But Dathor was stubborn and not only did he refuse to appease his uncle, he was defiant enough to be whipped two more times, though he had not been able to keep silent during the second whipping. His back had not healed, and the wounds were reopened.
She still remembered his agonized cries.
She had not spoken up for him, but she had looked on, tears rolling down her cheeks, no attempt to wipe themaway.
His uncle came to stand near her. “You cry for him?”
“We were children together,” she said, her voice full of tears. “I remember him fondly. I do not like to see him hurt.”
“You are still children,” said the steward. “It is funny, though, you pitying the orc, you the nae Oir elf from the south, too good for all of us.”
“I am not too good for anyone,” she said. She had lived here for six years at this point. She remembered her life before, but it was distant. When she visited home for a fortnight here and there, it was all very strange. She no longer belonged there. This was more her home than anything, the Peak.
The steward had ended the beating.
“It cannot be good for his wounds to be sleeping in the barn,” she said tentatively.
The steward raised his voice. “How about an apology, then, Dathor? How about that? It cannot be good for your wounds to be sleeping in the barn. Just admit you were wrong, and I shall give you a bed.”
Dathor looked up at the man, hair in his face, back a bloody mess, and bared his teeth.
He did not apologize.
The next time he was whipped, she cried again, but the steward was not moved. He told her to go inside if she could not bear to watch, that he would not stand here next to her sniveling.
By that time, Celedin was back from school, and he jeered at her and jeered at Dathor and watched the beatings with something like sheer joy, as if he could not think of anything more wondrous to watch than someone’s flesh being broken.
And then soon enough, it was fall, not summer, and the nights were growing colder.
And Galadril was gone now, not that the other girl had ever woken when Aerhril had left the room in the midst of the night before.
But she had a room to herself, and no one noticed if she was bringing blankets in to her room, or perhaps theythought the blankets were for her. No one noticed if she took the blankets with her to the barn and climbed up into the loft where he was lying burrowed in the straw for warmth.
She brushed the straw off of him, and he woke up.
He grabbed her wrist, too hard, and she squealed, and he said, “Little fair elf,” and he dropped her hand.
“I brought you blankets,” she said. “It’s getting too cold for you to be sleeping out here.”
He sat up. “You are still pretending we’re friends, aren’t you? That’s rather amusing.”
When she had been ten, she would have insisted that theywerefriends, but she was fourteen now, and she understood things better. “Well, whatever the case, even if you’re an orc and I’m an elf, even if you’re naturally lower than me—”
“Naturally lower, you say?” He snatched the blankets from her. “Thanks for these. Go away.”
“It’s just the way it is,” she said.
“Is it truly?” he said. “So that’s why you’re fed the worst cuts of the meat, why you get your wine poured last, why Celedin sneers at you. Because you’re so naturally superior to everyone, being a fair elf and all?”
“I didn’t say that being a fair elf meant I was naturally superior to the silvan elves.”
“Don’t you call yourselves high elves?” he said. “Don’t you call silvans low elves?”
“I suppose,” she said quietly.
He spread his hands. “And there we are.”
“But it’s different, having lived here for so long,” she said, hunching her shoulders. “Because I see that we aren’t really better than they are, only different.”
