Nurturing Eyes
Disclaimer: Never owned it. Never will. Only done for sick pleasure.
* * *
Gonde had always been fond of the warm, rich soil of Middle Earth. He enjoyed tilling it and watching lush green burst from his well groomed garden lines. Every spring he would mount a man-made plough on his back and pull new scratches into his meadow, preparing for a new season of hard work and peonies. He lived in a cozy cave, carved into the mountainsides that bordered the land of Isengard and Moria, and prospered by selling the extra produce to the near-by cities. He was as friendly as an Orc can get, and he could be down right likeable if he got himself started on growing begonias and lima beans. He gratefully accepted the advantages of eating rounded meals and enjoying the finer things in life, which was more than he could say for his relatives. Gonde and his garden were nearing the prime of their lives, his muscles rippled under his skin, a benefit to hauling heavy crops and ploughs, and his garden blossomed as though he held the soil of Lorien itself. Crops were exploding, and townships were eager to buy from the mysterious farmer who grew the best produce in the land.
Gonde was eagerly anticipating the first harvest of the season, when his clan called him to arms. The orc was crushed. A new war was at hand, and the orcs were, as Gonde felt, once again expected to be Elf-fodder. While he did not mind fighting, he felt much more content planting a new patch of snow peas. And now his clansmen were tearing him away from his beloved garden, and throwing him into battle. Who would harvest for him? Because he was an Orc, no human would trust him, and no other species lived near by. His garden would be abandoned for months. The very thought sent chills up his spine, for he spent a good portion of the day as it was, weeding and hoeing his tidy growing lines. And the harvest!! Would the ripe fruits and vegetables merely rot on the plant? Gonde hoped and prayed that his fellow orcs would overlook his cheery cave, and let him till in peace.
But his hopes would soon be dashed. A week later, a member of his second family, (on his mother's side) visited Gonde. His distant cousin was much more goblin-like than he, squat and a biting orange color. The toady orc looked as though he had been sucking lemons when he barged into Gonde's home. He took a quick look at all the tidy carpets and crafted furniture, then spat, leaving a huge puddle of saliva on Gonde's floor. Trying his best to be polite, or as polite as an orc can be, Gonde offered him a swig of beer, and his cousin brightened up. After an hour, they agreed that it was time to leave, though both did so with reluctance. His cousin, Scraag, was very pleased with Gonde's liquor cabin, and swore to return with friends. Gonde merely winced and reached for his sword and armor, which he kept on the fireplace mantle. The blade he wielded was simple and jagged, covered with nicks and scratches, and his armor faired little better. He polished them regularly, however only a metal smith could take out the serious dents and scratches. Since Gonde was a particularly well off Orc, he also had a pair of matching silver greaves and gauntlets that fit over his tunic. Scraag had only a sword and a metal helm. The two departed from his home when the sun was beginning to sink into its earthy grave, and Gonde took several hasty looks back at his comfy grotto before it disappeared from view.
An Orc "battle meeting" had been called at the mountain edge where Gonde dwelled, and a frothing mass of bodies had gathered in the bowl of his valley. The massive clump of Orcs were arguing and comparing weapons, trying to determine ranks before they set out to war. The youngest and weakest were made the slaves, and loaded with food packs instead of heavy armor and swords. The rest bickered and wrestled for high positions and prestige. Because of Gonde's size, the Orcs immediately formed a hole in which he could walk, and several noted with fear that he was a dark black color instead of brown or orange. Only the Orcs originating from Mordor were black; and they were renowned for ferocity and power. Gonde felt he was neither, but couldn't help noticing that he was the tallest of the lot, and it seemed also the most fit. The quality of his armor made him look important, and Scraag was quick to tell everyone present that Gonde was of chieftain heritage. Orcs are only comfortable being led by one who is stronger and more cunning than they are themselves. They got all the right feelings from Gonde, and his taut black body, covered in richly designed metals, and voted him their leader. Scraag was made second in command after the tenacious orc won all his wrestling matches, and an unnerving blue Orc was made Gonde's personal assistant, after easily outwitting the other Orcs in a game of riddles. The "battle meeting" lasted one day, and the slaves pitched the tents while the games were held. Since Gonde was now the Captain, he got to sleep in a greater luxury than most in a hand-sewn, deer skin tent.
