We can finally go home."
"This is my home."
"No. To your real home. To your family."
"They are my family—"
"They are monsters!" he snarled. "Why? Why do you want to stay? Weren't you kidnapped as well? Weren't you raped?"
Rachelle went very still. "Yes. Yes I was."
"Then why—"
"But the monsters who did that to me were human."
