Makcar's Plight
It wasn't easy being an orc and it was even harder being an orc who did not want to be an orc. Makcar had spent the entirety of his days wishing he was something else, wishing that the blood that ran through his veins was red instead of black. He was not like the other orcs, his heart untainted by the sadistic urge to kill and torture. He was gentle and caring and his love for the world around him was so pure that it could rival even that of an elf. Due to his gentle heart, he was shunned by the other orcs and he was doomed to a life of scooping up warg dung. He didn't mind that, scooping up droppings was better than killing anyday.
Until now, Makcar had never left his home. Until now, he had never killed or felt the need to. On this such day Makcar's superior had decided that Makcar would scoop shit no more, and would instead be shipped of to the outskirts of Mirkwood to do his duty and kill elf-scum. Makcar had always longed to see elves - but not to kill them. His heart lurched with dread, he wondered if he could do it. He wondered if he could take his sword and slice through an elf's pale and perfect skin. He flinched at the thought of it.
His superior had noticed his disappointment at being sent away and had said "You should be excited Makcar! For too long you have lived without the thrill of killing!" in a condescending tone. This had not alleviated Makcar's spirits any, in his opinion he could never have went too long without killing. But he could not protest to his superior, if he did, he would have been killed. He may have dreaded killing but what he dreaded even more was being killed himself.
And so it was, that Makcar was shipped of to fight in Mirkwood. Very few orcs ever made it back from that forest, Makcar had heard the other orcs tell such tales. It is easy to lose yourself amongst the long and winding paths and if you were lucky enough to find your way then the elves that lived their would quickly silence you. Makcar had also heard that some of the spiders who lived there did not even care whether the flesh they bit into was elf or not.
Makcar hated spiders, which made the fact that he was in Mirkwood slightly humorous. Makcar and his fleet continued into the heart of the forest and by some mere miracle they did find their way. They reached a stream, it was beautiful. The water trickled through the stones, and every so often a barrel would roll down battering against the stones and disrupting the peaceful water. Makcar had heard some of the other orcs say that the barrels were headed to Laketown where they would be filled with wine and returned to the elf-king's dungeons. Makcar wondered what wine tasted like. His stomach rumbled at the thought.
"Makcar! You are slow! Speed up!" The orc spoke in a crude tongue. Makcar did not speak, but sped up. His feet thumping and mashing the soft ground below. He tried to keep up, but he was slower than the other orcs and much weaker. The orcs at the front were growing tired of slowing for him.
Makcar stared around the forest in wonder. The trees were the tallest he'd ever seen and the birds that nested upon them would scatter in fear whenever the orc pack would pass. Makcar wished he could see them up close, birds were beautiful like the elves. Makcar loved beautiful things. As the orcs walked along the stream, Makcar saw his reflection in the pristine water. It turned his stomach.
His face was a pale grey that was reminiscent of rock. His teeth were yellowing and a few were missing from when Makcar had found himself in a scrape or a brawl with an orc much larger and powerful than himself. His eyes was his least favourite feature, they were as black as the night sky and empty. Makcar's favourite feature was his ears and that was because they were pointed. They may have had chunks bitten out of them, but his ears were the only feature he shared with elves.
Makcar drew his gaze from the stream and looked ahead. He felt slightly better when he saw the orc in front of him - Makcar was a supermodel in comparison to the this orc. Makcar snorted with laughter and the ugly-faced orc groaned in displeasure and waved his scythe around in a threatening matter. Needless to say Makcar laughed no more.
The orcs grew near to the center of Mirkwood where the elves resided. Makcar was both excited to see the elves, and scared of having to kill one. After a further half an hour or walking, the orcs at the front drew to a sudden halt. Something was near - Makcar could feel it in the air. It felt like he was being watched by something or someone.
Makcar had been right, from out of the trees leapt elves. Makcar and the other orcs were taken by surprise. A few of his fellow orcs dropped to the ground suffering from a bout of arrow through chest or even more painfully arrow through eye. The other orcs began killing the beautiful elves, their tainted blades meeting with the elves beautiful ones.
Makcar didn't want to have to kill the elves or be killed by the elves for that matter so he hid away behind a fallen tree. The screams and growls of orcs and elves alike surrounded him. Makcar just wanted it to be over. One elf caught his eye - it was male or at least he thought it was. He often heard that it was difficult to tell the different at times. The elf had long blonde hair and skin as pale and pure as the moon amongst a darkened night.
He moved with grace. His bow tightly in his grasp and whenever he shot it, the arrow would fly happily through the air and hit directly where the elf had intended it to. Makcar watched him for a while, the way he fought was like a dance. His eyes were grey and they reminded Makcar of the beautiful things he had seen in Mirkwood, from the peaceful stream to the chirping birds that had fled at the sight of him.
The orcs all began to fall and soon enough only a few remained. The elf tore through the last of them but Makcar had seen something the elf had not. Stood behind the fair wood-elf was an orc - Makcar's superior Rukkha to be precise. The orc's sword was raised and ready to strike. Makcar felt a surge of adrenaline wash through him and he propelled forward. His sword,, which up until now was unused, became wet with orc blood instead elf blood.
Rukkha fell to the ground and landed amongst the heaps of other orcs. The elf turned around and saw Makcar, and quite incorrectly jumped to the conclusion that Makcar was like any other orc. Before the good orc could protest one of the elf's arrows landed in the space between his eyes. Without as much as a groan Makcar fell to the ground in silence, taking his place amongst the other orcs.
"Orc filth." The elf murmured in his native tongue, and those were the last words Makcar ever heard.
And so it was that day that Prince Legolas of Mirkwood had his life saved by an orc. For the rest of his days he would not know of Makcar's plight, he would not know even the name of the orc that had given his life to ensure his own. Makcar would never be remembered as a hero, he would be forgotten, his story never told. Makcar died that day and was burnt unceremoniously amongst his brethren. He had died as he had lived - misunderstood.