Late at night, Gonde busied himself by stilling his spinning head. One instant he was in his garden, the next he was the captain of a five hundred strong band of Orcs. He did enjoy battle and wrestling and riddles, but he felt a little queasy at the thought of meeting every Orcs expectations. They wanted him to be blood thirsty and fearless. But how would he portray that sort of image if he stopped to smell the roses? Indeed, there could be trouble ahead. Gonde felt he was intimidating only at a first glance, and once his fellow Orcs saw him as tender, he would be torn apart.
His blue assistant, Valgaav, entered the tent at that moment, sliding up to his side. The smaller, more lithe Orc did not look very orc-ish to Gonde at all. After all, since when did Orcs have thin, sleek scales dotting their bodies, and wily, intelligent eyes? Perhaps Valgaav was a crossbreed.
"You aren't an ordinary Orc are you?" Valgaav spoke in the Black Speech; and the vulgar language sounded mysterious and lilting on his tongue. Gonde froze, the turned to Valgaav slowly. He had seen the supple creature at work with his "men", and the orc could easily bend answers from them. He was much more cunning than the others, and Gonde knew, himself. That made him very dangerous. One slip was all the blue assistant needed.
"You aren't an ordinary Orc, either." Gonde shot back using the Black Speech, carefully calculating his words.
Valgaav smiled jovially.
"You speak the Black Tongue well."
"I used to live in Mordor." He replied.
Valgaav raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? And why do you no longer?"
Gonde paused, mulling over a suitable response. It stank, and it's to dark to grow proper peonies in, were phrases intended only for suicide.
"I didn't like the weather." There, that was close enough. Valgaav stared long into Gonde's eyes.
Goodness, he has red irises…
"You shouldn't be here, Gonde." Valgaav simply stated, then looked away, a soft smile playing on his lips. Gonde grunted and took off his sword.
"You seem to know an awful lot, Valgaav. Perhaps you could tell me what we are doing and where we are supposed to go?"
"I can. You are to intercept a troop of Orcs sent by Saruman and capture their hostages."
Gonde blinked. Somehow he had imagined the whole thing would be more…glorious. Valgaav, reading his thoughts smiled and pulled a map from the tent corner, laying it onto the sole piece of furniture, a small wooden desk.
"The suggested trail is already marked." Valgaav stated, then turned to leave.
"I could really use you in Mordor, Gonde. Don't you dare die on me yet." He whispered over his shoulder before exiting.
Gonde moaned in self-pity and unraveled the map. They would intercept the rival Orcs in three days if all went as planned. Their trek included a mountain crossing; a river fording and quite a few battles-they were passing through the country of Rohan. To do it all would require a steadfast heart and a body of steel. Gonde didn't doubt that quite a few of the weak and young would fall and not get up. It was all a part of war, anyway. Blades would streak in the sky, and horses would fall, bucking their owners. A bloody mist would form around the battlefields and the orcs would screech in the Dark Language of Mordor. Gonde could see the death and gore now, and like all proper Orcs, his eyes dilated and his mouth watered. But the thought of such glory could not beat back the gnawing sensation in his body. He much preferred his garden. And then, before he collapsed into his simple cot, he reminded himself.
It's melon season.
END
A/N: horrible to leave you there. But it's an orc. And Valgaav was taken from Slayers. I hinted it, but 'Valgaav' is actually Sauron, doing a bit of "troop surveying". Gonde was simply an elf that didn't turn as far as he should of. The story of the orcs is very creepy and sad at the same time…almost makes you want to cry.