I. You made yourself a bed/At the bottom of the blackest hole/And you'll sleep 'til May/And you'll say that you don't wanna see the sun anymore

She was washing clothes by the river, humming as she rung the soap out before dipping them in the water again. She had taken up her mother's duties when she had fallen ill, and she inherited them when her mother died. It had also fallen on her to make sure her father got up and labored every day, or else he would lay in his cot and never see the sun again.

And so when he left to chop wood with the other men she grabbed their worn clothes and made for the river. It was there she heard it, the distant growl of a person in pain. At first she thought it a trick of her mind, until she heard it again.

He smelled her before he saw her, the faint scent of the flowered soap she used. His eyes found her as she came out from behind a tree, catching sight of her pretty youthful face.

It had taken her a great amount of courage to step out from the behind the tree when she saw the large pale orc – a great deal of stupidity, she would later think – but she saw the blood on his leg and heard his pain, and she membered her mother's moans of agony as she lay dying; so she moved toward him. She walked slowly with her hands raised, not a sound did she utter. She kept her eyes trained on his and continued inching closer; she had done the very same thing a week previous when she'd found a fawn caught in a trap, she stayed quiet and slow. No matter he growled and gave her orders in a cruel language she did not understand, she did not stop until she knelt a little ways from him with her hands still raised non-threateningly.

He had bared his teeth and snarled at her, growled and cursed at her swearing he would tear the heart from her chest should she not leave him be. But she still came, calmly and surely offering no threat he could see. It was not until she sat on her knees beside him that he saw her hands were shaking – she was scared, terrified even, he could smell it. But it did not stop her.

She took her eyes off his to look at his leg, taking note the blood came from beneath his loincloth. She looked up at him again, seeing he was watching her with wary curiosity, before she turned back to his leg and lifted the rubbery cloth to see the wound. She swallowed her nausea at seeing he was cut to the bone, blood oozing dark and thick out of it.

He watched her face closely, looking for any sign as to why she was showing him any amount of compassion – he didn't know whether to think her kind or a fool. She didn't gag or turn away, he could tell she was disgusted but she refused to show it – something that impressed him, for to him women were nothing more than loud screams, tears, sex, and worthless. And then she stood and left him.

He could hear her as she walked, the sounds of twigs snapping and of leaves crunching and of her skirt rustling; and what surprised him more than when she had first stepped from behind the tree, was that she came back.

She knelt beside him again and he watched as she spit something into her hand. He did not understand her words and so she said nothing, instead she placed the chewed leaves over the wound. She recoiled from him when he roared in pain, his eyes blazing and his teeth bared at her. Her chest heaved as she breathed, he could practically hear her heart pounding furiously from how he'd scared her. He clenched his jaw and sat back, glaring at her for the new pain in his leg, and watched as she continued. He smiled at how her hands shook, glad she feared him – she should. If he could walk on his leg he would take her, do what he pleased and then kill her. But he couldn't even stand on it, and so he was forced to let her put the leaves on his wound.

She chewed more Athelas leaves before pressing them onto his leg, looking up at him to see him straining not to growl. There was no doubt in her mind when his eyes met hers that if he had been able to he'd kill her; and she was left wondering, as she had the moment she stepped from behind the tree, why she was helping him. There was no answer, none other than he was a creature in agony and she had seen enough pain. When she had the gash covered she placed her hand over it and pressed down, and all the will in the world would not have kept him from growling when the water from the leaves soaked into his flesh. She kept her hand held firmly over his leg for a minute before she released him, and he was left breathing heavily with sweat shining on his stark white skin and his eyes trying to murder her.

He watched as she stood on shaky legs, looking at her dark blue eyes – noticing again her pretty face – and then as she moved to the other side of him. His eyes never left her as she moved to where his mace was, where he hadn't had the need to crawl toward yet. She surprised him yet again by pulling it to him, not strong enough to lift it, and bringing it to his side. He heard her breathing, which was heavier now that she had lugged his large mace, and she flicked a curl out of her face. He sat baffled as he stared at her; she had known he would not be able to leave soon, and so she had given him his weapon – trusting him enough not to use it on her. Her eyes met his a last time before she moved around him and walked back through the trees. He heard her skirts, leaves, twigs, her footsteps; this time as she moved away from him, he knew she was not coming back.

So this is an idea I've been having for awhile about Azog - and she will be the mother of his son Bolg. This will be a dark story (very dark, with rape and sex and not entirely consensual at some points and a lot of psychological damage). However, it will also have some good parts. My idea is that this takes place well before the Hobbit, and that this story will explain why Azog wanted to destroy the line of Durin. The rating will change when more mature things start to happen, and I'll say a chapter in advance that I'll change the rating to M so you can look for it. So please tell me whether or not you're interested in reading more. Thank you for reading.